now seventy years of age, and the whole study of my life has been
to find out what it is that is in myself--what is this thing we
call Life--and how does it operate. The idea has become clearer and
clearer; and as we see that the Creator never makes any two things
alike, nor any two men alike, therefore every man has a different
impression of what he sees, and that impression constitutes feeling,
so every man has a different feeling.”
The Doctor’s face lighted up as he eagerly drank in these words. Here
was the “unlimited,” the very thing he had heard so much about--the
unlimited with a vengeance. He knew that varied mentality and
temperament among musicians who were artists often produced discord,
but here was a successful artist of ripest maturity who insisted that
no two artists were ever alike--all received different impressions,
all had different feelings. Evidently everything or anything
might be expected from an artist. “Hurrah for the typical artistic
capacity and temperament; feelings of endless variety and scope,
hence unlimited.” Such was the Doctor’s interpretation--the way it
impressed him.
Le Roy continued:
“As to sitting at the feet of nature for inspiration, that came to my
mind in the beginning of my career. I went instinctively to her, and
drawn by a sympathetic feeling, I put something on canvas. It was not
always a correct portrayal of the scene, but only something more or
less like what I had in mind. Other artists and certain Philistines
would see it and exclaim, “Yes! there is a certain charm about it.
Did you paint it outside?--because if you did, you could not have
seen this, that and the other.”
“Of course I could not deny it, and thought I ought to improve
my method. Being young, I then took it for granted that we saw
physically, and with the physical eye only. What I had to learn was
that a true artist has two sets of eyes: the one physical, the other
spiritual.”
Adele began to be uneasy lest the Doctor should at once claim three
pairs of eyes, physical, mental, and spiritual, one of his own
theories about such things, so she appealed to the artist as quickly
as possible.
“What did you do about it, Mr. Le Roy?”
“At first I tried to paint what I thought I saw, calling memory to
supply the missing details.”
“And the result?”
“The picture had no charm whatever; there was nothing beautiful about
it. I asked myself why it is that when I try to do my duty and paint
faithfully I achieve so little, but when I care little for so-called
faithful duty and accuracy I get something more or less admirable.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Doctor, “I presume the first pair of eyes is
always imitative, that is to say, photographic, and copies; the
second, artistic or spiritual--but how about the third pair, the
intermediate?”
“Whose?” asked Le Roy.
“The highly intellectual critic’s, self-constituted.”
“Oh, the critic! He always sees more than I do,” laughed Le Roy. “Let
him pass; what I wish to tell you is this:
“Little by little I began to find out that my feeling was governed by
a principle, and I needed to find out the law under which it would
act--the law of the unit, that is, of impression; although I did not
then understand it as such.”
Paul thought this a rather big undertaking, to discover any law which
would apply to all feelings, no two alike. Le Roy continued:
“Landscape is a constant repetition of the same thing under different
forms and in a different feeling. When we go outdoors our minds are
underloaded in some, overloaded in others--we don’t know where to
go to work. We can only achieve something if we have an ambition so
powerful as to forget ourselves and grasp whatever nature may give
from any source; that is to say, one must be up in the science of his
art. To be able to draw what you feel, you must first of all be able
to draw what you see. There can be no true color without true form.
In other words, to create an impression you must have both knowledge
and technique to do so.”
This statement pleased the Doctor immensely, a clear recognition of
the great philosophic truth that in the nature of things science
and art are both essential under the law of impression in order to
produce the best work. Now, what could the artist say about the
higher spiritual element?
The reply came: “If a man could be as God when he is painting outside
(perfection, thought the Doctor), then it would be easy enough; but,
as he cannot, he must fall back on science. It is not possible for us
to establish a measuring point in art--not in a broad, general sense.
Even the early masters of the Renaissance were not always perfect in
technique; they sought sympathy, not applause; and their results
will always remain pre-eminent and authoritative in the domain of
impression.” Le Roy seemed strong in his convictions about this, and
followed up his thoughts with a still more comprehensive statement:
“The worst of it is that all thinkers are apt to become dogmatic, and
every dogma fails because it does not give us the other side.”
“Then it restricts the truth to one point of view?” inquired the
Doctor.
