A Cathedral Singer | Page 3

bruises of life's rudenesses, the lingering shadows of dark days,
the unwounded pride once and the wounded pride now, the
unconquerable will, a soaring spirit whose wings were meant for the
upper air but which are broken and beat the dust. All these are sublime
things to paint in any human countenance; they are the footprints of
destiny on our faces. The greatest masters of the brush that the world
has ever known could not have asked for anything greater. When you
behold her, perhaps some of you may think of certain brief but eternal
words of Pascal: 'Man is a reed that bends but does not break.' Such is
your model, then, a woman with a great countenance; the fighting face
of a woman at peace. Now out upon the darkened battle-field of this
woman's face shines one serene sun, and it is that sun that brings out
upon it its marvelous human radiance, its supreme expression: the love
of the mother. Your model is the beauty of motherhood, the sacredness
of motherhood, the glory of motherhood: that is to be the portrait of her
that you are to paint."
He stopped. Their faces glowed; their eyes disclosed depths in their
natures never stirred before; from out those depths youthful, tender
creative forces came forth, eager to serve, to obey. He added a few
particulars:
"For a while after she is posed you will no doubt see many different
expressions pass rapidly over her face. This will be a new and painful
experience to which she will not be able to adapt herself at once. She
will be uncomfortable, she will be awkward, she will be embarrassed,
she will be without her full value. But I think from what I discovered

while talking with her that she will soon grow oblivious to her
surroundings. They will not overwhelm her; she will finally overwhelm
them. She will soon forget you and me and the studio; the one ruling
passion of her life will sweep back into consciousness; and then out
upon her features will come again that marvelous look which has
almost remodeled them to itself alone."
He added, "I will go for her. By this time she must be waiting
down-stairs."
As he turned he glanced at the screens placed at that end of the room;
behind these the models made their preparations to pose.
"I have arranged," he said significantly, "that she shall leave her things
down-stairs."
It seemed long before they heard him on the way back. He came slowly,
as though concerned not to hurry his model, as though to save her from
the disrespect of urgency. Even the natural noise of his feet on the bare
hallway was restrained. They listened for the sounds of her footsteps. In
the tense silence of the studio a pin-drop might have been noticeable, a
breath would have been audible; but they could not hear her footsteps.
He might have been followed by a spirit. Those feet of hers must be
very light feet, very quiet feet, the feet of the well-bred.
He entered and advanced a few paces and turned as though to make
way for some one of far more importance than himself; and there
walked forward and stopped at a delicate distance from them all a
woman, bareheaded, ungloved, slender, straight, of middle height, and
in life's middle years--Rachel Truesdale.
She did not look at him or at them; she did not look at anything. It was
not her role to notice. She merely waited, perfectly composed, to be
told what to do. Her thoughts and emotions did not enter into the scene
at all; she was there solely as having been hired for work.
One privilege she had exercised unsparingly--not to offer herself for
this employment as becomingly dressed for it. She submitted herself to

be painted in austerest fidelity to nature, plainly dressed, her hair parted
and brushed severely back. Women, sometimes great women, have in
history, at the hour of their supreme tragedies, thus demeaned
themselves--for the hospital, for baptism, for the guillotine, for the
stake, for the cross.
But because she made herself poor in apparel, she became most rich in
her humanity. There was nothing for the eye to rest upon but her bare
self. And thus the contours of the head, the beauty of the hair, the line
of it along the forehead and temples, the curvature of the brows, the
chiseling of the proud nostrils and the high bridge of the nose, the
molding of the mouth, the modeling of the throat, the shaping of the
shoulders, the grace of the arms and the hands--all became conspicuous,
absorbing. The slightest elements of physique and of personality came
into view powerful, unforgetable.
She stood, not noticing anything, waiting for instructions. With the