The Puppies Were Removed, But I Almost Felt
Guilty At Finding Fault With A Dog In This Country.
It is a matter
of constant surprise to me, and it always give me a warm glow in the
region of the heart, to see the supremacy of the dog in England.
He
is respected, admired, loved, and considered, as he deserves to be
everywhere, but as he frequently is not. He is admitted on all
excursions; he is taken into the country for his health; he is a
factor in all the master' plans; in short, the English dog is a
member of the family, in good and regular standing.
My interior surroundings are all charming. My little sitting-room,
out of which I turned Mrs. Bobby, is bright with potted ferns and
flowering plants, and on its walls, besides the photographs of a
large and unusually plain family, I have two works of art which
inspire me anew every time I gaze at them: the first a scriptural
subject, treated by an enthusiastic but inexperienced hand, 'Susanne
dans le Bain, surprise par les Deux Vieillards'; the second, 'The
White Witch of Worcester on her Way to the Stake at High Cross.'
The unfortunate lady in the latter picture is attired in a white
lawn wrapper with angel sleeves, and is followed by an abbess with
prayer-book, and eight surpliced choir-boys with candles. I have
been long enough in England to understand the significance of the
candles. Doubtless the White Witch had paid four shillings a week
for each of them in her prison lodging, and she naturally wished to
burn them to the end.
One has no need, though, of pictures on the walls here, for the
universe seems unrolled at one's very feet. As I look out of my
window the last thing before I go to sleep, I see the lights of
Great Belvern, the dim shadows of the distant cathedral towers, the
quaint priory seven centuries old, and just the outline of Holly
Bush Hill, a sacred seat of magic science when the Druids
investigated the secrets of the stars, and sought, by auspices and
sacrifices, to forecast the future and to penetrate the designs of
the gods.
It makes me feel very new, very undeveloped, to look out of that
window. If I were an Englishwoman, say the fifty-fifth duchess of
something, I could easily glow with pride to think that I was part
and parcel of such antiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land
and titles, but of historic associations. But as I am an American
with a very recent background, I blow out my candle with the feeling
that it is rather grand to be making history for somebody else to
inherit.
Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist.
I am almost too comfortable with Mrs. Bobby. In fact I wished to be
just a little miserable in Belvern, so that I could paint with a
frenzy. Sometimes, when I have been in a state of almost despairing
loneliness and gloom, the colours have glowed on my canvas and the
lines have shaped themselves under my hand independent of my own
volition. Now, tucked away in a corner of my consciousness is the
knowledge that I need never be lonely again unless I choose. When I
yield myself fully to the sweet enchantment of this thought, I feel
myself in the mood to paint sunshine, flowers, and happy children's
faces; yet I am sadly lacking in concentration, all the same. The
fact is, I am no artist in the true sense of the word. My hope
flies ever in front of my best success, and that momentary success
does not deceive me in the very least. I know exactly how much, or
rather how little, I am worth; that I lack the imagination, the
industry, the training, the ambition, to achieve any lasting
results. I have the artistic temperament in so far that it is
impossible for me to work merely for money or popularity, or indeed
for anything less than the desire to express the best that is in me
without fear or favour. It would never occur to me to trade on
present approval and dash off unworthy stuff while I have command of
the market. I am quite above all that, but I am distinctly below
that other mental and spiritual level where art is enough; where
pleasure does not signify; where one shuts oneself up and produces
from sheer necessity; where one is compelled by relentless law;
where sacrifice does not count; where ideas throng the brain and
plead for release in expression; where effort is joy, and the
prospect of doing something enduring lures the soul on to new and
ever new endeavour: so I shall never be rich or famous.
What shall I paint to-day? Shall it be the bit of garden underneath
my window, with the tangle of pinks and roses, and the cabbages
growing appetisingly beside the sweet-williams, the woodbine
climbing over the brown stone wall, the wicket-gate, and the cherry-
tree with its fruit hanging red against the whitewashed cottage?
Ah, if I could only paint it so truly that you could hear the drowsy
hum of the bees among the thyme, and smell the scented hay-meadows
in the distance, and feel that it is midsummer in England! That
would indeed be truth, and that would be art. Shall I paint the
Bobby baby as he stoops to pick the cowslips and the flax, his head
as yellow and his eyes as blue as the flowers themselves; or that
bank opposite the gate, with its gorse bushes in golden bloom, its
mountain-ash hung with scarlet berries, its tufts of harebells
blossoming in the crevices of rock, and the quaint low clock-tower
at the foot? Can I not paint all these in the full glow of summer-
time in my secret heart whenever I open the door a bit and admit its
life-giving warmth and beauty?
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