Miss Winchester, as Tommy Atkins and a group of his chums went
by--Tommy had winked at her when passing.
“Come, Paul, fall in! Keep step! We’ll take that battery just ahead.”
“Look before you leap!” cried Adele, laughing.
“Oh, that’s only a military mote in your eye,” laughed Miss
Winchester, “soldiers don’t mind a small matter like that----” and
she drew the young people off along the crooked street which led
to the hotel, Convent (headquarters), Park and Alameda beyond,
Professor and Mrs. Cultus following in a carriage. As they looked
upward the Rock frowned upon them from a great height, and O’Hara’s
Tower appeared near as the bird flies, but a fatiguing ascent for
those on foot. At the Signal House flags were fluttering, and with
a glass one could distinguish “wig-wagging” in the direction of the
Mediterranean, possibly to an approaching steamer many miles distant,
on the way from that Far East which they all hoped soon to reach.
Life at “The Gib” not forming an integral part of this narrative,
it is enough to recall that during their stop-over between steamers
they were fortunate in assisting at a battle upon the neutral-ground,
after which they attended a ball at the “Convent.” Our interest
just now is to note how well Mrs. Cultus improved her opportunity,
especially after visiting Tangiers.
When at home Mrs. Cultus was a busy member in several clubs,
all fashionably active in good works. She had a pigeonhole
for each particular style of club letter paper, with headings
artistically engraved. Among them, “Politely Civil Club,” “Amateurs’
Topographical,” “Domestic Relief Association,” “Cat Home,” and “Old
Man’s Depository.” Mrs. Cultus doted on cats and variety in good
works, and was determined to prove all things and hold fast to that
which is good. In a spasm of zeal previous to her departure she had
faithfully promised to report from abroad such of her observations
“obtained by travel on the spot,” as might be interesting in
connection with the club work at home. It goes without saying that
both Gibraltar and Tangiers each proved to be a bonanza to Mrs.
Cultus, and she very wisely determined to get rid of the troublesome
business at once.
“I know I can write something better than that communication about
‘Tobogganing in St. Petersburg,’ and as to the one on ‘Seesawing in
Alaska,’ it was a very trivial production. In civil matters it’s
quite as important to know what not to do as what to do, and I
certainly do see here on ‘The Gib’ many things highly instructive to
Uncle Sam in connection with our new colonies. Now, let me see! Let
me arrange my thoughts before writing them out.
“Why, I feel quite an embarrassment of riches” (she repeated it in
French): “Gibraltar! certainly the most cosmopolitan region we have
yet reached, a perfect conglomeration of diversified interests,
and yet they are not at loggerheads; military, also millinery,
costumes very important; not so much commercial as confidential;
financial, with four kinds of currency; national yet international,
geographically considered; diplomatic, aromatic, and ethical; all
substantial problems working in harmony--not a gun fired to keep the
peace, only for salutes.”
Mrs. Cultus’ finished production proved to be in a style
quite unique, what might be called demi-semi-official or
colloquial-realistic, with “side tags” to inform the Club in what
direction the region might be further “explored.” Of course her full
text became part of the archives of the Society, but her opening and
closing sentences were in this case so brilliant that the world at
large should really have the benefit of their luminosity. No expert
in the modern school of English composition had greater appreciation
than Mrs. Cultus of the real value of an opening sentence to attract
attention in the right direction. What she fired off at the Amateurs’
Topographical thus began:
“We are supposed to be in Europe, en route from America to Asia; as
a matter of fact we are in Africa, just across the way. I write from
the Café Maure, in order to get the flavor of the place.” With her
literary feet thus planted on four continents at once, why, of course
the Club knew precisely where she stood, and obtained a glimpse of
the habits and customs of the population, also of Mrs. Cultus in
particular. Her closing sentence was also a masterpiece, this time
of imagery and charming retrospection, all carefully led up to by a
vivid description of the Zok or market place; introducing a group
of snake-charmers at work charming, fascinating to watch, especially
fascinating when the charmers, accompanied by tom-toms and a sana
(tambourine), appeared to eat the snakes.
