Anna the Adventuress

The man spoke mercilessly, incisively, as a surgeon. Only he hated the

words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his

lips. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands.

"You have the temperament," he said. "You have the ideas. Your first

treatment of a subject is always correct, always suggestive. But of

what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. You lack only

that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part

of an artist's equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute

necessity. We have both tried hard to develop it--you and I--and we

have failed. It is better to face the truth."

"Much better," she agreed. "Oh, much better."

"Personally," he went on, "I must confess to a great disappointment. I

looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. I

overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack

of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. I said to myself, 'this will

come.' It seems that I was mistaken. You cannot draw. Your fingers are

even now as stiff as a schoolgirl's. You will never be able to draw.

You have the ideas. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth,

but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will

not be painting. Take my advice. Burn your palette and your easel.

Give up your lonely hours of work here. Look somewhere else in life.

Depend upon it, there is a place for you--waiting. Here you only waste

your time."

She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could

not see her face. He drew a little breath of relief. The worst was

over now. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately.

"After all, there are great things left in the world for you. Painting

is only one slender branch of the great tree. To-night all this may

seem hard and cruel. To-morrow you will feel like a freed woman.

To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again--of other things."

A man of infinite tact and kindness, he spoke his message and went.

The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the

window.

She looked steadfastly out. Paris, always beautiful even in the

darkness, glittered away to the horizon. The lights of the Champs

Elysees and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant,

seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool

background of the night. She stood there with white set face and

nervously clenched fingers. The echo of those kindly words seemed

still to ring in her ears. She was crushed with a sense of her own

terrible impotency. A failure! She must write herself down a failure!

At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and

creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of

expression. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of

talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas

cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. Her finger-nails dug into her

flesh. It was the bitterest moment of her life. She flung herself back

into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. In a momentary

fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the

easel. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. It was

the end, she told herself, fiercely. And then, as she stood there,

with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught

upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a

light tune.