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A Question Of Art
by
“I thought we should have a spree on the first money I earned. But it’s all fuel now.”
Her eyes filled with tears at this sign of humanity. “Next time, perhaps.”
“So you think that’s the beginning of a fortune. I have failed–failed if you get ten thousand dollars for every canvas in this shop. You will never know why. Perhaps I don’t myself.” And then he went to work. Some weeks later he came to her again. This time she tried to enlist the sympathy of the one successful artist Clayton knew, and through his influence she succeeded in selling a number of pictures and placed others upon sale. She was so happy, so sure that the prophetic instinct in her soul was justified, that she told Clayton of her previous fraud. He listened carefully; his face twitched, as if his mind were adjusting itself to new ideas. First he took twenty-five dollars from the money she had just brought him and handed it to her. Then putting his arms about her, he looked inquisitively down into her face, only a bit more tenderly than he squinted at his canvases.
“Jane!” She allowed him to kiss her once or twice, and then she pushed him away, making a pathetic bow.
“Thanks for your sense of gratitude. You’re becoming more civilized. Only I wish it had been something more than money you had been thankful for. Is money the only sacrifice you understand?”
“You can take your dues in taunts if you like. I never pretended to be anything but a huge, and possibly productive polypus. I am honest enough, anyway, not to fool with lovers’ wash. You ought to know how I feel toward you–you’re the best woman I ever knew.”
“Kindest to you, you mean? No, Jack,” she continued, tenderly; “you can have me, body and soul. I am yours fast enough now, what there is left of me. I have given you my reputation, and that sort of thing long ago–no, you needn’t protest. I know you despise people who talk like that, and I don’t reproach you. But don’t deceive yourself. You feel a little moved just now. If I had any charms, like a pretty model, you might acquire some kind of attachment for me, but love–you never dreamed of it. And,” she continued, after a moment, “I begin to think, after watching you these two years, never will. So I am safe in saying that I am yours to do with what you will. I am fuel. Only, oh, Jack, if you break my heart, your last fuel will be gone. You can’t do without me!”
It seemed very absurd to talk about breaking hearts–a tired, silent man; a woman unlovely from sordid surroundings, from age, and from care. Clayton pulled back the heavy curtain to admit the morning light, for they had talked for hours before coming to the money question. The terrible, passionate glare of a summer sun in the city burst in from the neighboring housetops.
“Why don’t you curse Him?” muttered Clayton.
“Why?”
“Because He gave you a heart to love, and made you lonely, and then wasted your love!”
“Jack, the worst hasn’t come. It’s not all wasted.”
V
Clayton gradually became conscious of a new feeling about his work. He was master of his tools, for one thing, and he derived exquisite pleasure from the exercise of execution. The surety of his touch, the knowledge of the exact effect he was after, made his working hours an absorbing pleasure rather than an exasperating penance. And through his secluded life, with its singleness of purpose, its absence of the social ambitions of his youth, and the complexity of life in the world, the restlessness and agitation of his earlier devotion to his art disappeared. He was content to forget the expression of himself–that youthful longing–in contemplating and enjoying the created matter. In other words, the art of creation was attended with less friction. He worked unconsciously, and he did not, hen-like, call the attention of the entire barnyard to each new- laid egg. He felt also that human, comfortable weariness after labor when self sinks out of sight in the universal wants of mankind–food and sleep. Perhaps the fact that he could now earn enough to relieve him from actual want, that to some extent he had wrestled with the world and wrung from it the conditions of subsistence, relieved the strain under which he had been laboring. He sold his pictures rarely, however, and only when absolutely compelled to get money. Miss Marston could not comprehend his feeling about the inadequacy of his work, and he gave up attempting to make her understand where he failed.