She would have declared that her love for
Florian was the very root and source of her art,--that for him she
worked--for him she lived. So indeed she believed, in her finely-
fervent self-delusion,--but it was not ordained that this glamour
should last,--for hers was a nature too rare and valuable to be
sacrificed, and the Higher destinies had begun to approve her as
precious. Therefore, as is the case with all precious things, the
furnace was preparing for the shaping of the gold,--the appointed
Angel of her Fate was already hovering near, holding ready the cup
of bitterness which all must drain to the dregs, before knowing what
it is to drink of "the new wine in the Kingdom of God."
"I wonder," thought the girl now, as she stepped lightly from one
corner of her studio to the other, rearranging a vase here--a bust
there--and imparting to the whole room that indefinable air of grace
and luxury which can only be bestowed by the trained hand of a
practised artist,--"I wonder if Florian will be proud? People will
certainly talk of my picture,--some will praise and some will
condemn; and this mixture of praise and condemnation is what is
called Fame. But will my beloved love me more? Will he be glad that
I am found worthy in the world's sight?--or will he think I am
usurping his place? Ah!" and she paused in her work, looking vaguely
before her with thoughtful, wondering eyes, "That is where we women
workers have to suffer! Men grudge us the laurel, but they forget
that we are trying to win it only that we may wear the rose more
fittingly! A woman tries to do a great and a noble thing, not that
she may vex of humiliate a man by superiority,--but that she may be
more worthy to be his mate and helper in the world,--and also, that
her children may reverence her for something more than the mere
animal duties of nursing and tenderness.
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