“It's nothing,” he would say, “compared to the black devils.”
Stefan's courage was enormously fortified by the success of his drawings, which created little less than a sensation. Reproductions of them appeared for some weeks in The Household Review, and were recopied everywhere. The originals were exhibited by Constantine in November.
“Here,” wrote one of the most distinguished critics in New
York, himself a painter of repute, “we have work which outranks
even Mr. Byrd's celebrated Danaë, and in my judgment
far surpasses any of the artist's other achievements. I have
watched the development of this young American genius with
the keenest interest. I placed him in the first rank as a technichian,
but his work—with the exception of the Danaë—appeared
to me to lack substance and insight. It was brilliant,
but too spectacular. Even his Danaë, though on a surprising
inspirational plane, had a quality high rather than profound,
I doubted if Mr. Byrd had the stuff of which great art is made,
but after seeing his war drawings, I confess myself mistaken.
If I were to sum up my impression of them I should say that
on the battlefield Mr. Byrd has discovered the one thing his
work lacked—soul.”
Stefan read this eulogy with a humorous grin.
“I expect the fellow's right,” he said. “I don't think my soul was as strong on wings in the old days as my brush was. Without joking, though,” he went on, suddenly grave, “I don't know if there is such a thing as a soul, but if there is, such splendid ones were being spilled out there that I think, perhaps, Mary, I may have picked a bit of one up.”
“Dearest,” said Mary, with a kiss of comprehension, “I'm so proud of you. You are great, a great artist, and a great spirit.” And she kissed him again, her eyes shining.
If the Byrdsnest was proud in November of its distinguished head, it positively bristled with importance in December, when Constantine telephoned that the trustees of the Metropolitan were negotiating for Stefan's whole series. This possibility had already been spoken of in the press, though the family had not dared hope too much from the suggestion.
The Museum bought the drawings, and Stefan took his place as one of America's great artists.
“Mary, I'm so glad I can be useful again, as well as ornamental,” he grinned, presenting to her with a flourish a delightfully substantial cheque.
His courage, and his happiness in his success, were an increasing joy to Mary. She blossomed in her pride of him, and the old glowing look came back to her face.