Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) by Rudyard Kipling Read Free Book Online

in the corners of the studio.
    ‘Yes,’ said Dick, deliberately, ‘I like the power; I like the fun; I like the fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they’re a queer gang, — an amazingly queer gang!’
    ‘They have been good enough to you, at any rate. Than tin-pot exhibition of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the “Wild Work Show”?’
    ‘Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word, I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist.
    I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and colour. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn’t the word to describe ‘em. I met a fellow the other day who told me that it was impossible that shadows on white sand should be blue, — ultramarine, — as they are. I found out, later, that the man had been as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him. He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to learn technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to that.’
    ‘When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?’
    ‘I studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal magnetism. All he ever said was, “Continuez, mes enfants,” and you had to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, and he knew something about colour. Kami used to dream colour; I swear he could never have seen the genuine article; but he evolved it; and it was good.’
    ‘Recollect some of those views in the Soudan?’ said Torpenhow, with a provoking drawl.
    Dick squirmed in his place. ‘Don’t! It makes me want to get out there again. What colour that was! Opal and umber and amber and claret and brick-red and sulphur — cockatoo-crest — sulphur — against brown, with a nigger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it all, and a decorative frieze of camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise sky.’ He began to walk up and down. ‘And yet, you know, if you try to give these people the thing as God gave it, keyed down to their comprehension and according to the powers He has given you —  — ’
    ‘Modest man! Go on.’
    ‘Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven’t even been to Algiers will tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it isn’t Art.
    ‘‘This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you’ve been promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.’
    ‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Dick, penitently. ‘You weren’t here, and it was lonely these long evenings. A man can’t work for ever.’
    ‘A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk.’
    ‘I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they were artists, and I knew some of them could draw, — but they wouldn’t draw. They gave me tea, — tea at five in the afternoon! — and talked about Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I’ve heard more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in the whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for some continental syndicate, out with the desert column? He was a regular Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took the field in full fig, with his water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writing-case, housewife, gig-lamps, and the Lord knows what all. He used to fiddle about with ‘em and show us how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge his reports from the Nilghai. See?’
    ‘Dear old Nilghai! He’s in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up here this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept clear of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will unsettle your mind.’
    ‘It won’t. It has taught me what Art — holy sacred Art — means.’
    ‘You’ve