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"
Yes
,
"
she
said
incredulously
,
"
I
do
,
"
incredulously
because
she
was
hearing
her
own
symbol
of
moral
pride
,
chosen
by
a
man
she
had
least
expected
to
choose
it
.
"
If
you
do
,
why
did
you
look
quite
so
tragic
just
a
moment
ago
?
What
is
it
that
you
regret
?
"
"
The
years
when
your
work
has
remained
unheard
.
"
"
But
it
hasn
’
t
.
I
’
ve
given
two
or
three
concerts
every
year
.
Here
,
in
Galt
’
s
Gulch
.
I
am
giving
one
next
week
.
I
hope
you
’
ll
come
.
The
price
of
admission
is
twenty
-
five
cents
.
"
She
could
not
help
laughing
.
He
smiled
,
then
his
face
slipped
slowly
into
earnestness
,
as
under
the
tide
of
some
unspoken
contemplation
of
his
own
.
He
looked
at
the
darkness
beyond
the
window
,
at
a
spot
where
,
in
a
clearing
of
the
branches
,
with
the
moonlight
draining
its
color
,
leaving
only
its
metallic
luster
,
the
sign
of
the
dollar
hung
like
a
curve
of
shining
steel
engraved
on
the
sky
.
"
Miss
Taggart
,
do
you
see
why
I
’
d
give
three
dozen
modern
artists
for
one
real
businessman
?
Why
I
have
much
more
in
common
with
Ellis
Wyatt
or
Ken
Danagger
—
who
happens
to
be
tone
deaf
—
than
with
men
like
Mort
Liddy
and
Balph
Eubank
?
Whether
it
’
s
a
symphony
or
a
coal
mine
,
all
work
is
an
act
of
creating
and
comes
from
the
same
source
:
from
an
inviolate
capacity
to
see
through
one
’
s
own
eyes
—
which
means
:
the
capacity
to
perform
a
rational
identification
—
which
means
:
the
capacity
to
sew
,
to
connect
and
to
make
what
had
not
been
seen
,
connected
and
made
before
.
That
shining
vision
which
they
talk
about
as
belonging
to
the
authors
of
symphonies
and
novels
—
what
do
they
think
is
the
driving
faculty
of
men
who
discover
how
to
use
oil
,
how
to
run
a
mine
,
how
to
build
an
electric
motor
?
That
sacred
fire
which
is
said
to
burn
within
musicians
and
poets
—
what
do
they
suppose
moves
an
industrialist
to
defy
the
whole
world
for
the
sake
of
his
new
metal
,
as
the
inventors
of
the
airplane
,
the
builders
of
the
railroads
,
the
discoverers
of
new
germs
or
new
continents
have
done
through
all
the
ages
?
.
.
.
evotion
to
the
pursuit
of
truth
,
Miss
Taggart
?
Have
you
heard
the
moralists
and
the
art
lovers
of
the
centuries
talk
about
the
artist
’
s
intransigent
devotion
to
the
pursuit
of
truth
?
Name
me
a
greater
example
of
such
devotion
than
the
act
of
a
man
who
says
that
the
earth
does
turn
,
or
the
act
of
a
man
who
says
that
an
alloy
of
steel
and
copper
has
certain
properties
which
enable
it
to
do
certain
things
,
that
it
is
and
does
—
and
let
the
world
rack
him
or
ruin
him
,
he
will
not
bear
false
witness
to
the
evidence
of
his
mind
!
This
,
Miss
Taggart
,
this
sort
of
spirit
,
courage
and
love
for
truth
—
as
against
a
sloppy
bum
who
goes
around
proudly
assuring
you
that
he
has
almost
reached
the
perfection
of
a
lunatic
,
because
he
’
s
an
artist
who
hasn
’
t
the
faintest
idea
what
his
art
work
is
or
means
,
he
’
s
not
restrained
by
such
crude
concepts
as
‘
being
’
or
‘
meaning
’
he
’
s
the
vehicle
of
higher
mysteries
,
he
doesn
’
t
know
how
he
created
his
work
or
why
,
it
just
came
out
of
him
spontaneously
,
like
vomit
out
of
a
drunkard
,
he
did
not
think
,
he
wouldn
’
t
stoop
to
thinking
,
he
just
felt
it
,
all
he
has
to
do
is
feel
—
he
feels
,
the
flabby
,
loose
-
mouthed
,
shifty
-
eyed
,
drooling
,
shivering
,
uncongealed
bastard
!
I
,
who
know
what
discipline
,
what
effort
,
what
tension
of
mind
,
what
unrelenting
strain
upon
one
’
s
power
of
clarity
are
needed
to
produce
a
work
of
art
—
I
,
who
know
that
it
requires
a
labor
which
makes
a
chain
gang
look
like
rest
and
a
severity
no
army
drilling
sadist
could
impose
—
I
’
ll
take
the
operator
of
a
coal
mine
over
any
walking
vehicle
of
higher
mysteries
.
The
operator
knows
that
it
’
s
not
his
feelings
that
keep
the
coal
carts
moving
under
the
earth
—
and
he
knows
what
does
keep
them
moving
.
Feelings
?
Oh
yes
,
we
do
feel
,
he
,
you
and
I
—
we
are
,
in
fact
,
the
only
people
capable
of
feeling
—
and
we
know
where
our
feelings
come
from
.
But
what
we
did
not
know
and
have
delayed
learning
for
too
long
is
the
nature
of
those
who
claim
that
they
cannot
account
for
their
feelings
.
We
did
not
know
what
it
is
that
they
feel
.
We
are
learning
it
now
.
It
was
a
costly
error
.
And
those
most
guilty
of
it
,
will
pay
the
hardest
price
—
as
,
in
justice
,
they
must
.
Those
most
guilty
of
it
were
the
real
artists
,
who
will
now
see
that
they
are
first
to
be
exterminated
and
that
they
had
prepared
the
triumph
of
their
own
exterminators
by
helping
to
destroy
their
only
protectors
.
For
if
there
is
more
tragic
a
fool
than
the
businessman
who
doesn
’
t
know
that
he
’
s
an
exponent
of
man
’
s
highest
creative
spirit
—
it
’
s
the
artist
who
thinks
that
the
businessman
is
his
enemy
.
"
It
was
true
—
she
thought
,
when
she
walked
through
the
streets
of
the
valley
,
looking
with
a
child
’
s
excitement
at
the
shop
windows
sparkling
in
the
sun
—
that
the
businesses
here
had
the
purposeful
selectiveness
of
art
—
and
that
the
art
—
she
thought
,
when
she
sat
in
the
darkness
of
a
clapboard
concert
hall
,
listening
to
the
controlled
violence
and
the
mathematical
precision
of
Halley
’
s
music
—
had
the
stern
discipline
of
business
.