“It was diabolical,” wrote Mrs. Cultus; “I fled, and called the
others to escape fascination also. We had enough of the Zok and
snakes. Unfortunately, camels were in our way. I had nothing but my
parasol to keep the beasts off. No doubt they too had been fascinated
by the snakes, for a hubbub arose which completely demoralized the
dromedaries. A camel with both humps up and rear legs in the air
and his front legs helping him to scream is calculated to make one
leave his vicinity unceremoniously. We did, we made our exit--_sans
ceremonie_--as I have the profound honor of now doing at the end of
this report.”
And the Society sent her a note of appreciation later on for the
sincere observation and vivid realism displayed in her graphic
report--_noblesse oblige_.
But in the meantime, while the report was on its way home, Mrs.
Cultus, when thinking it over, seemed not quite sure as to its
effect, in fact rather worried.
“I know,” said she, “that my style embodies that happy medium between
dignity and frivolity which is sure to take at the Club, but, oh,
just suppose somebody has described Tangiers before!”
Miss Winchester overheard this terrible conjecture with the keen
interest of a real member of the literary craft, and naturally came
to the rescue of Mrs. Cultus, who was yet a novice.
“Tangiers!--sung about before? Not more frequently than some other
good songs.”
“What song are you talking about, Frank? I sang no song.”
“‘Thou art like unto a flower, O Tangiers! so pure, so white,’ et
cetera. A Morocco rose by any other name will always smell as sweet.”
“Anyhow, it’s Oriental,” quoth Mrs. Cultus, “and that’s what I’m
after just at present.”
Oriental--yes; they had been fascinated by their first glimpse of the
Orient and its surfeit of varied impressions. From this time forward
Adele was continually looking Eastward with great and increasing
eagerness. The shores of the Mediterranean had yet in store for
her some experiences quite as forcible as those of the Atlantic
mid-ocean, but she knew it not. No doubt this had something to do
with her present mood when they came to leave Gibraltar, and she
stood with Paul and the Doctor upon deck, watching the disappearance
of the Rock.
The steamer took a southerly course when leaving port, heading
for the African shore, then bore off towards the Orient, which
was the real goal of their voyage. When passing Europa Point the
impregnable Rock, with terraced fortifications, loomed up in gigantic
proportions; seen edgewise, its decreased width added to the apparent
height. Lofty and massive, it was indeed a Pillar of Hercules at the
Gateway of the Inland Sea.
The steamer passed into more open waters, the Rock rising higher and
higher, as if determined to assert its majesty, no longer a pillar
but a column of Victory, a strong and mighty outpost of Europe,
an advance guard of that domain which lay behind, a bulwark of
defence, a salient point for attack, a formidable diplomatic menace
to the nomads of Africa--“Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.”
And they sailed onwards, out upon the blue expanse of sea and sky;
the landscape receded from view and different objects sank in turn
beneath the horizon. The graceful curves of the Iberian coast faded
away in the background, the mainland of Europe but a thin line in the
distance; the gateway of the Straits soon followed, and the Atlantic,
highway to America and home, was lost to sight. There was naught left
in what they saw to suggest America.
As the ship sailed on, the sunlight pouring upon the sands of Africa
produced a hazy, luminous, rose-tinted mist o’er the Land of the
Moors, the mountains of Morocco blended away amid the fleecy clouds
in the azure of distance.
And they gazed until the sombre outline of the Rock alone remained,
an isolated dot upon the waters. A fisherman’s craft scudded across
the open, the Rock was hidden behind a sail. A sea gull flitted along
the horizon, the Rock was no larger than a bird. The human eye grew
weak in the effort to retain its whereabouts. Could it yet be seen?
Yes, it is there--a mere speck in space! No, ’tis gone! Gibraltar had
disappeared.
Adele, standing between the Doctor and Paul, clinging to the arms of
her good friends, looked dreamily upon the vacancy. In thoughtful
silence this vivid experience in life had become but a thing of the
past.
XX
THE ARTISTIC SENSE
What is the long and short of it?
Art is long, life is short.
After a short tour through Italy, they had reached the Vesuvian Bay.
As Mrs. Cultus expressed it, “Heretofore we have been visiting lakes
and crypts, ruins and picture galleries, and now at last have met
a volcano. It’s really beautiful, I assure you, quite as artistic
as in pictures, and set in a frame of landscape which I don’t
wonder artists love to paint. I feel just that way myself. Oh, it
is so exquisite with these sloping shores! and in the distance that
beautiful Island of Capri.”
Capri, the haunt of so many emperors in art as well as in government.
