Strolling leisurely about the city, pondering upon the advisability of visiting Saxe. again, I suddenly sighted a tall, majestic building, whose portals stood wide with a gigantic statue of the angel Genius, smiling a welcome. It was the Salon, and remembering the artistic fisherman and fair Abella, I entered the gallery with much curiosity. I remained till sun-down. The fisherman’s work was above and beyond anything in the gallery, not for merit, but originality. He aimed at the mysterious, the startling, and charmed the imagination. An artist who daringly flings upon the world a picture of dull sky and half-obscured moon is a master.
Originality is the child of imagination; Fame, the blossom.
There were many clever artists in this strange land, possibly more clever than the extraordinary fisherman, but their work lacked individuality and paled into insignificance before the wild combination of vivid, gaudy shades blended by the greatest artist in the world.
But as I viewed the portrait of the beauteous Abella, my admiration for her husband’s art dwindled considerably. In the pink-and-white, simpering portrait the artist betrayed his lack of skill; he failed utterly to produce Abella’s delicate archness and made her loveliness a type to compare with his strange ideal of pervertedness. A long panel canvas revealed the dark-browed, intense production posed impossibly statuesque; deep, gloomy, intelligent eyes, the whole vivid with that which was lacking in the painted prettiness of Abella. It was a masterstroke placing the two side by side, the one fair, smiling, shallow, the other dark, wintry, magnetic. The failure was obscured; the ideal charmed the eye and attention.
I was wondering which type I admired when startled by the sudden flare of lights in the building—the signal of the setting sun—and instantly forgot all types but one and hurried away in happy anticipation.
I found Mike greatly perturbed. He told me every one in the palace had been thrown in great confusion by the tempestuous King of the Vespa Belt.
“Alpha Centauri honors the traditions of her family,” he informed me. “She proclaims herself Priestess of the Sun, and that her celestial duties do not include the unification of the white race. King Benlial departed at sun-down. Friendly relations between the two countries are at an end. Centauri and his daughter escorted the wrathy King to his ship. In loud, excited tones, he told them the Prince would visit Centur. ‘Greetings,’ Alpha replied, ‘the people of Centur will welcome the Prince when honored by his presence.’ Her stateliness, serenity, superiority to the man before her—it was sacrilegious to dream of mating her with the son of such a barbarian!”
Mike waxed indignant.
“Centauri watched the departure of their royal visitor till the ship was out of sight,” he continued, “then seeing me near, the Priestess of the Sun beckoned and bade me tell you she would consult with you in the morning.”
“I will not see her to-day at all then!” I cried.