"I wish you would not, Daisy."
"I only say what I think: that it progresses."
Cornelius laughed, but by no means cheerfully.
"I know you long for me to praise it," I observed, quietly.
"Indeed, I do not," he interrupted.
"Yes, you do: it would give you so good an opportunity of abusing it."
"Do you kindly mean to spare me the trouble?"
"No; for then you would defend it against all my criticisms. I know very well how you rate your picture, Cornelius."
"Do you?"
"Yes; I do. You know it will make your reputation; that it will be praised and admired; but it fails in something on which you have set your heart, and, though it may do for the world, it will not do for Cornelius O'Reilly, his own severest judge, public and critic."
"Oh, you witch!" he replied, unable to repress a smile.
"Do you not like it better now?" I asked, thinking the cloud was beginning to break.
"No, Daisy. It is the old story; something within me to which, do what I will, I cannot give birth; it is this torments me, Daisy, it is this."
"And let it be this," I replied gravely; "let it be this, Cornelius, you will be better than your pictures: if you were not, if you could give all to art, would art be any longer worth living for? Where would be the mystery, the desire, the hope, the charm, to lure you on for ever. I dare say painting resembles life; and that to feel I am better than my pictures, is like the pleasure of feeling 'I am better than my destiny.'"
"And what do you know about that pleasure?" asked Cornelius.
"I have felt it," was my involuntary reply. "Well, why not?" I added, reddening beneath his look, "do you think that because I am a girl, I have had no ambition, no dreams of my own, no longing for a little bit of the heroic? We all have, Cornelius, only we don't confess it, for fear of being laughed at."
He looked attentively at me and smiled.
"What were your dreams about, Daisy?"
"Not worth your losing time in listening to them, Cornelius--time, that leads to fame!"
The smile vanished from his face.
"Not for me," he replied, with a clouded brow.
"Why not?"
"Because I have no genius."
"No genius?"
"No," he said impatiently, "not a bit."
"Do you mean to say, Cornelius, that you will never be one of the celebrated artists of whom I have read so much?"
"Never!" he replied, with a dreary seriousness that proved him, for the moment at least, to be quite in earnest.
"Cornelius," I said, decisively, "I am not going to put up with that, you know; fame is not a thing to be laid aside in that fashion."
"Fame! what is fame?"
"A poor aim, but a glorious reward."
"Empty, Daisy, empty. I do not care one pin for fame."
"Sour grapes," was the prompt reply which escaped me.
"Thank you, Daisy," he answered, reddening.
I felt rather disturbed. He resumed:
"Sour grapes! The illustration is kind and civil. Sour grapes!"
"They must be very sour," I ventured to observe, in a low tone, "for you seem unable to digest them, Cornelius."
"I beg your pardon," he said, very gravely, "I do not care for celebrity, and do not want to be famous."
"But I do," I warmly answered, "you were asking a while ago about my day- dreams: I will tell you one, a favourite one, of which the fulfilment lies with you:--I am out somewhere; for of course we shall not always live in this quiet way, and I overhear Mrs. H-- asking Mrs. G--, in an audible whisper: 'Who is that commonplace-looking girl in white?'
'Something or other to the celebrated artist, Cornelius O'Reilly.' Mrs.
H-- looks at me with sudden veneration, whilst I give her a compassionate glance, implying 'Who ever heard of Mr. H--?'"
"You saucy girl," said Cornelius, passing his arm around me, but looking down at me, with anything but a displeased face.
"I am not saucy; I am very humble. I am proud by temper, and yet I cannot fancy that if I were to go and earn my bread, it would have a sweeter taste than that you have earned for me so long. I am ambitious, and instead of winning fame for myself, here am I suing you to do it for me!"
"And shall it not be won for you?" he asked, fondly smoothing my hair, "that and anything else you wish for, my darling."
"Then, don't you see," I replied, triumphantly, "that you have got genius?"
"Oh! Daisy," he said sorrowfully, "what brought up that unlucky word?
Look at that figure, cold, lifeless thing, it tells its own story."
I lost all patience. I felt my face flush, and turning round on Cornelius, I put by at once all the filial reverence of years.
"Cornelius!" I exclaimed, indignantly, "you are as capricious as a spoiled child. How can a man of your age indulge in such whims?"
"I am not so old as to have my age thrown in my face!" he replied, looking piqued. "I am only a few years beyond legal infancy."
"You ought to be ages beyond thinking and speaking as you do. If you have no faith in yourself, why do you paint at all? If I were a man, I would rather be a shoemaker or a tailor, than an artist without faith."
"On my word," said Cornelius, looking very angry, "you do speak strongly."
"Because _I_ have faith in you," I replied, passing my arm around his neck, and looking into his averted face. "Call the picture bad, but do not say you have no genius. It cuts me to the heart, indeed it does.