And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the
painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride
in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than
full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young
fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which
was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward
instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was
thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his
desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and
obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high
turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only
from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went
on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And be was a passionate,
and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would
not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret
withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to
all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly,
because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid
and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to
depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and
weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not
less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he
depicted so surpassingly well.
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