INSPIRATION—AT MIRABEL.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 65, 17 March 1934, Page 15 (Supplement)

INSPIRATION—AT MIRABEL.

r Xvonne McMahon, 21, Xorilicote Street, Grey Lynn ; age 14.) A tiny sunbeam peeped through the Jatticed window and settled on a lowered shock of golden curls, whilst two large bluo eyes gazed earnestly at the scene which skilful fingers were sketching on the white paper. The owner of the fingers, a boy of eight years, was cast in striking contrast to the fair, radiant beauty of the girl. The dark, brooding face was surmounted by black curls, whilst from beneath heavy crows two brown eyes, burning in their intensity, gazed, out. Another glance at the two side by side would show us the likeness in the features as if they had been moulded on the same plaster by the same moulder. These were the Dubois twins, Annette ancl Phillip.

A final flourish of the pencil completed the scene, one of rare beauty, a dream cottage set amidst an arbour of sweet lavender, scarlet briar roses and giant hollyhocks. Annette lifted two beautiful, adoring blue eyes to the sketcher's face and said: "Oh, Philip, you are wonderful, marvellous. Some day I will see yon in a long robe, looking severely at me over your spectacles. Meet Professor Dubois, the Oil so wonderful artist." This was accompanied by a mock bow and a ripple of innocent girlish laughter. Seven years later, and the two now fifteen, arc seated in the same room. The conversation concerns a ball to be held very soon. Annette is all agog with excitement. Then Monsieur Dubois enters and summons Phillip to the library. He motions the boy to a seat and begins. "Phillip, my boy, you are coming of age now and it is time tor you to turn to the future so I have made all necessary arrangements for you to study in the Commercial College for Gentlemen, in Paris." When he had finished he looked up from his scrutiny of tho desk and, denoting no enthusiasm <m tho part of the lad, asked him what was the matter. Phillip hesitated, then answered: "Father, I appreciate your offer, but you know my heart is set on art."

"No son of mine will ever be known to study sucli rubbish. The son of Charles Dubois a common artist. No, never. »f tiat question arises between us again I will denounce you forever." With that the father sat down with an air of finality, and Phillip left tho room crestfallen. . When tho tale or woe was poured into tho loyal Annette's ears all thoughts of the ball were dispelled, and she was all sympathy, while tho blue eyes shone like limpid lakes as she endeavoured to comfort the disheartened bov._ Two years later and Phillip is attending the college already spoken of. He ■was very unhappy. Too clouded :n thought to mingle with and find intercut in the conversation of the others, he had never been popular. It was fot this reason that on a perfect spring morn he was wandering dejectedly around the college, finding bliss in the quiet and rustling beauty of the gardens, when he should have been enjoying an exhilarating game of tennis. As he came in view of°the building he almost collided with a small village boy who, rendered almost breathless by the shock, managed to gasp out: "Are you Mr. Phillip Dubois, sir.' I've got a telegram for him. With a brief nod Phillip took the slip of paper and his face paled as he icaj these fatal words: "Annette very -11, come at once. Mother.' Before tin. astonished messenger had time to ask for a reply, he was thrust aside, then Phillip dashed for the college: Half an hour later saw him pas= through the iron gates, setting a smalthat on his black curls. An uneventiul train journey soon brought lilui familiar surroundings and as lie l up the drive leading to the house the questions stormed his mind. An e ill"' No. it could not be: vivacious loy, . beautiful Annette." And he shuddered to think of her in pain. He viciously rang the bell and brushed rudelv past the astute butler, causing Et'lmllvMrnl, to .taro » to; Inm in amazement. JSiuldenlv n I before a bowed, -nef-stneken f.gnn. Surely this was not the mischievous playful mother he knew. 'J hen she lifted a lined and aged face to him, the c;*e* shone no more! a dull look of pain took the place of the sparkle. "Mother, mother, it isn t ti no , it is not t rue, she's not > ' '"'i> s «nnt Slowly the silver head <'o<lded Phillip arose like one i" a d.iz . - .

not Annette; surely I will see her soon, she will come out pf that door and smile and say: 'Oh, Phillip, I am pleased to see you.'" His voice rose to a frenzy. Then his mother-led him to Annette. A different Annette, a waxen, still, sadlysmiling girl, lying on a bed, a form so still, so still. With a strangled sob lie flung himself down by the bedside, kissing the tiny cold hand, whilst mannish tears flowed unrestrained on to those tiny fingers.

A gloomy, dull day. about three weeks after this, tlio tiny family were feeling depressed, when the telephone rutlely interrupted the solitude. Mr. Dubois answered it. Whilst watching him his wife saw his face pale and an expression of bewilderment overspread it, and the receiver dropped from nerveless fingers. Then he turned, and with the air of a man who has just been struck a severe blow, said simply: "I am a ruined man." The story was similar to many heard in our days. lie had invested his all in an invention which, by sonu means or other, had come to nothing and he had lost everything. Their house "Mirabel" must go.

The boy said nothing, but a constant thought ever aconipanied him; thev must not sell "Mirabel," it was part of him, and was of her, too. Late that night strange things happened to Phillip. As he lay there pondering, he heard someone call him by name. "Phil, Phil, you alone can save our 'Mirabel,'' you can paint, as if your life depended on it." He turned startled eyes on the beloved figure, truly Ciod-sent in this his hour of need. It was radiant in the moonlight. Hoarsely he whispered, "Annette! Annette!"

"Yes, Phillip, you must do as I tell you. Paint a glorious picture, Professor Phillip Dubois." And the laugh he loved so well rippled over the air.

Next day found him at his easel. The blur of colours soon developed into a woodland scene. Then suddenly, with a gesture of disgust, lie ripped it in two and started afresh. Three times did this happen, until lie began to despair. The room was flooded with light, and Annette, her golden curls streaming around lier shoulders, stood before him. "Don't despair, Phillip, you can do great things. Persevere, I will be your inspiration" Hour by hour sped by and the scene on the canvas sprang to vivid real life. He painted her as she was, at his side. The flowing white, robes, streaming golden curls, beautiful waxen face. Under the, ivy-covered portals of "Mirabel" she walked, on the canvas. That day and the next he worked feverishly until it was completed.

To-day, as it hangs in the Art Gallery in Paris, it draws one to it with a queer magnetic power, and the cheerful attendant never tires of telling the history to interested onlookers of that "Inspiration —at 'Mirabel.'"