MY view-point is the painter’s, the poet’s; ah, I am a romanticist! But my book is true. The romanticist finds truth without seeking it; it is before him, around him, and he gathers it all with the joy of the child that plucks the flowers in the fields. Truth is not knowledge: it belongs to temperament; it is vision! The child and the romanticist love the beautiful, that is all: truth is there!
2. My Friends the Trees
I HAVE loved trees all my life; they were the friends of my baby years. Though the land of the trees seemed far away from the close-built houses, I wandered thither with great joy and never knew that my little feet were tired. The tall aspens were the most wonderful things in the world: they are still. I shed tears on being told that the Cross was made from one of them. I have wept since at the sight of their trembling leaves. They trembled for the tragedy of Golgotha. I know they will tremble to the end of the world. Melancholy trees! O but they are beautiful—beautiful and gentle like a nun with a prayer quivering upon her lips, with her white fingers and her rosary sparkling from under her robe: and, lo, the aspens are all alike, as she and her holy sisters must needs be for the sake of their holiness.
Sensitive to all the changes of the sky, the aspen reflects wondrous colour; the leaves, like a million little mirrors, draw the blue and the purple from above and drink the orange from departing suns. And all the colour and the light blend in subtle harmonies like the precious pearls on the neck of a goddess. Ah! do they not pulsate like the strings of beads on a maiden’s breast? The vision is fleeting as it is beautiful; the colour upon the leaves, like that in the dews around, is surely spiritual.
3. The Profanity of Paint
AS a painter, out-of-doors, the aspens are my despair, for they are surely beyond the limitations of paint. I once set my palette with bright colours with a grove of aspens in front of me: O, but when I looked up into all the mass of shimmering leaves, spread out like a garment inwoven with gems, flowing upon the breezes and toying with the rich dyes of heaven, I shut down my box, threw myself upon the grass and sat there in idle adoration, like a heathen before his god. If all I beheld was meant for a revelation it was surely as beautiful as the burning bush. To Moses I am more than grateful: it is through him that God’s voice rings out against the bad artist: Thou shalt not make ... any likeness of any thing. When God said the same thing to the Chinese three thousand years ago they understood and have painted colour ever since. Why is the western world in the dark?
O let my eyes be baptized with the sun that I may behold colour like the heathen!
How long I stayed in the temple of the trees I do not know; time did not count because I was not at work: all was like a dream. If I had been a Florentine of the olden days I would have seen here the robes of a saint, perhaps the shining garment of the Blessed Virgin.
I did well to close my box and keep my eyes unspoiled by the profanity of paint, leaving the pure impression to some happy occasion when the memory of it all will be sufficient for my picture.