is feeling in them.’
‘How dare you tell me a fib like that? Remember, I was under Kami for two years. I know exactly what he says.’
‘It isn’t a fib.’
‘It’s worse; it’s a half-truth. Kami says, when he puts his head on one side,—so,—“Il y a du sentiment, mais il n’y a pas de parti pris.”’ He rolled the r threateningly, as Kami used to do.
‘Yes, that is what he says; and I’m beginning to think that he is right.’
‘Certainly he is.’ Dick admitted that two people in the world could do and say no wrong. Kami was the man.
‘And now you say the same thing. It’s so disheartening.’
‘I’m sorry, but you asked me to speak the truth. Besides, I love you too much to pretend about your work. It’s strong, it’s patient sometimes,—not always,—and sometimes there’s power in it, but there’s no special reason why it should be done at all. At least, that’s how it strikes me.’
‘There’s no special reason why anything in the world should ever be done. You know that as well as I do. I only want success.’
‘You’re going the wrong way to get it, then. Hasn’t Kami ever told you so?’
‘Don’t quote Kami to me. I want to know what you think. My work’s bad, to begin with.’
‘I didn’t say that, and I don’t think it.’
‘It’s amateurish, then.’
‘That it most certainly is not. You’re a work-woman, darling, to your boot-heels, and I respect you for that.’
‘You don’t laugh at me behind my back?’
‘No, dear. You see, you are more to me than any one else. Put this cloak thing round you, or you’ll get chilled.’
Maisie wrapped herself in the soft marten skins, turning the gray kangaroo fur to the outside.
‘This is delicious,’ she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully along the fur. ‘Well? Why am I wrong in trying to get a little success?’
‘Just because you try. Don’t you understand, darling? Good work has nothing to do with—doesn’t belong to—the person who does it. It’s put into him or her from outside.’
‘But how does that affect——’
‘Wait a minute. All we can do is to learn how to do our work, to be masters of our materials instead of servants, and never to be afraid of anything.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Everything else comes from outside ourselves. Very good. If we sit down quietly to work out notions that are sent to us, we may or we may not do something that isn’t bad. A great deal depends on being master of the bricks and mortar of the trade. But the instant we begin to think about success and the effect of our work—to play with one eye on the gallery—we lose power and touch and everything else. At least that’s how I have found it. Instead of being quiet and giving every power you possess to your work, you’re fretting over something which you can neither help no hinder by a minute. See?’
‘It’s so easy for you to talk in that way. People like what you do. Don’t you ever think about the gallery?’
‘Much too often; but I’m always punished for it by loss of power. It’s as simple as the Rule of Three. If we make light of our work by using it for our own ends, our work will make light of us, and, as we’re the weaker, we shall suffer.’
‘I don’t treat my work lightly. You know that it’s everything to me.’
‘Of course; but, whether you realise it or not, you give two strokes for yourself to one for your work. It isn’t your fault, darling. I do exactly the same thing, and know that I’m doing it. Most of the French schools, and all the schools here, drive the students to work for their own credit, and for the sake of their pride. I was told that all the world was interested in my work, and everybody at Kami’s talked turpentine, and I honestly believed that the world needed elevating and influencing, and all manner of impertinences, by my brushes. By Jove, I actually believed that! When my little head was bursting with a notion that I couldn’t handle because I hadn’t sufficient knowledge of my craft, I used to run about wondering at my own magnificence and getting ready to astonish the world.’
‘But surely one can do that sometimes?’
‘Very seldom with malice aforethought, darling. And when it’s done it’s such a tiny thing, and the world’s so big, and all but a millionth part of it doesn’t care. Maisie, come with me and I’ll show you something of the size of the world. One can no more avoid working than eating,—that goes on by itself,—but try to see what you are working for. I know such little heavens that I could take you to,—islands tucked away under the Line. You sight them after weeks of crashing through water as black as black marble because it’s so deep, and you sit in the fore-chains day after day and see the sun rise almost afraid because the sea’s so lonely.’
‘Who is afraid?—you, or the sun?’
‘The sun, of course. And there are noises under the sea, and sounds overhead in a clear sky. Then you find your island alive with hot moist orchids that make mouths at you and can do everything except talk. There’s a waterfall in it three hundred feet high, just like a sliver of green jade laced with silver; and millions of wild bees live up in the rocks; and you can hear the fat cocoa-nuts falling from the palms; and you order an ivory-white servant to sling you a long yellow hammock with tassels on it like ripe maize, and you put up your feet and hear the bees hum and the water fall till you go to sleep.’
‘Can one work there?’
‘Certainly. One must do something always. You hang your canvas up in a palm tree and let the parrots criticise. When they scuffle you heave a ripe custard-apple at them, and it bursts in a lather of cream. There are hundreds of places. Come and see them.’
‘I don’t quite like that place. It sounds lazy. Tell me another.’
‘What do you think of a big, red, dead city built of red sandstone, with raw green aloes growing between the stones, lying out neglected on honey-coloured sands? There are forty dead kings there, Maisie, each in a gorgeous tomb finer than all the others. You look at the palaces and streets and shops and tanks, and think that men must live there, till you find a wee gray squirrel rubbing its nose all alone in the market-place, and a jewelled peacock struts out of a carved doorway and spreads its tail against a marble screen as fine pierced as point-lace. Then a monkey—a little black monkey—walks through the main square to get a drink from a tank forty feet deep. He slides down the creepers to the water’s edge, and a friend holds him by the tail, in case he should fall in.’
‘Is that all true?’
‘I have been there and seen. Then evening comes, and the lights change till it’s just as though you stood in the heart of a king-opal. A little before sundown, as punctually as clockwork, a big bristly wild boar, with all his family following, trots through the city gate, churning the foam on his tusks. You climb on the shoulder of a blind black stone god and watch that pig choose himself a palace for the night and stump in wagging his tail. Then the night-wind gets up, and the sands move, and you hear the desert outside the city singing, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” and everything is dark till the moon rises. Maisie, darling, come with me and see what the world is really like. It’s very lovely, and it’s very horrible,—but I won’t let you see anything horrid,—and it doesn’t care your life or mine for pictures or anything else except doing its own work and making love. Come, and I’ll show you how to brew sangaree, and sling a hammock, and—oh, thousands of things, and you’ll see for yourself what colour means, and we’ll find out together what love means, and then, maybe, we shall be allowed to do some good work. Come away!’
‘Why?’