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Page 9
'The Lethe of Nature
Can't trance him again,
Whose soul sees the Perfect
His eyes seek in vain.'
* * * * *
It was midnight, and Anselm, worn with fasts and pale with vigils, knelt
at his devotions in his lonely cell. Lo! a majestic form of fearful but
perfect beauty stood beside him. The Angel was clad in linen, white as
snow, and his voice startled the soul like the sound of the last
trumpet.
'Gird up thy loins like a man, for the darksome doors of Death stand
open before thee, and this night thy Lord requires thy spirit!' said the
mighty messenger.
Anselm trembled. He feared to stand before the All-seeing Eye, whose
dread majesty subdued his soul.
'Behold! He putteth no trust in His saints, and the heavens are not
pure in His sight,' he murmured. But he hesitated not to obey, and
giving his hand to the Angel, said:
'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!'
His earnest lips still thrilling with a prayer for mercy, together they
departed 'for that bourne from which no traveller returns.' Between the
imperfections of the created and the perfections of the Creator, what
can fill the infinite abyss? Infinite Love alone!
* * * * *
The artist-brothers had never separated. Music, Poetry, and Painting
spring from the triune existence of man, represent his life in its
triune being, and thus move harmoniously together.
They had made their home the happiest spot on earth.
It was evening, and the Poet seemed lost in revery as he gazed on the
dying light. His hand rested tenderly on the shoulder of a dark but
brilliant woman, who loved him with the strength of a fervid soul.
'Sibyl,' said he softly to his young wife, 'were I now to leave thee,
how many of my lines would remain written on thy heart?'
'All! they are all graven there,' replied the enthusiast, 'for the
glowing words of a pure poet are the true echoes of a woman's soul!'
The Painter sat near them, putting the last touches upon a picture of a
Virgin and Child, which he was striving so to finish that his brethren
might be able to grasp more fully that sweet scene of human love and
God's strange mercy.
Tender were the shadows that fell from the veiling lashes on the rounded
cheek of his fair model; lustrous, yet soft and meek, the light from the
maiden's eye as she gazed upon the beautiful infant resting on her
bosom. The name of the child was Jemschid, and there was in that name a
charm sufficient to awaken her innocent love.
She was the betrothed of the Painter.
'Imogen!' said he to the fair model, 'I know not why the thought rushes
so sadly over me, but I feel I shall never finish this picture. The
traits escape me--I cannot find them.'
'Never finish the beautiful Madonna, to which you have given so much
time, and on which you have expended so much care!' Then with a sudden
change of tone, in which astonishment darkened into fear, she exclaimed:
'Are you ill, Jemschid? You have already worked too long upon it. You
will destroy your health; you need rest.'
'Nay, sweet Imogen, not so; I am well, quite well, and too happy for
words. But I cannot finish the picture. I have lost the expression for
the face of the Madonna. Six months ago, when I began it, your face was
so meek and tranquil it served me well, but now, even with its present
air of meek entreaty, it is too passionate for the mother of God. It is
far dearer thus to me, Imogen--but I can never finish the painting
now--and only an angel can, for your young face is fairer and purer than
aught else on earth.'
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