THE STUDIO
I have been here a whole week, and as for being busy, I think the
proverbial bee would have to give me points. Monday was occupied with
a variety of odd jobs which were individually insignificant enough but
meant a good deal in the aggregate. First of all I attended to
household duties under the keen but kindly supervision of Mother
Hubbard, and acquitted myself fairly well.
Then I turned my attention to the studio and drew up my plans for its
equipment. A young girl from the village readily undertook the work of
cleaning, and the muscle she put into it was a revelation to me after
my experience of the leisurely ways of London charwomen! I soon
discovered that she is a sworn enemy of every form of dirt--or "muck"
as she prefers to call it--that she has a profound contempt for all
modern cleansing substances and mechanical methods, and a supreme and
unshakable belief in the virtues of soft soap, the scrubbing-brush, and
"elbow-grease."
Four hours of "Sar'-Ann" brought joy to my heart and sweetness to my
studio.
Then, with some difficulty, for he was at work in the fields, I found a
sturdy and very diffident young man who has had some experience of
carpentry, and who can also wield a paint-brush. To him I explained my
requirements, and also handed over the plan I had prepared. He stood
chewing the neb of his cap, and repeated in most irritating fashion:
"Aw, yes 'm" whenever I paused to plumb the depths of his intelligence;
but would only promise to do his best. As a matter of fact his "best"
is not at all bad.
Sar'-Ann informed me in his presence, when he showed a little
difficulty in understanding one of my requirements, that he was "gurt
and gawmless," whereat he blushed furiously, and most unnecessarily so
far as I was concerned, for the description was Greek to me. His
awkwardness disappears, I find, when my back is turned; and he is
really a very capable workman, and he and Sar'-Ann between them have
made my studio most presentable.
But I am anticipating.
Tuesday morning brought me a small budget of letters and several
parcels. I opened Madam Rusty's first, with some mischievous
anticipation of its contents. I knew the sort of thing I might expect:
the quasi-dignified remonstrance, the pained surprise, and the final
submission to the will of an inscrutable providence which had seen fit
to relieve me of my senses and her of a great responsibility.
I leaned back in my chair, put my feet upon thy fender, and prepared
for a good time. The precise, angular handwriting was as plain as the
estimable lady herself, and no difficulty in decipherment impeded my
progress.
"MY DEAR MISS HOLDEN," it ran,
"I have received your most extraordinary communication, which I have
perused with mingled feelings of astonishment, sorrow and dismay. I am
astonished that you should leave my house, where I am sure you have
been surrounded by every home comfort, without a single expression of
your intention to do so, or one word of explanation or farewell to
myself or your fellow-boarders. Conduct of this kind I have never
experienced before, and you must pardon me saying that next to an
actual elopement it seems to me the most indelicate thing a young
person in your position could do. And I am sorry because I feel sure
there is more behind all this than you have been willing to inform me
of, and I do think I have not deserved to be deceived, for I can
honestly say that I have endeavoured to act a mother's part towards
you; and as to any little differences we have had and complaints and so
on, I did not think you had an unforgiving spirit. Not that one
expects gratitude from one's boarders in the ordinary way, which being
human is unlikely, but there are exceptions, of which I thought you
were one. But if you believe me I am dismayed when I think of you
going out into these wild parts which I have always understood are as
bad as a foreign country, and without anyone to look after you, and no
buses and policemen, and what you would do in case of fire I don't
know. However, they do say that providence takes care of babies and
drunken people and the insane, and we can only hope for the best. I
know it's no use trying to persuade you different, for if there's one
thing about you that is known to all the boarders it is that you are
self-willed, and you must excuse me telling the plain truth, seeing
that it is said for your good. So I have had your things packed up,
and Carter Patersons have taken them away to-day. You will find it all
in the bill enclosed, and I have filled in the cheque accordingly. Of
course if you change your mind I shall try to accommodate you if I am
not full up. I cannot help signing myself
"Yours sorrowfully,
"MARTHA RUSSEN.
