The National tribune. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1877-1917, 1892-09-08
HER LAST POSE,
A Color Study in the GrayS and
ViOletS of Death.

e., COWARD evening the sick woman
gESsy8 moved feebly in a last CONFUSION
S5|-EHSs of agony, q -gasping sigh ratified IN
SSkEAsSs her throat, and she died. And for
SITa5s'Uo hours afterward, beside her pale,
quiet body, the husband, the illustrious painter,
Jean Barnez, crouched dazedly with set face
and wide, uncomprehending eyes, unable to
believe that death could have come like that
so quickly. to tear his wife from him.
Swept away in three days! In three days,
she SO beautiful, so glowing with life! All
her glorious coloring her rich, fresh tones, gone;
gone her magnificent form, with its outline
so pure. so correct so renaissance. In three
days she, who had posed in such exquisite,
such classic attitudes for all sorts of courtesans,
nymphs. saints-she. who had brought him
that first medal for his Death of Agrippina."
In three days! Why it was less than week
ago she was there lying on the model.stand III
a mass of yellow silks and scarlet cushions,
posing for the "a Cleopatra" which would surely
have commanded the medal of honor, even,
who knows ?-the coveted seat at the lnstl-
tute.
Before his ewes swan vague vision of round
arms, heavy with barbarc, ieweled bracelets,
of cleaning, disheveled hair, the dazzling
whiteness of her flesh in its gauZy swathlnss,
the swelling BOSOM the soft rise OF her hips
the satin smoothness of her perfect limbs
And in three brief days, oil that lost-extin.
guished. 1t was hideous, impossible!
"Mathilde, my little Mathilde," murmured
the unhappy man, speak to me. 1t is not
true-ah, tell me it is not true-that you are
dead You are posing for an Ophelia for q
Juliet but you are not dead, you breathe, speak
to me!"
He bent over her with passion, but recoiled
before the chill of the dead lips, chill that
burned him like red hot iron. Then he fell
full length upon the bed beside her, buried his
-, la an6 I'm rst lufO hitter
ing.
she is dead-deadi"
Friends came with condolences and offers of
assistance The undertaker-terriblep person
came But Jean Barnez closed the door on
them ALL No one should be permitted to ap-
proacb the body of his angel, or even to enter
the room where she lay.
With his own hands he made her ready for
the grave. About her still form and over the
bed he scattered great odorous punches of white
lilac, like balls of snow. Robed in white, and
reposing on her flower -strewn couch, Mathide
seemed to sleep.
The wear before, Barnez had lost a child, his
only son-a rosy, handsome boy-who, young
as he was, posed bravely when his father
painted infant loves and angels. Last year the
child, and now the mother, had been taken
from him. In all the world there remained
not one creature for him to love. de was
alone-so alone that for an instant the thought
of death occurred TO him as refuge. Lie
why live it? For whom? To what end
Everything pershed at last, everything
love, hate, ambition, all we work and sntier
for-honors medals, decorations. fames self.
All the jovous egotism Of art the delicious agony
Of creation. even those divine enthusiasms.
those sublime frenzes which, inspired by
warm flesh tone, a distance lost III MIST the
blush of sunset over the sea, surge. surge and
palpitate, into songs poems, and dreams oil
deafness beauty.
The idea came to him of large cofin-a
double coiiin-in which it would be sweet to
lie down with her forever. His dear, lovely
wife, his Cleopatra. his Agrippina-my God
nv God And he the little Georges-naked ed and
dimpled, his blonde hair flying, a rose between
his teeth, culver over his shoulder, strewing
flowers and laughing-into what gray distance
had he flown, on those gauzy wings? An,
God
Overcome at last with fatigue, and spent
with emotion, he fell heavily asleep.
When he awoke the sun was high and the
death chamber was alight with its yellow
glory pang of remorse, OF seif-reproach,
shot through his heart.
"Ana | have slept while She All. my
beloved, pardon, forgive me- For it was not
all wretched dream-she is dead! All, why
did awake? / have nothing left to live for,
nothing. Art?"
He made gesture OF loathing
art! All yes, art-what have | sacrificed
TO it? The love of wife and child; yes, for
had | been anything but painter-a lawyer,
a bo0kkeeper, a tailor, no matter what-these
two beloved beings whom my neglect has muir
dered-1nurdered-w still be living. No.
no, | shall never paint again-never, never! l
will destroy my palette burn my brushes"
Pale and haggard with grief, his swollen
eyes rested long and tenderly on the face of
the dead.
u am a miserable man." he murmured. 81
have nothing left nothing left to love-"
Slowly the expression of suffering left his
face, and little by little his gaze, lately OBJ
scured with tears, became concentrated, and
fixed with that tension of all the visual forces
which dilates the eye Of the artist when he
stands before an interesting bit of nature.
what tone!" he cried. softly. Sacristi,
what a tone!"
With the tip of one fascinated finger he
gently traced the white half-circlo which
marked the brow, tho cheek, and portion of
the pillow, saying half to himself:
"The beauty of that-ah, the originality Of
it, the fnesse, the delicacy. the modernity !!
Mazette? scarcely-it's perfect Manet."
He touched the nose, whose pinched nostrils
were only two narrow streaks of violet.
1.-The tone of that-unheard of"
His eye caught the shadow under the pointed
chin, transparent SHADOW oil warm Diue, ln-
fnitely delicate.
"And that bluc-how fine! Subtle as mist
that blue"
Again lie touched the forehead and the loose
rift of hair on the pillow.
And the harmony, the rapport-what a
composition !"
With circling gesture as though preparing
to draw, his hand followed the entire length of
the body and rested ON the hoTerstrewn cover
let.
"What whites and lilacs! And that gray
all. that gray! Superb"
One flower, trembling on the edge of the
bed, dropped softly to the carpet. Barnez
picked it up and laid it carefully in its place.
He rearranged other blossoms here and there.
Strengthened a fold in one sleeve. Then he
stepped back in critical scrutiny, squirting up
his eyes and measuring with both hands the
proportionate space the subject would occupy
Oh canvas. At last he said decisively:
"a six by nine-tlat will fit it like glove,
like glove"
His feet beat the measure, and he nodded his
head in the cadence of an old studcnt-song that
rose to lis lips.
Like glove, like glove, like glove,
Carous Duran"
Having moved an easel into the room. he set
TO work furiously. For the rest of the day 10
sound broke the stiffness Of the room where the
quiet body, every hour deepening with the
violet tints of death and decay lay among its
lowers-no sound save the steady brusil-strokes es
upon the canvas. the rattling Of paint.tubes,
4 f. 4