page 67

A Picture.

"This," said the artist, affectionately squeezing the waist of a slender tube that looked as though it had had an interesting past, "is Prussian Blue."

"And as such, liable, under the present circumstances, to summary arrest." I made a rapid pass at it, but it was too quick for me and, eluding my grasp, hastily joined the colours. Our acquaintance having been of the briefest, I was unable to pick it out. Perhaps that was it gambolling with the gamboge or warming itself by the burnt sienna, but I couldn't be sure. Anyhow the India ink could be trusted to deal with it effectually when the time came.

We were sitting, the artist and I, in the middle of a grassy patch in a large rambling garden, and she was busily engaged in preparing to transfer the beauties of a magnolia tree in full bloom to her canvas. The canvas was preparing itself too. The sun was shining, the birds were birding, the buds were budding, and the magnolia tree was offering no objections, so the conditions were perfect. Disguised as an intelligent patron of the arts, I was offering advice and criticism in alternate gouts, of which, indeed, the artist, to do her justice, took but little notice.

"The orchestra seems to be making a terrible noise tuning up," I said, watching the mixing process on the palette. At that moment my voice was drowned by the cries of a lusty young magenta who seemed to have sprung from nowhere. The ghosts of all the socks and ties I had ever worn passed before me in rapid review.

"Now we're ready," sighed the artist at last, selecting a tall, handsome brush with silky brown hair, whom she introduced as George. "Would you belive it, we painters employ a huge army of men in the darkest spots of Africa, whose sole occupation it is to load the last straw upon the camels' backs. Without them we should never have a sufficient supply of brushes."

George preened himself a little and then dived into it. He presently emerged looking slightly green about the whiskers.

For a while I watched the artist's light hand flying page 68 here and there over the canvas. The haunted oak in the foreground on the leg side was already full grown and the magnolia tree was beginning to sprout. George was about done for. "What is a futurist," I asked, while Henry, young, fresh, debonair, was being pressed into service, or more accurately, into oil.

"A futurist," replied the artist, "is one who represents the subject he paints by its effect."

"Ah, I see. So if he wishes to paint a portrait of the family cat, he simply depicts the family mouse going at top. Or if his subject is a pretty girl," I bowed to her as politely as my position would allow, "he will merely give us a dashing blade. I bowed to myself also as politely as my position would allow, "looking dreamily, lingeringly, hungrily, into space. Below will appear as usual, I suppose, the legend 'Portrait of a young Lady,' and Sir John Collier will grow green with envy."

The artist said nothing but gave an extra thoughtful dab to the canvas before her. I looked and beheld the magnolia tree in the prime of its life. It was now time for the magnolias themselves to appear, and for this ticklish business Percy, who was slightly more refined than either of his predecessors, was asked to step forward.

"The futurist interests me greatly." I continued, "but the post-futurist is hard upon his heels. He has reversed the operations of the futurist and represents an effect by its cause. I have seen a picture called 'Daddy's not home yet,' in which the only figure on the canvas was home yet, in which only figure on the canvas was that of a large bottle of beer, while the great war picture 'When Nations meet,' of which the critics said that it brought to them the boom of guns and the drip of blood might to those ignorant of post-futuristic art, seem nothing but a portrait of Kaiser Bill."

"Tosh" said the artist, and with a final thoughtful dab the last magnolia was safely brushed into place. Her work was done, and the result being pleasing to behold, I offered to carry it home. George, Henry, and Percy were mollified with a little turpentine, and returned to their bunks in the box, tired but happy. Then the artist and I made for our train.

We had a further opportunity of admiring the picture from a slightly different viewpoint on the way home. It page 69 gave a wonderfully clear reverse impression on the back of the gentleman who leant against it in the crowded carriage, and he might well be said to have carried summer with him wheresoever he went. Should he be ill-advised enough to sue the artist for damages, I have been retained to counter-claim for the value of one magnolia tree done in oils upon serge. In which case he will have to appear in court as an exhibit duly mounted and framed.

—R.A.