UNDER ANERLY BRIDGE.
Although the view from the portico in front of the Beagle Inn at
Anerly was very lovely, it would by no means make a good picture. It
was too broad and monotonous and scattered. There was no composition
in it. The pleasure derived from looking down that peaceful slope and
valley was gained by glancing at it unconsciously from several points
of view rather than from any particular one. If you fixed your eyes on
the central or road line, no doubt you commanded Anerly Church and
some fine trees and the wide plain below; but then there was no
right-hand or left-hand frame to the picture, and the effect was
insipid, if not distracting. If you looked through the trees you had
the broad valley and the silver streak of stream; but you missed the
church and the pine-clad slope which lent the romantic air to the
whole scene.
Edward Graham was not a great artist. He was one of those indolent men
who study art no more than the study yields pleasure. He liked
painting and artists, but preferred the society of artists to that of
a lonely easel, a laborious sketch-book. He was a Bohemian born, not
made. He loved art for what it brought him from without more than for
any divine joy it aroused within. By fortune he was poor, and by
nature idle. He did not like doing anything; but of all occupations
that could bring him money he disliked painting least. Therefore he
painted for his bread. If he had been rich--so much did he enjoy the
atmosphere of art, and the companionship of those who follow art--he
would have painted all the same, that he might be entitled to smoke
pipes and discuss pictures with better painters than he. He was one of
those men who, although earning their bread by a profession, are
amateurs to the last, one of those to whom talk of art is dearer than
the use of artist's tools. He always wore a brown velveteen coat, a
soft hat with a broad brim, and a Cambridge-blue tie. He was about
twenty-eight years of age, of medium height, lightly built, and of
dark complexion; the most remarkable thing in his face being a pair of
large, round, brown eyes. In manner he was cordial, enthusiastic,
almost boisterous.
The morning after Edward Graham had heard the story of Stephen
Goolby's temptation was bright with dew and sunshine, and sweet with
spices from the pine-trees and brisk balm of the meadows. Young Graham
was on a walking tour. In his knapsack he carried two clean flannel
shirts, a few collars, toilette brushes, and a comb; a couple of pair
of thick knitted stockings, and a razor and strop; for Edward Graham
shaved his chin and cheeks, wearing no hair on his face but a pair of
moustaches. At the back of his knapsack was strapped a small
rectangular japanned case, containing a large sketching-pad, three
small canvases, a mahlstick, moist water-colours, oil-colours,
brushes, and so on. A stout walking-stick he carried was a folded-up
easel, and his knapsack served as a seat when he was painting or
sketching in the open air.
On this beautiful morning in June Graham rose early, and, having
filled and lighted a briar-root pipe, strolled out in front of the
Beagle Inn. He took a leisurely survey of the place, drew his hat
knowingly on the side of his head, as though to show the crows--the
only living things in view--that Nature might be very clever in her
way, but that she could not impose on him, and that he was about to
probe her to the core.
He lounged indolently down the winding road that led by Anerly Church
to the valley and broad stream beyond. He had his hands in the pockets
of his velveteen shooting-jacket, as, with hat on one side and head on
the other, and legs moving loosely and without any premeditation, he
strolled down the hill.
As soon as he got near Anerly Church he paused, and, turning half
round, looked up the pine-clad slope. After a careful scrutiny of a
few minutes, he shook his head gloomily at it, as though he had
expected and deserved much better treatment at its hands. Then,
drawing his jacket tightly round his hips in a leisurely and dejected
way, he continued his descent.
When he got as far as Anerly Church he paused again and looked round
him. There was a slight relaxation of his critical stare, and a glance
of approval in his large brown eyes. The approval was not so much of
the landscape as of the fact that he, Edward Graham, approved of
himself for having found out a suitable standpoint from which to make
a picture of the place. For, give Nature all her due, what was the
good of setting forth fair landscapes if no one with an artistic eye
and artistic skill came her way to paint them?
The aspect which the young artist selected was gentle and charming as
the soul who loves peaceful England could desire. Beneath the road ran
a small stream.
From the right-hand side of the road, as one went down from the
village, the ground sloped rapidly towards the valley below. The
little stream running under the road had worn a deep narrow ravine,
which expanded lower down, and over this rose a gaunt stone bridge
supporting the road. The sides of this glen were lined with mountain
ash, silver beeches, splay alders, gigantic ferns, and tangles of
broad-bladed grasses, and masses of mingled bush and bramble and
shrub, down to the golden mosses that slept upon the dark cold rocks
above the sparkling curves of falling water. And below each tiny
cascade lay a level miniature swamp, with a few huge flags standing up
in each green, rush-fringed, open space.
On the slope of this glen, and on the slope of the great valley, stood
Anerly Church, a couple of hundred yards from the bridge. Past the
church the glen opened, and the dwarf vegetation near the bridge gave
way to lofty pines, whose tops made a long sombre arch over the
stream. Beyond this dark arch lay a blaze of green light, and a scarf
of flaming white satin, where the valley and the stream caught the
full sunlight.
"This will be jolly!" said Edward Graham, as he scaled the low parapet
to the approach of the bridge, and threw himself down on the slope of
the glen. "That archway is partly dry; I'll walk up in it until I get
the picture focussed, and then I'll paint it. The bridge is so high
there is sure to be plenty of light."
But when he got under the arch, and had picked his way to the rear of
it, he altered his mind slightly. "By Jove!" he cried, for a moment
looking at the startling effect of light and shade. "I don't know
whether Salvator Rosa or Rembrandt would have admired this the more,
but I am going to paint it; and instead of using the arch merely as a
means of focussing the scene, I will paint the whole blessed lot,
archway and stalactites, water under the archway and all."
