Here Art is no benignant
goddess, but a Circe who turns her wooers into mewing Toms and
Tabbies who linger about the doorsteps of her abode, unmindful of
the flying brickbats and boot-jacks of the critics. Some of us creep
back to our native villages to the skim-milk of "I told you so"; but
most of us prefer to remain in the cold courtyard of our mistress's
temple, snatching the scraps that fall from her divine table d'hote.
But some of us grow weary at last of the fruitless service. And then
there are two fates open to us. We can get a job driving a grocer's
wagon, or we can get swallowed up in the Vortex of Bohemia. The
latter sounds good; but the former really pans out better. For, when
the grocer pays us off we can rent a dress suit and--the capitalized
system of humor describes it best--Get Bohemia On the Run.
Miss Medora chose the Vortex and thereby furnishes us with our little
story.
Professor Angelini praised her sketches excessively. Once when
she had made a neat study of a horse-chestnut tree in the park he
declared she would become a second Rosa Bonheur. Again--a great
artist has his moods--he would say cruel and cutting things. For
example, Medora had spent an afternoon patiently sketching the statue
and the architecture at Columbus Circle. Tossing it aside with a
sneer, the professor informed her that Giotto had once drawn a
perfect circle with one sweep of his hand.
One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Harmony was overdue,
Medora had a headache, the professor had tried to borrow two dollars
from her, her art dealer had sent back all her water-colors unsold,
and--Mr.
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