THE ARTIST
It was one afternoon early in March that Elizabeth started out to look
for pussywillows. She went alone, for she wanted to be the one to make
this first spring offering to her teacher. She could not, like Betsy,
supply her with flowers from a conservatory, nor had she such a weekly
allowance as Bess, who could, once in awhile, commission Hal to send
violets from town, but these firstlings of the year were hers for the
gathering, if only she could find them. She thought she knew a place
where some of the brave little furry buds might have put out sooner
than their neighbors and to this spot she took her way.
It was the first day which had suggested a promise of spring. There was
a pleasant warmth in the air, a smell of fresh earth. Under the brown
leaves were tiny green growths beginning to push up.
Some patches of snow still lingered in northbound corners, but the
little streams had broken from their bonds and were murmuring along
singing of all sorts of pleasant things to Elizabeth, who had a
knowledge of their speech and could interpret what they were saying.
It was all about spring and green grasses, birds’ nests and flowers.
The ground was soft in places, but, for a wonder, Elizabeth had put on
rubbers and sprang over the marshy spots without getting over the tops
of her shoes. She loved to scour the woods and fields with Betsy, but
once in awhile she revelled in being alone, and today she especially
enjoyed it. She stood still once or twice to listen to a bluebird and
by keeping very quiet at last caught sight of the flash of blue which
told of his presence.
“I see you,” she called as he flew away, “and I know what you are
singing about. I know what the brook says, too. It is a spring song,
and I am so glad, so glad. I am happy, you bluebird! I am happy, you
brook,” she sang. “It’s a gladsome day in this quiet nook! That is my
song. I made it up. I am an improvisatrice. Oh!”
After the exclamation she stopped her song and dashed through the
bushes, regardless of how briars snatched at her and muddy pools
splashed her frock. “There you are! you dear things,” she cried. “I
thought I would find you out. I will not take all of you, but I will
take enough to make a company so you will not be lonely. I hope you
like to go, and maybe you will like it better when you get there, for
the schoolroom is really very pleasant, and you will have the honor of
standing on Miss Jewett’s desk; that should compensiation for all else.
You are not so very far out yet, but if you are put in water in the
warm room you will soon show more fur. I know just the vase Miss Jewett
will put you in, and you will look lovely. You are the very first, the
very first, and I found you.”
She chattered away as she broke off the twigs, finally saying, “There,
I think that is enough. I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Pussywillow, for
letting me take some of your pretty buds. I will come to see you again
some day.” Then she climbed up the slope stretching down to the brook,
looking from time to time with much satisfaction at the little gray
fuzzy buds.
When she reached the top of the hill she paused for a moment that
she might determine upon the best way, and then started to cross the
field diagonally. Just before she reached the corner of the fence she
stopped short, surprised to see before her a young man sitting on a
camp-stool with a black box in his lap. Elizabeth was curious to know
what he could be doing, and began to move slowly nearer to him until
she came within his line of vision.
The young man looked over the top of his box at her. “Good-evening,
Aurora,” he said.
Supposing that he mistook her for someone else, Elizabeth made reply:
“My name isn’t Aurora.”
“It isn’t? I should have thought it was. Then you are a woodland elf
and live down in those woods that you have just come from. It was just
a case of mistaken identity; that was all. Good-evening, Elfie.”
Elizabeth smiled. This was certainly a very unusual young man. Some
persons might have said he was crazy, but Elizabeth recognized a
kindred spirit. “Good-evening,” she said, encouraged to draw a little
nearer that she might see what he was really doing.
But before she reached him the young man arose, set his box on the
stool and stood off at a few paces, squinting at it with half-closed
eyes. Then he made a sudden dash forward, made a dab at the lid of the
box and returned to the place he had been standing. “Come here,” he
said, “and tell me what you think of it.”
Elizabeth obeyed the invitation with alacrity and saw that the young
man held a palette and brushes and that in the top of his box was
fastened a small canvas upon which he had been working. All these
things were quite new to Elizabeth. She was familiar with her sister’s
box of water-colors, but this paraphernalia was strange. She reached
the young man’s side and looked at the canvas with pleased eyes. “Why,
it is a picture,” she said.
“You don’t say so,” returned the young man. “Is it really?”
“What else could it be?” said Elizabeth, a little puzzled.
“Oh, it might be a chart of the county or a section of a map, or almost
anything. It might be something like this.” He picked up a clean canvas
from the pile on the ground and began to draw swiftly with a stump of
charcoal. “This might be the main road,” he said, “and these the branch
roads and these the houses.” He rubbed his drawing in two or three
places and then turned the canvas so Elizabeth could see.
“Why, it looks just like a bunch of pussywillows,” she exclaimed in
surprise.
“Does it? How funny. Can’t you see the main road, and the little roads?
Those round spots are the houses.” He looked down with a smile, and
Elizabeth understood that he had really meant it to be a branch of
pussywillows, the buds being the houses.
