HARTZ, he was a naturalist and dealer who ran his business affairs in a quiet way, selling minerals, insects or plants to collectors. Entrusted with an errand for him, I had been taking little interest in the precious objects which cluttered his shop when, while chatting to him about the mutual friend who had put us in touch, and mechanically touching an egg-shaped stone which lay within my reach, I dropped it. It split into two almost equal halves, which I hastened to pick up, begging the shopkeeper to forgive my clumsiness. Do not distress yourself, he replied kindly; it was destined to be broken with a blow from a hammer. It is a geode of no great value and, moreover, isn’t everyone curious to see the inside of a geode? I do not know exactly what a geode is, I told him, and I have no desire to know.Why? he asked; are you not an artist?Yes, I try to be; but the critics do not want artists giving the impression that they know anything outside their art, and the public do not like the artist to appear to know any more than they do about anything at all.I think the public, the critic and yourself are all mistaken.
