elieves in
his own pose. Possibly two small incidents may indicate what the
genuine Villagers think of him.

There was once a post-impressionist exhibition at the Liberal Club,
and a certain young man who shall be nameless was placed in charge of
it. He was a perfectly sane young man and he knew that many of the
"art specimens" hung on such occasions were flagrant frauds. Sketch
after sketch, study after study, was sent in to him as master of
ceremonies until, in his own words, he became so "fed up with
post-impressionism that he could not stand another daub of the stuff!"
The worm turned eventually, and he vowed to teach those "artists" a
short, sweet lesson. He knew nothing about painting, being a writer by
trade, but he had the run of several studios and could collect paint
as he willed. After fortifying himself with a sufficiency of Dutch
courage, he set up a canvas and painted a picture. It had no subject,
no lines, no scheme, no integral idea. It was just a squareful of
paint--and it held every shade and variety of paint that he could lay
his hands on. He says that he took a wicked satisfaction in smearing
the colours upon that desecrated canvas. His disgust with the futurist
artists who had submitted their works for exhibition was one element
to nerve his arm and fire his resentful spirit--another was the
stimulus he had, in sheer desperation, wooed so recklessly. When the
thing was done it was something for angels and devils alike to tremble
before. It meant nothing, of course, but, like many inscrutable and
unfathomable things, it terrified by its sheer blank, chaotic madness.
He hung it in the exhibition. And it was--yes, it was--the hit of the
occasion. This is not a fairy tale--not even fiction. The story was
told me by the culprit--or was it genius?--himself.

And then people began to talk about it and speculate on what its real,
inner meaning might be. They said it was a "mood picture," a "study in
soul-tones" and a lot more like that. They even asked the guilty man
what he thought of it. When he coldly responded that he thought it
"looked like the devil" they told him that, of course he would say so:
he had no soul for art.

Now, he had signed this horror, but (let me quote him): "I had signed
it in a post-impressionist style, so no one on the earth could read
the name."

After a few days an artist came along who was not wholly obsessed
with the new craze. He studied the thing on the wall, and after