There is a falling
flourish in the air that remains in the memory and comes back in
incongruous places, on the seat of hansoms or in the warm bed at
night, with something of a forest savour.
'You can get up now,' says the painter; 'I'm at the background.'
And so up you get, stretching yourself, and go your way into the
wood, the daylight becoming richer and more golden, and the shadows
stretching farther into the open. A cool air comes along the
highways, and the scents awaken. The fir-trees breathe abroad their
ozone. Out of unknown thickets comes forth the soft, secret,
aromatic odour of the woods, not like a smell of the free heaven, but
as though court ladies, who had known these paths in ages long gone
by, still walked in the summer evenings, and shed from their brocades
a breath of musk or bergamot upon the woodland winds. One side of
the long avenues is still kindled with the sun, the other is plunged
in transparent shadow. Over the trees the west begins to burn like a
furnace; and the painters gather up their chattels, and go down, by
avenue or footpath, to the plain.
A PLEASURE-PARTY
As this excursion is a matter of some length, and, moreover, we go in
force, we have set aside our usual vehicle, the pony-cart, and
ordered a large wagonette from Lejosne's.
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