The picture was striking.
By the sober light of the vault it was possible to make out with dim
distinctness the outline of every object in it. This dimness did not
arise from want of light, but from the fact that the floor and the
sides of the vault were damp, and the outlines of damp objects in such
a light are always uncertain to the eye. The archway looked north and
south, and now a small portion of the western inner wall had caught a
beam of the early sun, and the water in a pool at the eastern side,
struck by the rays refracted by the wall, threw a blue and brown patch
of trembling light on the middle of the roof. This light in return
fell into another pool at the eastern side, where it made a trembling
veil of orange-brown and golden-green; while all round, on the grey
walls, the white roof, and the ashen stalactites, were scattered
wandering hints of prismatic fire, which seemed rather to come through
the stone than to be reflected from the water below.
Thus the huge barrel formed by the bridge, with its wavering, dull,
dappled, transparent lights, was connected by one patch of brightness
on the western pier and vault with the foreground of blue-and-white
water, and rich green and yellow stripes of the rushes and grasses and
underwood in the flat light of the glen. Beyond the flat light was the
gloomy tunnel formed by the pines, where the yellows turned to browns,
and the greens to sad blues; and the water flowed furtively from dull
olive pool to dull olive pool, until at last it sprang out, a white
blaze, into the full sunlight beyond, and fell headlong in foam to
join the silver scarf of stream lying across the golden meadows below.
For a long while Edward Graham paused in reverence. He was not in his
essence an artist, and the impulse which would have come first to an
artist, came second to him.
His first distinct thought was: "What a picture it will make!" His
second, "How beautiful it is!" Then he looked for a long time without
thinking. He was gazing at the simple whole without reflection, as one
may listen to a note prolonged, and be yet content, although there is
no succession of anything produced in the mind, no idea suggested by
the sound.
Then his mind came back suddenly, and he thought: "By Jove! it
requires no painting at all. It paints itself." He had not been able
to say "By Jove!" as long as his form of thought was abstract. But the
moment he thought of the concrete, of brushes and canvas, and tubes
and palette, he fell to the level of his own mind in his studio,
where came no intoxicating visions of delight, no visitings of poetry,
no fine frenzy to cause the eye to roll. Of his own nature he was not
capable of evolving a thought or idea worthy of any more powerful or
enthusiastic form of expression than "By Jove!" But here something new
had been set before him. He felt there was poetry in the scene. He
knew at a glance it would make a good picture. A second glance showed
him there was poetry in it, but where he could not tell. He had no
originality. He was a reflector, not a prism.
After another period of mere gazing, he looked around. Yes, the place
would do admirably for a painting room. The vault ran north and south,
and the back or lower end of the archway, that from which the scene
should be painted, faced the north, which settled the question of
light in his favour. Then the archway was quite wide enough for an
easel.
The legs of the easel might stand in the water, and he could make a
little platform of flat stones on which to rest a seat for himself. At
the back of the archway spread an open green space. The place was
damp. But then in summer the roof would not drip, and that was all he
cared about. He should have to write up to London for a much larger
canvas than any he had with him. His easel, too, he should write for.
Well, he'd go back to The Beagle now and have some breakfast, and
write his letters afterwards.
He clambered up out of the hollow on the northern side, and walked
back to the inn much more briskly than he had come.
"I shall make sketches and studies of the place while I am waiting for
the easel and the canvas," he thought, as he went along the road.
When he arrived at the inn he ordered breakfast, and sat down to write
a couple of letters while he was waiting. The first of these was to
the man in London from whom he got his colours, asking him to send a
canvas of the size he wanted. The second ran as follows:
"Beagle Inn, Anerly, Devonshire,
"June, 18--.
"May it please your Grace,--I am now sojourning in Anerly, one of the
most charming villages in the dominions of her who calls you Our right
trusty and right entirely beloved Cousin. Everything here, including,
of course, myself, is excellent, except the bread, which is beastly.
The cocks and hens, the scenery, the cider, and all other things of
that class, cannot be surpassed. There is a man here, six feet high,
twenty-three years of age, sixteen stone ten (not an ounce of which
you could pinch with a steel nippers), whom I have been telling of
you, and who is awfully anxious to fight you. He is by profession a
carpenter. He never saws a three-inch deal, but breaks it across his
knee. He says he will fight you for nothing with great pleasure. I
want you to come down at once and stop with me for a week or two. I'll
treat you like a prince. You shall have three full meals and as many
quarts of cider. The fact is, dear old Duke, I am going to paint a
picture here. It's awfully good. I'll swear to you it's the loveliest
thing you ever saw. It's the real whangdoodle, and no mistake. Come
down and judge for yourself. And now I want you to do a thing for me.
Go to my diggings (I mean the studio), get my big box of oils and my
easel, and send them on here. You shall have one extra quart of cider
for this job if you come. But if you don't come you shall not have a
stiver. If you come I will tell you a story I heard here, and which
will surely make your fortune if you write it. I am going to paint
Anerly church, and this story is about Anerly church; so that if you
come down, see the place, and do the story, it will be in a
magnificent way writing up to my picture; and if you get out your book
by next May, when your 'Romance of Anerly Church' is in the libraries,
and my 'Under Anerly Bridge' is on the line, we shall both be helping
one another to fame and fortune. Now, whatever you do or avoid doing,
you must come here. I am called for breakfast. But remember and
come.--I have the honour to be, my lord Duke, your Grace's most
obliged and obedient servant,
"Edward Graham.
"To His Grace the Duke of Long Acre.
"P.S.--By-the-way, the people about whom I am to tell you the romance,
are namesakes of yours.
"E. G."