11. Tragedy
THE sky was impressive by its change from sunlight to sudden darkness; and the ethereal fabric hung like black velvet over all the woods. All the colour that a moment ago clothed the trees was gone in an instant, as a candle is blown out; and the world was without form.
I stood under a tree. The sense of my own presence was the only note of reality that disturbed the dream of pre-world void.
In a few minutes the heavens opened high above my head and a stream of light slanted down upon an old oak. Perhaps it was the searchlight of a war god, for in a moment the oak was struck, and the earth shook as it fell. I was captivated as much by the greatness of the tree as by its fall; it was torn up with its roots with a mountain of clay in its grip. But more wondrous than all were the forewarned sheep that nestled under it to the last moment. Why did they all rise and leap forth into the open field? What made them flee before the blast?... There are sanctuaries which should never be unveiled: there are questions you should not attempt to answer—this is one.
12. The Tonic of Genius
THERE never was a colourist without a keen sense of humour and never without a generous soul. When I say humour I do not mean satire or anything that leaves a bitter taste. Satire is permissible with the community, but should never be directed against a person.
Humour must always be buoyant, pleasant in every way, and have no other meaning than that which makes the person who happens to be the sport of it laugh with the rest. The one so honoured must, of course, be a genuine humorist, or he would be unworthy of special attention.
Humour is the tonic of genius. It is the healthy reaction of prolonged serious thought, the pleasant negative of stern reality, the divine intoxicant for the over-productive brain.
I have always felt that the past should be either forgotten or turned to humour. The only serious part of life is the present, but this should have its lighter side. When we have ceased to laugh we have done with all generous feeling, and, when this is dead, it is the end of all creative thought.