38
U niversity
of
O regon M onthly
F ain t form s of w onderful beauty w ere shadow ed forth in
his soul. T he a rtis t saw them in far-off perspective like bits
of glass in a kaleidoscope. T hey glowed in pale, pure light,
beautiful beyond im agining. In due tim e would the a rtist
give them life, also, as he had given to this picture.
A t last he was w eary of w aiting. Intense longing surged
over him to see again his p ic tu re ; for three days had gone
since he had placed upon it tenderly the last perfecting touch.
T he a rtist never perm itted him self t o : gaze upon his w ork
while the fever of creating w as on him. “T hree days m ust
go,”, said he, “to cool one’s brain, and to clear the eye lest a
man over-rate his w ork.” Now, the three days were done.
T he great a rtist w ent near, and stretch in g out his hand,
slim and trem ulous, he drew back the curtain. W onder
flooded his soul. H e fell on his knees before the picture.
L ong and deep he gazed at its loveliness, searching eagerly,
for the dear m arks of his handiw ork, the faults th a t «were hiß
close com panions.
T here was no flaw in it anyw here. I t w as attainm ent.
It was perfection. F o r a space the m an w as a god, w ith the
high trium ph of im m ortality in his soul.
Suddenly, like a darkening of the sun, the tru th came
to him, and he fell on his face in bitterness. T he end of his
striv in g had some. H is w ork was perfect, and there was no
more left in all the w orld for him to attain. T he great artist
w ept like a little child. So, the critics found him, sobbing
in bittern ess of heart.
And because the m an was a great artist, and because he
had already enriched him self w ith the praises and offerings
of his fellow men, he painted no m ore pictures.
— M iriam V an W aters,