You should have kept clear of all that
man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will unsettle your mind."
"It won't. It has taught me what Art--holy sacred Art--means."
"You've learnt something while I've been away. What is Art?"
"Give 'em what they know, and when you've done it once do it again."
Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. "Here's a sample of real
Art. It's going to be a facsimile reproduction for a weekly. I called it 'His
Last Shot.' It"s worked up from the little water-colour I made outside El
Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman, up here with drink; I
drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored him, and I made him a flushed,
dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with his helmet at the back of his head, and
the living fear of death in his eye, and the blood oozing out of a cut over his
ankle-bone. He wasn't pretty, but he was all soldier and very much man."
"Once more, modest child!"
Dick laughed. "Well, it's only to you I'm talking. I did him just as well as I
knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then the art-manager of
that abandoned paper said that his subscribers wouldn't like it. It was brutal
and coarse and violent,--man being naturally gentle when he's fighting for his
life.
Pages:
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900