The Girl Philippa
individually, always collectively. And there was Miss Peggy Brooks,
cosmopolitan, sister of Madame de Moidrey who lived in a big house among
the hills across the meadows--the Chateau des Oiseaux, prettily named
because the protection and encouragement of little birds had been the
immemorial custom of its lordly proprietors.
And so the Harem, fully equipped to wrestle with the giant, Art, filed
out of the quiet garden and across the meadows by the little river
Recollette, where were haystacks, freshly erected and fragrant, which
very unusual subject they had unanimously chosen for their morning's
crime.
To perpetrate it upon canvas they pitched their white umbrellas, tripod
easels, and sketching stools; then each maiden, taking a determined grip
upon her charcoal, squinted, so to speak, in chorus at the hapless
haystacks. And the giant, Art, trembled in the seclusion of the
_ewigkeit_.
Warner regarded them gloomily; Halkett, who had disinterred a pipe from
his pockets, stood silently beside him, loading it.
"They'll paint this morning, and after luncheon," said Warner. "After
dinner they all get into an omnibus and drive to Ausone to remain
overnight, and spend tomorrow in street sketching. I insist on their
doing this once every month. When they return with their sketches, I
give them a general criticism."
"Will these young ladies ever really amount to anything?" inquired
Halkett.
"Probably never. Europe, the British Isles, and the United States are
dotted all over with similar and feminine groups attempting haystacks.
The sum-total of physical energy thus expended must be enormous--like
the horsepower represented by Niagara. But it creates no ripple upon the
intellectual serenity of the thinking world. God alone knows why women
paint haystacks. I do my best to switch them toward other phenomena."
The rural postman on his bicycle, wearing _kepi_ and blue blouse, came
pedaling along the highway. When he saw Warner he saluted and got off
his wheel.
"Letters, Grandin?"
"Two, Monsieur Warner."
Warner took them.
"Eh, bien?" he inquired, lowering his voice; "et la guerre?"
"Monsieur Warner, the affair is becoming very serious."
"What is the talk in Ausone?"
"People are calm--too calm. A little noise, now, a little
gesticulation, and the affair would seem less ominous to me--like the
Algeciras matter and the Schnaeble incident before that--Monsieur may
remember?"
"I know. It is like the hush before a tempest. The world is too still,
the sunlight too perfect."
"There seems to me," said the little postman, "a curious unreality about
yesterday and today--something in the cloudless peace overhead that
troubles men."
Being no more and no less poet than are all French peasants, this
analysis sufficed him. He touched his kepi; the young men lifted their
hats, and the postman pedaled away down the spotless military road.
Warner glanced at the envelope in his hand; Halkett looked at it, too.
It was addressed in red ink.
"It's for me, old chap," said the Englishman.
The other glanced up, surprised.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite--if you don't mind trusting me."
Warner laughed and handed him the letter.
"It's addressed very plainly to me," he said. "You've got your nerve
with you, Halkett."
"I have to keep it about me, old chap."
"No doubt. And still I don't see----"
"It's very simple. I sent two telephone messages last night. One
letter should have arrived. It has not! The man who wrote this letter
must have gone miles last night on a motor cycle to mail it so that your
little postman should hand it to me this morning----"
"Intriguer!" interrupted Warner, still laughing. "He handed it to _me_!
I see you're going to get me in Dutch before I'm rid of you."
"I don't comprehend your Yankee slang," retorted Halkett with a slight
grin, "so if you don't mind I'll sit here on the grass and read my
letter. Go on and criticize your Harem. But before you go, lend me a
pencil. They stole even my pencil in the Cabaret de Biribi."
Warner, amused, handed him a pencil and a pad, and strolled away toward
the industrious Harem to see what they might be perpetrating.
Halkett seated himself on the grass where, if he chose to glance up, he
had a clear view all about him. Then he opened his letter.
It was rather an odd sort of letter. It began:
DEAR GREEN:
A red wagon, red seat, orange rumble, red mudguards, blue
steering-wheel, red bumpers, blue wheels, red engines, red varnish, red
open body, red machinery, red all over, in fact, except where it
isn't--is for sale.
So much of this somewhat extraordinary letter Halkett very carefully and
slowly perused; then, still studying this first paragraph intently, he
wrote down on his pad the following letters in the following sequence,
numbering each letter underneath:
R O Y G B I V S W A
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
The letters represented, up to and including the letter V, the colors of
the solar spectrum in their proper sequence: red, orange, yellow, green,
blue, indigo, and violet. The letter S, which followed the letter V,
stood for _schwarz_, which in German means black. The letter W stood
for weiss, white; the letter A for _argent_. Every letter, therefore,
represented some color or metallic luster; and these, in turn,
represented numbers.
And now Halkett took the opening salutation in the first paragraph of
his letter--"Dear Green." The color green being numbered 4, he found
that the fourth letter in the word "dear" was the letter R. This he
wrote down on his pad.
Then he took the next few words: "A red wagon, red seat, orange rumble,
red----" etc.
