In his writing, too, he displays his
harshness--swoops hither and thither a butterfly equipped with sharp
little beak and talons; whereas in his painting we are conscious only
of his caressing sense of beauty. But look from the writer, as shown
by himself, to the means by which himself is shown. You will find that
for words as for colour-tones he has the same reverent care, and for
phrases as for forms the same caressing sense of beauty.
Fastidiousness--`daintiness,' as he would have said--dandyishness, as
we might well say: by just that which marks him as a painter is he
marked as a writer too. His meaning was ever ferocious; but his
method, how delicate and tender! The portrait of his mother, whom he
loved, was not wrought with a more loving hand than were his portraits
of Mr. Harry Quilter for The World.
His style never falters. The silhouette of no sentence is ever
blurred. Every sentence is ringing with a clear vocal cadence. There,
after all, in that vocal quality, is the chief test of good writing.
Writing, as a means of expression, has to compete with talking. The
talker need not rely wholly on what he says. He has the help of his
mobile face and hands, and of his voice, with its various inflexions
and its variable pace, whereby he may insinuate fine shades of
meaning, qualifying or strengthening at will, and clothing naked words
with colour, and making dead words live.
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