The Dying Masterpiece Analysis

The Dying Masterpiece

“Fool as de woman!”

Old Behrman cursed as he put on his stained jacket. The room was dark. Empty bottles lay scattered across the floor as well as perched upon every drawer and cupboard. The room smelt of what the bottles now lacked, as did Behrman. Just above the drink-scented room lived two young women against whom the verbal knives of his short outburst were pointed; Sue and Johnsy, the only two artists –save himself of course—for whom he had any sentiment. Both were sleeping. One was dying. What was the cause of this dying? A hooded and most unwelcomed guest named Pneumonia. By now Mr. Pneumonia was quite well known in little Greenwich Village, New York, where the artists dwelt. Upon entry to Behrman’s apartment his cold gaze had at once found fancy in Johnsy, who he smote with the kiss of his deathly desire. Following that encounter Johnsy lay in bed listening silently to his whispers of hopelessness as he worked to wrack her weak frame from the world. There was

He was in no shape to do such a thing: frail and failed artist of sixty or so that he was, though at one point he had been much more. Old Behrman smiled as he remembered himself at twenty, a stalwart young immigrant from Germany with nothing but a smile and a pencil to make his living. For a time his skill had been unequaled in the studios of New York. Young Behrman enjoyed drawing impressive works for newspapers and galleries under various pseudonyms. His real name he kept for an imagined masterpiece of the future, a colorful canvas that he would raise to glory in later days which would carry his name like a knight in shining armor holding high the handkerchief of his beloved maiden.* Of course, Sue and Johnsy would never believe that even if he told it to them with a sober