was breathing heavily, almost as if he were gasping for air.
I had begun to walk towards him when he put his arm out to one side to discourage me from coming any closer. “The truth is, I’m terrified of her.” From where I stood his voice was barely audible.
“I mean nothing to her,” he whispered. “I become invisible whenever she enters a room.” I stepped in front of him so that I could see his face.
George said nothing, but let the extended arm fall to his side, a gesture of surrender. Still, he did not look at me for longer than a fraction of a second, keeping his gaze fixed instead on the horizon of the distant lake.
“George,” I began, “she’s just a woman. There is nothing about her —”
He interrupted me. “Fate,” he said, “destiny. I’m connected to her somehow, but she’s not connected to me … not at all.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, laughing, unable to envision fate or destiny playing any kind of role in the life of a man in a whiteapron, a man operating a china emporium. I bent to pick up the drawing that George had absently brought with him to the edge of the hillside and that was now about to be carried off by the wind. I was still smiling, but I stopped when George looked at me oddly and I realized there were tears in his eyes.
I knew nothing of passion then. Two decades would have to pass before I would be able to recognize it when I was in its company, and, even now, I am not certain that I ever let it slip beneath my own skin. Still, after I had looked at George’s face that August afternoon, something briefly altered in me and I was able to turn and see the summer landscape as I never had before. It was almost evening, the fields that lay before us were richly lit, as if the sun that had poured itself into the earth all day, all season long, were now being released through bark and foliage. Fields of grain, elm trees, sumac bushes, pine groves became sources rather than reflectors of light, the soft shapes of hardwood lots seemed as full of sky as the banks of cumulus clouds that floated above them. Even the rail and stump fences, the cairns of boulders assembled a century before were charged, radiant, their awkwardness a shining memorial to the labour of the men who had built them. This was the first time I had been moved by the tranquillity rather than the violence of nature, the first time I felt the scene before me to be one of perfect harmony. I had never before suspected it was possible that landscape — this impression — might be a compensation for misery, for loss.
The lake was bright blue, sparkling below us. Two or three white sails were visible near the harbour. On the other side lay my own country, my own city. I looked again at George, who had remained seated, his back bent, his arms on his knees, his face dark with emotion.
“I’ll be going back soon,” I said, handing him his uncompleted drawing.
He looked at the piece of paper for a moment, then crumpled it in his fist, threw it towards the view. He rose to his feet and smiled. “There’s always next summer,” he said.
A few years later, when both Robert Henri and Rockwell Kent were making their philosophies known to me, the former was quite vague and the latter absolutely clear on the subject of passion. Robert H. would have admired my tranquil vision, would have nodded with approval as I described it. Conversely, Rockwell would have instructed me to turn my back on the scene, to seize the tail of the northwest wind, to travel into storm and chaos, with the assurance that brightness and clarity would follow. He was a man who craved the catastrophe of experience. “The impossibility of one life,” he would rage, shaking his fist at the sky above MacDougal Street, “against the brilliance, the possibilities of everything alive in it!” Almost anything was capable of carrying him off: women, islands, politics, weather, his own thundering heart. He once said to me, quite seriously, “Get
I had begun to walk towards him when he put his arm out to one side to discourage me from coming any closer. “The truth is, I’m terrified of her.” From where I stood his voice was barely audible.
“I mean nothing to her,” he whispered. “I become invisible whenever she enters a room.” I stepped in front of him so that I could see his face.
George said nothing, but let the extended arm fall to his side, a gesture of surrender. Still, he did not look at me for longer than a fraction of a second, keeping his gaze fixed instead on the horizon of the distant lake.
“George,” I began, “she’s just a woman. There is nothing about her —”
He interrupted me. “Fate,” he said, “destiny. I’m connected to her somehow, but she’s not connected to me … not at all.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, laughing, unable to envision fate or destiny playing any kind of role in the life of a man in a whiteapron, a man operating a china emporium. I bent to pick up the drawing that George had absently brought with him to the edge of the hillside and that was now about to be carried off by the wind. I was still smiling, but I stopped when George looked at me oddly and I realized there were tears in his eyes.
I knew nothing of passion then. Two decades would have to pass before I would be able to recognize it when I was in its company, and, even now, I am not certain that I ever let it slip beneath my own skin. Still, after I had looked at George’s face that August afternoon, something briefly altered in me and I was able to turn and see the summer landscape as I never had before. It was almost evening, the fields that lay before us were richly lit, as if the sun that had poured itself into the earth all day, all season long, were now being released through bark and foliage. Fields of grain, elm trees, sumac bushes, pine groves became sources rather than reflectors of light, the soft shapes of hardwood lots seemed as full of sky as the banks of cumulus clouds that floated above them. Even the rail and stump fences, the cairns of boulders assembled a century before were charged, radiant, their awkwardness a shining memorial to the labour of the men who had built them. This was the first time I had been moved by the tranquillity rather than the violence of nature, the first time I felt the scene before me to be one of perfect harmony. I had never before suspected it was possible that landscape — this impression — might be a compensation for misery, for loss.
The lake was bright blue, sparkling below us. Two or three white sails were visible near the harbour. On the other side lay my own country, my own city. I looked again at George, who had remained seated, his back bent, his arms on his knees, his face dark with emotion.
“I’ll be going back soon,” I said, handing him his uncompleted drawing.
He looked at the piece of paper for a moment, then crumpled it in his fist, threw it towards the view. He rose to his feet and smiled. “There’s always next summer,” he said.
A few years later, when both Robert Henri and Rockwell Kent were making their philosophies known to me, the former was quite vague and the latter absolutely clear on the subject of passion. Robert H. would have admired my tranquil vision, would have nodded with approval as I described it. Conversely, Rockwell would have instructed me to turn my back on the scene, to seize the tail of the northwest wind, to travel into storm and chaos, with the assurance that brightness and clarity would follow. He was a man who craved the catastrophe of experience. “The impossibility of one life,” he would rage, shaking his fist at the sky above MacDougal Street, “against the brilliance, the possibilities of everything alive in it!” Almost anything was capable of carrying him off: women, islands, politics, weather, his own thundering heart. He once said to me, quite seriously, “Get
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