“Whatever stirs my breast during such walks, unless it is some unusual human being, I leave to the poet,” replied Hermon.  “I should be satisfied with the Demeter yonder, and you, too, probably, if—­entirely apart from that—­I had only succeeded fully and entirely in making her an individual—­that is, a clearly outlined, distinct personality.  This, you have often told me, is just wherein I am usually most successful.  But here, I admit, I am baffled.  Demeter hovered before me as a kindly dispenser of good gifts, a faithful, loving wife.  Daphne’s head expresses this; but in modelling the body I lost sight of the whole creation.  While, for instance, in my fig-eater, every toe, every scrap of the tattered garments, belongs to the street urchin whom I wished to represent, in the goddess everything came by chance as the model suggested it, and you know that I used several.  Had the Demeter from head to foot resembled Daphne, who has so much in common with our goddess, the statue would have been harmonious, complete, and you would perhaps have been the first to acknowledge it.”

“By no means,” Myrtilus eagerly interrupted.  “What our statues of the gods are we two know best:  a wooden block, covered with gold and sheets of ivory.  But to tens of thousands the statue of the divinity must be much more.  When they raise their hearts, eyes, hands to it in prayer, they must be possessed by the idea of the deity which animated us while creating it, and with which we, as it were, permeated it.  If it shows them only a woman endowed with praiseworthy qualities—­”

“Then,” interrupted Hermon, “the worshipper should thank the sculptor; for is it not more profitable to him to be encouraged by the statue to emulate the human virtues whose successful embodiment it shows him than to strive for the aid of the botchwork of human hands, which possesses as much or as little power as the wood, gold, and ivory that compose it?  If the worshipper does not appeal to the statue, but to the goddess, I fear it will be no less futile.  So I shall consider it no blemish if you see in my Demeter a mortal woman, and no goddess; nay, it reconciles me in some degree to her weaknesses, to which I by no means close my eyes.  I, too—­I confess it—­often feel a great desire to give the power of imagination greater play, and I know the divinities in whom I have lost faith as well as any one; for I, too, was once a child, and few have ever prayed to them more fervently, but with the increasing impulse toward liberty came the perception:  There are no gods, and whoever bows to the power of the immortals makes himself a slave.  So what I banished from life I will also remove from art, and model nothing which might not meet me to-day or to-morrow.”

“Then, as an honest man, abstain altogether from making statues of the gods,” interrupted his friend.

“That was my intention long ago, as you are aware,” the other answered.