The first and only letter in the word "A" he wrote down. The next word
after "wagon" was "red." The color red indicated the figure 1. So he
next wrote down the first letter of the word "wagon," which is W.
Then came the word "seat." The word "orange" followed it. The color
orange indicated number 2 in the spectrum sequence. So he found that in
the word "seat" the letter E was the second letter. This he wrote.
Very carefully and methodically he proceeded in this manner with the
first paragraph of the letter, as far as the words "all over," but not
including them or any of the words in the first paragraph which followed
them.
He had, therefore, for his first paragraph, this sequence of letters:
RAWERUSEWEVOM.
Beginning with the last letter, M, he wrote the letters again, reversing
their sequence; and he had:
MOVEWESUREWAR.
These, with commas, he easily separated into four words: "Move," "we,"
"sure," and "war." Then, again reversing the sequence of the words, he
had two distinct sentences of two words each before him:
WAR SURE! WE MOVE!
Always working with the numbered color key before him, taking his letter
paragraph by paragraph, he had as a final remainder the following series
of letters:
EDIHUOYERADELIARTTIAWDROWOTDEECORPSIALAC.
Reversing these, checking off the separate words, and then reversing the
entire sequence of words, he had as the complete translation of his
letter, including the first paragraph, the following information and
admonition:
"War sure. We move. Hide. You are trailed. Wait word to proceed
Calais."
"War sure!" That was easily understood. "We move." That meant England
was already mobilizing on land and sea. And the remainder became plain
enough; he must stay very quietly where he was until further
instructions arrived.
He read through his notes and his letter once more, then twisted letter,
envelope, and penciled memoranda into a paper spiral, set fire to it
with a match, and leisurely lighted his pipe with it.
When the flame of the burning paper scorched his fingers, he laid it
carefully on the grass, where it was presently consumed. The charred
remnants he ground to dust under his heel as he got up and brushed a
spear or two of hay from his clothing.
Then he looked at the Harem, all busily committing felony with brush and
colors; and, as he gazed upon them, he politely stifled a yawn.
*CHAPTER VII*
Warner, conscientious but not hopeful, circulated among the easels of
the Harem. Halkett strolled at his heels.
Stopping in front of Alameda Golden's large canvas, which was all
splashed with primary and aggressive colors, he gazed, uncomforted, upon
what she had wrought there. After a few moments he said very patiently:
"You should not use a larger canvas than I have recommended to the
class. Mere size is not necessarily a synonym for distinction, nor does
artistic strength depend upon the muscular application of crude paint. A
considerable majority of our countrymen comprehend only what is large,
gaudy, and garrulous. Bulk and noise only can command their attention.
On the other hand, only what is weak, vague, and incoherent appeals to
the precious--the incapables and eccentrics among us. But there is a
sane and healthy majority: enroll yourself there, Miss Golden!
"Be honest, reticent, and modest. If you have anything to say in paint,
say it without self-consciousness, frankly, but not aggressively.
Behave on canvas as you would bear yourself in the world at large, with
freedom but with dignity, with sincerity governed by that intelligent
consideration for truth which permits realism and idealism, both of
which are founded upon fact."
Miss Golden pouted:
"But I _see_ haystacks this way!" she insisted. "I see them in large
and brilliant impressions. To me nothing looks like what it is.
Haystacks appear this way to my eyes!"
"My dear child, then paint them that way. But the popular impression
will persist that you have painted the battle of Trafalgar."
Miss Golden wriggled on her camp chair.
"Everything," she explained, "is one monstrous, gaudy, and brutal
impression to me. I see a million colors in everything and very little
shape to anything. I see only cosmic vigor; and I paint it with a punch.
Can't you see all those colors in those haystacks? To me they resemble
gigantic explosions of glorious color. And really, Mr. Warner, if I am
to be true to myself, I must paint them as I see them."
Warner, horribly discouraged, talked sanely to her for a while, then
with a pleasant nod he passed to the next easel, remarking to Halkett
under his breath:
"It's a case for a pathologist, not for a painter."
And so for an hour he prowled about among the Harem, ministering to
neurotics, inspiring the sluggish, calming despair, gently discouraging
self-complacency.
"Always," he said, "we must remain students, because there is no such
thing as mastery in any art. If ever we believe we have attained
mastery, then our progress ceases; and we do not even remain where we
are; we retrograde--and swiftly, too.
"The life work of the so-called 'master' is passed only in solving newer
problems. There is no end to the problems, there is an end only to our
lives.
"Look at the matter in that way, not as a race toward an attainable
goal, nor as an eternally hopeless effort in a treadmill; but as a sane
and sure and intelligent progress from one wonder-chamber to a chamber
still more wonderful--locked rooms which contain miracles, and which
open only when we find the various keys which fit their locks....
"That is all for this morning, young ladies."
He lifted his hat, turned, and strolled away across the meadow, Halkett
at his side.
"Some lecture!" he commented with a faint grin.
"It's sound," said Halkett.
"I do the best I can with them. One might suppose I know how to paint,
by the way I pitch into those poor girls. Yet, I myself never pick up a
brush and face my canvas but terror seizes me, and my own ignorance of