If he married,--when he married, he corrected himself, for he surely
intended to marry Millicent,--there would have to be great changes in
his life. He would be obliged to abandon his old tower, and live in a
smug new house somewhere, with fuss and worry about servants, who would
not please him half so well as did the old wood-cutter John. His work,
ah, how that would suffer!--no more of the pleasant conscientious labor,
the slow painting and study of that one supreme moment of the day when
the golden copse was made tender by the light of the setting sun. He
must hie him to the city and pass his life in painting fat, over-fed
matrons in lace and diamonds, or expressionless minxes with costumes
indicative of youth and ignorance. He would, perhaps, relapse into a
mere mechanical portrait-painter, with as much imagination as a
photographer; and his pictures would be ordered as theirs are, with the
simple difference that the artist produces but one copy, while the
photographer, with equal trouble, makes a dozen or ten dozen, or a
single picture. He sighed aloud, and for consolation lit his pipe. He
caught sight of the flower which had bloomed on a fair bosom and was now
fastened to his coat, somewhat crushed but still fragrant. He carefully
unpinned the rose and placed it in a small vase of water, and then
proceeded to examine the books which Millicent had given him. Graham
liked old books, and was delighted with the yellowed parchment copy of
Petrarch. An inscription on the cover showed that it had once belonged
to a monastery. On the fly-leaf was a slight sketch of a young monk’s
head seen in profile. It was a beautiful, clear-cut face, with delicate
outlines and an earnest expression; beneath it was written, "Fra
Antonio, Aetat 22."
"So this was brother Antonio, and he lived and died probably in the
peaceful quiet of a Roman monastery. I wonder if he painted too, or
whether he wrote hymns to all the pretty female saints in the calendar.
Brother Antonio must have lived and died without a helpmeet. I fancy he
did none the worse work for that."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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