out, I adhered to it, insisting, "Do, Frida; if nothing else, it
will keep me out of mischief this evening."

She knew the thought of mischief was for from my mind, and she simply
answered:

"Very well, Felix, if you wish it, I will sit." And with that she gave
me an encouraging look.

I was anxious to get her to sit, for a picture of that girl in her
sadness had gradually been ripening in my mind; it was so complete that
it seemed only to want putting down, and no more difficult of
accomplishment than the writing out of any lines that I might have
learnt by heart. It was a case of "Don't begin till it's finished." That
I have often since found a good maxim, but one not so easily lived up
to. The picture, then, such as I had conceived it, I was wedded to, for
better or for worse. I must draw her all but full-face. The light from
above, and slightly from the left, will model and bring out the delicate
beauty of her features. It was all ready to be transcribed: the smooth
hair with the black ribbon tied in a large symmetrical bow on the top of
the head, the plain dress, the background, and, above all, that
expression, reflecting the yearnings of a poor chilled soul. On the
surface, bewilderment, helplessness; beneath, a substratum of trust, of
faith; and far below, hope, the spark of life that glimmers and glows
on, even under mountains of despair.

We got the lamp that had served my purpose more than once, and the two
candles, with the little special shades I had brought from Paris (I have
them still), and Frida sat. Not once, but often, for the more I drew the
more I was eager to pursue that will-o'-the-wisp, the realisation of an
idea. Many a time I had to point my crayons, Conte No. 2, and to blacken
the little paper stumps, the classical tortillons, before I could make
up my mind to admit that I had finished.

And what was the result? Perhaps it was very poor; probably it was;
certainly, if you like--but I don't want to know it if it was. I want to
think it was good and true, like the knight that serves the lady. If it
is an illusion, bear with me and let me keep it.

I had a grey mount put round it and a cheap little black frame; and
then--may the gods forgive my presumption!--I felt as if the crayons and
the humble tortillons might possibly have been working for the ends of
Providence; I packed up the picture and sent it with all my love to the
Magisterin.

"Try it," I said; "he may like it." And she tried