Part 73 (2/2)
She said, a little shyly:
”I think it is all right to _do_ things if you like; make exact pictures of how things are done if you choose; but it seems to me that if one really has anything to say, one should show in one's pictures how things _might_ be or _ought_ to be. Don't you?”
He seemed surprised and interested in her logic, and she took courage to speak again in her pretty, deprecating way:
”If the function of painting and literature is to reflect reality, a mirror would do as well, wouldn't it? But to reflect what might be or what ought to be requires something more, doesn't it?”
”Imagination. Yes.”
”A mind, anyway.... That is what I have thought; but I'm not at all sure I am right.”
”I don't know. The mind ought to be a mirror reflecting only the essentials of reality.”
”And _that_ requires imagination, doesn't it?” she asked. ”You see you have put it much better than I have.”
”Have I?” he returned, smiling. ”After a while you'll persuade me that I possess your imagination, Rue. But I don't.”
”You do, Jim----”
”I'm sorry; I don't. You construct, I copy; you create, I ring changes on what already is; you dissect, I skate over the surface of things--Oh, Lord! I don't know what's lacking in me!” he added with gay pretence of despair which possibly was less feigned than real.
”But I know this, Rue Carew! I'd rather experience something interesting than make a picture of it. And I suppose that confession is fatal.”
”Why, Jim?”
”Because with me the pleasures of reality are subst.i.tuted for the pleasures of imagination. Not that I don't like to draw and paint. But my ambition in painting is and always has been bounded by the visible.
And, although that does not prevent me from appreciation--from understanding and admiring your work, for example--it sets an impregnable limit to any such aspiration on my part----”
His mobile and youthful features had become very grave; he stood a moment with lowered head as though what he was thinking of depressed him; then the quick smile came into his face and cleared it, and he said gaily:
”I'm an artistic _Dobbin_; a reliable, respectable sort of Fido on whom editors can depend; that's all. Don't feel sorry for me,” he added, laughing; ”my work will be very much in demand.”
CHAPTER XXIX
EN FAMILLE
The Princess Mistchenka came leisurely and gracefully downstairs a little before eight that evening, much pleased with her hair, complexion, and gown.
She found Neeland alone in the music-room, standing in the att.i.tude of the conventional Englishman with his back to the fireless grate and his hands clasped loosely behind him, waiting to be led out and fed.
The direct glance of undisguised admiration with which he greeted the Princess Naa confirmed the impression she herself had received from her mirror, and brought an additional dash of colour into her delicate brunette face.
”Is there any doubt that you are quite the prettiest _objet d'art_ in Paris?” he enquired anxiously, taking her hand; and her dark eyes were very friendly as he saluted her finger-tips with the reverent and slightly exaggerated appreciation of a connoisseur in sculpture.
”You hopeless Irishman,” she laughed. ”It's fortunate for women that you're never serious, even with yourself.”
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