FullReads

The flowers are each one drinking its drop of quivering dew.

The leaves feel the cool breath of the morning, and are moving to and fro in the invigorating air.

The flowers are saying their morning prayers, accompanied by the matin-song of the birds.

Amoretti, with gauzy wings, are perching on the tall blades of grass that spring from the meadows, and the tall stems of the poppies and field-lilies are swaying, swaying, swaying a minuet motion fanned by the kiss of the gentle breeze.

Oh, how beautiful it all is! How good God is to send it! How beautiful! how beautiful!

But merciful easel! I am forgetting to paint–this exhibition is for me, and I’m failing to improve it. My palette–the brushes–there! there!

We can see nothing–but you feel the landscape is there–quick now, a cottage away over yonder is pushing out of the white mist. To thine easel–go!

Oh! it’s all there behind the translucent gauze–I know it–I know it–I know it!

Now the white mist lifts like a curtain–it rises and rises and rises.

Bam! the sun is risen.

I see the river, like a stretch of silver ribbon; it weaves in and out and stretches away, away, away.

The masses of the trees, of the meads, the meadows–the poplars, the leaning willows, are all revealed by the mist that is reeling and rolling up the hillside.

I paint and I paint and I paint, and I sing and I sing and I paint!

We can see now all we guessed before.

Bam, Bam! The sun is just above the horizon–a great golden ball held in place by spider-threads.

I can see the lace made by the spiders–it sparkles with the drops of dew.

I paint and I paint and I sing and I paint.

Oh, would I were Joshua–I would command the sun to stand still.

And if it should, I would be sorry, for nothing ever did stand still, except a bad picture. A good picture is full of motion. Clouds that stand still are not clouds–motion, activity, life, yes, life is what we want–life!

Bam! A peasant comes out of the cottage and is coming to the meadow.

Ding, ding, ding! There comes a flock of sheep led by a bellwether. Wait there a minute, please, sheepy-sheepy, and a great man will paint you.

All right then, don’t wait. I didn’t want to paint you anyway

Bam! All things break into glistening–ten thousand diamonds strew the grasses, the lilies and the tall stalks of swaying poppies. Diamonds on the cobwebs–diamonds everywhere. Glistening, dancing, glittering light–floods of light–pale, wistful, loving light: caressing, blushing, touching, beseeching, grateful light. Oh, adorable light! The light of morning that comes to show you things– and I paint and I paint and I paint.

Oh, the beautiful red cow that plunges into the wet grass up to her dewlaps! I will paint her. There she is–there!

Here is Simon, my peasant friend, looking over my shoulder.

“Oho, Simon, what do you think of that?”

“Very fine,” says Simon, “very fine!”

“You see what it is meant for, Simon?”

“Me? Yes, I should say I do–it is a big red rock.”

“No, no, Simon, that is a cow.”

“Well, how should I know unless you tell me,” answers Simon.

I paint and I paint and I paint.

Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear above the treetops.

It is growing hot.

The flowers droop.

The birds are silent.

We can see too much now–there is nothing in it. Art is a matter of soul. Things you see and know all about are not worth painting–only the intangible is splendid.

Let’s go home. We will dine, and sleep, and dream. That’s it–I’ll dream of the morning that would not tarry–I’ll dream my picture out, and then I’ll get up and smoke, and complete it, possibly–who knows!

Let’s go home.

* * * * *

Bam! Bam! It is evening now–the sun is setting. I didn’t know the close of the day could be so beautiful–I thought the morning was the time.