She gave him an answering smile. “But the other is a truly picture,”
she said; “this is an enigmatrical one.”
“Lovely,” cried the young man, laughing. “I like that word
‘enigmatrical,’ and I shall take it into my vocabulary.” He looked down
at Elizabeth again with a broad smile. “By the way,” he said, “did you
ever hear of Titian?”
Elizabeth was doubtful. The name sounded familiar and yet she thought
best not to display any knowledge lest she might make a mistake. “I
think I have heard of him,” she said. “Who is he?”
“A painter.”
“Oh, are you he?” She thought he might very well be and that this was
his way of informing her.
“Ye gods and little fishes!” cried the young man. “Listen to her. Do I
look as if I were over three hundred years old?” he asked.
“Oh,”--Elizabeth was quite abashed. “I didn’t remember that he was so
old.”
“He lived over three hundred years ago,” continued the young man, “but
if he were here now he would probably say to you, ‘My dear demoselle,
will you oblige me by taking off your cap and sitting over there
where the sun can shine on your lovely head?’ Only he would say it in
Italian, for he probably couldn’t speak English.”
Elizabeth pulled down the rim of her cap closer over her curling locks.
She was afraid the young man was making fun of her.
“What are you doing that for?” asked the artist. “Don’t you like your
hair?”
“I hate it,” said Elizabeth in low, tense tones. “I should like to dye
it black or brown or even green.”
“Oh no, not green; you wouldn’t really rather have it green. It would
make you so conspicuous.”
“Yes, even green. Nobody likes red hair. My family and my friends try
to comfort me by saying it is auburn, but I know, myself, that it is
red, for the people that don’t like me always say so.”
“Then it is because they are mean and jealous. The great Titian adored
hair the color of yours and painted lovely females with just such many,
many times.”
“Did he really?” Elizabeth said in delighted surprise. “I wish I could
see some of them.”
“Perhaps you will some day. I have a copy of one. I wish I had it here
to convince you. I did it when I was abroad and they say it is a pretty
good copy, Elfie, if I do say it as shouldn’t.”
“I would give anything to see it,” declared Elizabeth, “and I wish
Corinne Barker could see it, too.”
“Why, Corinne?” inquired the artist, beginning to pack up his paints
and brushes.
“Oh, because she is so--so--snippy and hateful. She makes fun of my
hair whenever she can, and tries to make everyone think I am a sight.”
She did not know why she was disposed to be so confidential with this
perfect stranger, but somehow he invited confidence.
“Then no doubt she is consumed with jealousy,” her new friend
remarked. “I will venture to say that she has dull, mouse-colored hair
herself, dry, wispy hair that hangs down in little strings around her
face and never looks tidy. I will bet you that I can make a portrait of
her without seeing her.” He picked up the canvas on which he had drawn
the pussywillows, dusted off the charcoal and began sketching rapidly.
“There,” he said, when he had worked for a very few minutes, “doesn’t
that look just like her?” He showed Elizabeth the drawing he had made.
It was a face with a most disagreeable and contemptuous expression.
Little strings of hair fell over the forehead and the eyebrows were
lifted in disdain.
Elizabeth did not like to say that it was not an exact likeness,
but she laughed at the funny drawing and said, “She has just that
supercillious expression.”
The young man put down the canvas and looked at Elizabeth gravely.
“Those attacks are entirely too frequent for a young person of your
size,” he said. “Where do you go to school?”
“I go to the village school, but next year I expect to go to the
Academy.”
“Will you tell your teacher for me that you have the most remarkable
vocabulary and that you are a credit to her system. I suppose you live
near here, Elfie?”
“Yes, I live in the brown house just at the edge of the town.”
“I don’t know the place very well. I came over today from Ferny with
one Hiram Sollers. He said it was ‘pretty sightly to Brookdale.’” The
imitation of the old farmer’s dialect was perfect and Elizabeth laughed.
“I have come to the conclusion that Hiram was right,” continued the
artist. “I believe I would like to knock about here for awhile. I
should like mightily to paint you, Elfie.”
“Me? What for?” Elizabeth showed her surprise.
“Dear innocent, because I feel the mantle of Titian falling upon
my shoulders, I suppose. I can’t imagine any other reason. I might
stick a suggestion of you in this picture I am starting; you and your
pussywillows would come in nicely. Suppose you go over there for a
minute, just there where the sun is shining. I won’t keep you long.
Oh dear, you must take off your cap. I don’t want the glory of that
auroral halo to be lost. That’s it. Now look this way for a minute.
Good! Hold the bunch of pussies in your arms this way. That’s it.” He
worked away earnestly and rapidly for several minutes. The time seemed
very long to Elizabeth, although she was buoyed up by the excitement
of going through such an unusual experience. At last she shifted her
position, becoming more and more restless, and wondering how much
longer she would have to stand.
“There, time’s up,” said the young man at last. “You did pretty well.
It’s no fun to be a model, I know. How would you like to be at it all
day? Some persons earn their living that way you know.”
