He spoke of that, and she laughed. "Yes, this is what they don't see.
This is what they never know. Poetic impulses don't paint pictures, Karl.
That's the incentive; the thing that keeps one at it, but you can't do it
without these tricks of the trade which mean just downright work. I've
never worked on a picture yet in which I wasn't almost fatally
handicapped by this thing of not knowing enough. The bigger your idea,
the more skill, cunning, fairly, you must have to force it into life."
She told him at last that they were through. They had even looked at rude
little sketches she had made of places they had cared for in Europe.
Indeed he looked very long at some of those little sketches of places
they had loved.
"One thing more," he said; "you told me once you had some water colour
daubs you did when a little girl. Let me look at them. I just want to
see," he laughed, "how they compare."
And so she got them out, and they looked them over, laughing at them.
"You've gone a long way," he said, pushing them aside, as if suddenly
tired.
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