Once upon a time there was a little girl whose name was Maxa. She was a
pretty child, always happy, and very inquisitive. The word which people
heard Maxa say more often than any other was “Why?” She wanted to know
where everything came from, and who made everything,—the flowers, the
birds, the golden beetles, and the gay butterflies. When she saw a
violet on which a ladybug rested, or a rose-bush with a butterfly
fluttering about it, she exclaimed, “Oh, if I could only make something
like that!” But her mother said, “Human beings cannot make such
things.”
One spring day, Maxa was playing in the garden alone. She drove her
hoop to the fence that separated it from the next meadow. There she
suddenly saw a man sitting on a little folding stool, with his back
against the fence. Before him was an easel, supporting an unframed
canvas on which he was painting. She did not feel afraid, for she was
in the garden and he in the meadow, with a thick hedge between them;
and, besides, he did not notice her or trouble himself about her. So
she stood still, rested the hoop against the fence, kept as quiet as a
little mouse, and watched. The meadow was very large and rather marshy,
with a low, white wall at the far end. Neither man nor beast was
visible, and buttercups were almost the only flower that covered the
brown earth. The canvas before the artist was still blank. He was just
preparing to paint the sky. Under his brush appeared a beautiful
expanse of blue, on which floated several fleecy white clouds.
“Oh,” thought Maxa, “that isn’t right. The sky is perfectly clear.” And
she looked up to compare them. But behold—the heavens, which had just
been cloudless, now showed here and there a few thin cloudlets, just as
the artist had painted them.
He worked on industriously with his nimble brush. Maxa saw the meadow
appear, but at its end in the picture, instead of the white wall, there
was a green river, from which the sunshine was reflected. She glanced
quickly in that direction—what did it mean? The well-known white wall
had vanished, and in its place flowed a stream which she had never seen
there.
The little girl wondered and watched even more eagerly than before. Now
the man was painting a row of tall poplar trees along the river bank.
Yes, there in the distance rose the poplars. He scattered over his
canvas red and blue flowers which she had never seen. A swift glance at
the meadow showed her that everywhere, among the yellow buttercups, the
strange blue and red flowers had sprung in great numbers from the brown
earth. Maxa watched still more closely, and when the artist painted in
one corner of his canvas a flock of shining sheep and lambs, in whose
midst was a shepherd with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a
black dog with a white head, and in the meadow also appeared a shepherd
with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a lively dog with a flock
of sheep and lambs, she could contain herself no longer, and cried out,
“Why, everything you paint grows out of the earth!”
The artist turned quickly and looked at her. She wanted to run away,
but she could not do it. She was forced to stay; she did not know why.
Maxa had already noticed that he wore long hair. Now she saw that he
had a long beard, and blue eyes which sparkled like the brightest stars
at night.
“What! Do you see that everything I paint grows out of the earth?” he
asked.
“Of course I see it. Why shouldn’t I?” replied Maxa.
“Then you are a Sunday child,” said the artist.
“So I am,” Maxa answered. She knew this, for her mother had often told
her that the stork had brought her one Sunday afternoon.
“Yes, yes,” the artist murmured, his eyes resting kindly on the
beautiful little girl. “Sunday children see what forever remains
invisible to others.”
“And you,” asked Maxa, who had grown familiar,—“what are you?”
“I am an artist.”
“What is an artist? A painter?”
He laughed. “Not every artist is a painter, and not every painter is an
artist. I am an artist who paints.”
“But you don’t merely paint—you make a river, and trees, and little
white lambs, and even a shepherd with a hat and cane and a dog. Is all
this real, too?”
“It is real, since you see it.”
“Then you are the one who makes the flowers and the birds, the golden
beetles and the butterflies?”
“I am not the only one who makes them, but I make them too. The artist
makes whatever he wishes, and what he makes is really there, whether it
is things or flowers, animals or human beings.”
“And do they live?”
“They live if there is anything living in them, and they live much
longer than what nature has created, and always remain as young and
beautiful as the artist has formed them.”
