Art consents at last to work upon the tissue and the china that are
doomed to the natural and necessary end--destruction; and art shows a
most dignified alacrity to do her best, daily, for the "process," and for
oblivion.
Doubtless this abandonment of hopes so large at once and so cheap costs
the artist something; nay, it implies an acceptance of the inevitable
that is not less than heroic. And the reward has been in the singular
and manifest increase of vitality in this work which is done for so short
a life. Fittingly indeed does life reward the acceptance of death,
inasmuch as to die is to have been alive. There is a real circulation of
blood-quick use, brief beauty, abolition, recreation. The honour of the
day is for ever the honour of that day. It goes into the treasury of
things that are honestly and--completely ended and done with. And when
can so happy a thing be said of a lifeless oil-painting? Who of the wise
would hesitate? To be honourable for one day--one named and dated day,
separate from all other days of the ages--or to be for an unlimited time
tedious?
AT MONASTERY GATES
No woman has ever crossed the inner threshold, or shall ever cross it,
unless a queen, English or foreign, should claim her privilege.
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