"N.B.--I may say that the other boarders are very shocked."
Poor old Rusty! She is really not half a bad sort, and I am glad to
have known her: almost as glad as I am to get away from her. It is my
misfortune, I suppose, to be "nervy," and the sound and sight of Madam
in these latter days was enough to bring on an attack.
I turned to the letter from Rose, which was short, sharp and
sisterly--sisterly, I mean, in its shameless candour and freedom from
reserve. Rose rather affects the role of the superior person, and has
patronised me ever since I discovered her. This is what she wrote:
"MY DEAR GRACE,
"I am not sure that I ought not to write '_disgrace_.' I always have
said that you are as mad as the March hare in 'Alice' and now I am sure
of it. Your letter has not one line of sense in it from beginning to
end except that in which you suggest that I may come to see you some
time. So I may, if the funds ever run to it. It will be an education
to do so. I would go to see you in your native haunts just as I would
go to see any other natural freak in which I might be interested. But
I won't pay ordinary railway fare, so that's flat. If the railway
companies won't reduce their charges by running cheap excursions as
they do for other exhibitions, I shall not come. For if you are not an
exhibition (of crass folly) I don't know what an exhibition is.
However, you have a bit of money and a trade (sorry! I mean a
profession) at your finger-ends, so I can only hope you'll not starve
whilst your native air is bringing you to your senses. I will see to
your various commissions, and if I can be of further use to you up here,
"I am, as I have ever been,
"Your humble, but not always obedient servant,
"ROSE."
This concluded what may be termed the social portion of my
correspondence, and I took up the other letters with less zest. One, a
mere formal acknowledgment of my changed address, was from the bankers
who have the privilege of taking care of my money, and who have never
manifested any sense of oppression under the responsibility.
Nevertheless, two hundred and forty odd pounds is something to fall
back upon, and it looms large when it represents savings; and in any
case it is all I have except the interest which comes to me from a few
small investments--all that was rescued from the wreck of my father's
fortunes. Well, well! I am a good deal richer than some very wealthy
people I have met.
Two others were business communications from firms which give me
employment, and I may frankly admit that I was just a little relieved
to find that distance was not going to affect our relationships. Not
that I had been actually uneasy on that score, for I have discernment
enough to know my own value. I am not a genius, but what I _can_ do is
_well_ done; and I have lived long enough to discover that that counts
for much in these days. The parcels which accompanied the letters
contained sufficient work for a month at least.
Then came a letter from Shuter and Lenz with all sorts of suggestions
for the furnishing of my studio. The consideration of this occupied a
couple of hours, but my list was made out at last, and I expect I shall
receive the bulk of the goods before the end of next week. Transit
between London and Windyridge is quick--much more so than I
anticipated, for my boxes were delivered during the afternoon, and I
spent the rest of the day and some part of the night in unpacking them.
It was no easy matter to find storage for my small possessions, but I
accomplished it in the end, and arranged all my household goods to the
best possible advantage.
Since then I have been sewing for all I am worth. The joint
establishments do not boast the possession of a sewing machine, so I
have had to make my studio curtains by hand. Mother Hubbard was
delighted to be able to help in this department, and between us we
finished them yesterday, and with Ginty's assistance I have hung them
to-day! "Ginty" is the carpenter. The "g" is hard and the name is
unusual, but I am inclined to doubt whether it was ever bestowed upon
him by his godparents in baptism. I suspect Sar'-Ann of having a hand
in that nomenclature.
If my landlord could see my studio now he would hardly recognise his
conserva_tory_. One end has been boarded off for a dark-room, and the
whole has been neatly painted slate colour. When my few backgrounds
and accessories arrive I shall have a very presentable studio indeed.
