The thick foliage of the ash never stirs; even
the fingery leaves hanging out from the topmost twigs are still. The
hawthorns growing out of a tumbled wall are turning yellow and brown,
the hollyhocks are over, the chrysanthemums are beginning. Last night
a faint pink sky melted into the solemn blue of midnight. There were
few stars; Jupiter, wearisomely brilliant, sailed overhead; red Mars
hung above the horizon under a round, decorative moon.... The last
days of September! and every day the light dies a few minutes earlier.
At half-past five one perceives a chilliness about one's feet; no
doubt there is a touch of frost in the air; that is why the leaves
hang so plaintively. There is certainly a touch of frost in the air,
and one is tempted to put a match to the fire. It is difficult to say
whether one feels cold or whether one desires the company of the
blaze. Tea is over, the dusk gathers, and the brute Despondency lurks
in the corners. At the close of day, when one's work is over,
benumbing thoughts arise in the study and in the studio. Think of a
painter of architecture finishing the thirty-sixth pillar (there are
forty-three). The dusk has interrupted his labour, and an ache begins
in his heart as he rises from the easel.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340