Jan of the Windmill: A Story of the Plains

by Juliana Horatia Ewing

The painter drove his hands through his bushy hair, and spoke more vehemently than before.

“I his teacher, and not you? My good friend, I at least am the better judge of what makes a painter’s education. Is the man who shows a Giotto how to use this brush, or mix that paint, to be called his teacher? No, not for teaching him, forsooth, what he would have learned of anybody, everybody, nobody, somehow, anyhow, or done just as well without. But the man who taught him to work as a matter of principle, and apart from inclination (a lesson which not all geniuses learn); the man who fostered the love of Nature in him, and the spirit of poetry,—qualities without which draughtsmanship and painting had better not be; the man who by example and precept led him to find satisfaction in duty done, and happiness in simple pleasures and domestic affections; the man who so fixed these high and pure lessons in his mind, at its most susceptible age, that the foulest dens of London could not corrupt him; the man whose beloved and reverenced face would rise up in judgment against him if he could ever hereafter degrade his art to be a pander of vice, or a mere trick of the workshop;—this man, Master Swift, has been the painter’s schoolmaster!”

Master Swift was not accustomed to betray emotion, but his nerves were less strong than they had been, and self-control was more difficult; and with his horny hands he hid the cheeks down which tears of gratified pride would force their way.

He had not found voice to speak, when Rufus appeared at the gate with one basket, followed by Jan and the little innkeeper with another. Why Master Chuter had come, and why Jan was looking so particularly well satisfied, must be explained.

Whilst the painter was still gazing across the water-meadows, Master Swift, who was the soul of hospitality, had told Jan where to find a few shillings in a certain drawer, and had commissioned him to lay these out in the wherewithal for an evening meal. Jan had had some anxiety in connection with the duty intrusted to him. Firstly, he well knew that the few shillings were what the schoolmaster must depend on for that week’s living. Secondly, though it was his old friend’s all, it was a sum very inadequate to provide such a meal as Jan would have liked to set before the painter. At his age, children are very sensitive on behalf of their grown-up friends, and like to maintain the credit of home. The provoking point was that Jan had plenty of pocket-money, with which he could have supplied deficiencies, had he dared; for the painter, besides buying him an outfit for the journey, had liberally rewarded him for his work at the pot boiler. But Jan knew the pride of Master Swift’s heart too well to venture to add a half penny to his money, or to spend a half penny less than all.

It was whilst he was going with an anxious countenance towards the village shop that Master Chuter met him with open arms. The little innkeeper was genuinely delighted to see him; and the news of his arrival having spread, several old friends (including “Willum” Smith) were waiting for him, about the yardway of the Heart of Oak. When the innkeeper discovered Jan’s errand, he insisted on packing up a prime cut of bacon, some new-laid eggs, and a bottle of “crusty” old port, such as the squires drank at election dinners, to take to the schoolmaster. Jan was far too glad of this seasonable addition to the feast to suggest doubts of its acceptance; indeed, he ventured on a hint about a possible lack of wine-glasses, which Master Chuter quickly took, and soon filled up his basket with ancient glasses on bloated legs, a clean table-cloth, and so forth.

“We needn’t say any thing about the glasses,” suggested Jan, as they drew near the cottage.

Master Chuter winked the little eye buried in his fat left cheek.

“I knows the schoolmaster, Jan. He be mortal proud; and I wouldn’t offend he, sartinly not, Jan. But Master Swift and me have seen a deal of each other since you left, and he’ve tasted this port before, when he were so bad, and he’ll not take it amiss from an old friend.”

Master Chuter was right. The schoolmaster only thanked him heartily, and pressed him to remain. But the little innkeeper, bustling round the table with professional solicitude, declined the invitation.