The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 11 February 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

THE LIGHTNING ARTIST

The crowd before the Rembrandt Art Store on lower Broadway stood gazing open-mouthed. There, in the window, the Lightning Artist, whom boastful placards proclaimed as second only to Rubens in technique and vastly his superior in rapidity,, was filling canvas after canvas with the most wonderful pictures. About him, within easy reach of his hand, was a gaudy array of variegated paint pots, blues of the deepest and reds of the most flaring hue, saffrons and scarlets, dark browns and pale pinks. The large, dirty brush handles, however, that protruded from each, suggested freshly-painted barns rather* than canvases that were to put to blush the works of the masters. ■ But where speed is aimed at, the implement must be large and the materials ample. And speed was surely the conspicuous talent of the Lightning Artist. He had been working but an hour, yet, despite liberal intermissions between pictures, the man nearest the window declared to a neighbor who had just elbowed his way up, that he had seen ten masterpieces begun and finished. The newcomer sniffed incredulously, when the artist put a fresh canvas on the easel, seized brush number one and began his work. ‘Just you watch him,’ said the man nearest the window, piqued at the stranger’s unbelief. ‘ I guess I’ve had enough experience with painters to know a swift one when I see him.’

The brush which the artist drew from the paint pot dropped in its trail drops of a blue more cerulean than Italian skies or Neapolitan waters or Brazilian sapphires. One quick gesture, and he had drenched the upper part of the canvas with such a mass of blue that the hand of man might well despair of ever restoring its virgin whiteness. Next came the saffron, a great splash of it. Quito naturally, the jaundice grew worse as it neared the blue above.

‘ I saw another picture like this,’ volunteered the man of one hour’s experience. ‘ I bet it’s a sunrise.’ Another magical sweep of the Lightning Artist’s hand, and the lower portion of the picture was flooded with livid green. Blue, saffron, and green—had Titian any combination of colors to surpass this in daring ? ‘ Now, wait,’ said the amateur lecturer, though his acquaintance plainly had no intention of leaving, ‘ he’s going to make the sun.’ Out of the pail of crimson rose the blood-red brush. Almost dramatically, the artist drew back his arm, measured the distance with his eye, and flung the brush, paint and all, at the striped .canvas. ’As the brush dropped to the floor, the crowd gave a little gasp of wonder; in the centre of the picture, just where the green entered into the chromatic conflict with the saffron, was a huge blotch of sanguinary red, while the upper* half of the picture was bespotted with tiny flaming dots.

‘That don’t look , like a suxx,’ growled the newcomer, determined not to be convixxced.

But lo ! The tiny dots were being connected with .a skilful hand into long blazing rays, while about the sun, suddenly called forth by a series of rapid strokes, rose a host of round clouds, pink, vermilion, yellow, from behind which the sun shone forth with diminished splendor, but with a contour more true to astronomical laws.

‘ This is where he does his fancy work,’ cried the original spectator. Three wriggles of a small brush bathed in brown, and a clump of trees was skeletoned against the dawn. Both hands waved the golden tipped wands that called into being in the vast green of the meadow, a bevy of daffodils, as large as full-grown sunflowers. Then, while his left hand gave to the world a lavender shepherd, his right hand called into being three beautiful purple cows. With' the corner of his apron he now smudged together the more solid hues of the sky, smear-

ing in a line of black here and of scarlet there, and ■when he stepped back from his masterpiece of rapidity, an attendant thrust into the faces of the crowd another placard : _ v ' '

SUNRISE

■ after Claude. Time, 5 min. Price, $5.00.

It was a signal for the crowd to shuffle nervously, as if -to assure the proprietors that they really must be going. At the movement, the tired lips of the Lightning Artist curled in scorn. Now that he faced about, you could see that he was a man of advanced middle age, tall but stooped, whose sallow, unhealthy skin was drawn tight over his sharp nose and prominent jaw bones, but gathered in slight bluish bags under his lustreless eyes. His lips were large, and in repose hung loosely open above a jaw that trembled with the visible weakness that physically records the unseen weakness of soul. A man of blighted career, you might have thought him, and the sensuous mouth and burnt-out eyes left no doubt where tlie fault lay. But now his lips were scornful, and his eyes half closed in a sneer at the crowd that would look though it would not buy. In on© glance of contempt, he swept from the first row to the outskirts of the crowd, where his eye paused and the sneer faded. Then half furtively he rubbed his paint-spotted hand on his rough artist's apron, and with a startled yet eagerly expectant gesture, lifted the small black skull-cap that covered his thin hair.

