The Adventure of Annabel

The man spoke mercilessly, incisively, as a surgeon. Only he hated the
words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his
lips. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands.

"You have the temperament," he said. "You have the ideas. Your first
treatment of a subject is always correct, always suggestive. But of
what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. You lack only
that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part
of an artist's equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute
necessity. We have both tried hard to develop it--you and I--and we
have failed. It is better to face the truth."

"Much better," she agreed. "Oh, much better."

"Personally," he went on, "I must confess to a great disappointment. I
looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. I
overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack
of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. I said to myself, 'this will
come.' It seems that I was mistaken. You cannot draw. Your fingers are
even now as stiff as a schoolgirl's. You will never be able to draw.
You have the ideas. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth,
but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will
not be painting. Take my advice. Burn your palette and your easel.
Give up your lonely hours of work here. Look somewhere else in life.
Depend upon it, there is a place for you--waiting. Here you only waste
your time."