|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 62
He had divided the honors of more than one exhibition with Hazleton and
admired and resented him impartially.
"It has been said," said Garry, ruffled by his air of triumph, "that
you paint down subtly to the popular fancy where you might paint up to
your own ideals."
The barb went home. Kenny flushed.
"Your work," added Garry, "lacks the force and depth of sincerity.
Even in Brian's dreadful East River sunset over there, there's a
quality you lack, an eagerness for reality and truth and life as it is.
Brian has painted poorly what he saw but he painted boats for ragged
sailors. Real boats. You've painted brilliantly, in the pine picture
for instance, what you wanted to see, a dark forest for mystic folk to
dance in when the moonlight lies upon the snow."
"And what," inquired Kenny with a shade of sarcasm, "was the final
verdict of the grill jury when all the evidence was in?"
"Remember old Dirk, Kenny? He said that the fullness of life came
through--sacrifice. That all things, good and permanent and true, come
only out of suffering; that men pay for their dreams with pain." He
let the full import of that drive home. "The verdict was, that if
you'd forget your public and look for truth, paint with restraint and
less brilliant illusory abandon, you'd be a big painter."
"And that," said Kenny with icy politeness, "unalterably defines my
status as a painter. In this club at least."
"You asked me--"
Kenny looked tired but he held out his hand. "Dear lad," he said,
"'twas fine brave friendship to tell me--when I asked you."
Failure! He, Kennicott O'Neill who had been decorated by the French
government! The men in the grill then talked openly of his flaws and
the verdict, officious or otherwise, was failure. Flaws! He was not a
big painter. He was merely a self-centered, impecunious, improvident
Irishman, indifferently skillful, whose vanity and self-indulgence had
driven his son off into a vague green world, God alone knew where. He
_was_ a big painter! Posterity would fling that back in the teeth of
men!
"Kenny!"
It was Garry's voice.
"I'm going."
"Oh," said Kenny vaguely. "Yes, of course."
He was grateful when the door closed, though he stood for full a minute
afterward tapping on the table with his fingers. Then indignantly he
looked up the word failure in Brian's dictionary and underscored it
heavily.
Ah! this world of his was amazingly awry and he himself was hurt and
unhappy. After all, was there any romance, any camaraderie in the
Bohemia he once had loved. By Heaven, no! One had but to stare at the
studio with Brian's vision to see the thing aright. Disorder and
carping tongues and loneliness! God help him, how he longed to escape
somewhere, anywhere where there was peace--and faith and friendliness
in human eyes.
Afterward, a painter on the floor below, swore that Kenny had tramped
the floor all night and there had been occasional thuds. At daylight
he had gone out hurriedly and banged the door.
Sid, entering the studio by the door Kenny had forgotten to lock, found
abundant evidence of frenzied packing and carried the news to the grill.
"I knew it," he said. "I knew it last night. By the Lord Harry, it
was in his eye. Where on earth d'you suppose he's gone?"
"God knows," said Garry and heartily wished he'd kept the grillroom
verdict to himself.
At sunset Kenny blew the horn beneath the willow.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|