ry feet. As I look out of my window the last
thing before I go to sleep, I see the lights of Great Belvern, the
dim shadows of the distant cathedral towers, the quaint priory seven
centuries old, and just the outline of Holly Bush Hill, a sacred seat of
magic science when the Druids investigated the secrets of the stars,
and sought, by auspices and sacrifices, to forecast the future and to
penetrate the designs of the gods.

It makes me feel very new, very undeveloped, to look out of that window.
If I were an Englishwoman, say the fifty-fifth duchess of something, I
could easily glow with pride to think that I was part and parcel of such
antiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land and titles, but
of historic associations. But as I am an American with a very recent
background, I blow out my candle with the feeling that it is rather
grand to be making history for somebody else to inherit.

Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist.

I am almost too comfortable with Mrs. Bobby. In fact I wished to be
just a little miserable in Belvern, so that I could paint with a frenzy.
Sometimes, when I have been in a state of almost despairing loneliness
and gloom, the colours have glowed on my canvas and the lines have
shaped themselves under my hand independent of my own volition. Now,
tucked away in a corner of my consciousness is the knowledge that I need
never be lonely again unless I choose. When I yield myself fully to the
sweet enchantment of this thought, I feel myself in the mood to paint
sunshine, flowers, and happy children's faces; yet I am sadly lacking
in concentration, all the same. The fact is, I am no artist in the true
sense of the word. My hope flies ever in front of my best success, and
that momentary success does not deceive me in the very least. I know
exactly how much, or rather how little, I am worth; that I lack the
imagination, the industry, the training, the ambition, to achieve any
lasting results. I have the artistic temperament in so far that it is
impossible for me to work merely for money or popularity, or indeed for
anything less than the desire to express the best that is in me without
fear or favour. It would never occur to me to trade on present approval
and dash off unworthy stuff while I have command of the market. I am
quite above all that, but I am distinctly below that other mental and
spiritual level where art is enough; where pleasure does not signify;
where one shuts oneself up an