It was a priest whose presence on the outskirts of the crowd evoked the gesture, a man whoso years wore not far different from those of the Lightning Artist, but whose clear eyes and firm lips and jaw were the manifestations of a soul wholly unlike the other’s. In the short moment when priest and painter gazed into each other’s eyes, a look of mutual acknowledgment passed between them, brief but conclusive, for the priest smiled a happy welcoming smile, and slowly lifted his hat as he passed on. The new church of the Dominicans was to be, as far as loving devotion could make it, a work of perfect art. The traditions of an Order whose convent walls still bore the records of Fra Angelico, and whose churches had been an ornament to the Old World, were to be sustained in this land of fresh Catholic promise. To insure this, the work of designing the new edifice had been entrusted to Father Benedict, whose pictures and frescoes had won him the admiration of critics. You may be sure that this devoted artist threw into the plans of the church his whole soul’s effort. It was his master work, the crowning achievement of a life dedicated to ecclesiastical art. Every line of nave and transept, every color of window and fresco, every detail great or small, he had planned in long hours of loving study, until he felt that from the cross on the lofty, campanile to the carvings on the confessionals, the church was one artistic unit, a symmetrical blending of color and line. But every thought of his church was driven from his mind when his eyes met those of the Lightning Artist. The feeling of utter contempt that had shocked his artistic soul at first sight of the hideous paintings gave way first to surprise, then to joyous recognition, and then to a sense of deepest pity. The memories of youth lie closest to the surface, A forgotten letter, a crushed flower, a passage in a book, is enough to send them rioting through the'mind. And the brain of Father Benedict, like an album thrown open, was filled with a thousand pictures, none the less vague for that they were registered in youth. The bright May day, when he and his boyhood friend, lying in the cool grass of the meadow, planned their future — life they would lead in the studios of the great city, and the fame they would win in the world’s salons ; the work at the two canvases set side by side with the kindly master bending lovingly .over the friend’s, so fraught with the promise of genius; the parting, dimmed by a'foreboding fear, when his friend, buoyant and trustful, left him for the art schools of

Paris lived them all again. And,~now -that h© had looked into the eyes of the Lightning Artist, the neglected letters, the long silence, the vain queries were all explained. Something like a sob rose in the Dominican s throat. The fair lad whose hand had the skill of Del Sarto and whose mind could read beneath flesh and blood the intangible soul was now the Lightning Artist! Yet his heart sang at -the thought that his friend had ' returned. In that one glance, the priest had said, ‘ I was waiting for you/ and the artist had answered, ‘ I shall come.'

It was perilous for one as abstracted as was Father Benedict that day, to walk about on the rickety scaffolding, high up among the frescoes. Even his assistants noticed how spasmodic were his movements, . and how pointless his usually, incisive comments. And when his favorite assistant, a young man of remarkable gifts, asked for the hundredth anxious time if he might begin the Madonna which was to fill a large oval above the altar of our Lady, the Father’s answer was so vaguely indefinite, that the artist turned on his heel in disappointment and disgust. Presently a workman scrambled up the ladder, and stumbled over loose scaffolding, amidst stools and palettes and brushes to where the Father stood gazing with unseeing eye at the blank oval destined for the Madonna.

‘There’s a guy downstairs/ said the workman, ‘ that wants to see you. Tie’s a rum looker, and I tried to shoo him off : but there was nothin’ stirrin’. He says he won’t go till he ’

But the workman never finished, for Father Benedict was hurrying toward the ladder at a pace that threatened a fall to certain destruction.

A dozen faces leaned over the scaffolding, staring in utter amazement at the priest, whose arms, as tender as those of the Prodigal’s father, encircled a miserable tramp. There was little said between them men do not talk on occasions like that. The priest led the Lightning Artist to a rough bench, and sat beside him, still holding the weak, pulseless hand in his own. firm clasp.

So much like the confessional did that first interview seem that alien hands are loth to tear aside the veil from before that misspent life with its squandered talents ad opportunities. He had been weak, the temptations strong, and he had fallen again and again, until with broken health and shattered gifts, he fled from the scene of his disgrace, to the city which had known him in his innocence. There is a dread monotony in the paths of all prodigals, and when Father Benedict noted the gaunt checks and hollow cough of his friend, he thanked God that the feet which had wandered into a far distant land had not faltered on the path home.

‘ God be praised !’ said the priest, affectionately, ‘ that you did not die among strangers. You are home now and—-’

The eyes of the Lightning Artist were lifted quickly to his friend’s.

‘ -—can die in peace,’ he finished in a flash. ‘You noticed it then ?’

Father Benedict flushed, for he had not meant to betray the fact that he had marked his friend’s illness.

‘Yes,’ continued the other, almost bitterly, ‘it’s consumption, quick consumption. I haven’t long to live. The work at the Rembrandt is terrible on a weak man, but it’s all 1 could get. Men won’t take an artist that looks as I do. But sometimes I think that I may live just long enough to do something for God, just one work, done before I surrender the shattered remains of my talents. I think/ and his voice grew wistful, ‘ I should like to paint a Madonna before I die-—something pure and holy—to make up for the rottenness of my life. Can’t you help me to it?’ Father Benedict’s favorite assistant looked very glum when he heard that the oval over our Lady’s altar was-to be filled by another. He would have protested had not the priest’s few words changed his protest into generous enthusiasm. The scaffolding was reared into place, and the wondering artists saw Father Benedict’s