Then Maxa clapped her hands, crying: “Oh, if I could only make them
too! Won’t you teach me, dear artist?”
The man with the long beard looked thoughtfully at her a little while
with his sparkling blue eyes, then he said: “Every one cannot learn.
But you are a Sunday child, and you have bright eyes. Perhaps I can
teach you. Come, child, we will go to your mother, and ask if she will
allow you.”
“But how can you get over the hedge? It is so thick, and it pricks so
terribly.”
“Don’t be troubled,” replied the artist, as he rose from his stool and
waved his hand. The hedge parted and let him pass through; his stool,
easel, and paint-box followed like dogs, and when they were all in the
garden, the hedge closed again. So they went to the house together,—the
tall man walking in front with the little girl, the easel striding
stiffly along on its three legs, the folding-chair hobbling before, and
the paint-box jumping in short hops like a toad. On the way the
thrushes, wrens, and blackbirds, whose nests were in the garden, flew
about them, singing a joyous greeting to the artist, which he answered
with a friendly nod, and the acacias and horse-chestnuts scattered
blossoms on his long hair as he passed under their boughs. The cat,
however, which was sunning herself on the door-step, ran hastily away.
She knew nothing about art, and was afraid of the easel, and
folding-chair, and paint-box, which she thought were hostile animals.
The little girl ran on before and told her mother about the stranger,
as well as the easel, folding-chair, and paint-box, which had come
shambling and hopping with them. But the artist left them all outside,
and went in alone. He told the mother that her little daughter wanted
to learn to paint; she seemed to have the right eyes for it, and she
was a Sunday child, too, so she would probably succeed. He was ready to
teach her until she knew as much as he did. Her mother did not object,
only there must be no expense. The artist relieved her economical mind
on that score, and it was settled that Maxa should become his pupil.
“Where will you have your studio?” the mother asked.
“Wherever you wish,” replied the artist; “in your garden.”
“In the open air, then?”
“No. If you will allow it, I’ll build a little house.”
The mother looked troubled. “H’m,” she said, “that will take months,
and all the masons, carpenters, and locksmiths, with their noise and
dirt.”
“Nothing of the sort,” interrupted the painter. “Don’t be afraid of
either dirt or disorder. Everything will be finished in an hour, and I
can invite you to inspect the building.”
The artist went away, and Maxa followed him. She wanted to know how he
would manage to build a house in an hour.
He found a sunny, grass-grown spot near the hedge, without trees, sat
down on his folding-chair, took from his paint-box a small, new canvas,
put it on the easel, reflected a moment, and then began to paint a
wonderfully pretty house, which looked like a jewel box. The walls were
marble, pillars stood at the right and left of the entrance, the roof
was made of green copper, and through the clear panes of the large
windows gleamed yellow silk curtains. And what the artist painted on
the canvas actually appeared; so when the house in the picture was
finished, it was also ready in the garden, and taking Maxa by the hand,
the painter went in with her, sat down again, and began to paint
suitable furniture, beautiful old tapestries of silk and gold threads,
Turkish carpets in soft, faded hues, low, broad sofas, light gilded
chairs, tall, carved, ebony wardrobes, and, for the corners and niches,
coats of mail, bronze statues, and large porcelain vases. He did not
forget his little friend either. For her he painted six dolls, each one
in a different costume, and the prettiest of all was a fair-haired
Swiss, with a silver chain on her bodice. When Maxa saw her, she fairly
shouted for joy, ran to her, and, clasping her in her arms, exclaimed,
“I want to show her to mamma.”
“No,” said the artist, “you must carry nothing out. You can only play
with your dolls here in the studio, and when your mother comes, she
will see them.”
But he had not yet finished. When the room was magnificently furnished,
he painted two young negro women in striped silk gowns, with red
kerchiefs on their heads. After the last stroke of the brush, they
stood alive in the studio, approached the artist, and bowed low before
him and Maxa. “They are to do the work here,” said the painter. “They
will obey you if you order anything sensible. But they will answer only
with their eyes, for they are dumb.”