Capri, favorite of the imagination, one of the enchanted isles,
legendary locality, with its rustic stone ladder to ascend
heavenward. Capricious Capri, with its grotto in blue, whereas
ordinary mortals would be satisfied with grottoes in green.
Picturesque Capri, with rocky foreground, no middle distance
whatever, and several Paradises in the background. Mythological
Capri, ever under the watchful eye of Minerva of the Promontory.
Sportive Capri, with quails on toast, and woodcocks twice a year.
Historic Capri, famous to the antiquary and modern economist;
infamous, but only in days gone by.
All this appeared very mysterious on the morning that the Doctor
looked from Capo da Monti over the Bay of Naples. The island,
enveloped in light mist, hung, as it were, in mid-air between sea and
sky. Adele and Paul were with him.
“Hazy atmosphere,” remarked the Doctor.
“I see violet tints,” remarked Adele. “I love violets.”
“It looks as if the island had no weight,” said Paul; “it might be
blown away by the wind.”
“One of those atmospheric effects,” continued the Doctor, “which
some artists portray with great success because much is left to the
imagination.”
“Then the other fellow imagines what he likes best; safe, sure plan
that; it just suits me,” said Paul. “All the pictures I had in my
room at college had a ‘go’ in them, and I imagined what was coming.”
“Happy the artist who has the art of suggestion. It is a rare gift;
inborn, I think--the power to make others complete the picture by
reading their own best thoughts into it.”
“Some seem to care very little about what they say,” remarked Adele.
“I never could understand why they paint a woman looking at herself
in a glass; one’s back hair should not be the most conspicuous thing
in the picture; and as to those extraordinary soap-bubble-cherubs,
they don’t appeal to me, no matter how well they are painted.”
“What sort do you like?” asked Paul the innocent.
“Why, dancing, of course--dancing on one’s knee--that’s the place
they would enjoy it most, stretching out their arms in play, not
catching flies. Those fly-catching cherubs are just as bad as the
bubblers.”
“How much you’re like your mother at times,” thought the Doctor while
laughing; then audibly: “You’re right, Adele; art never is very high
unless it reaches for something better than catching flies--fleeting
impressions.”
“Then from your point of view,” said Paul, “the technical part and
the science _per se_ may appeal to the physical and mental only; but
if you want a picture to be thought about afterwards, the subject
must speak to the spiritual sense.”
“Well, rather!” exclaimed the Doctor, now getting somewhat excited;
“and more than that, many a well executed work of art has been
utterly forgotten simply because the subject had better be forgotten.
Some artists have actually killed their pictures before they first
touched brush to canvas.”
Adele appeared to agree to this, but said nothing. Paul was not so
loftily mystical in his appreciation.
“Perhaps they belong to the ‘yellow’ school?”
“And have the jaundice themselves?” quoth the Doctor, warming up;
“perhaps, for a bad subject is apt to have bad influence. No picture
worthy the title of masterpiece endures as such unless it possesses
the spiritual element and excites spiritual perception of the right
kind. In the final analysis, the higher spiritual element is the
salvation of any artistic production. Woe betide the artist who
belittles his art by what might be called aspiration towards the low,
and thinks to justify it by a perfect technique! That is a false
position for a true man; for there is but one art--the Art Divine,
which cannot be debased by unworthy association.”
“Of course you mean Music,” said Paul, smiling. “Now you’re off on
your hobby; every man thinks his own hobby the best--his art divine.
You’re just like ’em all, Doc! Look out! don’t measure everything by
your own pocket-rule.” The Doctor paid no attention.
“In other arts than Music,” said he, “the physical association is so
intimate and permanent that the artist has increased responsibility
in consequence.”
“Then greater achievement when he does succeed,” interrupted Adele.
“Possibly, but not probably,” said the Doctor. “I only referred to
music because it furnishes an ideal standard by which to judge of
the unlimited power (of course divine, if unlimited) which may be
exercised through the artistic sense. For instance, Mozart’s ability
to excite pure spiritual aspirations towards the good and true by
means of the beautiful in melodic phrase, was, and is (for he is
immortal), so great that those who yield themselves to his art are
often led to forget even the debased Don Juan (miserable subject),
and have pure emotions and beautiful visions suggested by the melodic
beauty of the music. One might almost say Mozart’s inspired art
awakens the dormant Angel who sleeps within the nature of every man.
