“Do you not paint flowers, or sketch home scenes?”
“I have never used pencil or brush, and yet I feel at times such longings within me to give expression to my states, I think I must have, at least, some latent power in that direction.”
“As all have. I could teach you in a very short time, to sketch woods, hills, and skies.”
“I think I should never copy. You don't know how foreign it is to my nature to copy anything. I should respect artists more if they did not copy so much. I reverence the past; I honor and admire the pure lives and noble works of those who are gone; but where are the new saints and the new masters? Was genius buried with Michael Angelo and Raphael? The same God who inspired their lives, inspires ours. We can make ourselves illustrious in our own way. We may not all paint, but whatever our work is, that should we do as individuals. If we copy, we shall have no genius to transmit to future generations.”
Dawn wished to be pardoned if she had wearied her listener, but she saw at once, as she looked on his face, that the thoughts she had expressed were accepted, and that her words had not fallen on unappreciative ears.
“You have spoken my own views, and if my health remains, I shall give the world my best efforts in my own way. Nature shall be my study. I will not fall a worshipper, like Correggio, to light and shade, but use them as adjuncts to the great idea which must ever dwell in the soul of the faithful artist, to give the whole of nature.”
“I would not have spoken so much upon a theme even so dear to me as this, had I not felt that you would accept my thoughts, and therefore knew that I should not weary you.”
“I shall see you before you go,” he said, retaining her hand which she extended, as she arose to leave.
“I should be very sorry not to bid you good-bye. Have you my portrait?” He handed it to her, and walked with her to the hotel.
“To-morrow she will depart, I may never see her again. Never! No, it cannot be. I shall see her, live near her, feel her life flowing into mine each day. It must be, I shall droop and fade without her, as the flower without dew or water.” He went in and found the letter written, sealed and directed to Paris. He loved the word, since she was going there.