The Savannah morning news., 1901-11-20
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A MASTERPIECE OF GOD
BY FRANK BAIRD.
IcoI'yright. 1901. by Authors Syndicate,


Ten years before. when he was
os. he had made up his mind to marry.
But Just then She died. He took this
philosophically, however reasoning
that it was due to discovery in heav-
en- of just what manner of woman she
was. The only puzzling thing about
it was that they had not sent for her
sooner.
But his knowing the why of her
taking off in no way lessened his wrath
grief is not the word-regar it,
He planned a great revenge that was
to include in its sweep everything from
God down-man, woman, the world
everything, except art. That was guilt
less; and that was enough.
After the great casting-out he went
heroically to work. In ten years hate
and other things had pushed him well
towards the top in the world of art.
He had studio. an easy income some
who were well up towards the master
line came to him to learn. He was
getting his revenge. He was content;
and had steeled himself to living in
that way; God and His world, and
men and women could go to the devil.
He had world of his own. 1t had it's
people and things, its god, its angels,
its heaven and hell. And this art world
was enough; it was better.
When she came to him as a pupil,
he squared her as he did everything,
by rigid art standard. As a woman
she was something to be put away.
But what was in her of art he felt
called upon to recognize. One day
as she worked it occurred to him he
must detail some-for arts sake. Her
profile was chiseled with exquisite
fineness. The lines that held in the
face were just where he would have
penciled them to make perfection out
of a pupils imperfection, And where
was the colorist who could have
stumbled on that ground, or on the
composition which gave that sobriety
to the tender blue gray in the eye?
This was rare; it was new; it was art.
If he were to work on her face how
would he light and frame it? For he
had become aroused up to the point of
thinking even that. Beauty in marble;
in the light shade and bland on dull,
tarry substance shot him through with
strange, inspiring thrills. He had
felt these before; he felt some Of them
now as he looked at his pupil.
He was in the far end of the gal
lery the next time she came to copy.
Once she became thoughtful. The
great masterpiece before her faded out.
He knew she was seeing things such as
people dream. The tone about her was
low and chaste. The lower part of her
figure melted softly into the floor,
while the upper part stood clearly
against the farther wall. Her profile,
neck and one full arm were lit by
rarely suffused light from above. Great
heavens!
From that moment the spirit of
art seized and wrought upon him. He
had tarried and his pentecost had
fully come. For months he was in
the world, but not of it. His subject
perfection before undreamed. The
veil of the holy of holes of his new
religion was rent; he was caught up
where he heard unspeakable things
unlawful for man to utter. Oh, the
JOY of it ALI He was winning. What
he had lost in the casting-out was as
dross compared with this his gain.
He was getting it all-the gradating,
the composition, the lighting. the ball
ance, the vivacity, and, most of all,
the low-toned and warm blue grays
of the eye.
And it was done. The long ascent
toward fame had been topped.
Through his pentecost he had
emerged with the gift of tongues. He
had seen, and heard, and understood.
His name low in the left of that mas
terpiece was safe; and it would be
trumpeted forward through the years
as long as there was art. He felt he
was avenged upon God and the world.
1t was the first evening after the
finishing of his work. and at the grand
reception. His first glimpse of her
sent an unsettling pang through his
being. His colors were now dry; to
change was impossible. Better he had
looked upon her grave than that he
should now see excellencies-or even
inexcellencies--he had not seen before
IF his lighting was not to advantage,
not the best; if he were wrong in his
drawings; if
She was standing in the middle dis
tance, lit strongly from above. She