You know what we find stated in Rau’s ‘Tone King’ about him?”
Adele drew close to listen.
“Mozart, when on the border land, when his lovely spirit so melodious
in expression could see upwards even more clearly than around and
about him, said something like this:
“‘All work is divine, and raises man above earth. We all love
earthly things, but there are higher delights than these. I, too,
know something of this higher joy of creating. The faculties God has
given me render me happy; but I feel that these powers within me are
capable of fuller development in eternity. To think that my power of
producing something great and fine could cease just when it begins
to rise to the full consciousness of all that might be accomplished,
would be to doubt the perfection of Divine Wisdom--perhaps my whole
being may be absorbed in one flow of immortal harmony, for the
musical spheres within one cannot perish.’”
After a pause, the Doctor asked, with much feeling:
“I suppose you know what all this means?”
“Tell us,” whispered Adele.
“It means that all true art in this life springs from Love Divine,
and aids in bringing life and immortality to light.”
As the Doctor said this the sound of a simple, plaintive melody came
floating upward toward the crest of the hill on which they stood.
Paul went forward to see whence it came.
“Some peasants in the next field; one is singing, another playing a
pipe, before a shrine.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor; “not the first time that shepherds
abiding in a field have heard music with a spiritual significance.”
“And neither a Mozart nor very fine art,” remarked Paul.
Adele stood musing, then added, in a subdued voice:
“Yes; it is yet bringing Life and Immortality to Light.”
XXI
AN ARTIST WITH DOUBLE VISION
They were again overlooking the Vesuvian Bay, Capri still in the
distance, but more distinct, not unlike a phantom appearing and
disappearing as the mist passed by. The intermediate space was much
clearer, more light, better definition, as photographers say.
“Paul,” began the Doctor, “you remember George Le Roy, the artist we
met at Tarpon Bayou, Florida? He is now at Capri.”
“Good!” exclaimed Paul. “A genius if ever there was one. He takes me
a walk out into the country whenever I look at his pictures.”
“‘Art is his religion,’ so he says,” quoth the Doctor. “His palette
and his Bible tell the same story, or something like that.”
“I can’t tell exactly why I like his pictures,” said Paul, “but I do.”
“His pictures speak,” said the Doctor; “they echo the Mind of Nature,
the Voice, yet he never copies a tree or a cloud. You hear something
said to you, yet not a word spoken. Now, Paul, that’s quite as high a
flight for the artist as one is apt to find in figure painting.”
“Oh, I can’t agree with you there. The human form requires far
greater ability to portray; one must depict action, and emotions,
too--in fact, a better draughtsman is required.”
The Doctor took him up.
“No doubt greater accuracy in detail, correct eye for form, knowledge
of anatomy to make the figure plastic, and intense feeling to give
power to convey to others the idea of emotions; but when it comes to
_exciting emotions_ the landscape artist has a field bountiful with
opportunity for spiritual insight and significance--as a matter of
fact, figures themselves need not be ignored, but made accessory.”
“The world and his wife don’t value landscapes as highly as you
do,” remarked Paul, cogitating. “Who ever sees all that in a
landscape?--why, the average man wouldn’t like it if he did see it.”
This somewhat nettled the Doctor.
“The average man! that pretentious individual who always thinks of
himself as Lord of Creation--let him keep on thinking of his physique
and physical comforts. I enjoy good landscapes for the very reason
that they lift one above all that; they respond to something better,
and that settles it for me. I enjoy having inspiring landscapes
always where I can see them; there are precious few faces of which
I can say the same thing.” Then he added, as if mindful of one in
particular: “Some faces never respond; I take to the woods to get rid
of ’em, as I often leave a portrait for a landscape.”
The Doctor was getting roused. Paul detected it and concluded to
laugh the matter off.
“Why not take your piano with you, Doctor--to the woods?”
“I would if I could. Gottschalk did; and others to-day, like him in
that respect, do seek fresh thoughts and sounds direct from Nature.
