"Always at work! Beulah, you give yourself no rest. Day and night
you are constantly busy."
Apparently this remark fell on deaf ears; for, without replying,
Beulah lifted her drawing, looked at it intently, turned it round
once or twice, and then resumed her crayon.
"What a hideous countenance! Who is it?" continued Clara.
"Mors."
"She is horrible! Where did you ever see anything like it?"
"During the height of the epidemic I fell asleep for a few seconds,
and dreamed that Mors was sweeping down, with extended arms, to
snatch you. By the clock I had not slept quite two minutes, yet the
countenance of Mors was indelibly stamped on my memory, and now I am
transferring it to paper. You are mistaken; it is terrible, but not
hideous!" Beulah laid aside her pencil, and, leaning her elbows on
the table, sat, with her face in her hands, gazing upon the drawing.
It represented the head and shoulders of a winged female; the
countenance was inflexible, grim, and cadaverous. The large, lurid
eyes had an owlish stare; and the outspread pinions, black as night,
made the wan face yet more livid by contrast. The extended hands
were like those of a skeleton.
"What strange fancies you have! It makes the blood curdle in my
veins to look at that awful countenance," said Clara shudderingly.
"I cannot draw it as I saw it in my dream! Cannot do justice to my
ideal Mors!" answered Beulah, in a discontented tone, as she took up
the crayon and retouched the poppies which clustered in the sable
locks.
"For Heaven's sake, do not attempt to render it any more horrible!
Put it away, and finish this lovely Greek face. Oh, how I envy you
your talent for music and drawing! Nature gifted you rarely!"
"No! she merely gave me an intense love of beauty, which constantly
impels me to embody, in melody or coloring, the glorious images
which the contemplation of beauty creates in my soul. Alas! I am not
a genius. If I were I might hope to achieve an immortal renown.
Gladly would I pay its painful and dangerous price!" She placed the
drawing of Mors in her portfolio and began to touch lightly an
unfinished head of Sappho.
"Ah, Clara, how connoisseurs would carp at this portrait of the
'Lesbian Muse'! My guardian, for one, would sneer, superbly."
"Why, pray? It is perfectly beautiful!"
"Because, forsooth, it is no low-browed, swarthy Greek. I have a
penchant for high, broad, expansive foreheads, which are
antagonistic to all the ancient models of beauty. Low foreheads
characterize the antique; but who can fancy 'violet-crowned,
immortal Sappho,' "'With that gloriole
Of ebon hair, on calmed brows,' other than I have drawn her!" She held up the paper, and smiled
triumphantly.