Yes-and Munich as well. But you beat me by London. Are there many pictures there?" Maurice noticed the direction of her look with an anxiety which he would not have "A great many. But I envy you Italy." confessed even to himself, and it was with a "You will go there some day, I suppose?" feeling of unconscious disappointment that "I hope so, most devoutly. But do you she made no remark on what she saw, but not care for Art- for painting, I mean?" entered at once on the business upon which Perhaps the unexpected failure of Moreau she had come. Before she left him, how-rankled in him a little. ever, he was determined to sound her upon "Not care for them? Why do you ask the subject of his picture-not that he that?" doubted the favourable nature of her opinion, "You said they do not remain in your but that, like all artists and he certainly memory. Now that I rather look on as a did not differ from his brethren in this re- test." spect his soul longed for the encouragement of praise, especially as he felt sure that hers would not be unappreciative. He therefore said: "I am glad that you have at last visited my magnificent atelier. I wish, though, I had something better to show you. You see even this is unfinished." "I daresay you are right," she answered "and yet I am not sure. The fact is, that when I leave a gallery I generally remember one picture and no more; and the more I look at, the less I can remember of the others and the more of the one. You know the Louvre ?" 66 'Well." 66 66 יי ? Our Blessed Lady." You mean the great Murillo, no doubt I have known it affect others in the same But do you remember no more?" That, and an angel." She looked well at the great historical 'Well, then-out of all the pictures picture of the dying Marshal, but said noth-there-I believe I saw them all with my ing. Something in her expression reminded father-I only remember one." Maurice-strangely enough-of Tibald; "And that is and the fancy made him smile. In point of fact, she wanted to find something to say, but could not. Who among those who frequent the studios has not felt so a thousand times? And who among artists has not felt the chill that follows that unwilling silence on the part of some valued visitor? Not painters only, but musicians and poets also know it well- and their friends even better than they. Antonia was certainly anything but a gushing person - she had no flattery at the end of her tongue. "I see," she said at last. "Will it be long before it is quite finished? I never like to say what I think before the end." "You are right in that. Processes should always be kept concealed." “Besides, I am a bad judge of pictures," said Antonia. "I doubt that, very much." way. "I guess which you mean." "And then in Florence I remember again Our Blessed Lady, and here. 66 What is it you know best here?" "Our Lady again- but the most beautiful of all." "I suppose you mean the San Sisto?" "But do you not remember my favourite "The picture where Mary is bending over the cradle. Do you not remember it by the wonderful light streaming upon the mother's face from the glory of her child?" "I remember! It is beautiful indeed. "But I am, indeed. At least I always But the other-I know it by heart." differ from everybody." "So do all good judges." "But I mean from good judges." "For instance?" "It is indeed a great picture. But, "It is very heretical, but I confess it." "There― did I not tell you I am a bad judge?" But in this it is I, not you, who differ from the good judges." "But you are a painter." "We are both artists. Art is One. But what do you say, Antonia? Let us see the two pictures together, and decide the question." "I shall always love the San Sisto best -but I love the other, too." "Shall we go, however?" "You see that the iron of work is more and more entering into my soul — what I used to call legitimate work, I mean, and not my own picture. I wish, though, you could see the latter still. I don't know what to say of it. I am sorry I chose such a subject, but I suppose I had better get it done. It was very wrong of me to go in for a battle-piece, with red coats, and so on. But still I had an idea, and should like you to help me to make it out. 66 You know my love of speculating about other people. Well, my attempt to set the maestro before you has set me thinking about many things. This is the result, if you care to have it, so far as he is concerned. It is my attempt to solve what used to appear to me the intensely prosaic nature of the man. Antonia consented with joy, and the visit to the gallery which ensued was by no means the last. It soon became even a matter of course that whenever Maurice had time and opportunity at his disposal, he spent it in company with the Italian girl at the gallery in the Neu-Markt. Her enthusiasm was at first intensely uncultivated; but she had, even at the beginning, and in a much higher degree than her more skilled companion, the faculty of going straight to the soul of a picture, and her free and impulsive criticism, though often really wrong, often threw upon the subjects which it touched a light which he could never otherwise have gained during the study of a lifetime. He often rightly differed from her, but her remarks, even when wildly wrong, were suggestive, and opened out to him new regions of idea and new lines of criticism. Her method of studying a picture was illustrative of her nature. She would stand before some painting, selected, Heaven alone knew why-often really from caprice, and very often apparently so—and wait before it in silence until she had established between it and herself a strange kind of sympathy. When in this state she was sometimes