The Girl Philippa. Chambers Robert William
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was presently consumed. The charred remnants he ground to dust under his heel as he got up and brushed a spear or two of hay from his clothing.
Then he looked at the Harem, all busily committing felony with brush and colors; and, as he gazed upon them, he politely stifled a yawn.
CHAPTER VII
Warner, conscientious but not hopeful, circulated among the easels of the Harem. Halkett strolled at his heels.
Stopping in front of Alameda Golden's large canvas, which was all splashed with primary and aggressive colors, he gazed, uncomforted, upon what she had wrought there. After a few moments he said very patiently:
"You should not use a larger canvas than I have recommended to the class. Mere size is not necessarily a synonym for distinction, nor does artistic strength depend upon the muscular application of crude paint. A considerable majority of our countrymen comprehend only what is large, gaudy, and garrulous. Bulk and noise only can command their attention. On the other hand, only what is weak, vague, and incoherent appeals to the precious – the incapables and eccentrics among us. But there is a sane and healthy majority: enroll yourself there, Miss Golden!
"Be honest, reticent, and modest. If you have anything to say in paint, say it without self-consciousness, frankly, but not aggressively. Behave on canvas as you would bear yourself in the world at large, with freedom but with dignity, with sincerity governed by that intelligent consideration for truth which permits realism and idealism, both of which are founded upon fact."
Miss Golden pouted:
"But I see haystacks this way!" she insisted. "I see them in large and brilliant impressions. To me nothing looks like what it is. Haystacks appear this way to my eyes!"
"My dear child, then paint them that way. But the popular impression will persist that you have painted the battle of Trafalgar."
Miss Golden wriggled on her camp chair.
"Everything," she explained, "is one monstrous, gaudy, and brutal impression to me. I see a million colors in everything and very little shape to anything. I see only cosmic vigor; and I paint it with a punch. Can't you see all those colors in those haystacks? To me they resemble gigantic explosions of glorious color. And really, Mr. Warner, if I am to be true to myself, I must paint them as I see them."
Warner, horribly discouraged, talked sanely to her for a while, then with a pleasant nod he passed to the next easel, remarking to Halkett under his breath:
"It's a case for a pathologist, not for a painter."
And so for an hour he prowled about among the Harem, ministering to neurotics, inspiring the sluggish, calming despair, gently discouraging self-complacency.
"Always," he said, "we must remain students, because there is no such thing as mastery in any art. If ever we believe we have attained mastery, then our progress ceases; and we do not even remain where we are; we retrograde – and swiftly, too.
"The life work of the so-called 'master' is passed only in solving newer problems. There is no end to the problems, there is an end only to our lives.
"Look at the matter in that way, not as a race toward an attainable goal, nor as an eternally hopeless effort in a treadmill; but as a sane and sure and intelligent progress from one wonder-chamber to a chamber still more wonderful – locked rooms which contain miracles, and which open only when we find the various keys which fit their locks…
"That is all for this morning, young ladies."
He lifted his hat, turned, and strolled away across the meadow, Halkett at his side.
"Some lecture!" he commented with a faint grin.
"It's sound," said Halkett.
"I do the best I can with them. One might suppose I know how to paint, by the way I pitch into those poor girls. Yet, I myself never pick up a brush and face my canvas but terror seizes me, and my own ignorance of all I ought to know scares me almost to death. It's not modesty; I can paint as well as many, better than many. But, oh, the long, long way there is to travel! The stars are very far away, Halkett."
He pitched his easel, secured a canvas, took a freshly-set palette and brushes from his color-box, and, still standing, went rapidly about his business, which was to sketch in an impression of what lay before him.
Halkett, watching him over his shoulder, saw the little river begin to glimmer on the canvas, saw a tender golden light grow and spread, bathing distant hills; saw the pale azure of an arching sky faintly tinting with reflections the delicate green of herbage still powdered with the morning dew.
"This is merely a note," remarked Warner, painting away leisurely but steadily. "Some day I may pose my models somewhere outdoors under similar weather conditions; and you may see dragoons in their saddles, carbines poised, the sunlight enveloping horses and men – or perhaps a line of infantry advancing in open order with shrapnel exploding in their faces… Death in the summer sunshine is the most terrifying of tragedies… I remember once after Lule Burgas – Never mind, I shan't spoil the peaceful beauty of such a morning.
"War? War here! – In this still meadow, bathed in the heavenly fragrance of midsummer! … Well, Halkett, the government of any nation which attacksanother nation is criminal, and all the arguments of church and state and diplomacy cannot change that hellish fact.
"There is only one right in any combat, only one side in any war. And no reasoning under the sun can invest an aggressor with that right.
"He who first draws and strikes forestalls God's verdict."
Halkett said:
"How about your own wars?"
"Halkett, the United States is the only nation which ever entered a war from purely sentimental reasons. It was so in the Revolution; it was so in 1812, in the War of Secession, in Mexico, in the Cuban War.
"All our wars have been undertaken in response to armed aggression; all were begun and carried on in defense of purely sentimental principles. I do not say it because I am a Yankee, but our record is pretty clean, so far, in a world which, since our birth, has accused us of ruthless materialism."
He continued to paint for a while in silence; and when his color notes were sufficiently complete for his purpose, and when the Harem had filed before the canvas and had adoringly inspected it, Warner packed up his kit, and, taking the wet canvas, walked with Halkett back to the Golden Peach.
There Halkett was made acquainted with Madame Arlon, the stout, smiling proprietress of the inn, who sturdily refused to believe that war was possible, and who explained why to Halkett with animation while Warner went indoors to deposit his sketches in his studio.
He returned presently, saying that he would take Halkett to Sister Eila's school across the fields; so the two young men lighted their pipes and strolled away together through the sunshine.
Eastward, far afield, the gay aprons and sunbonnets of the Harem still dotted the distance with flecks of color; beyond, the Récollette glimmered, and beyond that hazy hills rolled away southward toward the Vosges country.
Halkett looked soberly into the misty east.
"It won't come from that direction," he said, half to himself.
Warner glanced up, understood, and sauntered on in silence.
"By the way," remarked the Englishman, "I shall stay here tonight."
"I'm very glad," returned Warner cordially.
"So am I, Warner. Ours is an agreeable – acquaintance."
"It amounts to a little more than that, doesn't it?"
"Yes. It's a friendship, I hope."
"I hope so."
After a moment he added laughingly:
"I've fixed up your bally envelope for you."
"How?"
"Covered it with a thick, glossy layer of Chinese white. I put in a dryer. In a day or two I shall make a pretty little picture on it. And nobody on earth could suspect that embedded under the paint and varnish of my