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of paint. Lawson painted in a certain way because it was his
nature to, and through the imitativeness of a student sensi-
tive to every influence, there pierced individuality. Philip
looked at his own portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that
three months had passed he realised that it was no more
than a servile copy of Lawson. He felt himself barren. He
painted with the brain, and he could not help knowing that
the only painting worth anything was done with the heart.
He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds,
and it would be necessary for him to practise the severest
economy. He could not count on earning anything for ten
years. The history of painting was full of artists who had
earned nothing at all. He must resign himself to penury;
and it was worth while if he produced work which was im-
mortal; but he had a terrible fear that he would never be
more than second-rate. Was it worth while for that to give up
one’s youth, and the gaiety of life, and the manifold chances
of being? He knew the existence of foreign painters in Paris
enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provin-
cial. He knew some who had dragged along for twenty years
in the pursuit of a fame which always escaped them till they
sunk into sordidness and alcoholism. Fanny’s suicide had
aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of the
way in which one person or another had escaped from de-
spair. He remembered the scornful advice which the master
had given poor Fanny: it would have been well for her if she
had taken it and given up an attempt which was hopeless.
Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made
up his mind to send it to the Salon. Flanagan was sending