Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1911-Jan 1912)

<S£^D5^£? W^^^t? Art versus Music 11 *&Z&*d> O *HMr fibs B-fipM (Lubin) 8hfl*ro ^x^ By PETER WADE The three Fates, those weird and busybody sisters, spinning the destinies of this pair of lovers; now drawing out, now twisting adroitly the thread of their lives, can sometimes be rated as bad or careless artisans. Over their humming wheel, from distaff to spindle, the strands of being passed smoothly, without tangle, tear, or snarl; while she of the shears snipped lengths to please her fancy. At times, tho — as is given to all fateful implements— the flax came clumsily from its holder; snarls were made, and knots or splicings marred an even thread. Then it would seem that temper got the upper hand of the inscrutable workers, and the very deuce was played with unoffending lives. Such a yarn is mine, spun by their ceaseless fingers. The little town of Dosebury boasted of one street, mentioned others, and, if one were painstaking enough, shady lanes leading to it could be recalled by its wiseacres. Midway in the town, under ancient trees, the one street broadened into a greensward square. Surrounding this chosen place were white houses with gambrel roofs, each contained in tidy garden. Here, from father to son, the elect of Dosebury had led their sheltered lives. The house of the Vernons fronted it from the north, and here lived Ethel, an only child, with her fond father. Across the common, the Whittler dwelling stood, quite as well tended, with flankings of boxwood hedge and flowering shrubs. Herein dwelt John with his doting mother. Now, I might hint of a course of love between these two old and slender families, and of hands clasped and vows whispered under the trees, in the days of cur great-grandsires ; for this would seem a part of the leafy and quaint setting. But they — tho God alone knows what hands and eyes had said — had never intermarried. Ethel Vernon was the last young blood of her family; John Whittler of his. When Dosebury had linked their names together, and a little path, worn by John, had seemed to connect the two opposite houses, the father of one had smiled jovially, and John's mother had looked across the common with beaming eyes. Thru the open French-windows, the notes from Ethel's piano took on a gladful and a deeper tone; John's easel and brushes had lain in the hallway, untouched for many days. The colors on his palette had caked and cracked ; but who, with a fine eye for light, can blame him as he studied the fleeting pinks and creams of her cheeks? — they were a formula for summer skies, that he could not hope to capture with his brush. Things might have gone on in this idyllic way — for music is an entertaining art and the canvas is a solitary inspiration at best — had not John, in some contrition at his neglected tools, attempted to block out subjects on fresh canvas in the temple of the euphonic muse. Each deft touch of the keyboard by Ethel brought forth its artistic mate in charcoal strokes. The thing would seem a very heavenblend of tone and touch, guided by hearts too that beat in unison, were not love a master art that requires the undivided use of eyes, ardent or trifling, as the case may be. Another speck in their custard sea was that Ethel would sometimes play sadly out of tune. John's loving ears were unfortunately tone-perfect. Certain notes from under soft fingers would make his crayon twitch painfully. Therefore, patient reader, do not censure me, if the little winged god, now hovering over ivory keys, again fluttering to light on easel-top, felt these cool passages, and flew sadly away. 103