irit of tenderness and compassion,
and without which production would become impossible to those who die of
their failure to create life.

In addition to those constantly renewed struggles with himself, Claude's
material difficulties now increased. Was it not enough that he could not
give birth to what he felt existing within him? Must he also battle with
every-day cares? Though he refused to admit it, painting from nature in
the open air became impossible when a picture was beyond a certain size.
How could he settle himself in the streets amidst the crowd?--how obtain
from each person the necessary number of sittings? That sort of painting
must evidently be confined to certain determined subjects, landscapes,
small corners of the city, in which the figures would be but so many
silhouettes, painted in afterwards. There were also a thousand and one
difficulties connected with the weather; the wind which threatened to
carry off the easel, the rain which obliged one to interrupt one's work.
On such days Claude came home in a rage, shaking his fist at the sky
and accusing nature of resisting him in order that he might not take and
vanquish her. He also complained bitterly of being poor; for his dream
was to have a movable studio, a vehicle in Paris, a boat on the Seine,
in both of which he would have lived like an artistic gipsy. But nothing
came to his aid, everything conspired against his work.

And Christine suffered with Claude. She had shared his hopes very
bravely, brightening the studio with her housewifely activity; but now
she sat down, discouraged, when she saw him powerless. At each picture
which was refused she displayed still deeper grief, hurt in her womanly
self-love, taking that pride in success which all women have. The
painter's bitterness soured her also; she entered into his feelings and
passions, identified herself with his tastes, defended his painting,
which had become, as it were, part of herself, the one great concern of
their lives--indeed, the only important one henceforth, since it was the
one whence she expected all her happiness. She understood well enough
that art robbed her more and more of her lover each day, but the real
struggle between herself and art had not yet begun. For the time she
yielded, and let herself be carried away with Claude, so that they
might be but one--one only in the self-same effort. From that partial
abdication of self there sprang, however, a sadness, a dread of what