a great picture upon it; a great wave of emotion suddenly
welled up within him and he cried with enthusiasm:

"By God! it is in moods like this that _chef d'oeuvres_ are made."

Around the baseboard of the room were a row of _esquisses_ for the
picture, on small landscape-stretchers, mere blotches of colour laid on
with the palette knife and large brushes, almost unintelligible to any
one but Vandover. He selected two or three of these and fastened them to
the easel above the big stretcher where he could have them continually
in his eye. He lit his pipe, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and standing
before the easel, began to sharpen a stick of charcoal with an old
razor, drawing the blade toward him so as to keep the point of the stick
from breaking. Then at last with a deep breath of satisfaction he began
blocking in the first large construction lines of his picture.

It was one o'clock before he knew it. He went downtown and had a hasty
lunch, jealous of every moment that was not spent on his picture. The
sight of it as he re-entered the room sent a thrill all over him; he was
succeeding better than he could have expected, doing better than he
thought he would. He felt sure that now he should do good work; every
stage of the picture's progress was an inspiration for the next one. At
this time the figures had only been "placed," broadly sketched in large
lines, "blocked in" as he called it. The next step was the second
drawing, much more finished.

He rapped the stretcher sharply with his knuckles; it responded
sonorously like a drumhead, the vibration shaking the charcoal from the
tracings, filling the air with a fine dust. The outlines grew faint,
just perceptible enough to guide him in the second more detailed
drawing.

He brought his stick of charcoal to a very fine edge and set to work
carefully. In a moment he stopped and, with his chamois cloth, dusted
out what he had drawn. He had made a false start, he began but could not
recall how the lines should run, his fingers were willing enough; in his
imagination he saw just how the outlines should be, but somehow he could
not make his hand interpret what was in his head. Some third medium
through which the one used to act upon the other was sluggish, dull;
worse than that, it seemed to be absent. _"Well,"_ he muttered, "can't I
make this come out right?" Then he tried more carefully. His imagination
saw the picture clearer, his hand moved with more assurance, but t