Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1898-01-22

i, q
had hitherto ignored Him. What would
they say, these simple peasants sobbing all
around, II they knew that 1 was of that
hated race? Then something broke In me
and sobbed, too-sobbed with bitter tears
that soon turned sweet in strange relief
and glad sympathy with my rough brothers
and sisters
He paused a moment and slipped silently
at his absinthe. did not break the silence.
1 was moved and interested. though what
all this had to do with his glowing, joyous
picture could only dimly surmise- He
went on:
when 1t was all over and I went out
Into the open air did not see the sunlight.
carried the dusk Of the theater with me.
and the gloom Of Golgotha brooded over
the sunny afternoon. I heard the nails
driven In. I saw the blood squirting from
the wounds; there was realism in the thing,
tell you. The peasants, accustomed to
the painful story. had quickly recovered
their gayety. and were pouring bolster
orsiy down the hillside like a glad, turbu-
lent mountain stream rnloosed from the
dead hand of frost. But I was still ice
bound and fog-wrapped. Outside the Gas
thaus where l went to dine gay groups
assembled. an organ played, some strolling
Italian girls danced gracefully. and my
artistic self was aware of warmth and a
rush, But the inmost me was neck-deep
In gloom. with which the terribly pounded
steak they gave me, frauduiently overiaid
with two snowy fried eggs. seemed only In
keeping. St John came In. the Christ and
choir-and the thick tenor and some sup
ers: and congratulated them one and all
with a gloomy sense of dishonesty. When,
as evening fell. I walked home with st.
John. was gioomily glad to ind the VAL
ley shrouded in mist and a starless heaven
50 gging over blank earth. 1t seemed an
endless uphill drag to my lodging, and
though my bed room was unexpectedly
mother-metaphorically tucked me in, I
slept i'll that night. Formless dreams tor
sured me with fmpalpable tragedies and
apprehcnsfons of horror. In the morning.
little from my spirit. though the weather
still seemed rather gray. st. John had al
ready gone of to his field work, his mother
told me. She was so lovely. and the room
in which I ate breakfast so neat and de-
mure with its whitewashed walls, pure
and stainless like country snow, that I
managed to swallow everything but the
coffee. Oh. that coffee! 1 had to nibble at
q bit of chocolate carried to get the taste
of it out of my mouth. I tried hard not to
let the blues get the upper hand again. I
hiied my pipe and pulled out my sketch
book Ny notes of yesterday seemed so
faint and the morning growing SO dark,
that could scarcely see them. 1 thought
would go and sit on the little bench out
side AS l was saunterng through the
doorway, my head bending broodingly over
the sketch book like this. I caught sight
out of the corner OF my eye of little
white match stand fixed upon the wall.
Mechanically l put out my left hand to
take light for my pipe. A queer cold
Wetness in my fingers and little splash
woke me to the sense Of some odd mistake
and In another instant I realized with hor-
ror that had dipped my fingers into holy
water and splashed 1T over that neat, de-
mure. spotless, whitewashed WALL
1 could not help smiling. "Ah. 1 know,
one of those porcelain things with a cruel
fed Savior over q little font. Fancy taking
heaven for birthstone"
1T didn't seem the least bit funny at the
time. just felt awful. What would the
dear old woman say to this proclamation?
Why did people have whitewashed walls
on which sacrilegious stains were luridly
visible? 1 looked up and down the hall.
like Moses when he slew that Egyptian,
trembling lest the old woman should come
In. How could l make her understand l
was so ignorant of Christian custom as to
mistake a font for a match box? And IL
said l was Jew-good heavens! she might
think had doHe it Of fell design. What
wound to the gentle old creature who had
been so sweet to me! / could not stay in
sight Of that accusing streak: 1 must walk
Off my uneasiness. 1 threw open the outer
door, then l stood still, paralyzed. Mon
strous, evil-looking gray mists were
formless vapors blotted out the mountain;
everywhere vague, drifting hulks of ma
larious mist. l sought to pierce them, to
find the landscape. the cheerful village, the
warm human life nesting under Gods
through tunnel cut betwixt mist and
mountain, dead inverted world Of houses
and trees in a chill gray lake. l shuddered.
An indefinablc apprehension possessed me,
something like the vague discomfort Of my
dreams then almost instantly 1t cryStalliZed
into the blood-curdlfng suggestion: What
II this were divine chastisement? What If
all the outer and inner dreariness that had
so steadily enveloped me since I witnessed
the tragedy were punishment for my dis
belief? What II this water were really holy
and my sacrilege had brought some grizzly
Nemesis?'
You believed that?"
Not really, of course. But you, as an
artist, must understand how one dallies
with an idea, plays with mood, works
oneself up imaginatively into a dramatic
situation. / let 1t grow upon me till. like
a man alone in the dark, afraid Of the
ghosts he doesn't believe in, I grew
nervous"
II dare say you hadn't wholly recovered
from your fall. and your nerves were un-
strung by the blood and the nails, and
that steak mad disagreed with you. and
you had had bad night, and you were
morbidly uneasy about annoying the old
woman, and all those chunks of mist got
into your spirits. You are child of the
SUM-"
"Of course 1 knew all that down In the
cellars of my being: but upstairs. all the
same, / had this sense of guilt and ex-
piation. this anxious doubt that perhaps
all that great. gloomy medieval business
of saints and nuns. and bones and relics
and miracles. and icons. and calvaries and