His most important pictures are: “The Torrent,” 4 1/2 x 6 feet, owned by the Toledo Art Gallery; “The Abandoned Mill,” 4 1/2 x 6 feet; “The End of the Island,” 6 x 8 feet; “Clisson Castle,” 3 x 4 1/2 feet, a water-color; “After the Storm,” 3 x 5 feet; and “Winter in Holland,” 3x4 feet.
I had listened to the Sculptor's brief account of his friend's progress with calm attention, but it had not altered my opinion of the man or his genius. None of it really interested me except that somebody beside myself had found out the lad's qualities—for to me he is still a lad. None of the jury who made the awards ever looked below the paint—that is, if they were like other juries the world over. They saw the brush-mark, no doubt, but they missed the breeze that came with it—was its life, really—a breeze that swept through and out of him, blowing side by side with genius and good health—a wind of destiny, perhaps, that will carry him to climes that other men know not of.
But what a refreshing thing, this breeze, to come out of a man, and what a refreshing kind of a man for it to come out of! No pose, no effort to fill a No. 8 hat with a No. 7 head; just a simple, conscientious, hard-working young painter, humble-minded in the presence of his goddess, and full to overflowing with an uncontrollable spontaneity. This in itself was worth risking one's neck to see.
Again the cry rang out, “Marie!” and two half-drowned water-rats stepped in; the Man from the Quarter in his underpinning—his pair of boots leaked and he had stripped them off—and Knight with his own half full of water. Both roared with laughter at Marie tugging at the huge white-rubber boots, the floor she had scrubbed so conscientiously spattered with sand and water.
Then began the customary recriminations: “Hadn't been for you I wouldn't have lost him!” “What had I to do with it?” etc., etc.—the same old story when neither gets a bite.
That night, bumping over the thank-you-marms, flashing through darkened villages, and scooting in a dead heat along ribboned roads ghostly white in the starlight, on the way back to my garden—and we did arrive safely, and the chauffeur had his magnum (that is, his share of it)—I could not help saying to myself:
“Yes, it's good to be young and bouyant, but it's better to be one's self.”