physically affected, in the same way as many persons are by music. The tears would come into her eyes, and she became unconscious for a time of the things and people around her- of time and placeof all save the cause of her excitement. Her living human soul entered the dead canvas, and, as it were, raised it from the dead. As is almost always the case, her excitement became contagious, and Maurice himself could not help sometimes coming under its influence, and the oftener as time went on. When the rapport between herself and a painting was once established, it was easily renewed; and on entering the gallery afterwards, she was drawn at once to some painting which had acquired this sort of fascination over her. But, in time, the skill and knowledge of "I imagine to myself, then, a nature full Maurice educated her as much as her of impulse and passion that cannot be enthusiasm had opened a new world to suppressed, denied its proper outlet, and him, so that at last they nearly met half- the conventional idea of the enthusiast is "Men of large natures, and women too, cannot use the small language of the world. The highest language of the world is inadequate for the expression of any but small ideas. Thus those who have large ideas must necessarily give up, as utterly vain, any attempt to talk them. They very soon find that it is utterly impossible. All superlatives and conventionally poetical expressions are thus quite meaningless, except when used to express the highest flight to which small minds can reach. A schoolgirl is quite justified in going into ecstasies of words, but how should the enthusiasm of a Tibald find vent? Not even the highest poetry can exactly express that form of enthusiasm which finds its true outlet in form and colour. How tame, to a very great painter, must appear any attempt to describe in words what can only be expressed by the hand! "I believe this to be the reason why the talk of painters, like that of musicians, is generally confined to technicalities, about which they can talk, and of money, of which genius is as greedy as it is profuseand why they, as a rule, believe only in small poetry, which only attempts to express small ideas. the result. It would be always trying to pour itself into all sorts of channels. would be talking for ever, and incapable of doing anything. But, let it once find its right course, and it would flow on calmly and silently, doing great things, though bearing a smiling and perhaps even stupid front to the world. The enthusiasm would be there, but fully developed—it would have turned to energy. "It is the most terrible thing that can happen to a man or woman to be denied, or not to be able to find, the proper outlet. And yet, I fear, it happens daily. This rather commonplace truth has come home to me of late with a new force, and as if it were a discovery of my own. I suppose you will say you knew it all long ago. I should have said I knew it too-but I should have been wrong." CHAPTER VI. May 2.—I have been just eleven months in Dresden to-day, and cannot help feeling that I have made good progress in the time. Certainly in many ways I am very different as a painter from what I was a year ago. I shall deserve to be able to get my bread, I hope and believe; but shall I ever be able to do anything really great? Shall I ever be able to carry out in truth one single idea? I am not, however, altogether without encouragement. Tibald has certainly noticed me very favourably of late, and clearly takes an interest in me. He no longer contents himself with "So!" and "Hm!" - he really goes out of his road to give me advice. But independently of Tibaldthough it is no doubt owing to him- I certainly feel my ideas about all artistic matters considerably enlarged and expanded. For one thing, I begin to see clearly-what I have never properly understood till lately that Art, to be worth anything, must be its own end. Of course I have said so a hundred thousand times, but I believed and said it only in the way that a man believes and says that he is mortal; he would not dream of denying the assertion, of course, and would laugh at the absurdity of any one who might be so daring as to do so but the truth of it, I see now, was never part of myself. I really do not seem to be the same person who began to paint that absurd daub of "The Death of Moreau." How strange is a sudden waking up like this! I can almost date the moment of it. There is only one thing about which I do not feel quite at ease. I have the same old desire still to paint picture now, and at once. I know that Tibald would say, "Nonot yet," but I must let myself out somehow. Perpetual and unvaried taking in is very right, no doubt, but it restrains one's energy rather too much. I really must do something, as well as learn. I shall not attempt anything very immense, though, this time. May 7. What a strange girl Antonia is! And yet, somehow, I understand her, though I should certainly be unable to give any idea of her character to any one else. Suppose I was writing to Lawson, for instance, and wanted to give him my impression of her, what in the world could I say? Very enthusiastic—yes, but so are a million women. Good natural talent for Art so have a million more. Very uncultivated-well, how few women are not! So that won't do. I should only have described a woman very little above the average, and not really like Antonia at all. Perhaps I could get at it by means of cataloguing her peculiarities. For instance, she is the only enthusiastic woman I ever came across who is silent- from which I should infer that her enthusiasm is real. She is the only clever woman I ever saw who is not always