She was frowning, as though resentful of a piece of work which had the
power to kill her other pictures. What force had moved her to paint like
that? What had she felt while the girl was standing before her, still as
some pale flower placed in a cup of water? Not love--there was no love
in the presentment of that twilight figure; not hate--there was no hate
in the painting of her dim appeal. Yet in the picture of this shadow
girl, between the gloom and glimmer, was visible a spirit, driving the
artist on to create that which had the power to haunt the mind.
Blanca turned away and went up to a portrait of her husband, painted
ten years before. She looked from one picture to the other, with eyes as
hard and stabbing as the points of daggers.
In the more poignant relationships of human life there is a point beyond
which men and women do not quite truthfully analyse their feelings--they
feel too much. It was Blanca's fortune, too, to be endowed to excess
with that quality which, of all others, most obscures the real
significance of human issues. Her pride had kept her back from Hilary,
till she had felt herself a failure. Her pride had so revolted at that
failure that she had led the way to utter estrangement. Her pride had
forced her to the attitude of one who says "Live your own life; I should
be ashamed to let you see that I care what happens between us.
Pages:
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179