he two
seemed to act independently of each other. The forms he made on the
canvas were no adequate reflection of those in his brain; some third
delicate and subtle faculty that coordinated the other two and that
called forth a sure and instant response to the dictates of his mind,
was lacking. The lines on his canvas were those of a child just learning
to draw; one saw for what they were intended, but they were crude, they
had no life, no meaning. The very thing that would have made them
intelligible, interpretive, that would have made them art, was absent. A
third, a fourth, and a fifth time Vandover made the attempt. It was
useless. He knew that it was not because his hand lacked cunning on
account of long disuse; such a thing, in spite of popular belief, never
happened to artists--a good artist might abandon his work for five
years, ten years--and take it up again precisely where he had laid it
down with no loss of technical skill. No, this thing seemed more subtle,
so subtle that at first he could hardly grasp it. But suddenly a great
fear came upon him, a momentary return of that wild hysterical terror
from which he believed he had forever escaped.

"Is it gone?" he cried out. "Is it gone from me? My art? Steady," he
went on, passing his hand over his face with a reassuring smile;
"steady, old man, this won't do, again--and so soon! It won't do for you
to get scared twice like that. This is just nervousness, you are
overexcited. Pshaw! What's the matter with me? Let's get to work."

Still another time he dusted out what he had done and recommenced,
concentrating all his attention with a tremendous effort of the will.
Grotesque and meaningless shapes, the mocking caricatures of those he
saw in his fancy, grew under his charcoal, while slowly, slowly, a
queer, numb feeling came in his head, like a rising fog, and the touch
of that unreasoning terror returned, this time stronger, more
persistent, more tenacious than before.

Vandover nerved himself against it, not daring to give in, fearing to
allow himself to see what this really meant. He passed one hand over his
cheek and along the side of his head, the fingers dancing. "Hum!" he
muttered, looking vaguely about him, "this is bad. I mustn't let this
get the better of me now. I'll knock off for to-day, take a little rest,
begin again to-morrow."

In ten minutes he was back at his easel again. His charcoal wandered,
tracing empty lines on his canvas, the strange n