Helen Vardon's confession
affectionate pinch on my little comrade’s ear. “Well, I haven’t been
far afield, but I have done quite an important stroke of business.”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve sold something!” the Titmouse exclaimed,
incredulously.
“Not actually sold. But I have discovered a market. I have tidings of
a benevolent person--of the Scottish persuasion, I believe--who
traffics in works of art and other productions of the human hand.”
“A Scotchman!” exclaimed Miss Finch. “I thought all art dealers were
Jews. When are you going to call on the Laird?”
“It is hardly worth while to call on him until I have a fair
collection of work to show him,” said I.
“I don’t agree with you, Sibyl,” said Lilith. “The first thing to do
is to catch your dealer. To do that, you must find out what he wants.
He is sure to have his own personal fancies, and he knows what he can
sell most easily. Take him all that you have ready. He will be able to
see from that what you can do, and he will tell you what kind of work
he will take from you. And don’t lose any time. I should go to-morrow
if I were you.”
“Does an artist have to work to order, then, like salaried
journeymen?” I asked.
“Practically, yes,” replied Lilith. “And why not? He makes things that
he wants people to buy. Surely it is only reasonable that he should
consider the needs and the wishes of the buyers. And all good
craftsmen do. Chippendale’s chairs were not only good to look at; they
were comfortable to sit on and serviceable in use. The only difference
between an artist craftsman and a commercial producer is that the
artist always does his best, for his own satisfaction apart from the
question of payment; whereas the commercial producer thinks of the
profit only, and turns out the worst stuff that the buyer will put up
with.”
“But surely an artist may choose what he will make,” said I.
“Of course he may,” replied Lilith, “if he is willing to keep the
thing when he has made it. Not if he is going to ask someone to pay
him money for it.”
I was inwardly somewhat taken aback by this exhibition of hard-headed
reasonableness on the part of the mystical Lilith; so much so that,
when she had gone to her room, I remarked on it to Miss Finch.
“Yes,” she agreed; “Lilith is an extraordinary girl. In fact, there
seem to be two Liliths; one is as cranky as a March hare, and the
other is perfectly sane and really very shrewd. I sometimes wonder
whether she really believes in all that crystal-gazing tosh and
telepathic bunkum. But she practices what she has just been preaching.
She does her fashion-plates according to orders--but ever so much
better than she need--and does other work to please herself and is
content to keep it. You should look in at her studio and see her at
work; then you’d understand.”
“And you think I had better take her advice?”
“I do. First catch your dealer; and if he wants to keep you turning
out the same things over and over again, try to catch another dealer
who wants something different. The great thing is to get a market.
It’s frightfully disheartening to keep on doing good work and having
it all left on your hands.”
Impressed by this wise counsel, I betook myself after supper to my
workshop and reviewed my stock. A month’s work had produced no great
accumulation, for I was still a slow worker, though the continuous
practice was improving that. On the other hand, I had brought with me
a certain number of unfinished pieces as well as some of my finished
work; so that I had enough to give Mr. Campbell the means of judging
my capabilities. When I had looked over the collection and withdrawn
one or two pieces that were not up to my present standard, I packed
the approved specimens in a hand-bag which I took up with me in
readiness for the morrow. I was just opening the door of my room when
Lilith came running up the stairs.
“You see,” I said, holding up the hand-bag. “I am acting on your
advice. I have packed up a selection from my stock to take to the
dealer to-morrow morning.”
“I am glad of that,” said she. “The business side of art is tedious
and disagreeable, but you have got to sell if you are to live by your
work. Would you mind giving me a private view of your masterpieces?”
“I shall be proud to show them to you,” I replied, conducting her into
my room and placing the arm-chair by the table, “Let us put out the
whole collection.”
I emptied the bag of its contents, which I set out on the table to the
best advantage, and she examined the pieces one by one.
“They _are_ charming,” she exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I can’t judge
the work, though it looks most expert to my inexpert eye, but the
design is delightful. They are all so individual and full of
character, and so simple and restrained. You have a fine colour-sense,
too. I think your use of enamel quite masterly, and I like your
employment of bronze in place of the precious metals. It is fortunate
that your dealer is a Scotchman, for the Jews, from Solomon downwards,
have always had a leaning towards gold.”
“Yes,” said I; “bronze is my favourite material, even for personal
ornaments. And it is capable of great variety in the patina,
especially if one uses the Japanese methods of surface treatment. I
wish it took the enamel better.”
“You seem to have overcome the difficulties pretty completely,” said
Lilith. “This pendant, for instance, is beautiful, and so is the
belt-clasp. Do you know, Sibyl, I think we might collaborate. Some of
my designs might very well include metal ornaments--clasps, buckles,
and buttons forming part of the decorative scheme. We must talk it
over. And now, my dear Sibyl, I want to say something to
you--something quite serious--and I want you to listen without
prejudice.”
