“It is time for me to begin my farewells.”
He made it evident that he wished to be alone, except for his own friend the lawyer. So, when the two were left together in the room, he turned to the lawyer and said:
“Dear friend, bring me the Beautiful Face ...” adding, “the key is here under my pillow.”
Taking the key, the lawyer unlocked an old cabinet in a shadowy corner of the room, and presently returned to the bedside, carrying in his hands a small urn of exquisite workmanship. Placing it on a low table near to the poet’s hand, the lawyer, who had been the confidant of the poet’s tragedy, made a sign of understanding, and left the room.
On the wall facing the end of the poet’s bed had hung for seven years the picture of a marvellously beautiful girl. She was so exceptional in her beauty that to attempt description of her would be futile. Suffice it that her face—framed in night-black hair, and tragically lit by enormous black eyes—was chiefly remarkable for the nobility of its expression and for its sense of elemental power. It was a face full of silence—a dark flower of a face, so to say, rooted deep down in the mysterious strengths of nature. If one may use such an expression of a thing so delicate, she seemed like a rock of beauty, against which a whole world of men might dash their tribute hearts in vain. Other faces might seem more attractive, more formally beautiful, but to few faces had it been given to concentrate the cold imperialism of beauty as it was concentrated in this exquisite face.
This face was the real meaning of the poet’s life. The rest was mere badinage, screening a sad heart. This face was the real meaning of the poet’s gladness at his approaching death. This life held no more expectations for him—but the next? Who knows?—perhaps to-morrow night he would be with her in Paradise.
Looking long at the picture of the Beautiful Face, he turned—to the Beautiful Face itself; for it had now been silver dust for four years. Drawing the urn to him, he read once more the name upon the little gold plate let into the bronze:
Meriel Wasteneys: Died March 16, 1900.
And underneath the name he read some lines inscribed in gold:
“O Beauty, art thou also dust?
These silver ashes—can it be
That you, thus silting through my hand,
Once made a madman out of me!”