"
He had been working for two hours before she came, painting a small patch
of the gorse. Old gnarled stems wound upward crookedly, and beneath them
lay a dead carpet of gorse needles with a blade or two of grass shooting
through. From the roots and bases of the main stems sprouted many a shoot
of young gorse, their prickles tender as the claws of a new-born kitten,
their shape, color, and foliage of thorns quite different to the mature
plant above. There, in the main masses of the shrub, mossy brown buds in
clumps foretold future splendor. But already much gold had burst the sheath
and was ablaze, scenting the pure air, murmured over by many bees.
"You could a'most pick thicky theer flowers," declared Joan of the picture.
"Perhaps presently, when they are painted as I hope to paint them. This is
only a rough bit of work to occupy my hand and eye while I am learning the
gorse. Men who paint seriously have to learn trees and blossoms just as
they have to learn faces. And we are never satisfied. When I have painted
this gorse, with its thorns and buds, I shall sigh for more truth. I cannot
paint the soul of each little yellow flower that opens to the sun; I cannot
paint the sunny smell that is sweet in our nostrils now. God's gorse scents
the air; mine will only smell of fat oil. What shall I do?"
"I dunnaw."
"No more does anybody. It can't be helped. But I must try my best and make
it real--each spike, as I see it--the dead gray ones on the ground and the
live green ones on the tree, and the baby ones and the old gray-pointed
ones, which have seen their best days and will presently die and fall--I
must paint them all, Joan.
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