“You can’t paint without being abstract,” he said irritably. “Even Academicians can’t really imitate, but they abstract without using their brains. You can’t really copy nature, so what’s the good of trying?”
“You can suggest.”
“Then it’s a sketch and not a picture.”
“Perhaps mine is only a sketch,” she said rather forlornly, because she had been rather hopeful of her work.
They went back to his studio, where he showed her his studies and drawings for the new picture. She saw that he was working again with his old love of his craft.
They dined at the Pot-au-Feu, and had it all to themselves because the weather was so bad. There were only the goggle-eyed man in the corner with his green evening paper and Madame Feydeau and Gustave, the waiter.
Over the dinner Mendel waxed very gay and gave her a very comic description of the scene when he had gone to his family to confess his failure. He had a wonderful power of making them comic without laughing at them.
“They are wonderful people,” he said. “They know what is sense and what is nonsense. If you gave them the biggest problem in the world they would know what was true in it and what was false. They are always right about politics and public men. But when it comes to art, they are hopeless.”
“But they believe in you.”