“Can’t you make them speak, too?” asked Maxa.
“No,” he answered, “I can’t do that. I should have to beg other
artists, the poets, to help me. But, for these negro girls, it isn’t
necessary.”
The hour was not over by several minutes when the painter went back to
Maxa’s mother and invited her to visit his house in the garden. The
mother was very much astonished to see the charming little marble
palace, the costly furniture, the black maid-servants in their gay silk
gowns, and Maxa’s six dolls, and said: “You are a clever man. I will
trust my Maxa to you. She will learn something worth knowing.”
Maxa came to the studio every morning. If the day was cloudy, or the
master in a bad humor, he sent her away. If he was in a good mood, and
the weather was sunshiny, he gave her a lesson. She went to work
eagerly, and wanted to paint with brush and colors on the canvas at
once. But the artist would not allow this. “You must first learn to
draw well,” he said, and gave her ordinary paper and a lead pencil. She
drew with an untrained hand all sorts of crooked marks, looking up
eagerly from the board to see whether what she was scrawling on the
paper would actually appear. But nothing came. Then she threw the
pencil down, exclaiming impatiently: “If I can’t make anything real, it
isn’t worth while. You must teach me your art, and nothing else.”
The artist looked at her gravely, and replied: “Art cannot be learned
in a day. People must work long and patiently.”
“Even a Sunday child?”
“Even a Sunday child. A person who is not cannot learn it at all. You
must begin at the beginning, as we have all done. You must not open the
paint-box until you know how to use the pencil perfectly. Just think,
child, if I should allow you to paint before you were able to draw
faultlessly, and you should make a monster, when the unfortunate
creature stood alive before you, crooked, misshapen, and crippled, what
would you say then?”
“I should be very sorry,” said Maxa, sadly.
“That wouldn’t help the poor cripple. So you are strictly forbidden to
touch the paint-box until you can draw perfectly.”
Maxa was a sensible child, and saw that the master was right. She drew
diligently, though at first it wearied her, and soon gained a taste for
it. She wanted to reach quickly the point where she could use the
paint-box; but the master was strict, and nothing except what was
perfectly correct, the very best, would satisfy him. Many months passed
before she had made so much progress that he said one day, “It will do
now.” Maxa blushed with pleasure, and asked, “May I have the
paint-box?”
The artist looked at her for a while silently and thoughtfully, then he
said: “Very well. We will try.”
Maxa, in great delight, sprang up to bring the paint-box from the
corner, but the master stopped her and beckoned. The easel stalked
forward, the paint-box hopped to its side, and the negro girls brought
a mahl-stick, a canvas, and a new palette, and set everything in order.
The little girl took the magic brush from the box, squeezed a few bits
of color from the tubes upon the palette, and stepped before the
canvas. Her hand trembled, her little heart beat violently, and her
eyes grew dim. It was a great moment. Now, for the first time, she was
to accomplish, as a real artist, the miracle of creation.
She was just touching the brush to the canvas when the artist caught
her arm.
“Stop, child. No hurry. What do you want to paint?”
“A little girl,” she answered firmly.
The master smiled and shook his head. “No, not yet. That is too
difficult. Try something lifeless first.”
“But I want to make a living creature!” cried Maxa, stamping her foot
impatiently.
“No one must do that until he is perfectly sure of himself,” replied
the master. “Try something lifeless first.”
A mischievous idea darted into the child’s head. With a few swift
strokes of the brush she painted in the middle of the canvas a gray
cloud of smoke. Instantly a thick vapor filled the room, and the two
black maids began to cough pitifully. The master laughed and quickly
painted the cloud over with the ground color, the smoke vanished as
suddenly as it had come, and the artist said reprovingly: “No nonsense,
child, or I shall take away the paint-box. Art is too lofty for sorry
jests.”
She begged forgiveness, promised to be good and sensible, and now began
to work earnestly. “I’ll paint a doll,” she said, and the master
consented. Oh, wonder! The Alsatian peasant girl, with the big
butterfly bow on her fair hair, which she began to paint, grew before
her on the floor of the studio, just as it did under her brush. When
she saw the doll’s head and body lying there, she wanted to throw down
the painting implements and rush to it, to convince herself by feeling
that it was real. Again the artist sternly reproved her.
