Every now and then a breath of cool air starts out from some
shaded retreat, plays around your forehead, and passes on. All nature
rests. It is her noontime.
But you work on: an enthusiasm has taken possession of you; the paints
mix too slowly; you use your thumb, smearing and blending with a bit of
rag--anything for the effect. One moment you are glued to your seat,
your eye riveted on your canvas, the next, you are up and backing away,
taking it in as a whole, then pouncing down upon it quickly, belaboring
it with your brush. Soon the trees take shape; the sky forms become
definite; the meadow lies flat and loses itself in the fringe of
willows.
When all of this begins to grow upon your once blank canvas, and some
lucky pat matches the exact tone of blue-gray haze or shimmer of leaf,
or some accidental blending of color delights you with its truth, a
tingling goes down your backbone, and a rush surges through your veins
that stirs you as nothing else in your whole life will ever do. The
reaction comes the next day when, in the cold light of your studio, you
see how far short you have come and how crude and false is your best
touch compared with the glory of the landscape in your mind and heart.
But the thrill that it gave you will linger forever.
But I hear a voice behind me calling out:--
"Monsieur, mamma says that dinner will be ready in half an hour. Please
do not be late."
It is Lucette. She and Francois have come down in the other boat--the
one with the little seat.
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