Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 216, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 September 1918 — The Decline of Art [ARTICLE]

The Decline of Art

By A. W. PEACH

(Copyright, MIS. by theHMcClure NewspaFrances Acton drew away from the half-finished picture on which she was at work and stared at It with sombre and weary eyes. Into her mind came the quiet, friendly but significant words of the instructor, whom she had given up because he had spoken those words —“You have the artist’s Instinct and soul, but I am mv!2h afraid you will never gain the skill to give it expression.” How the words come back! And there she stood, thinking as he thought—a failure in the field of effort she had sworn she wpnld master. The dismal, battered studio in Which she stood, with its cheapness and its bareness, added to the despair in her heart. Suddenly she heard steps above her, then the sound of a thumping, bumping something bounding down the stairs. Frightened, she threw open the door and discovered the sprawling figure of a man slowly adjusting itself to the realization that it had fallen down a flight of stairs. She fully expected to hear the air displaced by an explosion of more or less vigorous terms. Instead she looked down into the amused face of the fallen and heard him mutter: “And ‘great was the fall thereof — believe that is in the Bible somewhere.” He glanced up at her as he slowly rose. “Pardon me for disturbing you. I assure you lam not in the habit of descending stairs in that fashion, or at that speed.” His face contracted with pain as he balanced himself, and she saw with sudden apprehension that he could not walk, and before she realized what she was doing she took his arm and led him Into'her studio and to a chair. He sank into it with a grateful word. In answer to her query whether or not he had broken anything, he remarked: “Nothing so poetic as that. I cracked my shin, but it will be all right in a while.” As his face straightened and he was engaged in wooing the numbed shinbone, she had time to inspect the flotsam that had been cast at her door. He was evidently tall, and beyond any doubt thin; his hair was curly and light, and his eyes were blue —an odd blue, suggesting sunshine and shadow. It was not difficult to guess that he, like all the rest in the dismal old building, was that poor and deluded creature, she thought—a struggling artist. He looked up, and the whimsical, friendly light in his eyes warmed her very spirit. “I must thank you for offering me shelter and kindness. Perhaps I may be of service to you—l hope not in like capacity,” he added, hastily. She answered perfunctorily, and he limped out and down the stairs. She turned back to the picture and picked up the crayon, but her fingers paused and she smiled. She had looked into pleasant, friendly and understanding eyes; and in that great city, where she had -seen such eyes but seldom, she felt that she had found a friend. She had, but trouble was to come. He stopped that evening, some time, luckily, after she had put away the remains of her frugal meal and brought his offering—a small bunch of dewy violets. Then, because she was hungry for companionship, she invited him into the studio, and it was not long before they were deep in the discussion of the art they were seeking to follow. The old enthusiasm came welling back as she talked to him, and the dark days of the last weeks were forgotten. She told him of her ambition, and he said- that he understood. She told him that she would die before she would give up her dream, and he nodded in understanding. Then he told her in turn of himself and his ambition, but he did not say to ,what extent he would go in trying to make his dream come true. She felt, however, that they were of kindred spirit. Thereafter the friendship ripened rapidly, and proof of it came In many ways. One day, after an all-day trip among the offices, where she had met courtesy and kindly words that always seemed to hold something in reserve, she returned to find a little lunch all ready. She was in despair of heart and mind, and the touch of his gentleness was too much. She told him of her fruitless efforts, and then the tears of weariness came, and before she realized what was happening she found' herself in his arms and bis voice was speaking soothingly. She drew away sharply, anger at his touch rising Instinctively. The startled pain in his eyes caught the bitter words before they were all spoken, and she went on: "Forgive me, Edmund, you have been a good friend, but I am simply—simply—” "I kqow,” he interrupted gently; “you are worn out, tired and hungry." He caught her hand and she made a fierce gesture of dissert. “Yes, but .you are, and I know it, and I—” "And you are, tool” she broke in, almost laughing through her tears. “I am I” he said, bluntly. “So darned hungry I could murder a sandwich man for suggesting one!” He stared gloomily at the low-burn-ing fire in the grate. After a moment lie turned, a light of determination in c “Frances, what dp you say? n»

known you for a week—it seems as if we had been friends for years I I know place where I can get a chance in the garage business. Let’s throw this art stuff up and get up or down to something to eat and a decent place to live. What do you say?" . She looked in his flushed, eager face and earnest eyes. “Am Ito understand that you are proposing to me?” she smiled. He rallied his faculties. “That’s it, Frances. I know—” Her voice was cold. “Thank you, but Im not interested in the garage business .or in marriage, and when I’m .proposed to I want it done in a lover’s way.” He rose sharp, his face set. “I spoke seriously, in my way. If I have—” ■i Contrition came. She caught his arm. “Don’t say—l know —really, I am too tired. You have been good to me, but I can’t give up my dream. I couldn’t marry a garage keeper. I might—someone wh ( o dreams as I.do —you see?” He nodded, but his face was grave, and she knew that the slash of her first words, when his heart was boyishly open, hqd gone deep. He looked down into her eyes, and she saw that in his the light had gone out “Yet the big thing in the world is happiness,” he said simply, and went out, closing the door gently behind him. She stared at the ashes in the grate that once had been evidence of the quality of the old building, and the ashes seemed to symbolize more than she wished they did. “He is right,” she murmured to herself, as she turned out the lights; “the big thing is happiness.” It rained all that night, and the next day dawned gray, damp and forbidding. She worked feverishly at the picture that represented success or failure—and the failure seemed to be looming large. In the evening she heard him return. Her heart stopped as he passed her door and went on up the stairs. Usually he came in to make her a brief visit. She turned away to busy herself with something—anything. The door opened suddenly and he stood before her —his old, impulsive, boyish self. “Well, I made fifty dollars today, from art!” he announced. She thrilled with the words. Then the turn of the tide had come for him perhaps! A small beginning—just the opening—and then — t “I am glad,” she said quickly. “An order —” He shook his head. “No, I got a chance to do some fresco work for a dago ice cream parlor!” Her castles of art tumbled about her ears. Decorations for a “dago ice cream parlor!” She stared at him with wide eyes. Something in his face held her —something deeply glowing in his eyes. She swayed a bit toward him. The full, deep voice of the man belied the tenderly smiling boyish eyes. “Yes, fifty dollars —and a good job. Little girl, let’s swap dreams. I’ll swap my dream of being a Whistler or a Sargent for a home I know of, where skies are blue, mountains green and every, man and woman friend. Will you swap yout dream for mine and my love, till dreaming is done?” She felt suddenly weak. The dreariness of the worn, gray studio closed about her; the moving, quiet, manly tones sang in her ears and in her heart. She nodded. She was swept in his arms and field with a strength that would not be denied. “That fifty dollars will get us home, dearie. And now Hl propose as a lover should!”