I could do things you've done to-day while I laid the base of what
I've got. How old are you?"
"I'm thirty--almost thirty-one."
"You'll be just as well in Montreal to-morrow as you are here to-day, and
you'd be twice as clever," said John Grier. His eyes seemed to pierce
those of the younger man. "I like you," he continued, suddenly catching
Tarboe's arm. "You're all right, and you wouldn't run straight simply
because it was the straight thing to do."
Tarboe threw back his head and laughed and nodded. The old man's eyes
twinkled. "By gracious, we're well met! I never was in a bigger hole in
my life. One of my sons has left me. I bought him out, and he's joined my
enemy Belloc."
"Yes, I know," remarked Tarboe.
"My other son, he's no good. He's as strong as a horse--but he's no good.
He paints, he sculps. He doesn't care whether I give him money or not. He
earns his living as he wants to earn it. When Fabian left me, I tried
Carnac. I offered to take him in permanently. He tried it, but he
wouldn't go on. He got out. He's twenty-six. The papers are beginning to
talk about him. He doesn't care for that, except that it brings in cash
for his statues and pictures. What's the good of painting and statuary,
if you can't do the big things?"
"So you think the things you do are as big as the things that
Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or Titian, or Van Dyck, or Watt, or Rodin
do--or did?"
"Bigger-much bigger," was the reply.
Pages:
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75