She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when
she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already
a bride in his Art. She, a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of gleeall light and
smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was
her rival; dreading only the palette and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of
the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his
desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many
weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead.
But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And
he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see
that the light which fell so ghastlily in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who
pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the
painter (who had high renown), took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and
night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some
who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not
less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well.
But at length, as the labour drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for
the painter had grown wild with the ardour of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, even
to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the
canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed,
and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of
the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given,
and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which
he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and
crying with a loud voice, This is indeed Life itself! turned suddenly to regard his belovedshe was
dead!