seedy friend mounting to it with steps unsteady from mingled weakness and. joy. Days passed quickly, and the wonder inspired among his colleagues by the appearance of this strange artist grew into a veritable alarm. By day, he labored incessantly at his Madonna, by night he slept beneath it on a rough cot which he had made. Not all the importunities of Father Benedict, nor he warnings of a kindly physician, could drag him from Ins picture. And yet, with all his labors and enthusiasm there was not one of the artists who could not see that the picture was a terrible, ghastly failure. The colors of the background, they agreed, were correct and telling; the tint of flesh was true as life itself, but the face of the Madonna was not that of a sweet, innocent maiden; it was hard, soulless, almost cruel in its physical perfection. Oh, it was beautiful enough, this Madonna, if beauty consists in mere perfection of contour, untouched by the light of a soul; in eyes of the deepest violet, which have not a spark of sympathetic affection to kindle them ; in lips, like the lips of Psyche, and equally hard and still.

As the artist worked away at his picture with pas - sionate intensity little knots gathered to watch him, grouping themselves about (lie indignant figure of Father Benedict’s favorite assistant.

Their tones grew more angry day by day, until at last they went in a. body to the priest, their indignant leader at their head.

Father Benedict,’ he began, we know this new artist is your friend, so we have hesitated to speak out our minds. But we love this church : it’s ours as well as yours; we've given it our best thought and efforts, and we can’t bear to see it spoiled by one man. Great heavens, Father,’ his indignation waxing strong, ‘ how can you stand by and let that picture disgrace your church? It’s a crime against our sweet Lady. Why, Father, you wanted a Madonna, and this fellow has given you ! ’

He stopped abruptly, for the priest’s head had bent wearily forward. They did not know how much he had longed to stop the wretched work, save for the love of his friend. He had felt that the life of his prodigal was dependent on that picture. To stoj) the work would be to snuff the feeble flame of life that found its fuel in the intensity of a- last enthusiasm. When at length Father Benedict rised his eyes, his look rested not upon the half repentant group before him, but on a poor, broken figure that stood trembling not a dozen feet away. It was his friend, and he had heard it all. Now, too, the artists saw him, and a shamed confusion held them speechless.

It was the Lightning Artist who spoke first. ‘ls it true?’ he whispered feverishly. ‘ls all they say of my picture true ?’ Though the priest turned his head away, his heart leaped with a great throb of joy. At least the intention of his friend had been pure. ‘I should have known,’ muttered the artist, brokenly. ‘ How could a man such as I catch anything of the beauty of soul. 1 painted the only beauty I've known, the beauty of sense, and it was wrong. How could a vile thing like myself hope to paint a pure Madonna? I’m all wrong, all wrong.’

His step was weak and hesitant as he passed down the long nave toward his despised Madonna. All that night the priest watched by the wretched cot of his friend, there beneath the unfinished picture. The man’s fever was high, and in his delirium he spoke only of that picture, now in wild hopefulness, now in the anguish of conscious failure. With the return of day, came consciousness. His first glance was toward his Madonna, his second toward his friend. For a moment he studied the countenance of the priest in silence, and then a bright light came over his wan face.

‘ Could you,’ he whispered, pointing to the Madonna, ‘ make right what is wrong ? I failed because I’ve not known purity; you have, I can see it in your face. Will you finish the picture ? I should like to see it perfect before I die.’ " For a moment the priest hesitated. Not since work on the church had engrossed his whole attention,

had he touched a canvas. But the imploring face of his friend was turned anxiously toward his, and without a word, he pressed his hand and mounted the ladder. Never had he felt so strongly the spell of inspiration. lie knew what was wrong ; long hours of disappointed study of his friend’s picture had told him that. lie felt that every stroke he would make would be watched with feverish interest by his friend, and he prayed as he gathered the neglected materials, that he might succeed.

Eagerly, intensely, he worked, for time was short. Beneath his brush, the hard, cold mouth was softened, until it smiled, tenderly sweet. The brow, fixed as marble, took on a soft blush that rose gently from the rounded cheek over the temple, so delicately veined with purple. One touch of light gave love to the eyes one line tenderness to the lids. The chin, which was so nelly beautiful, needed but a shadow, and it seemed ready to quiver with maternal love. The supreme achievement of a painter had been accomplished. He had breathed into lifeless canvas a soul, of exquisite purity. Hie last stroke was given, and tire Ligntning Artist sank back on his pillow, a look of wondrous satis--1 action on his face. Never for a moment did he take Ins e\ es from the transformed Muidonna, not even when he felt once more the clasp of his friend’s strong hand. 1 I should like,’ ho whispered, as if he were speaking to the picture, high above him, * to have painted such a picture. It might have redeemed my life.’ ‘ You tried,’ answered the priest, softly. ‘ God and our Lady ask no more.’

Do you think so?’ he asked, with his eyes still on the Madonna. ‘Then I’m not a total failure, am I?’ He raised himself slowly on his arm. ‘ Why, I believe 3on ic light. Isn tit I she s smiling on? Look, she’s holding out her arms to me, to me, the Lightning Artist. Mother !’ he cried, as if the picture and reality were blending into one. ‘ I’m so tired; take me home!’