Ginty is now engaged painting the outside in white and buff, and he is
then going to make me a board which will be placed at the bottom of the
garden to inform all and sundry that "Grace Holden is prepared to do
all kinds of photographic work at reasonable prices." I don't
anticipate that barriers will be needed to keep back the crowd.
How tired I am, and yet how wonderfully fresh and buoyant! My limbs
tremble and my head aches, but my soul just skips within me. I have
had a week in which to repent, and I have never come within sight of
repentance. And yet I have seen no more of Windyridge. I have not
been near the heather. I have not even climbed to the top of the hill
behind my cottage in order to look over the other side. I have wanted
to, but I dare not; I am terrified lest there should be factory
chimneys in close proximity.
Once or twice it has been warm enough for me to stretch myself full
length upon the grass, and I have lain awhile in blissful contemplation
of the work of the Great Architect in the high vault of His cathedral.
That always rests me, always fills me with a sense of mystery, always
gives me somehow or other a feeling of peace and of partnership. I
rise up feeling that I must do my best to make the world beautiful, and
use all my abilities--such as they are--to bring gladness into the
lives of other people. I cannot make clouds and sunsets, but I can
paint miniatures, and I can take portraits (or I think I can), and
these things make some homes bright and some folk happy. But I must
not moralise.
More often I bring out the deck-chair, which is one of my luxuries, and
sit in front of the cottage with Mother Hubbard as a companion. She is
splendid company. If I encourage her she will tell me interesting
stories of her youth and married life, or repeat the gossip of the
village; for none is better versed than she in all the doings of the
countryside. If, however, I wish to be quiet she sits silently by my
side, as only a real friend can. But whether she talks or is silent
her knitting needles never stop their musical clatter. What she does
with all the stockings is beyond my knowledge, but I believe Sar'-Ann
could tell me if she would, and I am sure all this knitting contributes
no little to Mother Hubbard's happiness.
So I lean back in my chair and feast upon the scene before me and am
satisfied. I wonder if it would appeal to many as it does to me.
Probably not, for, after all, I suppose there are many more beautiful
places than Windyridge, but I have never travelled and so cannot
compare them. Then again, this is Yorkshire and I am "Yorkshire," and
that explains something. Still, I ought to try to write down what it
is that impresses me, so I will paint as well as I can the picture that
is spread before me as I sit.
First of all, as a fitting foreground, the garden--past its best, I can
see, but still gay with all the wild profusion of Flora's providing;
plants whose names are as yet unknown to me, but which are a constant
delight to sight and smell. Then the road, with its border of cool,
green grass, winding down into the valley between hedges of hawthorn
and holly--ragged, untidy hedges, brown and green where the sun catches
them, blue-grey and confused in the shadows. Beyond them a stretch of
fields--meadow and pasture, and the brown and kindly face of Mother
Earth dipping steeply down to meet the trees which fill the narrow
valley, and are just beginning to catch the colours of the sunset.
Footpaths cross the fields, and I see at times those who tread them and
climb the stiles between the rough grey walls; and I promise myself
many a good time there, but not yet.
On the other side, beyond the trees, the climb is stiffer, and the
hills rise, as it sometimes seems, into the low-lying clouds. I can
see a few houses under the shelter of a clump of chestnuts and
sycamores, the farthest outposts of their comrades in the valley, but
far above them rises the moor, the glorious moor, heather-clad, wild,
and, but for the winding roads, as God made it. Far away to the west
it stretches, and when the day is clear I catch the glow of the gorse
and the daily decreasing hint of purple on the horizon miles away; but
in these autumn days the distance is often wrapped in a diaphanous
shawl of mist, which yet lends a charm to the glories it half conceals.
High up the hill to the left is the village of Marsland, with its
squat, grey church, which I must visit one day; and farther away
still--for I must be candid at all costs--there are a few factory
chimneys, but they are too distant to be obtrusive.
Such is my picture: would that I could paint it better. Looking upon
it my spirit bathes and is refreshed.