Elizabeth thought it must be a very tiresome way of making one’s living
and was glad she did not have to do it. She came back to see what the
artist had made of her, and was rather disappointed to see a few daubs
which did not represent a true likeness of Elizabeth Hollins, she
thought.
“If you stand off a little it will look more like,” suggested her
friend.
Elizabeth went off a short distance and, to her surprise, found that
there was a distinct image of a little girl with shining hair standing
in the background of the picture. “Why, that does look like me,” she
exclaimed.
“You didn’t think it possible, did you, Elfie? Well, we all have to
learn. I will try to finish this up tomorrow. Shall we walk your way?
You can show me where you live and then I will go on to the Mansion
House. I cannot say that I would be overcome with joy if I had to think
of staying there long, but it is the best there is, I am told.”
“It is rather smelly,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “I shouldn’t like to
live there myself.”
“Smelly, my dear Elfie? I am surprised. Why not malodorous or mephitic,
or some such adjective. One who follows the style of the respected Dr.
Johnson should not use such a very ordinary word as smelly. Now, if I
said smelly, it would be all right, for I do not aim at anything but
extreme simplicity in speech as in other things.”
Elizabeth felt that he was making fun of her, but he did it so
good-naturedly that she could not take offence, so she only laughed and
they walked on, the artist carrying his box in one hand and a lot of
wet brushes in the other. Elizabeth wondered why he did not put the
brushes in the box.
As if reading her thoughts, the young man said: “If I don’t carry my
brushes in this way I may forget to wash them; I sometimes do and then
don’t I have a time to get them clean? By the way, Elfie, I have not
properly introduced myself.” He picked up a shining brown leaf from the
ground, selected a brush which still held some red paint, and with it
wrote on the leaf which he handed gravely to Elizabeth.
She took it gingerly so as not to rub off the paint. What a delightful
man he was, to be sure, and how unlike any other person she had met.
She looked earnestly at what he had written. It was: “Oliver Kemp, a
reincarnation of Titian.” Elizabeth had not the slightest idea what
reincarnation meant, and she looked up questioningly to see laughter
in the young man’s eyes, so she knew it was a sort of joke, but she
determined to keep the leaf as a treasure. She held it very carefully
by the stem, carrying her pussywillows in the other hand. “You don’t
know my name,” she said presently.
“Oh, yes, I do: it is Elfie.”
“You have the first two letters right,” said Elizabeth gayly.
“That is quite enough; I needn’t try for any more. It is a great
satisfaction to get things partly right: I don’t always do it, I know,”
he added, partly to himself.
They had reached the long street by this time and Mr. Kemp stood still
and looked up and down, toward the church spire, the white, brown or
red houses, the rows of trees each side the street in one direction
and, in the other, hills, forests and winding road. “Do you know,
Elfie,” he said, “I like this village of yours and I should like to
stay here for awhile. Do you know of any place like a chicken-coop or
a wood-house or any little cubby where I could keep my stool and easel
and where I could paint when it was too cold or too stormy to go out?”
“A chicken-coop wouldn’t be big enough,” returned Elizabeth in all
gravity, “but maybe a hen-house would do. I don’t exactly think of any
just now, but maybe I could hear of something.”
“That’s a good child; I wish you would. I will come up tomorrow and
find out. You live,--let me see, where is it you live?”
“In that brown house off there at the end of the street,”--Elizabeth
pointed it out to him.
“Of course; I might have known it would be brown, like a tree. I
suppose you go in there only when it is very cold or stormy and stay in
the woods the rest of the time; elves always do, you know.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I do like to stay out as much as I can,” she made
answer, “but I love the woods and the fields better in warm weather
than in cold.”
“And have you a hollow stump where you stay sometimes?”
“Yes, I really have one; it is in the little hollow behind the house; I
call it the Fairy Dell.”
“Of course you do; I could have vouched for that.”
“There is another place,”--Elizabeth felt encouraged to go on,--“It is
on top of the hill; there are great bowlders there and the witches come
there at midnight.”
“How truly fascinating. You must show me the spot some day.”
“But,” Elizabeth went on, “I have a lovely place in the attic all my
own; it is under the eaves and there is a nice window there that looks
out over the country. Sometimes I make believe that it is a window
high up in a moated castle tower and sometimes I pretend it is a really
fairy lodge in the tree-tops.”
“Bless you, Elfie; you are a creature after my own heart. I will go to
the gate with you and you can show me the window.”
Elizabeth readily agreed and when they had reached the brown house she
pointed out the little window in the pointed gable, a wistaria vine
clambered to it and would soon be ready to put out its first leaves.
“It looks exactly as I thought it must,” declared Mr. Kemp. “I am
coming to see you tomorrow, Elfie. I suppose it must be after school is
out.”
“Oh yes, for I shall not be at home till then,” returned Elizabeth
soberly.
He put down his box to shake hands while she laid aside her
pussywillows. Then they parted and Elizabeth, brimming over with
excitement, hurried into the house.