THE MADONNA OF THE FUTURE
by Henry James


We had been talking about the masters who had achieved but a single
masterpiece--the artists and poets who but once in their lives had known
the divine afflatus and touched the high level of perfection. Our host
had been showing us a charming little cabinet picture by a painter whose
name we had never heard, and who, after this single spasmodic bid for
fame, had apparently relapsed into obscurity and mediocrity. There was
some discussion as to the frequency of this phenomenon; during which, I
observed, H--- sat silent, finishing his cigar with a meditative air, and
looking at the picture which was being handed round the table. "I don't
know how common a case it is," he said at last, "but I have seen it. I
have known a poor fellow who painted his one masterpiece, and"--he added
with a smile--"he didn't even paint that. He made his bid for fame and
missed it." We all knew H--- for a clever man who had seen much of men
and manners, and had a great stock of reminiscences. Some one
immediately questioned him further, and while I was engrossed with the
raptures of my neighbour over the little picture, he was induced to tell
his tale. If I were to doubt whether it would bear repeating, I should
only have to remember how that charming woman, our hostess, who had left
the table, ventured back in rustling rose-colour to pronounce our
lingering a want of gallantry, and, finding us a listening circle, sank
into her chair in spite of our cigars, and heard the story out so
graciously that, when the catastrophe was reached, she glanced across at
me and showed me a tear in each of her beautiful eyes.

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