“Yes--and the same applies to all things, to religion as well as to
art. A man who thinks must find a third element besides the science
of his art for his standpoint of reason. There is a Trinity operative
in regard to this.”
All the party now strained every nerve to catch the words as they
fell from the great artist’s lips.
“At one time I took up the science of geometry because I
considered it the only abstract truth; the diversion of the arc of
consciousness, and so on. No one can conceive the mental struggles
and torments I endured before I could master the whole thing. I knew
the principle was true, but in practice it seemed contradictory. I
had constantly to violate my principles to get in my feeling.”
“Purely intellectual effort,” thought the Doctor, “must ever fail, in
the very nature of things.” Le Roy continued:
“I used this mathematical mode of thought as my third, together with
natural science and the art, to form the stable tripod-standpoint of
reason. I found it enabled me to keep the understanding under perfect
control, except----”
“Except when?” interrupted the Doctor, nervously. “Was not pure
mathematics always invariably sufficient to attain stability and
confidence?”
“Except when I overworked myself, then I was mentally tired, _my
spirit not satisfied_--I got wobbly, like any one else.”
“Now what do you do?” asked Adele, in thorough sympathy, her lovely
black eyes, full of intelligence, meeting those of the venerable
philosopher in art.
“What do I do, my child? What do I do?”
“Therein lies the secret of my life.”
XXII
THE SECRET OF A LIFE
All waited reverently until the venerable artist was ready to
explain. They watched him take off his spectacles and polish them,
so that his physical sight might aid his mental vision, and his
spiritual insight assert its potency. He stepped across his studio
toward one of his superb paintings--a landscape in which a wealth of
rich coloring streamed forth from behind dark, luxuriant foliage.
At first sight “the related masses of color rather than the linear
extensions” was what appealed to the beholder, as if, as a work of
art, it was not intended to instruct or edify, but to awaken an
emotion. Le Roy stood with one hand held forth toward the picture;
his other, as the Doctor noticed, rested naturally, unostentatiously,
upon a sacred volume lying upon a table at his left, as if he wished
to feel in physical touch with that book while he spoke.
“You ask me what I do in the final resort--what I do when both
science and art grow weak and unstable.
“I retire to be alone, take only certain books with me, and write,
applying the principles I have already experienced as true in art
to the purest of all forms of reasoning, theology--religious truths
scientifically stated. Speaking of and with God in nature is the
saving, the salvation of my art. The impressions I then receive
are what you see in my pictures and ask me to explain. That is the
feeling you recognize and the sentiment you appreciate. You see
and appreciate precisely in accordance with your own experience
in personal religion, no more, no less. You are part of the truth
in unity just as I am; we all have the soul for the beautiful, the
beautiful soul within us. One Father breathed into each man when
he became a living soul in beauty of mind and spirit. In a way, I
worship through my paintings.
“I know I have always had this power; all of us, when at our best,
know we have it in some degree, creative or responsive--but I did not
always understand the principles which govern it. Science now assures
me it is the truth. The unit law of impression, you now see, demands
the three in one, Science, Art, and Communion with the Holy Spirit of
Truth, God in nature.
“People ask me why I keep on painting, old as I am, and I answer:
Simply because of a constraining force from beyond me, from without,
something which lifts me higher and higher toward finding the very
best forms of truthful expression. Of course this development must
depend in a measure on physical strength and individual endowment. I
am obliged to watch myself that I do not overwork, and when I grow
weary of painting then I open the Book--the Source of Wisdom. This
gives me the only point of view, except the artistic, which interests
me--in fact, art and religion are very closely connected.”
Le Roy ceased speaking and stood thoughtfully before his wonderful
picture--verily his masterpiece, in that it rose to a height of
spiritual suggestion he had not before attained, and by means the
best he knew. His eyes were fixed upon it, and he seemed to become
oblivious to his surroundings.
Adele drew near, the Doctor and Paul close behind her; the grouping
itself was suggestive. The artist-philosopher, mystic and artistic;
the inquisitive Doctor, sincere and at times metaphysical; the
practical Paul, true and observing; and Adele, an idealist--all
dominated by a landscape utterly devoid of figures.