“Keep on, you restless butterfly. What has been begun must be finished.
First complete the doll, then you can play with her.”
Maxa added the arms and legs, but she did it rather carelessly, and
they were incomplete. She would not take the time to paint shoes and
stockings, so the poor Alsatian remained barefooted. The master shook
his head, but did not prevent her running to the doll and lifting it
tenderly in her arms. Maxa would not notice that the limbs were
strangely crooked and pitifully thin, and it was by no means as pretty
as the six dolls which the artist had made for her. She liked it
better, because she had created it herself.
The artist let her play with the work of her hands, locked away the
brush and palette, sent the paint-box back to its corner, and said:
“Now you know how an artist feels when he has created something.
Whoever has done it once will do it again. But I forbid you to touch
the paint-box in my absence. You can use it only when I am here.”
Maxa came to the studio even more eagerly every day, and was happy when
permitted to paint with the magic pencil. She never grew tired of
filling the room with the works of her imagination. First, she made
toys of every description; then vases, china figures, and bronze busts;
then she ventured upon foliage, plants, and flowers; and finally even
on all sorts of flying and creeping things, gay caterpillars, ladybugs,
little beetles, and butterflies of the most magnificent colors; and
when the beetles ran over the leaves, and the butterflies were hovering
in the air, she exclaimed: “See what I can do! Now I want to paint some
living people.”
“Not yet,” said the master. “Beware of pride; it is the greatest foe of
the artist.”
Maxa would not understand, and begged and coaxed him to let her paint
human beings. But he would not permit it. This vexed her, and she
thought: “Just wait! I’ll give him a surprise.” She watched in the
garden until the master went out, slipped into the studio, and seized
the paint-box. The negro girls hastily placed themselves in front of
it, warning her by gestures not to disobey the master’s command; but
Maxa cried, “Begone, you black creatures, or I’ll paint a dog that will
bite you.” Then the mute maid-servants drew back in terror, while Maxa
opened the paint-box, placed a large new canvas on the easel, thought
for a moment, and then resolutely began to paint a young girl.
She had long been planning what she desired to make—just the girl she
wished to be herself, tall and beautiful, with loose golden hair and
shining gray eyes, in a pink dress with a long train.
The first strokes of the brush she made boldly, without hesitation. She
began with the head, and was completely absorbed in the work. But when
it was successfully finished and looked out at her from the canvas with
shining gray eyes, she could not refrain from glancing into the studio
beside the easel to see what was being done. Her eyes instantly met two
sparkling gray ones, gazing at her with an unspeakably loving, longing
expression.
This look was an electric shock, and confused her so that she did not
venture to glance there again, but hastily painted on. But she no
longer had her former sure touch. Now she had seen it: what her brush
painted became actual life, and every stroke was part of a living
creature—if it failed, the creature was injured. Maxa’s hand trembled,
and she felt inclined to throw down the brush. But dared she do that?
She could not leave unfinished what she had commenced—how terrible it
would be to have half a human being lying in the studio! She trembled
with fear at the bare thought, and painted on hurriedly. The master
might come back at any moment. Only let her finish—quick—quick—
But alas! Nothing perfect can be accomplished by over haste. The young
girl’s body would not succeed like the head. It was crooked and
misshapen, the shoulders were uneven, and the folds of the pink dress
with the long train showed that the material covered very ill-formed
limbs. Maxa perceived, with increasing fear, that she had bungled, and
she was just going to try to correct some of the most faulty lines in
the sketch when the door suddenly opened and the master entered.
Maxa screamed and ran behind a curtain to hide. The artist saw at once
what had happened: the picture with the beautiful head and the
miserable body, the poor crippled girl in the studio, the negro maids
who stood in the corner as if paralyzed by fear, and he called in a
terrible voice, “Maxa, what have you done?”