The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1912-11-06
Love and Art


sort for friends and neighbors.
Others succumbed to Lorimer's in
auence because they found him re-
sponsive and congenial, but imagined
that he attracted me because he was
my contrast 1t was he, himself, who
discovered that our natures, beneath
the surface, were positive and not neg
alive, and with that discovery he swept
away all imagined barriers between us,
placing me at once in the heart Of the
company that haunted his bungalow.
He said to me one day as he Topped
q Persian drapery behind his models
chair: "Tisdale, you have the depth
Of artist-instinct. but you haven't the
gift of expression. "You don't even
talk. These others, for instance
waving his hand in the direction Of
the chatterers just gone-"these others
talk about everything they feel, and,
dear boy, they have so little to tell"
His tone to me was like velvet
touch, and his eyes held steel-blue
CLEAN that made me love to look at
him. I knew that he knew my inner
self, and that whatever that self might
be, it was valued by him.
shall never forget the kindly SYM
pathy that shone from his eyes when
he realized one special day that
needed him to understand me. l had
gone to him, troubled about my moth
er's orphaned cousin Lucy, who had
IN IN 1ivya hovinsr Nfhor
place to 60. wanted to befriend her,
to make her happy, and I could not
even tell her that she was welcome.
She was little daisy maid. blossom
ing into womanhood almost in day,
under our soft skies and in our south
ern California breezes.
AS / entered the studio, Lorimer's
clean-shaven cheeks, his locks of dark
hair thrown Off his forehead, the
friendly eyes under his heavy brows,
made a fit crown to his tall form
standing before the easel. / can see
the very dab of ochre on his thumb.
He was busy at one of his wonderful
wood interiors, touching in the sun
light by hints of yellow on the lichen-
covered trunks.
Eyes. Tisdale,' Lorimer said, after
had looked for long time over his
shoulder without speaking, Il feel the
Joy of utterance. Why, man, think
what a relief to weep in grief! That
Is what it Is to paint, to sing, to be a
poet"
II can do none Of these things" l
answered slowly.
mo, but after all, perhaps within
you may be artist or poet. Life has
an intensity, value. that this hasn't"
and Lorimer lightly struck his can
vas.
A woman-it is always woman
that intrudes upon mems friendships.
She is q sort Of earth, spassing upon
q kind of heaven. This time, 1t was,
of course, the daisy maid, and it is
difficult to know whether she made
earth heaven, or brought heaven to
earth.
Lorimer and suddenly awoke to
The knowledge OF mutual love for
my modest cousin. Why could not he
have chosen one of the beautiful wom-
en- that haunted his studio? From the
crowds l met in cars and shops, why
could not have taken another woman
and been satisfied?
My very silence was confession after
his avowal Of love for Lucy, and then
he admonished gravely, "Tisdale, re-
member we are her cOurtiers, and the
courtiers stand aside when the queen
passes, choosing whom she will"
Oh! but it was hard to give another
man fair play; hard for us both. Lori
mer's face grew thin under the strain,
and a river Of fire seemed to flow in
and out of my heart.
At last, Lucy consented to sit for
her portrait. One day, hidden In sport
behind some studio trumpery, we
watched her enter. Lorimer's hand
was on my shoulder. AS fortune had
decreed, my handkerchief lay on the
floor. Her own hand had so en-
broidered the square Of linen that 1t
seemed too dainty for the pocket OF
my shaggy coat: but when I carried
the sheer and pretty thing, she seemed
close. Now, Lucy looked hastily to
right and left, then, believing herself
alone, she caught up the handkerchief
and pressed it to her lips; then she
thrust it into her gown, and as she
went away. she covered the place with
her hand, as though bird had flown
into her bosom.
Lorimer gripped my shoulder. but
the blood leaped to my face for Joy.
and then ran back in tide of shame,
because I was so poor a creature. I
felt my short and sturdy figure grow
more plebean in contrast to my friend;
saw my unruly shock Of sandy hair;
nv features-my limbs; my hands and
feet. all that the world calls man.
We we're silent, for know not how
long. listening to the clock that Lori
mer timed his hours by. Finally, it
was he that spoke;
Don't fear for me. Tlsdaie; what
Won live, I can paint. Mine is lesser
sift than yours, yet still JOY. God
he with you! I see before you, wife,