Fancy, ever Fancy, but it
is Imagination that, as it were, brings man to a level with his destiny
and elevates him to the Olympium hights of the True, and all that rises
much above the meedyochre. But I must not forget that this is your first
visit to me studeeyoh. The painting on the easel is a view of Venice on
the Grand Canal.'

'But,' said Rocjean, 'I do not see the canal.'

'When you are gazing at the stars do you see your boots?' asked Phlamm.

'I always do,' spoke Caper quickly, 'always gaze at 'em at night--smoke
a cigar--put my feet higher than my head--sit in a chair--stars
reflected in boots--big thing!'

'You are full of life and spirits, Caper,' continued Phlamm, 'full of
'em; but Rocjean is more serious, more imbued with his nobil calling. My
illustration, as he understands, would convey the idea that such a thing
as foreground in a painting is false; it's a sham, it's a delusion, and
all that. It may do for pre-Raffleites, but for a man who looks Naychure
in the face, he sees her operating diversely, and he works according. I
repeat it again, when I was on the Grand Canal in Venice, I didn't see
the Grand Canal.'

'Neither did I,' spoke Caper, 'we're just alike; I kept my head all the
time out of the gondola-window looking for pretty girls--and I saw
them!'

'May I ask why you dead-color your canvas blue, and then make your
drawing in black outline?' asked Rocjean.

'What is the color of the sky? Is it not blue? Is not blue a cold color;
is it not the negative to the warmth, the balance to the scales, the one
thing needed on which to rear the glorious fabric that Naychure reveals
to the undimmed vision of man? I know your answer, and I refute it. I
have studied Art from its roots, and now I'm in the branches, and I
grasp the fruit. My manner is peculiar--I have no patent for it--I ask
for none. The illimitable passes the legitimate, and the sw-word is
carried by the hero--for me the bruzh, the paint-bruzh. You see that
painting before you--it is my child--I lavish on it my intentions--I am
going to work three years on that picture!'

'I bet you a new hat you sell it, and a dozen more, and send 'em off
before six months. You're all the rage now since you sold old Goldburg a
picture,' quoth Caper.

'I don't bet, I am opposed to betting. But look that picture of mine in
the face, in the face! Here is a finished painting, The Lake of Zurich;
see those clouds floating mistily away into the far dista