Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1895-07-27
TIM AND BEAUTY.

TIM AND BEAUTY.
She was at once the widest, most dar-
ing and most reckless little soubrette to
be found in any of the bohemian studios
of Paris. No gathering was complete with
out the music Of her laughter, the light
of her black eyes. Scarce picture was
deemed complete until she had passed upon
it her own merciless criticism. For Tim,
with all the boldness of vulgarity that was
yet her greatest charm, was still an apostle
Of the beautiful, and the true, and the
dramatic in the highest and best sense Of
the words.
No one knew from where she came, OF
what her origin might be- or even what
her full baptismal name had been. They
knew her only as Tim and were content to
accept her in all things as she was. She
was fierce in her hatreds, strong in her
friendships, strongest of all perchance in
her loves. She knew no abiding moral
law, in the conventional sense Of the term,
and was in all things, normal and other
wise as irresponsible as bird. So only
that laughter and music and light and
friendly voices were with her, all else was
as naught.
Perchance there came time when her
moral and social being underwent q
change, and the change came with the
advent Of the Beauty.
There, in society where all received q
nickname he had been dubbed tho "Beau-
ty" from the first moment Of his appear
ance among them, and the name, by rea-
son of it's appropriateness, chung to him. 1t
could scarcely have been misnomer, I'M
less given in satirical spirit from lips Of
an artistic circle.
Certainly there was no satire in it. Tall
and well proportional, with long, straight
features and clustering brown curls about
his we'll shaped head, the man they dubbed
the Beauty was handsome indeed. Perhaps
the chief glory of the man lay in his eyes
great, soft, dark eyes-with q wonder
ing expression in their depths like that
seen in the pictured eyes Of some Of Mil
lais' children.
He had come to Paris to work-Paris,
the wonderful, the great-wherein life was
life indeed, and art was art. His name was
Cecil Brandt, and he came from some re-
mote town in the west of England. All
the world, all fame and greatness lay be-
fore him, to be grasped by an effort, and
the effort was there and was put forth.
He worked as few men worked. All the
livelong day he was before his easel; only
when darkness fell he rose with sigh and
laid aside his brushes and joined the men
who were his friends and who eagerly
welcomed him. And there among them
he often met Tim.
She was very silent when she first saw
him. She seemed to gaze at him wonder
ingly, as at some rare creature that was
different from anything else she knew.
They twitted her afterward about 1t, say
ing she was unnaturally quiet. One was
even audacious enough to suggest laugh
ingly that it was case Of love at first
sight, and that the mighty Tins wings
were singed at last But she broke away
from them, and shut herself in her room,
and flung herself on the floor there, and
cried the night away, weeping perchancs
the first bitter tears that her reckless life
had known, tears born of an underlined
feeling in her breast that there was some
thing wanting In her, some womanly at
tribute that she had never caught and per-
haps might never reach now.
Thereafter came the change In her. She
was in all things the same reckless, merry
hearted Tim of old days. Yet with all this
there was subtle alteration. Her dress
WAS neater and quieter, her touzled hair
was smoothed more often. She would
creep up to his studio sometimes and stand
there timidly watching him. He painted
as well as he did everything else; there
were a power and dramatic force about II
that were lacking in the work of most Of
the men of the schools.
You love your work." she asked sud.
denly one day as she stood near him.
Love itp" he exclaimed. Eyes, indeed.
What would my life be without it, Timp"
"You paint well, she said, with de-
.tisive nod Of the head.
He laughed quickly.
who made you critic, little ones" he
asked, turning to her.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"They all show me their work. know
the style Of each ono Of them. Some will
never paint, poor boysl Some take to it
as baby to its mothers milk. But they
all ask me. am no critic, but know
when trees are trees, and when figures and
faces live. My father was an artist here
in the Quarter"
IAN artistp Have you never paintedS"
She laughed, showing all her white teeth
"Paintedf Never. have all my work
to do to live. There Is no time for that,
even IL could. assist madame, run
II am many things. But my
father was clever. He would have been a
great artist had he liyedn
How long has he been dead2'' he asked
Idly, still painting steadily.
"Soon after was born. It was absinthe
that killed him. do not remember him.
! was baby. But they told me, and he
was very clever. S.nce"-she shrugged
her shoulders carelessly again--sI have
been here as long as can remember. Ev-
cry one hos been good to mo-" I,
He felt vague and tender pity for tho
girl and showed 1t perhaps In many little
ways, and Tins grateful heart went out
to him in love and loyalty that she had
never felt for any man yet.
He was engaged at that time upon pic
ture for the Salon-the picture that after
ward appeared upon Its walls and drew all
artistic Paris, all the artistic world, In
iact-to gaze upon II in wonder and admit
picture that brought fame and
fortune to the Beauty in one short, glad,
hour. It has scarcely been
forgotten even now. It was called "Hunt-
ID" and represented a slave girl, with wild,
haggard eyes and affrighted face tearing
through the thorns that had torn her fiesh
and clothes and stumbling over the broken
ground Of dreary landscape.
The lurid light Of the setting sun was
behind her, topping the dark line Of hills,
md the figures Of her pursuers could be