The face was unlike flesh and blood,—was dim, elfish, wan, with large, mild eyes, as blue and misty as the nebulæ that Herschel found in Southern skies,—eyes that looked at nothing, but seemed to penetrate the universe and shed soft solemn light over all things. Back from the broad, low brow, floated a cloud of silky yellow hair, that glittered in the slanting rays of sunshine as if powdered with gold dust; and over its streaming strands fluttered two mottled butterflies, and a honey-laden bee. On distant hill-slopes cattle browsed, and at the right of the kneeling woman a young lamb nibbled a cluster of snowy lilies, while a dappled fawn watched the gambols of a dun kid; and on the left, in a tuft of bearded grass, a brown snake arched its neck to peer at a brood of half-fledged partridges.
“Mrs. Gerome, will you be so kind as to explain this mythologic design?”
She came back to the easel, and took up her palette.
“If it requires an explanation it is an egregious failure, and shall find a vacant corner in some rubbish garret.”
“It is exceedingly beautiful, but I do not fully comprehend the symbolism.”
“If it does not clearly mean the one thing for which it was intended, it means nothing, and is worthless. Look, sir, she—
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‘Forgets, remembers, grieves, and is not sad; The quiet lands and skies leave light upon her eyes; None knows her weak, or wise, or tired, or glad.’” |
Dr. Grey bit his lip, but shook his head.
“You must read me your painted riddle more explicitly. Is it Ceres?”
“No, sir; a few sheaves do not make a harvest. I am a stupid bungler, spoiling canvas and wasting paint, or else you are as obtuse as the critics who may one day hover hungrily over it. Try the aid of one more clew, and if you fail to catch my purpose, I will dash my brush all loaded with ochre, 223 right into those mystic, prescient eyes, and blur them forever. Listen, and guess,—