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8 ARIADNE.cheat the world. It cannot cheat you or me. Itis aHe. Look atit;it is the first thingIeversoldto anyman that hasno shadow of myself putinto it, no beautyin my sight, no preciousnessorgladness for me, no thought or soul of mineblent withit to make it as strong and holy as aman's labours canbe. Itis alie. It is not art;—it is cold, hard,joyless, measured,mechanicalHke any stone creature that the copyist sits andchips from some plaster model of the galleries,and caUs a god!Ialways thought so, felt so.Who knows our work as we, the makers, do ?And nowIam certain, looking on your face.Hush! Do not speak. Tell me no Hes. Thething is lie enough."Iwas silent.Itwas of no use to seek to foist on him theempty phrases of an artificial compHment;hewould have seen through them and despisedme.The light from above fell on the half-shroudedgroup and on his face; his eyeshad a terribleanguishin them, such as one could picture in awounded lion's that feels his mighty strengthebbing awayand cannot rise again.