who denied their power, saw in them at least immortal beings who possess in stainless perfection everything which in mortals is disfigured by errors, weaknesses, and afflictions.  To him they are the intensified, reflected image of our own nature, and I think we can do nothing wiser than to cling to that, because it shows us to what heights of beauty and power, intellect, goodness, and purity we may attain.  To completely deny their existence would hardly be possible even for you, because their persons have found a place in your imagination.  Since this is the case, it can only benefit you to recognise in them magnificent models, by whose means we artists, if we imitate, perfect, and model them, will create works far more sublime and beautiful than anything visible to our senses which we meet here beneath the sun.”

“It is this very superiority in sublimity and beauty which I, and those who pursue the same path with me, oppose,” replied Hermon.  “Nature is sufficient for us.  To take anything from her, mutilates; to add anything, disfigures her.”

“But not,” replied Myrtilus firmly, “when it is done only in a special sense, and within the limits of Nature, to which the gods also belong.  The final task of art, fiercely as you and your few followers contend against it, lies in the disentanglement, enhancing, and ennobling of Nature.  You, too, ought not to overlook it when you undertake to model a Demeter; for she is a goddess, no mortal like yourself.  The rest or I ought rather to say the alteration which converts the mortal woman into the immortal one, the goddess—­I miss, and with special regret, because you do not even deem it worth consideration.”

“That I shall never do,” retorted Hermon irritably, “so long as it is a changing chimera which presents itself differently to every mind.”

“Yet, should it really be a chimera, it is at any rate a sublime one,” Myrtilus protested, “and whoever among us artists wanders through Nature with open eyes and heart, and then examines his own soul, will find it worth while to attempt to give his ideal form.”

“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.”