His
features were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not help
saying to myself--helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare--
"they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!" And he had a way
of ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a ripple
over that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behind
it such absolute solemnity that I felt impelled to murmur
"it was not he: it was somebody else that smiled!"
"Do you observe?" (such was the phrase with which the wretch began each
sentence) "Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at the
very top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placed
exactly right: and there is exactly enough of it. A little more, or a
little less, and all would be utterly spoiled!"
[Image...A lecture, on art]
"Oh gifted architect!" murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all but
Lady Muriel and myself. "Foreseeing the exact effect his work would
have, when in ruins, centuries after his death!"
"And do you observe, where those trees slope down the hill, (indicating
them with a sweep of the hand, and with all the patronising air of the
man who has himself arranged the landscape), "how the mists rising from
the river fill up exactly those intervals where we need indistinctness,
for artistic effect? Here, in the foreground, a few clear touches are
not amiss: but a back-ground without mist, you know! It is simply
barbarous! Yes, we need indistinctness!"
The orator looked so pointedly at me as he uttered these words, that I
felt bound to reply, by murmuring something to the effect that I hardly
felt the need myself--and that I enjoyed looking at a thing, better,
when I could see it.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153