The Washington times., 1920-08-28
sCeatf.ued from Yesterday

fContfaued from Yesterday
However. his mind was equipped
with a whole terminal fun OF tracks
and every one was as busy in the
service OF his profession.
For a month. now, he had been
installed In studio-apartmen on
the top floor. He picked up on
Fourth and on Madison avenues
enough previously rickety furniture
to make him comfortable and drive
friends to distraction when they
ventured to trust themselves TO
chair or sofa.
But his writing table and corner
chair were solid and modern, and ne
had half a dozen things under con-
struction--a novel, some short stor-
les, some poems which he modestly
mentioned as verses.
Except for the unexplored mazes
In which first love had involved him
he was happy-exceedingly happy.
But. to a creative mind. happiness
born of self-expression Is weird,
uncanny, composite emotion, made
up OF eestatic hope and dolorous
despair and we'll peppered with
dread and confidence. cowardice and
courage, rage and tranquility; and
further seasoned with every devilish
doubt and celestial satisfaction that
the heart OF a writer Is heir to-.
CREATIVE MIND NEVER KNOWS
TRUTH.
In the morning he was certain of
himself. He was the captain of his
destiny; he was the dictator of his
Inspiration, equipped with the tech
nical mastery that his obedient
thoughts dare not disobey.
BY afternoon the demon Doubt
had shaken his self-confidence, and
Fear peered at him between every
line Of his manuscript, and 1t was
case of Childe Roland from that
time on until the pencil fell from
his unnerved fingers and he rose
from his work satiated, half-stunned.
not knowing whether he had done
weel or meanly.
Vaguely he realized at such mo-
ments that. for such as she, just
reprisal of his own work would
never be possible for himz-that he
himself would never know: and
that what men said of tiff, in
deed, they ever said anything about
his work-would never wholly con-
vince him, never entirely enlighten
him as to its value or it's worthless
ness.
That is one Of the penalties i'm
posed upon the creative mind. 1t
goes on producing because it must
Praise stimulates it. blame de-
presses; but it never knows the
truth.
sTEPHANIE's CRITICISM.
Toward the end of May. one after
noon. Stephanie came into his stu
dio. seated herself calmly in his
chair, and picked up his manu-
script, %
ITS no good, he said. throwing
himself on an antique sofa which
just endured the strain and no
more.
She read for an hour, her gray
eyes never leaving the written
pages. her pretty brows bent in
ward with the strain of concentra-
ton.
He watched her, chin on hand, ly-
ing there on the sofa
But the air was mild and Ian
guorous with the promise of the
coming summer; sunshine fell
across the wall; the boy dozed.
presently, and after a while lay
fast asleep.
She had been gone for some time
when he awoke. AS he sat up,
blinking through the late after
noon sunshine, a penciled sheet Of
yellow manuscript paper huttered
from his breast to the floor.
Jim. 1t is fine. / mean 1t! 1t Is
splendid, virile, honest piece Of
work And it is intensely interest
ing. I'm quite mad about it-quite
thrilled that you can do such
things. It's so mastery, SO mature
and I don't know where you got
your knowledge Of that woman, be-
cause she Is perfectly feminine. and
women think and do such things,
and her motives are the motives
that animate that sort of woman.
As you lie there asleep you look
about eighteen-not much older
than when I used to see you when
you came home from school and lay
on your sofa and read Kipling
aloud to me. Then / was awed;
oroxur ~, - 70 ma Nou,