Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1911-Jan 1912)

Record Details:

Something wrong or inaccurate about this page? Let us Know!

Thanks for helping us continually improve the quality of the Lantern search engine for all of our users! We have millions of scanned pages, so user reports are incredibly helpful for us to identify places where we can improve and update the metadata.

Please describe the issue below, and click "Submit" to send your comments to our team! If you'd prefer, you can also send us an email to mhdl@commarts.wisc.edu with your comments.




We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.

Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.

32 THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE ... ..... ■ -ft*. r^°:« 4i \%jSfac3£ *j -■ ^1**^*1 has fled. God! the days of joy and pleasure, and the evenings calm and sweet." The stormy gray of her eyes softened to the shades of a summer sky. In an instant her mood changed, and she quivered unnaturally with passion. Jealousy, hatred and fear chased, imp-like, across the features. Her hand clutched at something curved, in a sheath on the wall, and she drew it from its leathern pocket. The yellow draperies bellied toward her as she came near them, and she drew back in horror. It was but a breeze from the hills, and she crept forward again, reassured. Why did a woman scream in fear as she reached swiftly thru them, and why, with her withdrawing arm, did they shake "so, like the dance of a mad mollah ? She fled across the chamber, a thing of shuddering terror, to crouch against the wall, and to shut out forever the dancing tapestry. It seemed to salaam to her with grotesque, flapping garments, then whirl away in dizzy convolutions. As the dance of death ceased, the clutched curtain trembled violently in myriad wrinkles, and fell to its former folds. A brown arm, in gorgeous kaftan, slid beneath, and the jewels on its hand winked malignantly with its last convulsive motions. The woman against the wall had watched the fingers of the high servant of the Prophet of God cast out the last sparks of life, even to the tips. With their going her soul had fled also. "Painting seems to be to the eye what dancing is to the limbs. When that has educated the form to self-possession, to nimbleness, to grace, the steps of the dancing master are better forgotten. So painting teaches me the splendor of color and the expression of form, and, as I see many pictures and higher genius in the art, I see the boundless opulence of the pencil, the indifferency in which the artist stands free to choose out of the possible forms. If he can draw everything, why draw anything ? And then are my eyes opened to the eternal picture which Nature paints on the streets, with moving men and women, beggars, fine ladies, draped in red and green and blue and gray ; longhaired, grizzled, white-faced, blackfaced, wrinkled; giant, dwarf, expanded, elfish, capped and based by heaven, earth and sea." — Emerson.