Nest Builder | Page 7

but he became more deeply aware of the loneliness which
they involved. He searched eagerly for the few whose qualities of mind
or person lifted them beyond reach of his demon of disparagement, and
he found them, especially among women.
To a minority of that sex he was unusually attractive, and he became a
lover of women, but as subjects for enthusiasm rather than desire. In
passion he was curious but capricious, seldom rapidly roused, nor long
held. In his relations with women emotion came second to mental
stimulation, so that he never sought one whose mere sex was her main
attraction. This saved him from much--he was experienced, but not
degraded. Of love, however, in the fused sense of body, mind, and
spirit, he knew nothing. Perhaps his work claimed too much from him;
at any rate he was too egotistical, too critical and self-sufficient to give
easily. Whether he had received such love he did not ask himself--it is
probable that he had, without knowing it, or understanding that he had
not himself given full measure in return. The heart of France is
practical; with all her ardor Paris had given Byrd desire and friendship,
but not romance.
In his last year, with only a few francs of his inheritance remaining,
Stefan had three pictures in the Beaux Arts. One of these was sold, but
the other two importuned vainly from their hanging places. Enormous
numbers of pictures had been exhibited that year. Every gallery, public
and private, was crowded; Paris was glutted with works of art. Stefan
faced the prospect of speedy starvation if he could not dispose of
another canvas. He had enough for a summer in Brittany, after which, if
the dealers could do nothing for him, he was stranded. Nevertheless, he
enjoyed his holiday light-heartedly, confident that his two large
pictures could not long fail to be appreciated. Returning to Paris in
September, however, he was dismayed to find his favorite dealers
uninterested in his canvases, and disinclined to harbor them longer.

Portraits and landscapes, they told him, were in much demand, but
fantasies, no. His sweeping groups of running, flying figures against
stormy skies, or shoals of mermaids hurrying down lanes of the deep
sea, did not appeal to the fashionable taste of the year. Something more
languorous, more subdued, or, on the other hand, more "chic," was
demanded.
In a high rage of disgust, Stefan hired a fiacre, and bore his children
defiantly home to their birthplace. Sitting in his studio like a ruffled
bird upon a spoiled hatching, he reviewed the fact that he had 325
francs in the world, that the rent of his attic was overdue, and that his
pictures had never been so unmarketable as now.
At this point his one intimate man friend, Adolph Jensen, a Swede,
appeared as the deus ex machine. He had, he declared, an elder brother
in New York, an art dealer. This brother had just written him,
describing the millionaires who bought his pictures and bric-a-brac. His
shop was crowded with them. Adolph's brother was shrewd and hard to
please, but let his cher Stefan go himself to New York with his
canvases, impress the brother with his brilliance and the beauty of his
work, and, undoubtedly, his fortune would at once be made. The season
in New York was in the winter. Let Stefan go at once, by the fastest
boat, and be first in the field--he, Adolph, who had a little laid by,
would lend him the necessary money, and would write his brother in
advance of the great opportunity he was sending him.
Ultimately, with a very ill grace on Stefan's part--who could hardly be
persuaded that even a temporary return to America was preferable to
starvation--it was so arranged. The second-class passage money was
250 francs; for this and incidentals, he had enough, and Adolph lent
him another 250 to tide him over his arrival. He felt unable to afford
adequate crating, so his canvases were unstretched and made into a roll
which he determined should never leave his hands. His clothing was
packed in two bags, one contributed by Adolph. Armed with his roll,
and followed by his enthusiastic friend carrying the bags, Stefan
departed from the Gare Saint-Lazare for Dieppe, Liverpool, and the
Lusitania.
Reacting to his friend's optimism, Stefan had felt confident enough on
leaving Paris, but the discomforts of the journey had soon flattened his
spirits, and now, limp in his berth, he saw the whole adventure

mistaken, unreal, and menacing. In leaving the country of his adoption
for that of his birth, he now felt that he had put himself again in the
clutches of a chimera which had power to wither with its breath all that
was rare and beautiful in his life. Nursing