A pure landscape. The beholder stood upon a moderate elevation, a
grove of trees on his left, the branches covering the upper part
of the canvas. Looking forward, a valley; a village nestled below,
telling of happy homes and playgrounds, and near by the parish
church, where the belfry chimes could almost be heard. Through
openings in the grove and in the broader expanse were cultivated
fields, and faintly outlined was a winding stream meandering off
toward the horizon; the course of the stream broken by woodlands and
far distant bluffs, the bluffs lessening to a point in mid-distance,
where the stream for a time was concealed behind the foliage on its
banks. As observed by the physical eye trained to seek many lines and
complicated perspective it was truly a very simple, modern subject,
embodying little more than elementary drawing. But what had this
great artist seen by spiritual insight dominating his art? What
impression had the Spirit that is Holy, the Creator with whom he
had spoken when alone, revealed to him? What had “the candle of the
Lord,” within himself, illumined?
An early morning, the atmosphere clear and transparent, with fleecy
clouds pure and chaste, late draperies of the flying night, so
delicately refined in form and shade, with light and shadow, that
with the birth of a new day the resurrection from the dawn became
brilliant with color. Every cloud and celestial vista, every
hillside, undulation, meadow, stream, stone, branch, leaf and
leaflet gave its own responsive reflection of the Brightness of
the Coming. Each diversified form was alive with the inspiration
caught and expressed by tints and hues in the harmony of colors. So
brilliant were some of the combinations nature had called for, that
the artistic sense demanded that they should be partly hidden behind
the darker foliage. A vision of this world as it is, yet looking
towards something more beautiful, heavenward. Earth idealized by
the artist’s dream, to a reality too lavish for the credulity of
ordinary experience. None, unless with the artist (he had seen with
the eyes of the Spirit as well as of Science and of Art), would have
credited the glorious impression so simple a landscape could give;
therefore the sombre contrast had been introduced. The artistic
sense had controlled the flight of imagination, and deeper shadows
told each beholder to look within and complete the scenes from his
own experience. Let us approach more closely, and go with the artist
nearer to the inner recesses of the heart of nature.
Among the shadows what had the Spirit suggested? “The place whereon
thou standest is Holy Ground.”
The beholders are upon an elevation, and close at hand in the subdued
light a group of trees, modestly conspicuous among others in the
grove. Vines encircle and climb their trunks, and blossoms glorify
the branches on either side. The central vine is more luxuriant than
the others, and its flowers, tinged with a roseate glow, much akin to
flesh tints in nature.
The vine and its branches are waving in the wind; they take graceful
forms and scatter blossoms at the beholders’ feet. To every lover of
nature and weary one who seeks repose it is a vision of beauty and
rest now, and a promise of rest to come.
The artist seemed especially fond of this feature in his work; his
eyes repeatedly reverted from the glorious coloring he had given to
the sky and the heavens above, to this notable detail in shadow.
“May I ask what flower you intend to suggest?” said Adele.
“A passion vine. It climbs aloft among the ordinary forest
trees; some life-plants grow at its feet; the Rose of Sharon is
in bloom among the shrubs, and I leave to your imagination the
lilies-of-the-valley in the grass beneath. One of my impressions when
alone was, that a cross might have once stood in such a place in the
years gone by, when the mount was bare and bleak; since then nature
has shown her constant kindness, for she abhors the void of bleakness
and barrenness in such a place, and has covered the mount with
lovely foliage. But the vision, the sight and the site of the cross
remain; you may find the suggestion here--it upholds the vine and the
branches, and the flowers are cradled in its arms.
“The cross is conceived as in bloom; and to me all the beauty is
greatly enhanced by one precious significance--the same light in
nature which so brilliantly illumines the celestial cloud vistas also
gives the roseate tint to the flowers upon the cross.”
* * * * *
“That is ‘a creation’--by the artist,” meditated Adele.
“Through nature, looking upward,” remarked Paul, pensive.
“The crucifixion itself is marvellously beautiful,” said the Doctor,
“when portrayed in landscape without a figure upon the scene. How
great is genius in art, if it is endowed with a gift for spiritual
impressions.”
