Never could he find anywhere a more fitting one.

He had devoted himself with passionate love to his art, and even his enemies numbered him among its most promising disciples.  Yet hither to he had not succeeded in obtaining a great and undisputed success.  On the other hand, he had experienced what were termed failures in abundant measure.

The art to which he had gained entrance by so severe a struggle, and on whose soil he had laboured diligently enough, proved, so far as outward recognition was concerned, cruel to the enthusiastic disciple.  Yet even now he would not have abandoned it at any price; the joy of creation compensated him richly for suffering and disappointment.  Confidence in his own powers and the final triumph of his conviction had deserted him only occasionally, and for a few brief hours.

He was born for conflicts.  What ill-success, what antagonism and difficulties he had encountered!  Some day the laurel which had so long adorned the brow of Myrtilus must also grow green for him and the great talent whose possession he felt.  With the Arachne—­he was sure of this—­he would compel even his opponents to accord him the recognition for which hitherto he had striven in vain.

While pacing restlessly up and down the spacious apartment, stopping from time to time before his work to fix his eyes angrily upon it, he thought of his friend’s Demeter, whose head also had Daphne’s features, who also bore in her hand a bundle of wheat, and even in attitude did not differ very widely from his own.  And yet—­eternal gods!—­how thoroughly dissimilar the two were!

In the figure created by Myrtilus, supernatural dignity blended with the utmost womanly charm; in his, a pleasing head rested upon a body in whose formation he had used various models without striving to accomplish anything except to depart as far as possible from established custom, with which he was at variance.

Yet had he not found himself, nevertheless, compelled to follow the old rules?  One arm was raised, the other hung down; the right foot was put forward, the left one back.

Exactly the same as in Myrtilus’s statue, and thousands of other figures of Demeter!

If he could have used the hammer and chisel, the thing might have become more powerful; but how many things he had had to consider in employing the accursed gold and ivory upon which Archias obstinately insisted!

This hammering, chipping, and filing told unfavourably upon his power and his aspiration toward grandeur.

This time the battle seemed to be lost.

It was fortunate that the conqueror was no other than Myrtilus.  Often as he had gone astray in his young life, many as were the errors he had committed, not even the faintest shadow of an envious feeling concerning his friend’s more successful work had ever stained his soul.