"First, I want you to spend time in looking at yourself in the glass and
in thinking about yourself, your personal appearance. I want you to do
this, so that you may be of use to me. But you really ought to do it
for your own sake. If you are to be an artist, you must live. To live
you must use to its fullest capacity every advantage nature has given
you. The more you give others, the more you will receive. It is not to
your credit that you don't think about dress or study yourself in the
mirror. The reverse. If you are homely, thought and attention will
make you less so. If you are beautiful, or could be-- What a crime to
add to the unsightliness of the world when one might add to its
sightliness! And what an impertinence to search for, to cry for beauty,
and to refuse to do your own part."
"I hadn't thought of it in that way," confessed she, evidently impressed
by this unanswerable logic.
He eyed her professionally through the smoke of his cigarette. "If you
are to help me with the picture I have in mind, you'll have to change
your hair--for the next few months. Your way of wearing it, I
mean--though that will change the color too--or, rather, bring out the
color."
Neva colored with embarrassment, remembered she was but a model, braced
herself resolutely.
"For my purposes-- Just stand before that mirror there." He indicated
the great mirror which gave him double the width of the atelier as
perspective for his work. "Now, you'll observe that by braiding your
hair and putting it on top of your head, you ruin the lines I wish to
bring out. The beautiful and the grotesque are very close to each
other. Your face and figure ought to be notable as an exhibit of
beautiful lengths. But when you put your hair on top of your head, you
extend the long lines of neck and face too far--at least, for my
purposes."
"I see," said she, herself quite forgotten; for, his impersonal manner
was completely convincing, and his exposition of the principles of art
was as important as novel and interesting.
"Do your hair well down toward the nape of the neck--and loosely.
Somewhat as it was that night at the Morrises, only--more so."
"I'll try it," she said with what sounded hopefully like the beginnings
of acquiescence.
"That's better!" exclaimed he, in approval of her docile tone. "And
keep on trying till you get it right. You'll know. You've got good
taste. If you hadn't, it'd be useless to talk these things to you. The
thing is to bring out your natural good taste--to encourage, to educate,
instead of repressing it.... No, don't turn away, yet. I want you to
notice some color effects. That dress you have on-- You always wear
clothes that are severely somber, almost funereal--quite funereal. One
would think, to look at your garb, that there was no laughter anywhere
in you--no possibilities of laughter."
Neva's laughing face, looking at him by way of the mirror, showed that
she was now in just the mood he wished. "I want to make a very human
picture," he went on. "And, while the dominant note of the human aspect
in repose is serious--pensive to tragic--it is relieved by suggestions
of laughter. Your dress makes your sadness look depressed, resigned,
chronic. Yet you yourself are strong and cheerful and brave. You do
not whimper. Why look as if you did, and by infection depress others?
Don't you think we owe it to a sad world to contribute whatever of
lightness we can?"
She nodded. "I hadn't thought of that," said she.
"Well, don't you think it's about time you did? ... Now, please observe
that you wear clothes with too many short lines in their making--lines
that contradict the long lines of your head and body."
She whirled away from the mirror, hung her head, with color high and
hands nervous. "Don't, please," she said. "You are making me miserably
self-conscious."
"Oh, very well." He seemed offended, hurt. "I see you've
misunderstood. How can I get any good out of you as a model unless you
let me be frank? Why drag self, your personal feelings, to the fore?
That is not art."
A long silence, during which she watched him as he scowled at his
cigarette. "I'm sorry," she exclaimed contritely. "I'm both ungracious
and ungrateful."
"Vanity, I call it," he said, with pretended disdain. "Plain vanity--and
cheap, and altogether unworthy of you."
"Go on, please," she urged. "I'll not give you further trouble." Then
she added, to his secret delight, "Only, _please_ don't ask me to look
at myself before you--until--until--I've had a chance to improve a
little."
"To go back to the hair again," pursued he, concealing his satisfaction
over his victory. "My notion--for my picture--is much less severe than
you are habitually--in appearance, I mean. The hair must be easy,
graceful, loose. It must form a background for the face, a crown for
the figure. And I want all the colors and shades you now hide away in
those plaits." He surveyed her absently. "I'm not sure whether I shall
paint you in high or low neck. Get both kinds of dresses--along the
lines I've indicated.... Have them made; don't buy those ready-to-wear
things you waste money on now.... I want to be able to study you at
leisure. So, you'll have to put aside that prim, puritanic costume for
a while. You won't mind?"
She had her face turned away. She simply shook her head in answer.
"I know you despise these exterior things--so far as you personally are
concerned," he proceeded in a kindlier tone. "I've no quarrel with
that. My own views are different. You pride yourself on being free
from all social ties or obligations----"
"Not at all," cried she. "Indeed, I'm not so egotistical."
"Egotism!" He waved it away. "A mere word. It simply means human
nature with the blinds up. And modesty is human nature with the blinds
down. We are all egotists. How is it possible for us not to be? Does
not the universe begin when we are born and end when we die? Certainly,
you are an egotist. But you are very short-sighted in your egotism, my
friend."
"Yes?" She was all attention now.
"You want many things in the world--things you can't get for
yourself--things you must therefore look to others to help you get. You
want reputation, friendship, love, to name the three principal wants,
bread being provided for you. Well--your problem is how to get them in
fullest measure and in the briefest time--for, your wants are great and
pressing, and life is short."
"But I must have them by fair means and they must be really mine. I
don't want what mere externals attract."
"Pish! Tush! Tommy rot!" Boris left the chair, took the middle of the
floor and the manner of the instructor of a class. "To get them you
must use to the best advantage all the gifts nature has given you--at
least, you will, if you are wise, I think. Some of these gifts are
internal, some are external. We are each of us encased in matter, and
we get contact with each other only by means of matter. Externals are
therefore important, are they not? To attract others, those of the kind
we like, we must develop our external to be as pleasing as possible to
them. In general, we owe it to our fellow beings to be as sightly a
part of the view as we can. In particular, we owe it to ourselves to
make the best of our minds and bodies, for our own pleasure and to
attract those who are congenial to us and can do us the most good."
"I shall have to think about that," said she, and he saw that she was
more than half converted. "I've always been taught to regard those
things as trivial."
"Trivial! Another word that means nothing. Life--this life--is all we
have. How can anything that makes for its happiness or unhappiness be
trivial? You with your passion for beauty would have everything
beautiful, exquisite, except yourself! What selfishness! You don't
care about your own appearance because you don't see it."