Adele put her arm in Paul’s as they walked along, pondering over what
they had seen. “The Cross in bloom, illumined by the Light of the
World. The Divine in Art has both sought and spoken the Word.” She
thought of how the artist had searched the Book of Wisdom; and she
recalled what had long since been written therein about such Words
spoken in nature and in history: “They are they which testify of Me.”
XXIII
OLYMPUS--COURT FESTIVITIES
Sailing down the Adriatic, the Ionian Isles finally rose above the
bosom of the sea; before them lay modern Greece, with its landscape
and atmosphere still populated with the legendary divinities of
ancient times. Mrs. Cultus adjusted her eye-glasses to catch first
glimpse of Olympus, evidently under the impression that the Mountain
of the Gods towered over Greece much as Fuji Yama does over Japan.
She found it did, but not precisely as she had anticipated.
As to Adele and Paul, they were becoming more susceptible to
impressions subtle, if not mystical, than ever before. Being in the
region of the old-time divinities the influence of those deities at
the Court of Olympus, whose especial duty was to direct love affairs,
began to be felt. So potent was this influence that the lovers became
intensely absorbed in watching for Aphrodite, lest she might rise
from the sea at any turn of the tide. They had heard how, in modern
times, she often arose at other points than Cyprus.
As the vessel proceeded southward, a new Olympus was constantly
discovered and pointed out. This was great sport to Miss Winchester;
such an accommodating guide-book mountain she had not before
encountered.
“How many mountain resorts does our present Zeus keep up?” asked she
of the Captain, a jolly sailor.
“Oh, wherever you see storm clouds around the highlands, there’s some
fun going on.”
“Any court festivities, any Apollo bands or musical sands to
entertain Court circles?”
“Apollo is not popular at this season--since rag-time came in, the
lyrique and doggerel have gone out--the old accompaniment was too
sleepy.”
“But I must hear Orpheus on a lute, or Pan give a toot.”
“Orpheus played last at a ball game,” said the Captain.
“Too dulcet?”
“Not enough wood wind and brassy; the boys said too lugubrious. They
came to play ball, not to shed tears.”
“And poor Orpheus?”
“Went off with an organ grinder; now his name only appears on Club
letter paper and headings for concert programmes. He manages to get
into print, but he never plays.”
“How discouraging to art and musicians! Alas! alas! But apropos of
games, what is the popular athletic sport now-a-days around Olympus?”
“Chasing quinine pills--a caddy holds the pills. You take the pills
and then chase ’em ‘over the hills and far away.’”
“For the health, I presume?”
“Of course; the discus has gone out, but this later game makes more
discussion than the discus ever did. Golf goes first-rate in Greek
costume. You ought to see it. Scotchmen outdone.”
“How about ‘events’--athletic events?”
“Oh, events always occur in the Stadium.”
“Bless me, how exciting! But it sounds very stationary.”
“The victor generally does feel puffed up,” said the Captain. “During
the last Olympiad a local divinity came down (from up the country)
and accumulated such centrifugal force in running that he flew off to
Thermopylæ or Marathon, some outside place or other, caught hold of
the post there, swung himself round and slid into the Stadium in fine
style.”
“What honors did he receive--laurel or oak wreath?”
“Think it was fig leaves,” remarked the sailor Captain, “but I am
not sure. At any rate he was a hero. The town gave him free entrance
to all the beer saloons for life, a new pair of sandals with wings
and honors galore.”
“How appreciative! Discriminating public!”
“Sure! His name was engraved in the most honorable place possible.”
“How was that?”
“At the foot of the list of victors from B. C. 1776, or thereabouts,
to A. D. 1896. He can no doubt stand the honor, but I doubt about the
beer.”
“May I ask his name?”
“Name--his name--let me see, what was his name? It escapes me just at
present. I’ll ask the steward some time, he’s up in such things,” and
the Captain went off to superintend the passage of his vessel through
the narrow channel between the islands and the mainland.
“There’s modern fame!” thought Miss Winchester. “After winning an
Olympiad, to be labeled No. 3672, approx., name forgotten and soon
marked ‘Unknown.’”
XXIV
THE GODS INTERFERE
While in the vicinity of Olympus it was, of course, quite natural
for the gods to take an interest in Adele and Paul at this critical
period in their affairs. They had heard of Adele as an Idyl--and
assumed her to be an interesting, romantic and possibly poetic little
creature, and in their old-time way of looking at things were far
from imagining what a modern American Idyl might have become.
