Tremendous vigor marked the work, and only
a Brady could have come safely through the difficulties which had been
surmounted in its creation. Everybody sang praises, and Barron nodded warm
approval, but said nothing until challenged.
"Now, find the faults, then tell me what's good," said the gigantic
painter. He stood there, burly, hearty, physically splendid--the man of all
others in that throng who might have been pointed to as the creator of the
solemn gray picture before them.
"Leave fault-finding to Fleet Street," said Barron; "let the press people
tell you where you are wrong. I am no critic and I know what a mountain of
hard work went to this."
"That's all right, old man; never mind the work--or me. Be impartial."
"Why should I? To be impartial, as this world wags, is to be friendless."
"Good Lord! d'you think I mind mauling? There's something wrong or you
wouldn't be so deucedly evasive. Out with it!"
"Well, your sailor's not dead."
Brady roared with laughter.
"Man! the poor devil's been in the water a week!"
"Not he. 'Tis a mistake in nine painted corpses out of ten. If you want to
paint a drowned man, wait till you've seen one close. That sailor in the
seaweed's asleep. Sleep is graceful, remember; death by drowning is
generally ugly--stiff, stark, hideous, eyeless, fish-gnawed a week after
the event. But what does it matter? You've painted a great picture.
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