For two things do my thoughts turn now and then to London.I should like to hear the long note of a master's violin, or the faultless cadence of an exquisite voice, and I should like to see pictures.
Music and painting have always meant much to me; here I can enjoy them only in memory.
Of course there is the discomfort of concert-hall and exhibition-rooms.My pleasure in the finest music would be greatly spoilt by having to sit amid a crowd, with some idiot audible on right hand or left, and the show of pictures would give me a headache in the first quarter of an hour.Non sum qualis eram when I waited several hours at the gallery door to hear Patti, and knew not a moment's fatigue to the end of the concert; or when, at the Academy, I was astonished to find that it was four o'clock, and I had forgotten food since breakfast.The truth is, I do not much enjoy anything nowadays which I cannot enjoy ALONE.It sounds morose; I imagine the comment of good people if they overheard such a confession.Ought I, in truth, to be ashamed of it?
I always read the newspaper articles on exhibitions of pictures, and with most pleasure when the pictures are landscapes.The mere names of paintings often gladden me for a whole day--those names which bring before the mind a bit of seashore, a riverside, a glimpse of moorland or of woods.However feeble his criticism, the journalist generally writes with appreciation of these subjects; his descriptions carry me away to all sorts of places which I shall never see again with the bodily eye, and I thank him for his unconscious magic.Much better this, after all, than really going to London and seeing the pictures themselves.They would not disappoint me; I love and honour even the least of English landscape painters; but I should try to see too many at once, and fall back into my old mood of tired grumbling at the conditions of modern life.For a year or two I have grumbled little--all the better for me.
