“It is excellent,” he said, heartily, so that the lad’s sallow face flushed; “the cutting deep and clean—naught can be much better in good sooth than the workmanship. Thy design is not so good.”
“No,” said Roger, quickly.
“No. It wants freedom, boldness, it smacks too much of the yard and too little of the artist. There is thy stumbling-block, Roger. I can give thee the means of execution, but I cannot put this into thee. See!”
He seized a piece of burnt stick which lay by, and on a rough plank hastily sketched a crocket similar in form to that on which Roger was working. But what a difference! What strength in the up-curved lines! What possibilities seemed to blossom out of the rapid outline! As Roger watched a look of bitter mortification gathered in his face; the ease and vigour of the drawing were, as he recognised, quite beyond his grasp. When the master moved on he drew the board close to him, yet so that it was concealed from other eyes, and tried with all his skill to bring his carving into better harmony with its spirit.
Gervase glanced at all the work in the yard, giving a word to each, and special praise to a canopy which Franklyn and another man were engaged upon, and which was an order from a neighbouring abbey. To a fourth worker, Peter Sim, he pointed out that his moulding was thin and wanted richness.
“Ay,” muttered his neighbour, “he is so thin himself he can see no beauty save in leanness.”
“That will scarce be thy failing, Hal,” said Gervase, good-humouredly. “Now, Wat, what tool is that thou art using?”
“It is broken, but it cuts well enough, sir,” said Wat, regarding his half chisel with affection.
“Cuts well enough,” repeated the master, angrily, throwing the tool on one side; “and what thinkest thou, prithee, the guild would say if I suffered such a tool to be used in my yard? And how came it broken?”
“There never was such a one for breaking his tools,” grumbled Franklyn, who had picked up the chisel and was examining it; “it is my belief he uses them to dig the ground with.”