The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1917-07-07
A TOUCH OF COLOR

The artist stepped back and sur
veyed his work with satisfaction, and
yet with something of sorrow; star
like, from a cloud of golden hair, an
angel face looked out upon the world
with message of serene and per-
feet peace.
Il fear it will be as the rest" An
ton said sadly. mo one will under
stand its power and beauty-except
perhaps Francesca"
A footstep sounded back of him,
and the artist turned to find a man
standing on the threshold. Seldom
did Anton trouble to put the heavy
broken door into place; the intruder
had simply pushed aside the thread
bare curtains which hung in the en-
trance to this attic studio, and was
now looking at the picture, hooking
light in his eyes. AS he advanced
into the room the unsteadiness of
his gait limited at intoxication.
This was Marco, successful painter
and favorite of fortune. Anton
poor, unknown, nspired-occupied the
attic of his spacious home
Yes" said Marco scornfully, "it is
we'll done, my friend as indeed is all
of your work well done; but as ever,
it lacks the one thing to make it sue
cessful. Shall | tell you what it is?
| had not meant to do so. There was
some reason why | should not" He
paused, evidently striving to recall
that reason, but in his maudlin state
it was impossible, so in deeply af-
fectionate tone he continued, Il am
grieved over your ill success, and l
must tell you: always in the best pic
lures, even the hottest Madonna ones,
you will find something that men love
and understand, human touch that
makes it's appeal to men. Where is it
in your angel faces? They give no
message of love, or life, or suffering,
or DEATH
Love and life and joy are theirs"
Anton answered wistfully, "if only
| they would read the message! Bitter
ly | realize that they turn with in
difference from my angels to gaze
with delight at your Spanish dancing
girls
But Marco was already making his
way unsteadily out of the room, leav-
ing Anton to ask himself gravely was
there truth in what he had said? Was
this the secret of his non-success?
Was his work lacking in the human
touch which men loved? If so, surely
the matter could be remedied Even
in this picture a touch of color placed
daringly, but carefully might answer
the purpose. For it did not mean a
lowering of high ideals that men
should look upon his work and call it
good. He turned to his colors: ah,-
he was getting a little short on colors;
and then he saw that of the one de-
sired, there was none at all. He had
no money to buy more, and he could
not lower himself to borrow of Marco;
yet he felt now that his work needed
that one color.
thought came to him: Some
thing that men love- he muttered, and
an expression of sardonic amuse-
ment crossed his face.
Anton had not yet fully recovered
from a recent illness, brought on by
an attack from desperadoes. 1t was
supposed that they had mistaken him
for Marco; one knife had gone peril
ously near his heart, and for days after
he had lain in delirium. Even now
there were times when a touch of
madness mounted. to his brain; then
he would work with feverish energy,
and francesca would pause often on
the studio threshold, anxiety and ten
derness almost like a mothers in her
glance. But today he put the heavy
door in place.
Was there some magic secret of sue
cess in that daring touch of color
which finally showed on the canvass.
Or was it only the inevitable result of
the artists patient labor? Certainly
the whole city, marveling, wondering
and applauding, approached to gaze
upon that picture; and Anton's angels
came to be known and loved in all the
land of Italy. Daily his fame in
creased, while that of Marco waned;
and Marcos hatred and jealousy grew
in proportion, fierce. deadly, vengeful. |
A day dawned, beautiful, brilliant
with sunshine; high up in the attic
studio, Anton was working swiftly and |
down in his sumptuous studio Marco
was brooding and idling. Presently |
a young girl paused in the doorway.
will you need me today she ques-
toned
He turned and looked her over care
fully, critically, as one appraising her
value; an innocent, childlike face was