The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1912-09-06
Love and Art

borhood of orange groves and mag
nolia trees. His studio was place for
sight-seers, as well as a pleasant re-
sort for friends and neighbors.
Others succumbed to Lorimer's in
fuence 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 sAr 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 looped
a 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 a velvet
touch, and his eyes held a steel-blue
| CLEAN that made me love to look at
him. | knew that he knew my inner
self, and that whatever that self might
be, it was valued by him.
l shall never forget the kindly SYM
patty that shone from his eyes when
he realized one special day that /
needed him to understand me. | had
gone to him, troubled about my moth
er's orphaned cousin Lucy, who had
come to us to live, having no other
place to go. l wanted to befriend her,
to make her happy, and | 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.
Yes, Tisdale," Lorimer said, after
l had looked for a long time over his
shoulder without speaking, 81 feel the
Joy Of utterance. Why, man, think
what relief to weep in grief! That
is what it is to paint, to sing, to be a
poet"
Il can do none OF these things" l
answered slowly.
No, 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 a woman
! that intrudes upon mems friendships.
she is sort of earth. trespassing upon
kind of heaven. This time, ii 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 a 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 | 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 1t was hard TO give another
man fair play hard for us both. Lori
mers face grew thin under the strain,
and 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 spor.
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 II
seemed too dainty for the pocket OF
! my SHdBSy coat, UuJ WHeU CdIIleu
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 1t 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 l was so poor a creature.
felt my short and sturdy figure grow
more plebean in contrast to my friend
/ saw my unruly shock of sandy hair;
my features-my limbs; my hands and
feet; all that the world calls man.
We were silent, for l know not how
long, listening Us the Clock that Lori
mer timed his hours by. Finally, II
was he that spoke;
Don't fear for me. Tlsdaie; wha'
you live, can paint. Mine is lesser
gift than yours, yet still joy. Coo
be with you! see before you, wife
| bopoa ohildren. for me- n cold thing