“There!” she cried triumphantly, and in a delighted voice—“I knew it was only theory, and not incapacity at all. O, do, do, Felix!”
“I hope you will appreciate it at its full value—the abnegation of all my most cherished principles. But I declared I was no dogmatist, and this shall go to prove it. Only you must not build too much on the result. You know, after all, I have not young Ronsin’s genius.”
“But you have your own,” she said; “and, try as you will, you have not been able to hide it under that flimsy stuff.”
That portrait of the young woman gave me infinite trouble, but I will admit also infinite satisfaction. As I proceeded, I grew positively enthusiastic over it.
“This shall be something of a revelation,” I said—“perhaps even to yourself. I should recommend any artist, wishing to get at the soul of his subject, to live with it on terms of intimacy for some weeks beforehand. You cannot record a face properly on first acquaintance; and, as to hasty transcripts, one might as well pretend to render the depth and mystery of the moon in a blob of white lead.”
Fifine, who was a very good sitter—perhaps because she was of a sleepy indolent disposition—laughed at that.
“Why?” I demanded.
“O!” she said, “what a jelly you are!”
“A jelly, Madam!”
“Yes; just as dancingly elastic; and such a beautiful coherent shape until something at a touch divides you completely against yourself.”