“Now, are you ready to paint again?” she asked indifferently. He did not reply, but again went to the easel and took up his brush and palette.
The painting is marvellously successful. It is a portrait which as far as the likeness goes couldn’t be better, and at the same time it seems to have an ideal quality. The colors glow, are supernatural; almost diabolical, I would call them.
The painter has put all his sufferings, his adoration, and all his execration into the picture.
* * * * *
Now he is painting me; we are alone together for several hours every day. To-day he suddenly turned to me with his vibrant voice and said:
“You love this woman?”
“Yes.”
“I also love her.” His eyes were bathed in tears. He remained silent for a while, and continued painting.
“We have a mountain at home in Germany within which she dwells,” he murmured to himself. “She is a demon.”
* * * * *