Once he threw down a handful of brushes and started out for a tramp. It occurred to him that the city sights and smells, the endless hum and[52] roar, the rapid pace of the crowded streets would tone him up and set his thoughts in a new line; he was tired of the whistling gales11 and tossing trunks and booming surf that haunted his nights and confused his days. A block away from the studio a flower-woman met him with a tray of daffodils and late crocuses. A sudden puff13 of wind blew out her scant14, thin skirt; a tree in the centre of the park they were crossing bent15 to it, the branches creaked faintly. The fresh, earthy odour of the flowers moved him strangely. He bought a bunch, turned, and went back to the studio, to sit for an hour gazing sightlessly ahead of him.
"It wants wind," he muttered, half unconsciously, and fell to work. An hour passed, two, three—he still painted rapidly. Just as the light was fading a thunderous knock at the door ushered16 in the two men he knew best. He nodded vaguely17, and they crossed the room in silence and looked at the picture. For a few moments no one spoke18.[53] Presently Willard took a brush from his mouth and faced them.
"Well?" he said.
The younger looked questioningly at Willard. "You'll have to get a gait on you if you hope to beat Morris with that," he said. "What's up, Willard? Don't you want that prize?"
"Of course I do." His voice sounded dull, even to himself. "You aren't any too sympathetic, you fellows——" he tried to feel injured.
The older man came nearer. "What's that white thing there? Good Lord, Will, you're not going to try a figure——"
Willard brushed rapidly over the shadowy outline. "No—that was just a sketch. The whole thing's just a sort of——"
"The whole thing's just a bluff20!" interrupted the younger man, decidedly. "It's not what you told us about at all—and it's not good, anyway. It looks as if a tornado21 had struck it! You said it was to be late afternoon—it's nearer midnight, as[54] far as I can see! What's that tree lying around for?"
His tone was abusive, but a genuine concern and surprise was underneath22 it. He looked furtively23 at his older friend behind Willard's back. The other shook his head expressively24.
Willard bit his lip. "I only wanted to try—it won't necessarily stay that way," he explained. He wished he cared more for what they said. He wished they did not bore him so unspeakably. More than all, he wished they would go.
The younger one whistled softly. "Pretty late in the day to be making up your mind, I should say," he remarked. "When's it going to dry in? Morris has been working like a horse on his for six weeks. He's coming on, too—splendid colour!"
Willard lit a cigarette. "Damn Morris!" he said casually25. The older man drew on his glove and turned to go.
"Oh, certainly!" he replied cheerfully. "By all means! No, we can't stay—we only dropped in. We just thought we'd see how you were getting[55] along. If I were you, Will, I'd make up my mind about that intoxicated26 tree and set it up straight—good-bye!"
They went out cheerfully enough, but he knew they were disappointed and hurt—they had expected so much from that picture. And he wished he cared more. He looked at it critically. Of course it was bad, but how could they tell what he had been doing? It was the plan of months changed utterly27 in three hours. The result was ridiculous, but he needed it no longer—he knew what he wanted now, what he had been fighting against all these days. He would paint it if he could—and till he could. The insistent28 artist-passion to express even bunglingly something of the unendurable beauty of that strange night was on him, and before the echo of his guests' departure had died away he was working as he had never worked before, the old picture lying unnoticed in the corner where he had thrown it.
He needed no models, he did not use his studies. Was it not printed on his brain, was it not etched into his heart, that weird29 vision of the storm, with[56] the floating fairy creature that hardly touched the earth? Was there a lovely curve in all her melting postures30, which slipped like water circles into new shapes, that he did not know? That haunting, elf-like look, that ineffably31 exquisite32 abandon, had he not studied it greedily then in the wood, and later, in his restless dreams? The trees were sentient33, the bushes put out clasping fingers to detain him, the wind shrieked34 out its angry soul at him; and she, the white wonder with her floating wisps of stinging hair, had joined with them to mock at him, the startled witness of that mad revel35 of all the elements. He knew all this—he was drunk with it: could he paint it? Or would people see only a strange-eyed girl dancing in a wood?
He did not know how many days he had been at work on it; he ate what the cleaning-woman brought him; his face was bristled36 with a stubby growth; the cigarette boxes strewed37 the floor. Men appeared at the door, and he urged them peevishly38 to go away; people brought messages, and he said he was not in town, and returned the notes unread. In the morning he smiled and breathed hard and[57] patted the easel; at night he bit his nails and cursed himself for a colour-blind fool.
There was a white birch, strained and bent in the wind, that troubled him still, and as he was giving it the last touches, in the cold, strong afternoon light, the door burst open.
"Look here, the thing closes at six! Are you crazy?" they called to him, exasperatedly. "Aren't you going to send it?"
"That's all right, that's all right," he muttered vaguely, "shut up, can't you?"
They stood over behind him, and there was a stillness in the room. He laid down his palette carefully and turned to them, a worried look on his drawn39, bristled face.
"That's meant to be the ocean beyond the cliff there," he said, an almost childlike fear in his eyes, "did—did you know it?"
The older man drew in a long breath.
"Lord, yes! I hear it!" he returned, "do you think we're deaf?"
[58]
"Dryad? Undine? No, she frightens you, but she's sweet! George! He's painted the wind! He's actually drawn a wind! My, but it's stunning41! My!"
Willard sank into a chair. He was flushed and his legs shook. He patted the terrier unsteadily and talked to her. "Well, then! Well, then! So she was, iss, so she was!"
The older man snapped his watch. "Five-thirty," he said. "Put something 'round it, and whistle a cab—we'll have to hurry!"
Willard fingered some dead crocuses on the stand beside him. "Look out, you fool, it's wet!" he growled42. The older man patted his shoulder.
"All right, boy, all right!" he said soothingly43. "It's all done, now—never mind!"
They shouldered it out of the door while he pulled the terrier's ears.
"Where you going?" they called.
"Turkish bath. Restaurant. Vaudeville," he answered, and they nodded.
"All alone?"
"Yes, thanks. drop in to-morrow!"
[59]
"——And drive like thunder!" he heard them through the open window.
A week later he was walking up Broadway between them, sniffing44 the fresh, sweet air comfortably, the terrier at his heels. At intervals45 they read him bits from the enthusiastic comments of the critics.
"Mr. Willard, whose 'Windflower' distanced all competitors and won the Minot prize by a unanimous verdict of the judges, has displayed, aside from his thorough master of technic, a breadth of atmosphere, an imaginative range rarely if ever equalled by an American. Nothing but the work itself, so manifestly idealistic in subject and treatment, could convince us that it is not a study from life, so keen, so haunting is the impression produced by the remarkable46 figure of the Spirit of the Gale12, who seems to sink before our eyes on the falling trunk, literally47 riding the storm. In direct contrast to this abandon of the figure is the admirable reticence48 of the background which is keyed so low——"
Willard stopped abruptly49 before the window of[60] a large art establishment where a photograph of the picture was already displayed. "I want one of those," he said, "and I'm going out into the country for a bit before I sail, I think."
"Oh, back there?" they asked, comprehensively.
"Yes, back there!"
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1
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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40
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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41
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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42
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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44
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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45
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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46
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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47
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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48
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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49
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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