I looked at her, and was instantly aware of a change that had come
over her. The shrewd, business-like, capable Lilith had suddenly
become transformed into the mystic--wide-eyed, dreamy, yet intense.
“I have avoided talking to you about the things that are to me the
great things of life,” she said in low, earnest tones. “I have wished
to, but I have been fearful of intruding on your strongly individual,
self-contained personality. But I have felt that you have great
gifts--great psychic gifts. You are a woman of power. The common herd
live their little lives locked up in the prison of the visible and the
conscious. If they would convey their thoughts to other minds they
must use the unwieldy means of speech and visible signs. What they
know of their fellow-immortals reaches them crudely through the organs
of sense; and through those primitive and inadequate media they must
needs communicate with others, bound by the limitations of time and
space and mere material contact--at least, so long as they are
prisoned within a material body. But there are others for whom no such
limitations exist; specially gifted souls who can see without mere
material eyes, who can hear without ears, who can speak their thoughts
across the gulfs of time and space; who can look into the remote past,
and even into the future; who can make their will-power operate at
limitless distances and without the aid of gross bodily action. And
you are one of these, Sibyl. I am convinced that you are endowed with
these powers. But they are latent, unsuspected, because you have never
tried to exercise them; because you have never sought to bring the
subconscious within the domain of the conscious, or rather to make a
contact between the two.”
To this strange and rather wild harangue (which the matter-of-fact
Titmouse would have called “barmy”) I listened with grave attention,
though with little enough conviction--for I could not but recall my
ignorance and my mistaken judgment in the greatest crisis of my
life--noting how like a prophetess the picturesque Lilith looked, with
her golden aureole of auburn hair and her great, blue eyes and parted
lips. But I made no reply--there was, indeed, nothing to say--and
after a short pause she continued:
“Don’t think I am saying this with any impertinent intention of trying
to force my own views on you. I have a definite practical purpose. You
are going to-morrow to make your first essay in a vitally important
branch of an artist’s calling. On your success depends the possibility
of your following art as a profession--that is, if you have not enough
to live without work.”
“I have not,” said I.
“Then artistic success is not sufficient. You must achieve industrial
success; you must get a livelihood out of your work. As far as the
creation of beautiful things is concerned you are quite competent and
will become more so with more practice. Now you have to learn how to
dispose of those works profitably; how to make people buy them.”
“But surely that will be decided by the suitability of the things
themselves.”
“Partly, no doubt. But you mustn’t leave it at that. You must learn to
exercise the power of silent willing combined with suggestion.”
“I don’t think I quite understand,” said I.
“We must talk about this more fully some other time,” said Lilith,
“and go into the theory and the results of experiments. For the
present you must try to take my word for the fact that silent willing
and suggestion are real powers. I don’t ask you to believe it without
proof--I will give you the proof later--but I do beg you, dear Sibyl,
to give the method a trial. If it fails in your hands you will be none
the worse; but it won’t fail if you make up your mind to succeed.”
“What do you want me to do, Lilith?” I asked, not a little bit
bewildered by her mysterious and rather vague expressions.
“I will tell you what I do myself,” she replied. “When I take a batch
of drawings to a publisher, I stand outside the office for five
minutes and silently will that he shall accept them. Sometimes I write
on a piece of paper a command to the publisher to accept my work, and
while I am waiting for the interview I keep my eyes fixed on the
writing and mentally endorse the command. The writing, you see, helps
me to concentrate my will-power. Then, at the interview, I use the
method of suggestion. Whatever the editor or publisher may say,
whatever objections he may make to my work, I continue steadily to
impress on him that he is going to accept it, that, in fact, he has
accepted it. If he refuses it, I ignore the refusal and go on talking
as if he had accepted it--not rudely, of course; one must do these
things tactfully--and all the time that he is talking, I continue
silently to concentrate my will-power on him.”
“And what is the result?” I asked.
“The result, my dear Sibyl, is that I sell all the drawings that I
offer for sale.”
This sounded convincing enough, and would have been more so if I had
not happened to know that Lilith’s drawings were of the very best of
their kind, and that she submitted them to the most rigorous criticism
before letting anyone see them. Still, the fact that she sold her work
was undeniable, and it was impossible to say how many excellent
drawings had failed to gain acceptance. Certainly every capable artist
is not a successful one.
“And what is it exactly that you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you,” she replied, “to do just what I do, myself. I want you
to stand outside the shop for five minutes and silently will that this
dealer shall buy your work. It would probably help you if you were to
write down the command and keep your eyes fixed on the writing while
you are willing; but if the dealer himself should happen to be
visible, it would be well to fix your eyes on him so as to direct the
will-force with more precision. And when you go into the shop, keep on
willing with the greatest concentration that you can command, and when
you are talking to the dealer, talk as if he had bought your work;