The evening tribune. (Pawtucket, R.I.) 189?-190?, 1897-05-04
FULFILLMENT.

We had our studios on different floors of
the same house, Bernard Green's being on
the top floor, mine Immediately below. 1t
was an old house In quaint bystreet in
Chelsea house with strange and unex-
pected nooks 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 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 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
am concerned, the dreams have remained
dreams. / am still a rank outsider from
my own point Of view, although probably
l admit the fact to myself alone In my
own severely practical moments. But
with Bernard ii was different, as all the
world knows. He made his own fiery
mark on the scroll of fame-Inade 1t, too,
at the eleventh hour.
True, il was but one sudden flare, comet
like, among the more steadily shining
stars, but il Is remembered still and its ra
diance has not quite died away-probably
it never will. He was always strange be-
ing, filled with many supcrstitions 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 i'm
the existence of 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
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.
lyon are blasphemous, I said, with
something OF virtuously uneasy laugh.
"Oh, no." he replied lightly. "The sub
ject appeals strongly to me. 1 believe in
the personal devil and I'm tho personal help
of the devil to those who believe as do.
And IL had TO linn that devil should
paint woman"
''Ah, now you are growing sarcastic"
said laughing.
"You do not understand he answered
impatiently, rising and pacing the room.
81 should paint beautiful woman-a
woman with face grandly, pityingly sor-
rowful, face scornfully impatient of the
narrow, or the mean, OF the sordid, face
nodded by suffering and passion and cen
f,,. ,<.fy .na
l believe I thought he was mad. re-
membered the saying that we are all mad
upon one point or another. But now, after
all these years l dare not express an opin-
ion. 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-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 i'm darkness. 1t
was a gusty night i'm 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 q dull
red glow, fiaring up now and then and
sending the shadows dancing weirily about
the walls and OH the discolored ceiling. We
had been sitting silently for some time,
watching the freight, when no suddenly
spoke with n quick, passionate carnestncss
that was startling. The room was dark at
the 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 bc done with all the
dim cropping and striving and mediocrity !;
70 achieve Once-only once--a triumph
that should make men gasp and wonder,
and women shudder and weep! Oh, great
1end, Of whom have dreamed--whom
have eworshiped--come to me from out the
centuries and aid me with the strength Of
thine Internal powcrv'
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. saw,
too, that his face had suddenly changed,
md that he WAS staring across thc room mt
something he saw behind me- The wind
ratified furiously against the windows and
then died away The fire famed up for
moment, and i turned quickly, with n
new and awful horror upon me, To look
behind me. There In the very center Of
the room stood a figure, the fgnre of u
woman clad from head to foot in gray A
heavy cloak envclopcd IL, but the hood had
fallen back, revealing the face, crowned
by masses of red gold hair, banded loosely
with circlct of gold. There was no need
for the light 81 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 stood gazing mt
the visitant bccame aware that Bernard
Green had fallen on his knees. For my