The Chickasha daily express. (Chickasha, Indian Territory [Okla.]) 1899-current, 1908-12-29


be baby or a star. The Lanthorn OF
Light is the fantastic title that Cul-
bertson chose.
When the critics came to write, one
and all. they laid aside that stale joke
about the yellow Glrl"-or perhaps
they did not recognize the woman.
Some Of them said that religious
mania was less offensive than the art
lists earlier freaks; others that "a
note OF power and originality" etc,
etc; his friends wrote "Culbertson is
on the way TO finding himself" And
I. knowing even a little of his inner
history, felt that they we're right. But
for all the beauty OF line and color,
for all the spiritual power Of this last
picture, | was dominated rather by a
sense Of unrest and sadness. The
splendor Of light became, IN the art
lists hands. almost a tragedy.
Three years later, when l stood be-
fore a portrait OF Mary-Gold. felt
that he had attained to this supreme
achievement. He had learned to sub
due the splendor OF her coloring and
to bring out its significance. The
whole thing is brown but turning to
red, to purple, TO blue, TO green, to
gold Her magnificent hair is dull
compared with the barbaric crown
that he once believed It to be; her
eyes are like misty sunshine; her
smile is evanescent, but infinitely glad.
But the figure rests and the face is
strong in peace; and could not but
think that the artist as well had
come TO the end Of his seeking.
I was not greatly surprised as L
stood there, when he touched me on
the shoulder He was as thin as ever
and very gray. His face was deeply
marked; but when | looked from his
work to his eyes. felt that he had
come through the waters.
"She looks her name" said I softly.
the very genius Of spiritual wealth."
could see that had pleased him.
You are right" said he. and added:
4 shall never do better than that"
I found IT difficult to ask questions.
And she?" ! stumbled over the
words.
She is my wife, said he. Shall
we sit down a few moments?"
And so, with people passing and re-
passing before the work of his hands,
he told me briefly the burden of his
life. He did not look to see or to
hear what people thought OF his work;
but he watched the portrait as If to
him 1t were alive.
7 am another Jacob" said he quiet
ly, but outwaited him. It has been
nearly IL years. And she loved me
all the while. It has been a strange
Atalanta chase for us from end to
end OF the world. And whenever I
came too near. she threw me a golden
apple, In the way of letting me paint
a picture. You know how we began.
You saw the Autumn? The mystery
was very dense then: but when was
doing the Isolde, she made me feel
that sword. II cut into the spirit-we
won't talk of it, nor Of the Judas
Tree. / was insane then; and She
poor thingl-nearly as bad, though |
did not know. We parted and I went
out into the desert-you know? 1
don't remember how many years II
was: but we we're bound to meet
again II was the mere pull OF our
two natures-across the world. / sup
pose. found her in a little wayside
village church in Italy--it couldn't
have been more wonderful: and there
l made her stop until | had painted
the Lanthorn.
When It was done, she laid her
hand on my shoulder-the nearest
she had ever come to me up to then
and she said: You have read nv
face. You ought to know that you are
right. II would be the greatest thing
in the world for me to have a child
but there's insanity, you know, in our
family for generations back What
could | do? can't go into the story
Ethel, even to you. thought she
might have trusted me, but she ran
away again-ran away in the night
before | had finished the picture.
sent It as it was-and don't know
that any one ever noticed
I stayed on in the place, but I did
no painting for year or two. / sup
pose ! acquired some little skill in
those bad days. l think | had feel
ing that if | waited on long enough
she would come back to me. It was
three years before she came back to
that church where we had sat and
talked; and there we sat and talked
again. And ! was bitter about the II
lost years; but she would not let me
speak-she drew the converse of the
picture-she was always gold unal-
loyed, my Mary. But she made me
see how the fire through which we
had passed was the very breath Of
life. And when she stopped speaking
l sat thinking Of the past and what II
had meant and what the future might
mean; how all the things of which we
are deprived in reality enter into the
spirit and live there and give life
And ! was afraid to ask again, though
had been seeking so long.
1T was herself who said; And ff
I. L.