Chapter XLV: Ritual of the Human Race 292 (5)

Once on board again and the steamer well on her course, the incident produced quite a little sensation, a surface ripple, but very little serious impression.

Paul, in spite of himself, had to gratify curiosity and explain details--how he first caught one of the floating deck stools (“the one I threw over,” said the benign countenance with the woollen hood), then swam towards where he thought Onset might be, and saw his head against the sheen on the water, and then kept his eye on the head while swimming; how it did not seem a long swim, but a little slow after finding a life preserver to tow along; how he managed to get the floats under Onset, after first boxing his ears to keep him quiet, and then ducked into the life preserver himself, “and there we were until the steamer turned head on and the search light became so blinding that I could not see what I could see.”

“Oh, you good boy!” again exclaimed the beaming hooded countenance, who had evidently been reading one of Mr. Frank Stockton’s stories. “Do tell us, is it true, as Miss Frank says, that you wore black stockings to keep off sharks?”

“Trousers, this time, madame--trousers! I really didn’t have time to change.”

* * * * *

“All’s well that ends well,” but with Adele it was not the end, much more the real beginning.

The part she had taken in connection with the case of Onset’s hysteria, her mental activity during the discussion with Mrs. Geyser and the spiritual experience she had just encountered in learning Paul’s decided force of character, made the young woman live and breathe intensely. Her whole being had been brought into play. She developed more during that eventful week of their life in mid-ocean than she might have done in a whole year on land. Not that aught of her past was lost or ignored, but it was made effective and she herself made more completely alive. She was now indeed amid the turmoils of life, where she found herself taking an active part.

The strange and varied motives which actuated many, also the lofty aspirations and the power to act, seemed very similar to her own ideals, far more so than she had expected. This took away some of her own youthful conceit, but gave her a much deeper and stronger appreciation of things as a whole.

Naturally a strong conviction arose within her that two individuals with different characteristics, yet harmonious in purpose, must be able to work better together than alone. She had always felt rather independent as to any methods she chose to adopt, but now she felt herself confronted by a whole series of things she could not do, no matter how good the motive. Paul, for instance, being a man, had done just what she would have liked to do, but could not, being a woman. She felt quite able to have done it--oh, yes; she could dive and swim and keep it up; but somehow, for her to have jumped overboard--well, don’t do it--foolishness--ridiculous. But Paul could--no foolishness, nothing ridiculous; in fact, a praiseworthy act, a reasonable risk, approved by his conscience at the time and eventually strengthening his character. She began to obtain a realizing sense of the complementary equivalent in human nature.

Unavoidably Paul rose higher in her estimation. Twice he had shown himself her equal, perhaps even her superior, not mentally, but somehow in a forcible manner which taxed her spirit as well as her intellect to comprehend. He had once proved how her own vocal accomplishments, so much more highly developed than his, could be in spirit most potent when made subsidiary to the words and sentiment of a song; now he had shown that actions are more convincing than words themselves in spiritual significance. She no longer thought of Paul as like other men, two-sided, one side good and the other--well, not so good; but rather as good all round, a really good man. Being an idealist, she put Paul on a pedestal and took a good look at him. Certainly he was very sensible and brave, also fascinating, now that she saw him in a good light.

This was the state of affairs when the crossing of the Atlantic ended by their entering the Straits of Gibraltar.

XIX

GIBRALTAR APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS

It may seem superfluous to observe that the military spirit dominated every other at “The Gib,” but the ladies of the Cultus party had little idea how forcibly it would affect them until they were behind the guns.

Four regiments were quartered at the station--brilliant uniforms in all directions. Regulation scarlet most in vogue; also “the sporty Rifles,” parti-colored like paroquets, green predominating; also Scotch Highlanders in white and flesh tints of nature. Bands and bag-pipes, fifers and drum corps perambulated the narrow streets--action, color, martial music in the air--the spirit of the place exhilarating at first and its activity contagious.

“Look at those red-breasts, and, oh, dear, how very perky!” exclaimed 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.

“I think so, having made a thorough and complete theory of it. I am 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.