Saint-Saëns does; he told me so during some talks we had when out
in far east Ceylon; and he is the most notable living expert in
different forms of musical composition, ranging from complicated
rhythmic conceits to serious harmonies well nigh sublime. As to
Edvard Grieg, I caught him in the very act, entranced by Nature’s
strange moods and melodies amid the waterfalls of his beloved
Norway. And Beethoven! ah! there is the real test! Beethoven’s most
profound utterances are but the unadulterated deep sounds and chords
from Nature, both felt and heard when others thought him deaf. His
experience was in the woods of Austria, and if we do not hear now,
elsewhere, when he yet speaks, we do not really comprehend Beethoven,
how he transmuted into another form that which exists in Nature.
Blessed be his name! for he did it that we, too, might hear. And we
call that Art.”
“Well, there’s one advantage about a piano in the woods,” teased Paul.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll be more comfortable, and possibly less moist than the other
fellow.”
“What other fellow?”
“The one who sat on a wet cloud pecking at a harp--ask Widow Bedot.”
Evidently Paul was trying to escape a serious discussion. Fortunately
for both, Adele came to the rescue. She perceived that men of such
different temperaments could seldom see anything from the same
point of view unless it was the result of a similar or simultaneous
experience, and that with Paul the personality of the artist should
go far to promote a thorough appreciation of his work.
“It strikes me,” said Adele, “neither of you knows all that may be
said on that subject.”
“H’m!” ejaculated the Doctor, looking out of the corner of his eye.
“Or else you’re not thinking about the same thing.”
“Give it up,” laughed Paul. “I was with the Widow on that cloud.”
“Then, isn’t it just possible, a wee bit possible, that a landscape
artist himself, Mr. Le Roy, for instance, should know more about such
things than either of us?”
“All right; we’ll visit him,” said the Doctor; “take a run over to
Capri for the sake of our--artistic health.”
“You mean your credit as a critic,” thought Adele.
* * * * *
The venerable artist, nearly seventy years of age, gave them a
cordial welcome, his sharp eyes sparkling behind his old-fashioned
spectacles; a man of medium height, with evidently no thought to
throw away on mere matter of dress. His light-colored soft hat
covered a mass of touzled hair, with a few streaks of gray; his beard
was sparse on the cheeks and luxuriant on the chin.
The Doctor looked with interest at his thin hands and his hectic
cheeks; then noticed his forcible action as he walked and talked.
Outward signs of a highly nervous, impulsive temperament were very
pronounced.
“He looks more like an impractical, enthusiastic mystic than ever,”
pondered the Doctor; “even more so than when I met him years
ago--no doubt Italy suits him as he ages in spiritual discernment.
He certainly can give very powerful impressions when he paints,
and to all sorts and conditions of men; how remarkable, yet quite
reasonable, that a man so frail as he should produce such effects of
power. I suppose it is the intensity of his visions which makes him
great. I wonder how Paul the practical will size him up?”
The artist was talking to Paul about fresh air and the delightful
life at Capri.
“Then you paint in the open?” asked Paul.
“Well, yes, and no. Of course, one must go out, but not necessarily
far--all is near at hand. The _paysage intime_, as it was called
at Barbizon, is here, too, as we also found it in Florida. There’s
a sort of unity in nature, and in it we live and move and have our
being. It is a vast thing, that unity, but it is close to us also.
The landscape picture may convey a comprehensive impression very
large, out of proportion to its actual subject. Art, you know, is but
part of the universal-plan, and like both science and religion, must
drop into its appropriate place.”
Paul seemed interested, also somewhat amused. “Fresh air certainly
does surround everything, and no doubt there is a universal-plan
in nature; but why mix up art, fresh air and the universal-plan
in that way?” Paul wondered how a fellow who could paint such
practical pictures, so true to life, should talk so vaguely. “He’s
a high-flyer. I like his fresh air and his pictures better than his
queer sentiments.”
Now, what Doctor Wise especially desired to learn was, not what other
people thought of Mr. Le Roy, but how he himself satisfied his own
keen, analytical sense. How Le Roy worked, not in mere allegorical
figure, but, going directly to nature, discovered and conveyed
something worth portraying. For it was well known in art circles that
Le Roy had slowly gathered together his own theories as to nature
and what nature could give him, and of the Immortality of Art. The
conversation, therefore, took that turn.
“Every artist,” said Le Roy, “has his own feeling, and if he develops
it, may be a great artist in his way; yet, the other schools, the
men with other methods and ideas, may not recognize the merit in his
work.”
“Can this matter of feeling be explained in words?” asked Adele.