“In the clay. Such things are always in the clay,” was the quiet reply.
Lynda was deeply moved, not only by the statue, but by its creator. “Tell us, please,” she said earnestly, “just what you mean. I think it will help us to understand.”
Thornton gave a nervous laugh. He was a shy, retiring man but he thought now only of this thing he had been permitted to portray.
“I always”—he began hesitatingly—“take my plaster in big lumps, squeeze it haphazard, and then sit and look at it. After that, it is a mere matter of choice and labour and—determination. When this”—he raised his calm eyes to the figure—“came to me—in the clay—I saw it as plainly as I see it now. I couldn’t forget, or, if I did, I began again. Sometimes, I confess, I got weird results as I worked; once, after three days of toil, a—a devil was evolved. It wasn’t bad, either, I almost decided to—to keep it; but soon again I caught a glimpse of the vision, always lurking close. So I pinched and smoothed off and added to, and, in the end, the vision stayed. It was in the clay—everything is, with me. If I cannot see it there, I might as well give up.”
“Thornton, that’s why you never lost courage!” Truedale exclaimed.
“Yes, that’s the reason, old man.”
Lynda came close. “Thank you,” she said with deep feeling in her voice, “I do understand; I thought I would if you explained, and—I think your method is—Godlike!”
Thornton flushed and laughed. “Hardly that,” he returned, “it’s merely my way and I have to take it.”
It was late summer when Truedale completed the play. Lynda and the children were away; the city was hot and comparatively empty. It was a time when no manager wanted to look at manuscripts, but if one was forced upon him, he would have more leisure to examine it than he would have later on.
Taking advantage of this, Truedale—anxious but strangely insistent—fought his way past the men hired to defeat such a course, and got into the presence of a manager whose opinion he could trust.