At one of the annual exhibitions of works of art in the city was a statue, anonymously exhibited, that won great praise. It was of white marble, and represented a woman standing on tiptoe and reaching up and out with one hand. The fingers closed on nothing, and the look of the face was disappointed. Perhaps the greatest skill was shown in the rendering of the eyes. Their expression was baffling, and no one could say whether the woman was blind or not.
"What masculine strength of handling!" said the artists.
"What wonderful inner meaning!" said the philosophers.
The Princess Pourquoi came one day to visit it, and stood a long time watching the people who saw it. The outspoken praise made her eyes glisten. A workingman, in a peasant's blue blouse, strolled near. There was fine powder of chipped stone upon his sleeve.
"There is great power there," said the workingman, "but the work is crude."
The peasant was hustled out of the room, and an admiring crowd gathered about the statue of the groping woman. Some one whispered that it was not a man's work at all, but the work of a woman. Surprise, incredulity, disapproval passed in waves over the faces of the crowd. The rumor was established as a fact, though the woman's name was withheld. Every one could see faults now.
"We suspected it from the first," said the philosophers. "The lack of virility is apparent."
"You can see the woman's carelessness in regard to details in every fold of the drapery!" said the artists.
The Princess Pourquoi listened. Presently she faced the crowd.
"It is my work," she said simply. Then she summoned her lackeys and ordered her carriage, and disappeared before artists or philosophers could find any knot-holes to crawl through.