Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1897-07-02
FULFILLMENT.

the same house, Bernard Green's being on
the top floor, mine Immediately below. 1t
was an old house in a 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
smothed the Irregularities.
We both had dreams of all we were to
do in the world of art at that time. be-
lieve we each saw in a sort of mental pic
ture stone tablet fixed outside our respec-
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 1
am concerned, the dreams have remained
dreams. I am still a 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 it was different as all the
world knows. He made his own fiery
mark on the scroll of fame-made it, too,
at the eleventh hour.
True, it was but one sudden flare, comet
like, among the more steadily shining
stars, but it is remembered still and it's ra
dance has not quite died away-probably
it never will. He was always u strange be-
ing, filled with many superstitions and
uncanny beliefs. Only those intimate with.
him knew anything Of the 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 II 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 it's note in placid
contentment in its prison."
"You are blasphemous, I said, with
something of yirtuously 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 If had to linn that devil I should
paint woman"
All, now you are growing sarcastic"
said laughing.
"You do not understand" he answered
inpatiently, rising and pacing the room.
81 should paint beautiful woman-a
woman with face grandly, pityingly sor--
rowful. face scornfully impatient Of the
narrow, OF the mean, or the s0rdid, a face
cd NV cI1ffa md
turtles of splendid, silent loneliness.
believe I thought he was mad. I 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-S
ion. I can only tell my story in all it's 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 them-as paint them
to this day-skillful delineations of certain
hackneyed subjects, absolutely correct from
the schools point Of view Of form and col,
or. But he 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 a gusty night in March, with the wind
from the river battering ceaselessly against
the old house and rafting it's crazy win.
dows. A hundred ghostly noises seemed
to be about the place. almost thought
again and again that heard ghostlike,
rustling movements on the echoing stair
way outside. The fire burned with dull
red glow, faring 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 a quick, passionate earnestness
that was startling. The room was dark at
the moment; the flames had died down,
and could scarce see his face.
sob, for the power to paint as man has
never painted yet; to be done with all the
dim cropping and striving and mediocrity;
to achieve once-only Once-a triumph
that should make men gasp and wonder,
and women shudder and weep! Oh, great
fend, of whom have dreamed-whom
have worshiped-oom to me from out the
centuries and aid me with the strength Of
thine Internal powerl" /.
He had started to his feet as he finished
speaking, with his gaunt hands stretched
out imploringly. 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 the room at
something he saw behind me- The wind
ratified furiously against the windows and
then died away. THE fire famed up for q
moment, and ! turned quickly, with a
new and awful horror upon me, to look
behind me. There in the very center Of
the room stood figure, the figure of o
woman clad from head to foot in gray. A
heavy cloak enveloped it, but the hood had
fallen back, revealing the face, crowned
by masses Of red gold hair, banded loosely
with circlet Of gold. There was no need
for the light Of the dying fire. The woman
was enveloped by some awful lurid atmos.
phere Of her own that threw every line In
to prominent relief and yet touched moth
ing else about her. AS I stood gazing at
the visitant 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 pathetioally weary have
ever heard
Your prayer has been heard, o painter,
first among the sons of men to know me
a. I ann, to grasp, as nearly as human un-