The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1904-03-23
I TIM auo BEAUTY F;
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She was at once the Widest, most
daring and most reckless little SOU
brettc to be found in any Of the
bohemian studios of Paris. No gath
ering was complete without the mu-
sic of her laughter, the light of her
black eyes. Scarce picture was
deemed complete until she had pass
cd upon it her own merciless criti-
cism, for Tim, with all the bold
ness of vuigarity that was yet her
greatest charm, was still an apostle
Of the beautiful and the true and
the dramatic in the highest and best
sense Of the words.
Perchance there came time when
her moral and social being under
went a change, and the change came
with the advent of the Beauty.
There, in society where all re-
ccyed nickname, he had been
dubbed the Beauty" from the first
moment of his appearance among
them, and the name, by reason of
lis appropriateness, clung to him.
Certainly there was no satire in
ii. Tall and well proportioned,
with long, straight features and
clustering brown curls about his
well shaped head, the man they dub
bed the Beauty was handsome in
deed.
He had come to Paris to work
Paris, the wonderful, the great,
wherein life was life indeed and art
was art. His name was Cecil
Brandt, and he came from some re-
mote town in the west of England.
She was very silent when she first
saw him. She seemed to gaze at
him wonderingly, as at some rare
creature that was different from
anything else she knew. They twit-
ted her afterward about it, saying
she was unnaturally quiet. One was
even audacious enough to suggest
laughingly that it was a case of love
at first sight and that the mighty
Tins wings were singed at last.
But she broke away from them and
shut herself in her room and flung
herself on the floor there and cried
the night away, weeping perchance
the first bitter tears that her reck-
less life had known, tears born Of
an underlined feeling in her breast
that there was something wanting
in her, some womanly attribute that
she had never caught and perhaps
might never reach now.
Thereafter came the change in
her. She was III aii things the same
reckless, merry hearted Tim of old
days, yet with all this there was q
subtle alteration. Her dress was
neater and quieter, her tousled hair
was smoothed more often. She
would creep up to his studio some
times and stand there >timidly
watching him. He painted as well
as he did everything else. There
were a power and a dramatic force
about it that were lacking in the
work Of most Of the men of the
schools.
"You love your work?" she asked
suddenly one day as she stood near
him.
FLove it!' he exclaimed. eyes,
indeed. What would my life be
without it, Tim?"
'eYou paint well," she said, with
a decisive nod Of the head.
He laughed quickly.
NWho made you critic, little
'one?" he asked, turning to her.
She shrugged her shoulders.
ssTheyy al show me their work.
know the style of each one Of them.
Some will never paint, poor boysl
Some take to it as baby to its
mothers milk. But they all ask
me. I am no critic, but. I know
when trees are trees and when fig
ures and faces live. My father was
an artist here in the Quarter"
Gan artist? Have you never
painted? 2"
She laughed. showing all her
white teeth.
Painted? Never. have all.
my work to do to live. There is no
time for that, even if I'could. las
sist madame, I run erranis; IL
ara many things But my father
was clever. He would have beens a
great artist had he lived"
. How long has he been dead 2"
he asked idly, still painting stead
lily.
= "Soon after I was born. It was
absinth that killed him. I do not
remember him. I was d baby. But
they told me, and he was very cley-
er, Since" she shrugged, her shoul-
dersI carelessly again have been
here as long as + can remember.
sfGtS> 4 IL