One by one, he retraced the
steps that had led to his understanding that only a true and noble art
could ever make good that promise. Not by winning the poor notice of the
little passing day, alone; not by gaining the applause of the thoughtless
crowd; not by winning the rewards bestowed by the self-appointed judges
and patrons of the arts; but by a true, honest, and fearless giving of
himself in his work, regardless alike of praise or blame--by saying the
thing that was given him to say, because it was given him to say--would he
keep that which his mother had committed to him. As mile after mile of the
distance that lay between him and the girl he loved was put behind him in
his race to her side, it was given him to understand--as never
before--how, first the friendship of the world-wearied man who had,
himself, profaned his art; and then, the comradeship of that one whose
life was so unspotted by the world; had helped him to a true and vital
conception of his ministry of color and line and brush and canvas.
It was twilight when the artist reached the spot where the road crosses
the tumbling stream--the spot where he and Conrad Lagrange had slept at
the foot of the mountains.
Pages:
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403