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corner where her canvases stood and almost flung them against
the wall, with the painting turned out:
“Is it worth living to go about making things like those?
Smearing oil paint on canvas? You can see for yourself that
it is nothing now but a mess of paint. Yet you saw how I
worked the first months — like a slave. Good God! I cannot
even paint any more.”
Heggen looked at the pictures. He felt he had a firm ground
to stand upon again.
“I should really like to have your frank opinion on — that
piggish stuff,” she said provokingly.
“I must admit that they are not particularly good.” He
stood with his hands in his trouser pockets looking at them.
“But that happens to every one of us — I mean that there are
certain times when you cannot produce anything, and you ought
to know that it is only for a time. I don’t think one can lose
one’s talent even if one has been ever so unhappy. You have
left off painting for such a long time, besides; you will have
to work it up again — to master the means of action, so to say.
Take life study, for instance — I am sure it is three years since
you drew a live model. One cannot neglect those things without
being punished for it. I know from my own experience.”
He went to a shelf and searched among Jenny’s
sketchbooks:
“You ought to remember how much you improved in Paris
— let me show you.”
“No, no, not that one,” said Jenny, reaching her hand for it.
Heggen stood with the book in his hand, looking amazed at
her. She turned her face away:
“I don’t mind if you look at it — I tried to draw the boy
one day.”
Heggen turned the leaves slowly. Jenny was sitting in the
sofa again. He looked at the pencil sketches of the sleeping
infant for a moment, then put the book carefully away.
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