The Worshipper of the Image | Page 3

it was the face of Beatrice, feature for feature. How
strange!--and, loving Beatrice, he bought it, because of his great love
for her! Who was the artist, what the time and circumstance, that had
anticipated in this strange fashion the only face he had ever really loved
on earth?
He sought information of the shopkeeper, who told him a strange little
story of an unknown model and an unknown artist, and two tragic fates.
When Antony had brought Silencieux home to Beatrice, she had at first
taken that delight in her which every created thing takes in a perfect, or
even an imperfect, reflection of itself. To have been anticipated in a
manner so unusual gave back in romantic suggestiveness what at first
sight it seemed to steal from one's personal originality. Only at first
sight--for, if like Beatrice, you were the possessor of a face so
uncommon in type that your lover might, with little fear of disproof,
declare, at all events in England, that there was none other like it, you
might grow superstitious as you looked at an anticipation so creepily
identical, and conceive strange fancies of re-incarnation. What if this
had been you in some former existence! Or at all events, if there is any
truth in those who tell us that in the mould and lines of our faces and
hands--yes! and in every secret marking of our bodies--our fates are
written as in a parchment; would it not be reasonable to surmise,
perhaps to fear, that the writing should mean the same on one face as
on the other, and the fates as well as the faces prove identical?
Beatrice gave the mask back to Antony, with a little shiver.
"It is very wonderful, very strange, but she makes me frightened. What
was the story the man told you, Antony?"
"No doubt it was all nonsense," Antony replied, "but he said that it was
the death-mask of an unknown girl found drowned in the Seine."
"Drowned in the Seine!" exclaimed Beatrice, growing almost as white
as the image.
"Yes! and he said too that the story went that the sculptor who moulded

it had fallen so in love with the dead girl, that he had gone mad and
drowned himself in the Seine also."
"Can it be true, Antony?"
"I hope so, for it is so beautiful,--and nothing is really beautiful till it
has come true."
"But the pain, the pity of it--Antony."
"That is a part of the beauty, surely--the very essence of its beauty--"
"Beauty! beauty! O Antony, that is always your cry. I can only think of
the terror, the human anguish. Poor girl--" and she turned again to the
image as it lay upon the table,--"see how the hair lies moulded round
her ears with the water, and how her eyelashes stick to her cheek--Poor
girl."
"But see how happy she looks. Why should we pity one who can smile
like that? See how peaceful she looks;" and with a sudden whim,
Antony took the image and set it lying back on a soft cushion in a
corner of the couch, at the same time throwing round its neck his black
cloak, which he had cast off as he came in.
The image nestled into the cushion as though it had veritably been a
living woman weary for sleep, and softly smiling that it was near at last.
So comfortable she seemed, you could have sworn she breathed.
Antony lifted her head once or twice with his fingers, to delight himself
with seeing her sink back luxuriously once more.
Beatrice grew more and more white.
"Antony, please stop. I cannot bear it. She looks so terribly alive."
At that moment Antony's touch had been a little too forcible, the image
hung poised for a moment and then began to fall in the direction of
Beatrice.

"Oh, she is falling," she almost screamed, as Antony saved the cast
from the floor. "For God's sake, stop!"
"How childish of you, Beatrice. She is only plaster. I never knew you
such a baby."
"I cannot help it, Antony. I know it is foolish, but I cannot help it. I
think living in this place has made me morbid. She seems so alive--so
evil, so cruel. I am sorry you bought her, Antony. I cannot bear to look
at her. Won't you take her away? Take her up into the wood. Keep her
there. Take her now. I shall not be able to sleep all night if I know she
is in the house."
She was half hysterical, and Antony soothed her gently.
"Yes, yes, dear. I'm sorry. I'll take her up the wood now this minute.
Wait till I light the lantern. Poor Beatrice, I never dreamed she would
affect you so. I loved her,