An Angler at Large/Chapter 17
Concerning a wonderful little study of a pollard willow which I sent him the other day, the professional painter writes this: "I don't recommend perfectly round trees. For composition's sake, break off at least one bough."
A hatchet, then, is an essential part of a landscape painter's equipment; but as I do not find it included in my catalogue, which is certainly very complete, it may be that there is some explanation of this hint which has escaped me. And Farmer Lavender would object. I know he would. Until I can communicate with my master I will leave perfectly round trees alone.
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After search I find that there are no perfectly round trees in this valley. I am therefore relieved of the necessity of injuring Mr. Lavender's pollards. I rejoice. But this shows how careful my master is. He knows the danger of the circular tree to young painters. I am in good hands.
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In his letters my master continually refers me to the work of Turner. For example, he says: "All methods of handling are legitimate—provided they come off. Turner used thousands." This is very encouraging. If Turner used thousands there seems to be a good chance that mine is one of those which this great painter used. If it were so, how fine it would be!
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A man has been here. He is only a black-and-white artist, and is a little jealous, naturally, that I should handle a superior medium. He has looked at some of my little things. He said: "Your method seems to me to be" I did not wait to hear the adjective. I said; "All methods are legitimate—if they come off." He said: "I grant that, on those terms, yours may be admirable. Bring me a wet sponge and let us see." I was glad when he went away, because I hate to rouse any man's envy. Yet I was sorry, for on all other counts I love him.
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Everybody who sees my pictures—that is to say, everybody who comes inside our garden gate—admires them immensely. It is extraordinary that in a little village like Willows there should be so many good judges of art. Our laundress, now, Mrs. Stiggins—she thinks the world of them. A fig for that fellow!
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I now paint freely about in the village. Nobody bothers me, as I feared they would. Perhaps, out of sheer courtesy, they come and look over my shoulder. But they never stay long. I think they fear to intrude.
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I have given one of my pictures to Mrs. Stiggins. Signed. It is a picture of her pretty cottage. She came and watched me as I painted it, and I gave it to her.
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My picture of Mrs. Stiggins's cottage is hung—nailed, I should say. I have seen it in Mrs. Stiggins's parlour. On one side is the almanac of a friendly society. On the other is a large shell with a view of Bournemouth Pier inside it. My picture is easily the best, regarded purely as a work of art. Mrs. Stiggins's brother was in the cottage when I called about a collar that was missing from last week's wash. He lives opposite to Mrs. Stiggins. He asked me if this might be one of the houses hereabouts. I believe him to be a trout-poacher, and I am sure that that was my collar which I saw round his neck.
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Since I gave the picture to Mrs. Stiggins nobody has looked over my shoulder while I have been working. I expect they think that it would look like hinting.
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When I come in from painting luncheon has been ready for some minutes. Any other woman would complain, but my wife does not. She is too anxious to see my picture. She has a very keen eye for the virtues of my work, and I never go wholly lacking a word of praise. It is comforting, as I wrestle, sometimes rather hopelessly, with the problems which I set myself, to know that the result is sure of a kind reception. The interest she takes in them doubles the joy of my labours. I am very like a child making mud pies and bringing them to its mother for approval. We both know that my paintings are abominable, but she pretends that they are exquisite, and we lose ourselves in admiration while the soup gets cold.