When the snow fell upon the clashing life of the city, the exiled
stones, beaten by myriad strange feet, were told of the dark, silent
forests where the flakes swept through the hemlocks and swished softly
against the boulders.
In his studio Hawker smoked a pipe, clasping his knee with thoughtful,
interlocked fingers. He was gazing sourly at his finished picture. Once
he started to his feet with a cry of vexation. Looking back over his
shoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture. He paced to
and fro, smoking belligerently and from time to time eying it. The
helpless thing remained upon the easel, facing him.
Hollanden entered and stopped abruptly at sight of the great scowl.
"What's wrong now?" he said.
Hawker gestured at the picture. "That dunce of a thing. It makes me
tired. It isn't worth a hang. Blame it!"
"What?" Hollanden strode forward and stood before the painting with legs
apart, in a properly critical manner. "What? Why, you said it was your
best thing."
"Aw!" said Hawker, waving his arms, "it's no good! I abominate it! I
didn't get what I wanted, I tell you. I didn't get what I wanted. That?"
he shouted, pointing thrust-way at it--"that? It's vile! Aw! it makes me
weary."
"You're in a nice state," said Hollanden, turning to take a critical
view of the painter. "What has got into you now? I swear, you are more
kinds of a chump!"
Hawker crooned dismally: "I can't paint! I can't paint for a damn! I'm
no good. What in thunder was I invented for, anyhow, Hollie?"
"You're a fool," said Hollanden. "I hope to die if I ever saw such a
complete idiot! You give me a pain. Just because she don't----"
"It isn't that. She has nothing to do with it, although I know well
enough--I know well enough----"
"What?"
"I know well enough she doesn't care a hang for me. It isn't that. It is
because--it is because I can't paint. Look at that thing over there!
Remember the thought and energy I---- Damn the thing!"
"Why, did you have a row with her?" asked Hollanden, perplexed. "I
didn't know----"
"No, of course you didn't know," cried Hawker, sneering; "because I had
no row. It isn't that, I tell you. But I know well enough"--he shook his
fist vaguely--"that she don't care an old tomato can for me. Why should
she?" he demanded with a curious defiance. "In the name of Heaven, why
should she?"
"I don't know," said Hollanden; "I don't know, I'm sure. But, then,
women have no social logic. This is the great blessing of the world.
There is only one thing which is superior to the multiplicity of social
forms, and that is a woman's mind--a young woman's mind. Oh, of course,
sometimes they are logical, but let a woman be so once, and she will
repent of it to the end of her days. The safety of the world's balance
lies in woman's illogical mind. I think----"
"Go to blazes!" said Hawker. "I don't care what you think. I am sure of
one thing, and that is that she doesn't care a hang for me!"
"I think," Hollanden continued, "that society is doing very well in its
work of bravely lawing away at Nature; but there is one immovable
thing--a woman's illogical mind. That is our safety. Thank Heaven,
it----"
"Go to blazes!" said Hawker again.