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Page 15
The very darling of his grandmother's heart, it was like death to her to
part from him when the physicians decided that to save his life it was
an imperative necessity that he should live for a a time in a warmer
climate. It was an utter impossibility for her to accompany him. He
shrank from any other companion, therefore had set forth with only his
faithful John, who had been an old servant in the family before he was
born, as valet. He went first to Egypt, where he had remained as long as
the heat would permit, then had gone northwest to the Italian lakes and
Switzerland, whence he had now come to spend a time in Florence.
Lonely, homesick, and disheartened, it was indeed like a "gift of the
gods" to him when one day, as he was leaving his banker's on Via
Tornabuoni he met the familiar face of Malcom Douglas. And when he was
welcomed to his old schoolmate's home and family circle, the weary young
man felt for the first time in many months the sensation of rest and
peace.
His evident lack of physical strength, and the quickly coming and going
color in his cheeks, told Mrs. Douglas that he could never know perfect
health; but he said that the change of country and climate had already
done him much good, and this encouraged him to think of staying from
home a year or two in the hope that then all danger of active disease
might have passed.
He so evidently longed for companionship that Malcom and the girls told
him of their life,--of their Italian lessons,--their reading,--Mr.
Sumner's talks about Italian painting,--Malcom's private college studies
(which he had promised his mother to pursue if she would give him this
year abroad), and all that which was filling their days. He was
especially interested in their lessons on the Italian masters of
painting, and asked if they would permit him to join them.
"If you will only come to me when you have any trouble with your Greek
and Latin, Malcom," he said, "perhaps I can repay you in the slightest
degree for the wonderful pleasure this would give me."
So as Mr. Sumner was willing, his little class received the addition of
Howard Sinclair.
"Why so sober, Malcom?" asked his mother, as she found him alone by
himself. "Is not the arrangement that your friend join you agreeable?"
"Oh, yes, mother, he is a nice fellow, though a sort of a prig, and I
wish to do all we can for him; only--I do hope he will not monopolize
Betty and Barbara always, as he has seemed to do this afternoon."
"My boy, beware of that little green imp we read of," laughed Mrs.
Douglas. "You have been too thoroughly 'monarch of all' thus far. Can
you not share your realm with this homesick young man?"
"But he has always had all for himself, mother. He does not know what it
is to share."
"Malcom! be yourself."
The mother's eyes looked straight up into those of her tall boy, and her
hand sought his with a firm, warm pressure that made him fling back his
noble young head with an emphatic "I am ashamed of myself! Thank you,
mother dear."
That evening, as all were sitting on the balcony watching the soft, rosy
afterglow that was creeping over the hills and turning to glowing points
the domes and spires of the fair city, Mr. Sumner said:--
"If you are willing, I would like to talk with you a little before we
make our visits to Santa Maria Novella and Santa Croce to-morrow. You
will understand better the old pictures we shall see there if we
consider beforehand what we ought to look for in any picture or other
work of art. Too many go to them as to some sort of recreation,--simply
for amusement,--simply to gratify their love for beautiful color and
form, and so, to these, the most beautiful picture is always the best.
But this is a low estimate of the great art of painting, for it is
simply one of man's means of expression, just as music or poetry is. The
artist learns to compose his pictures, to draw his forms, to lay on his
colors, just as the poet learns the meanings of words, rhetorical
figures, and the laws of harmony and rhythm, or the musician his notes
and scales and harmonies of sound."
"I see this is a new thought to you," continued he, after a moment spent
in studying the faces about him. "Let us follow it. What is the use of
this preparation of study in art, poetry, or music? Is it solely for the
perfection of itself? We often hear nowadays the expression, 'art for
art's sake,' and by some it is accounted a grand thought and a noble
rallying-cry for artists. And so it truly is if the very broadest and
highest possible meaning is given to the word 'art.' If it means the
embodying of some noble, beautiful, soul-moving thought in a form that
can be seen and understood, and means nothing less than this, then it is
indeed a worthy motto. But to too many, I fear, it means only the
painting of beauty for beauty's sake. That is, the thought embodied, the
message to some soul, which every picture ought to contain, and which
every noble picture that is worthy to live _must_ contain, becomes of
little or no value compared with the play of color and light and form.
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