The Colfax chronicle. [volume] (Colfax, Grant Parish, La.) 1877-1981, 1909-01-16

hSuIc VI Tic Cuiiu, Sti du6Siy WV
with the head toward you.
and rayed with gold SO that it Is
difficult to say whether it is meant to
be baby or 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 Girp'-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 -
note of power and originality" etc.
etc.; his friends wrote "Culbertson is
on the way to finding himself" And
I, knowing even q little of his inner
history, felt that they were right. But
for all the beauty of line and color,
for all the spiritual power of this last
picture, / was dominated rather by q
sense of unrest and sadness. The
splendor of light became. in the art
lists hands, almost tragedy.
Three years later, when l stood be-
fore 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 ]
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. l felt that he had
come through the waters.
"She looks her name," said softly,
''the very genius Of spiritual WEALTH."
could see that had pleased him.
You are right" said he, and added:
Il shall never do better than that"
l found it difficult to ask questions
And she?" stumbled over tho
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 II II
him it we're alive.
Il am another Jacob" said he quiet
ly, but outwaited him. 1t has beer
nearly II years. And she loved m,
all the while. 1t has been a strang'
ATLANTA chase for US from end Il
end of the world. And whenever
came too near, she threw me a colder
apple, in the way of letting me pain
picture. You know how we began
You saw the Autumn? The myster,
was very dense then; but when wa
doing the Isolde, she made me fee
that sword. 1t cut into the spirit-w
won't talk of it, nor Of the Judas
Tree. / was insane then; and She
poor thing!-nearly as bad, though
did not know. We parted and wen
out into the desert-you know?
don't remember how many years |
was: but we were bound to NEE
again. 1t was the mere pull of GU
two natures-across the world, / SUI
pose. found her in a little waysid
village church in Italy-it couldn'
have been more wonderful; and Their
! made her stop until had painte
} the Lanthorn.
when it was done. she laid he
: hand on my shoulder-the neares
she had ever come to me up to thel
and she said: You have read m
face. You ought to know that you ar
right. 1t would be the greatest thin
in the world for me to have a chill,
but there's insanity, you know, in on
family for generations back Whs
could do? / can't go into the stor,
I Ethel. even to you. l thought sh
3 might have trusted me, but she ra
away again-ran away in the nigh
before / had finished the picture.
? sent 1t as it was-and I don't kno
that any one ever noticed
: Il stayed on in the place, but d.
! no painting for year or two. su
pose ! acquired some little skill
4 those bad days. / think l had a fee
e ing that if L waited on long enoue
she would come back to me. 1t W,
r three years before she came back
I that church where we had sat an
l. talked; and there we sat and talks
e again. And l was bitter about the
lost years; but she would not let n
v speak-she drew the converse of Il
e picture-she was always gold un,
i loyed, my Mary. But she made n
e see how the fire through which '