FullReads

We had started for the mill now, the Man from the Quarter lugging the boots, still hoping there might be some truth in the trout story, the Sculptor with the palette (big as a tea-tray), Knight with the ladder, and I with the wet canvas.

Again the cry rang out: “Marie! Marie!” and again the old woman started on a run–for the kitchen this time (she had been listening for this halloo–he generally came in wringing wet)–reappearing as we reached the hall door, her apron full of clothes swept from a drying line stretched before the big, all-embracing fireplace. These she carried ahead of us upstairs and deposited on the small iron bedstead in the painter’s own room, Knight close behind, his wet socks making Man-Friday footprints in the middle of each well-scrubbed step. Once there, Knight dodged into a closet, wriggled himself loose, and was out again with half of Marie’s apronful covering his chest and legs.

It was easy to see where the power of his brush lay. No timid, uncertain, niggling stroke ever came from that torso or forearm or thigh. He hewed with a broad axe, not with a chisel, and he hewed true–that was the joy of it. The men of Meissonier’s time, like the old Dutchmen, worked from their knuckle joints. These new painters, in their new technique–new to some–old really, as that of Velasquez and Frans Hals–swing their brushes from their spinal columns down their forearms (Knight’s biceps measure seventeen inches) and out through their finger-tips, with something of the rhythm and force of an old-time blacksmith welding a tire. Broad chests, big boilers, strong arms, straight legs, and stiff backbones have much to do with success in life–more than we give them credit for. Instead of measuring men’s heads, it would be just as well, once in a while, to slip the tape around their chests and waists. Steam is what makes the wheels go round, and steam is well-digested fuel and a place to put it. With this equipment a man can put “GO” into his business, strength into his literature, virility into his brush; without it he may succeed in selling spool cotton or bobbins, may write pink poems for the multitude and cover wooden panels with cardinals and ladies of high degree; in real satin and life-like lace, but no part of his output will take a full man’s breath away.

*****

Sunshine, flowers, open windows letting in the cool breezes from meadow and stream; an old beamed ceiling, smoke-browned by countless pipes; walls covered with sketches of every nook and corner about us; a table for four, heaped with melons, grapes, cheese, and flanked by ten-pin bottles just out of the brook; good-fellowship, harmony of ideas, courage of convictions–with no heads swelled to an unnatural size; four appetites–enormous, prodigious appetites; Knight for host and Marie as high chamberlainess, make the feast of Lucullus and the afternoon teas of Cleopatra but so many quick lunches served in the rush hour of a downtown restaurant! Not only were the trout-baked-in cream (Marie’s specialty) all that the Sculptor had claimed for them, but the fried chicken, souffles–everything, in fact, that the dear woman served–would have gained a Blue Ribbon had she filled the plate of any committeeman making the award.

With the coffee and cigars (cigarettes had been smoked with every course–it was that kind of a feast) the four mouths had a breathing spell.

Up to this time the talk had been a staccato performance between mouthfuls:

“Yes–came near smashing a donkey–don’t care if I do–no–no gravy” (Sculptor). “Let me put an extra bubble in your glass” (Knight). “These fish are as firm as the Adirondack trout” (Man from the Quarter). “More cream–thank you. Marie!” (Knight, of course) “more butter.” “Donkey wasn’t the only thing we missed–grazed a baby carriage and–” (Scribe). “I’m going to try a red ibis after luncheon and a miller for a tail fly–pass the melon” (Man from the Quarter): That sort of hurried talk without logical beginning or ending.