The Wilmington daily Republican. (Wilmington, Del.) 1890-1902, 1897-05-14
FULFILLMENT.

uD6 bkn1o uOusoi Deruufu urccu peihB VI
the top floor, mino Immediately below. 1t
was an old house In q quaint bystreet In
Chelsea-a house with strange and unex-
pected hooks and crannies, as though the
rooms and staircases had been designed In
discriminatory by different hands and had
never fitted together properly. Only time
had shaken them together somewhat and
mothed the angularities.
We both had dreams of all we were to
do in the world Of art at that time. be-
lieve we each saw in sort Of mental pic
ture stone tablet fixed outside our respeo-
tive windows proclaiming to future wOr-
shippers of genius the fact that we had
stamped our respective personalities on
that particular set Of rooms. So far as
am concerned, the dreams have remained
Dreams am still rank outsider, from
my own point of view, although probably
admit the fact to myself alone in my
own severely practical moments But
with Bernard 1t was different, as all the
world knows He made his own fiery
mark on the scroll Of fame-made 1t, too,
at the eleventh hour.
True, twas but ono sudden flare, comet
like, among the more steadily shining
stars, but it Is remembered still and its ra-
dance has not quite died away-probably
1t never will. He was always strange be-
ing, filled with many superstitions and
uncanny beliefs. Only those intimate with
him knew anything Of tho curious light
and shadows of his character. Though
not by any means religious man in the
ordinary meaning of the term, his stron-
gest and most deeply rooted belief was in
the existence Of a personal devil.
"There is nothing lurid about my men
tai picture Of the devil, he said once as we
sat together In his studio. ~ seem to see
always the fallen angel-the splendid crea-
ture who sinned and sinned grandly, and
yet was as grandly defiant; who was as far
above the heavenly groundlings who mere
ly sang and worshiped as the lark is above
a Gagged canary, piping its note in placid
contentment in its prison."
"You arc blasphemous, said, with
something of a virtuously uneasy laugh.
"Oh, no." he replied lightly. "The sub
ject appeals strongly to me. l believe in
the personal devil and in the personal help
Of the devil to those who believe as do.
And II I had to linn that devil should
paint O woman"
"Ah, now you are growing sarcastic"
said laughing.
lyon do not understand" he answered
impatiently, rising and pacing the room.
II should paint beautiful woman-a
woman with face grandly, pityingly sor-
rowful, face scornfully impatient of the
narrow, or the mean, or the sordid, n face
nodded by suffering and passion and CEN
turtles of splendid, silent loneliness.
believe l thought he was mad. re-
membered the saying that we are all mad
upon one point or another. But now, after
all these years, dare not express an opin-
ion. l can only tell my story in all its bare
reality. Up to that time Bernard Green
had given but little promise of any real
genius. True he had worked hard and he
understood thoroughly the technicalities of
his art. But he painted pictures as SO
many others paint thcm-as paint them
to this day-skiIlful delineations of certain
hackneyed subjects, absolutely correct from
tho schools point Of view of form and col
or. But no hungered for something more;
he cried out that this was not art. And
one night his hunger found expression In
words that will haunt me until follow,
with the trembling hope that may find
him In the land of shadows.
We were sitting together in the room he
used as studio, almost in darkness 1t
was gusty night In March, with the wind
from the river battering ceaselessly against
the old house and rattling its crazy win
dows. A hundred ghostly noises seemed
to beabout the place. l almost thought
again and again that heard ghostlike,
rustling movements on tho echoing stair
way outside. The fire burned with dull
red glow, tlaring up now and then and
sending the shadows dancing weirdly about
the walls and on the discolored ceiling. We
had been sitting silently for some time,
watching the freight, when he suddenly
spoke with quick, passionate carnestness
that was startling. The room was dark Mt
tho moment; the flames had died down,
and could scarce see his face.
"Oh, for the power to paint as man has
never painted yet; to be done with all the
dim cropping and striving and mcdiocrity;
to achieve Once-only once--a triumph
that should mako men gasp and wonder,
and women shudder and weep! Oh, great
flend, of whom have Reconsideration
have worshiped-oome to mo from out the
thine Internal power!"
He had started to his feet as he finished
speaking, with his gaunt hands stretched
out inploringly. l saw that he was abso-
lutely unconscious of my presence l saw,
too, that his face had suddenly changed,
and that he was staring across tho room at
something he saw behind me- Tho wind
ratified furiousy against tho windows and
then died away The fire famed up for
moment, and l turned quickly, with a
now and awful horror upon me, to look
behind me. There in the very center Of
tho room stood figure, the figure Of q
woman clad from head to foot in gray. A
heavy cloak enyeloped it, hut the hood had
fallen back, revealing tho face, crowned
by masses of red gold hair, banded loosely
with oirclet Of gold. There was no need
for the light of the dying fire. The woman
was cnvelopcd by some awful lurid atmos-
phcre of her own that threw every line In
to prominent relief and yet touched moth
ing else about her. AS l stood gazing at
the yisitant ! became aware that Bernard
Green had fallen on his knees. For my
part, terror stricken though was, could
not move or take my eyes from that face.
She spoke at last. Her voice was rich and
deep and infinitely tender, but its tones
were the most pathetically weary have
ever heard
Your prayer has been heard, o painter,
first among the sons Of men to know me