The Bennington banner. [volume] (Bennington, Vt.) 1858-1894, 1892-05-27

to completion, from the first stroke to
the last, my hand had been guided by
some invisible power and my brain in
spired by some supernatural intelligence.
All along had realized that l was I'M
der magic spell, that / could not re-
sist, and that had neither will nor wish
to break. Yet never until that awesome
moment had 1 been completely over
whelmed with the strange and blessed
consciousness.
Gas the time passed on, the picture
became part of my very being. Away
from it l was uneasy, restless, moody,
as if my hearts love and idol were alb
sent. could not comprehend my own
feelings in regard to it. 1t dominated
me entirely. 1t enslaved me. In vain 1
attempted new task, or CROPPED for
new ideal. Palette and brush grew dis
tasteful to me. painted only to wipe
out what had painted before. l knew
not what to do with myself, and queried
somewhat whether 1 really were myself.
And yet the consciousness of my perfect
sanity was never stronger or more real.
"Things wore on YEARLY in this sad
way for some time. My very health
was yielding to the oppressive weight
and power of my inexplicable passion.
One day as 1 sat gazing intently on that
face of faces, whether in the body or out
of the body, 1 could scarcely tell, the
thought flashed upon me that was in
fatuated with a picture, an idol of my
own creation, concrete figure of the
imagination, and the infatuation was
spelling me. 1 must arouse myself and
break away from it,
Never mortal man resolved more
stoutly, or struggled more nightly, or
failed more completely. My resolution
proved rope of sand. My very efforts
only served to entangle me more help
lessly in the meshes of my infatuation.
had no friend to whom could tell my
strange story, or unfold my feelings.
II grew morbid and yet preferred my
wretchedness to all the charms of So
ciety and all the pleasures of the world.
1 closed my studio and shnt myself up in
solitude. The rumor went abroad that 1
had left my country. 1t was even re-
ported in the papers that l had gone to
Paris to pursue my art. In the retire
ment of my rooms to which / had re-
moved my traps from the studio,
brooded. Alone with that almost divine
face, / could do nothing but worship and
adore.
lone week ago I stood in front of it
in the early twilight. 1 was watching it
as it faded like summer sunset, when
suddenly, out of the growing dusk it
spoke to me. No human voice was ever
more audible or more certain. But such
a voice was never heard by mortal man
before. 1t was more heavenly than the
beauty of the face itself. 1t thrilled me
to the very centre of my soul, and threw
me into an ecstacy of beatific excite
ment. The voice told me that it was
only the painted semblance of spiritual
being far more beautiful, and that that
spiritual being was the complement of
my souls desires, my real, my only pos
sible love, whom l could only meet and
know and enjoy forever by dying; that
the voice was her voice, and that her
hand and inspiration had guided me in
portraying it upon material canvas-heT
very likeness, as it was possible for it to
be so expressed. 1t did not suggest to
me that should seek to realize the fru-
ition of my great and all-controlling pas
sion, by an effort of my own in opposi.
ton to, or contravention of nature. II
simply uttered what l have written, and
left me once more to solitude anG
silence.
"Since that night my despair at being
separated from being so lovely anC
adorable-my only possible happiness
has been unutterable, uncomfortable.
can no longer bear it, must be will
her if it be possible. have deliberately
determined to make the effort. The fee
BILE flame of this earthly existence is NJ
longer worth tanning. And, now, dea
old friends, goodbye. l will not confeI
even with you respecting my purpose
knowing well that you would do all il
your power to dissuade me from it
which would only give me needless pain
If l have calculated Alright when you
read this l shall be dead. You will Sc,
by my will that everything have is lef
to you. Accept it and devote it to you
divine art. l firmly believe that in m,
situation you would do as am about t,
do. ERIC WHITMoRE.
Here Brooks dropped the manuscript
and looked me steadily in the face for
full minute. He seemed powerless t,
speak. His face was blanched. His eye
were filled with tears. At last he brok
the silence with "Poer Eric! Poo
Eric!"
Long and late we communed with eacl
other concerning the strange, sad his
tory, when suddenly there was a rap a
the door, which opened at my bidding
A messenger entered with cablegram
Brooks hastily tore it from the envel
ope and read it aload. 1t was from tn
proprietor of well-known hotel in New
York, and read as follows:
NEW YORK, Sept. /, 1889.
To Horace Brooks, Hotel de Vile
Paris, France: Eric Whitmore shot him
self in his room at five o'clock this after
| noon n-Romdnce