saying clever things- so I infer some other obscure virtue in her; and the only uncultivated woman who does or does not something or other quite as much to the point; and so on. Well, it isn't worth the trying, for I certainly don't want to describe her to anybody, and I need not try to explain to myself why I think I understand her. I wish, though, I could help her to cultivate her own special talent-music. I believe that she would do on the stage. She has all the qualities, and is a born Italian as well, which is a piece of good fortune that ought not to be wasted. Well, I must try and make a little money-I should rather like to play the art patron to some one who would do me justice. The worst of it is that she ought not to be wasting all this time if she is ever really to do anything. By the way, a good idea! There is one thing I can do - I will hire a piano, and she shall use it as much as she likes or, better, it shall stand in their room. I shall ask them to take care a favour, for I certainly have here, and my work will not that would never do. I of it for me as no room for it be disturbed May 29. almost wish to Heaven that I had never thought of the piano, or else that the lady would let it alone sometimes - say for half an hour or so once a-week. Perhaps, however, when the summer is really here, I shall have a little less of it. If she is at all like me she will find Art go a little to the dogs when Nature has it all her own way again-especially when Art And now let me see what I have done calls to work and Nature to idleness. I to-day. I should like Antonia to see it also, wonder what Lawson is doing- I have not though - to judge how far I have succeeded heard from him for an age. But then, on in working out that idea of hers. I will the other hand, I have not written to him get her to look at it to-morrow, when it will -and what is the advantage of friendship be in a better state, and make her give me if it cannot exist without correspondence? her opinion. That is the feminine idea - but then feminine friendship, I take it, is a very queer thing. Well, if I mean to enjoy myself a little when the summer comes, I must work all the better now. Certainly I have a very good example, if not always before my eyes, yet always in my ears. What a glorious voice it is! I must manage to get acquainted with somebody or other who may be able to do something for it—it is infinitely too good to be lost in the chorus, and the uncle and aunt seem a couple of imbeciles. If I could but get that splendid voice of hers only half a mile away from myself, what a relief it would be to me! Perhaps I might manage to do something with this picture of mine in that case. Certainly we painters stand at a great disadvantage with respect to musicians. We can't annoy them with our practising, but they can drive us to desperation with theirs. I must find out some method of June 16.Summer is come again, and I have wasted its first real day by-working. I am ashamed of myself, but the fact remains. I had made such good intentions only last night. I was not to do a stroke of work, but to walk by myself to my old place on the Leipzig road. What an age it is since I was there last! There I was to drink a bottle of Rüdesheimer, and then do whatever I might feel inclined, except go back to the town. What demon put it into my head to give just one touch to my confounded canvas? Alas! I yielded to temptation the touch multiplied itself and here I am still, with my head one whirl of scales. Could I not even have bought the cotton wool? I must write to Lawson soon -one day next week, perhaps. And yet, perhaps, I had better wait till I hear from him. I don't even know whether he is in Rome or not; and, if he did not get my letter there, I don't suppose he would get it at all. What shall I do with myself this evening? I have been keeping myself so close lately that I am beginning to lose all my acquaintance. I could go to Emil's, certainly but, ten to one, he will be at the theatre, and I am getting tired of that eternal method of killing time. I might take a stroll on the Terrace - I should be sure to meet some one I knew-but no, I think I will stay at home, after all. In that case, I may as well fill my meerschaum. Confound it! I left it last night at Salvi's. Well, then, there is no help for it - I must go over and get it. That will have one good effect at least it may stop the piano for a time. June 27.-I thought yesterday that my new picture was really getting on; but on looking at it this morning I am disgusted. I think I shall give it up. I never felt before such a sickening sense of imperfection. The worst is, that I cannot see how I am going wrong. I have already stood before the canvas for two hours at least, and can find nothing to alter, except- the whole thing, which I might therefore just as well cut to pieces at once. It is so frightfully dead-a mere copy of a possible combination of natural forms and nothing more. In the hands of a great master a touch or two would put into it the life-giving soul-but that is just what I despair of doing. If I could only let out into it something of what I received from that Titian we studied yesterday, I should be content. If I cannot create, surely I might hope to reproduce. But this is neither creation nor reproduction, nor can be. I may as well dismiss all hope, if this is the best I can do. There are enough mere copyists in the world without me. Antonia?-I never heard you come in." "You were at work? Do I disturb you? I only came to ask-but how pale and sad you look! Are you not well?" 66 Oh, it is nothing. I am only disgusted." "What has happened?" "Look at this." |