Last night was one of his nights of reminiscences
of the mosaic-workers. A furious snow-storm was raging, and, as the flaky
crystals piled up in drifts on the window-ledges, he seemed to catch the
inspiration of their law of structure, and drew sheet after sheet of
crystalline shapes; some so delicate and filmy that it seemed as if a jar
might obliterate them; some massive and strong, like those in which the
earth keeps her mineral treasures; then, at last, on a round charcoal
disk, he traced out a perfect rose, in a fragrant white powder, which
piled up under his fingers, petal after petal, circle after circle, till
the feathery stamens were buried out of sight. Then, as we held our breath
for fear of disturbing it, with a good-natured little chuckle, he shook it
off into the fire, and by a few quick strokes of red turned the black
charcoal disk into a shield gay enough for a tournament.
He has talent for modelling, but this he exercises more rarely. Usually,
his figures are grotesque rather than beautiful, and he never allows them
to remain longer than for a few moments, often changing them so rapidly
under your eye that it seems like jugglery.
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