LITMIR.BIZ

      Dr. O’Grady, who was a man of real artistic culture, seemed somehow to understand that keeping decorations in their correct order is not the only criterion of the beauty of a portrait. The grateful Beltara proposed to make a sketch of him, and during the sitting was pleased to find himself in agreement with the doctor upon many things.

      “The main point,” said the painter, “is to see simply—outlines, general masses. The thing is not to copy nature with childish minuteness.”

      “No, of course not,” replied the doctor. “Besides, it can’t be done.”

      “Of course it can’t, because nature is so endlessly full of details which can never all be considered. The thing is to suggest their presence.”

      “Quite so,” said the doctor.

      But when he came to gaze upon the face he loved so well, and saw it transformed into outlines and general masses, he seemed a little surprised.

      “Well, of course,” he said, “it is excellent—oh, it’s very, very good—but don’t you think you have made me a little too old? I have no lines at the corner of my mouth, and my hair is not quite so thin.”

      He appealed to the aide-de-camp who was just then passing by.

      “Dundas, is this like me?”

      “Certainly, Doc; but it’s ten years younger.”

      The doctor’s smile darkened, and he began rather insistently to praise the Old Masters.

      “Modern painting,” he proclaimed, “is too brutal.”

      “Good heavens,” said Aurelle, “a great artist cannot paint with a powder-puff; you must be able to feel that the fellow with the pencil was not a eunuch.”

      “Really,” he went on, when the doctor had left in rather a bad temper, “he’s as ridiculous as the others. I think his portrait is very vigorous, and not in the least a skit, whatever he may say.”

      “Just sit down there a minute, old man,” said the painter. “I shall be jolly glad to work from an intelligent model for once. They all want to look like tailors’ fashion-plates. Now, I can’t change my style; I don’t paint in beauty paste, I render what I see—it’s like Diderot’s old story about the amateur who asked a floral painter to portray a lion. ‘With pleasure,’ said the artist, ‘but you may expect a lion that will be as like a rose as I can make him.’”

      The conversation lasted a long time; it was friendly and technical. Aurelle praised Beltara’s painting; Beltara expressed his joy at having found so penetrating and artistic a critic in the midst of so many Philistines.

      “I prefer your opinion to a painter’s; it’s certainly sincerer. Would you mind turning your profile a bit more towards me? Some months before the war I had two friends in my studio to whom I wished to show a little picture I intended for the Salon. ‘Yes,’ said the younger of them, ‘it’s all right, but there ought to be a light spot in that corner; your lights are not well balanced.’ ‘Shut up, you fool,’ the other whispered to him, ‘that’ll make it really good!’ Come on, old man, come and look; I think that sketch can be left as it is.”

      Aurelle walked up to the painter, and, cocking his head on one side, looked at the drawing.

      “It’s charming,” he said at last with some reluctance. “It’s charming. There are some delightful touches—all that still life on the table, it might be a Chardin—and I like the background very much indeed.”

      “Well, old man, I’m glad you like it. Take it back with you when you go on leave and give it to your wife.”

      “Er—” sighed Aurelle, “thank you, mon capitaine; it’s really very kind of you. Only—you’ll think me no end of a fool—you see, if it is to be for my wife, I’d like you to touch up the profile just a little. Of course you understand.”

      And Beltara, who was a decent fellow, adorned his friend’s face with the Grecian nose and the small mouth which the gods had denied him.