Mrs. Cultus in turn also had her own ideal. “Those Grecian gods,”
said she, “are so frightfully anthro-popo--something, I forget the
exact word, but it means meddlesome men. If I had my way we would
leave this place at once. Who is Aphrodite, anyhow? I thought Venus
was the most popular at Olympus. Oh, dear, my Greek is awfully rusty.
I wish I had a copy of Took’s--good old Took’s Pantheon was full of
such things.”
Now, unfortunately for Mrs. Cultus, her flippant words flew upwards.
They were heard in Olympus by the great Aphrodite herself, ever one
of the most influential of the Twelve Court Divinities. Hearing
herself referred to in this trivial manner she determined to prove
to this modern woman her potency, and that too by hastening events
before madame and daughter could escape from her realm. The campaign
opened at once.
Aphrodite whispered in Adele’s ear to be sure to make herself
attractive to Paul, especially in personal appearance, for he was
acutely sensitive to certain impressions just at that time.
Adele’s natural instincts would no doubt have taught her that much,
but as she was under the brow of Olympus it is better to call natural
instincts and some other forces in nature by their proper names.
At any rate Adele was thus affected, using every natural womanly
effort to make herself agreeable, and Paul responded with a keen
sense of appreciation. If Adele expressed a desire to stroll on deck,
Paul cleared the deck to give plenty of room; if she wished to rest
after a promenade he hurried to bring two chairs, one in either hand;
if she said the night was dark, he said “ebony;” and if she expressed
admiration for the heavenly moonlight he was ready to agree they were
together in a Paradise.
Things would have worked admirably if some of the deities other than
Aphrodite and some busybodies who hang around Courts and courting
in general had not further interfered. Juno the Jealous and Diana
the Golf-player, both Roman divinities visiting Zeus and his consort
Hera, conceived the idea that the course-links in the game Adele and
Paul were playing were entirely too smooth for real life, and it was
astonishing how many of the lesser dignitaries with their relations
came to the same conclusion. Complications at once arose, since all
were in the secret.
Juno promptly stirred up Boreas, whose special domain was a little
farther round the coast in the Ægean Sea, inciting him to blow great
guns which reverberated from shore to shore across the billows. This
in turn ruffled up Neptune, and in consequence there was a tremendous
commotion in the roadstead where the steamer lay. Neptune’s venerable
locks shone like white-caps in all directions at once.
As to Adele, she admired the sea in commotion and Paul agreed it was
“the most magnificent spectacle.” Adele thought she could stand the
movement, in fact did at first, until the united efforts of Boreas
and Neptune acting simultaneously produced a very peculiar motion of
the vessel, and a diversity of feelings so complicated within herself
that she naturally took to her state-room on short notice. Paul at
once pronounced the weather “beastly,” and the previous magnificence
took flight on the wings of the wind.
Now, with all these divinities conspiring against her, Adele’s
resemblance to her mother was certainly brought into prominence as
never before, and all the romance of her nature seemed to vanish.
Adele in her state-room: “It is a physical impossibility to look
well, much less be agreeable, when things are tossing about in this
frightful way. Where’s my trunk?” and as she reached down to open it,
the trunk slid across the room. Alas, too late! When she raised her
head a new sensation.
“Oh, what’s that? Oh, dear, what a peculiar pain! Call the steward,
somebody. Steward, steward!”
Enter steward. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m miserable, steward.”
“Yes, ma’am, take tea and toast and a little porridge.”
Adele, sharply: “Go for Miss Winchester at once, steward. Tell her
I’m--I’m----”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Enter Miss Winchester. “Awful sorry you feel so upset, Adele. What
can I do for you?”
“I never felt so collapsed in my life,” moaned the sufferer. “Now,
tell me, Frank, shall I really die of this or not? Really, I couldn’t
stand a joke!” Miss Winchester smiled when she perceived this
universal symptom.
“No joke? Not even an antique in Greece, good yet? You know what
Ulysses said when he passed this way: ‘You fear you will, then fear
you won’t, and don’t’; that’s what he thought, I’m sure.”