Le Poète Et L'Inspiration: Orné Et Gravé Par Armand Coussens
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | Francis Jammes | ISBN: | 9781465538543 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | French |
| Author: | Francis Jammes |
| ISBN: | 9781465538543 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | French |
"All her work," he said, caressingly; "she did it all herselfevery bit," and he took the room in with a glance which was full of affectionate worship. One of those soft Japanese fabrics with which women drape with careful negligence the upper part of a picture−frame was out of adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautious pains, stepping back several times to gauge the effect before he got it to suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two with his hand, and said: "She always does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, but it does lack something until you've done thatyou can see it yourself after it's done, but that is all you know; you can't find out the law of it. It's like the finishing pats a mOther gives the child's hair after she's got it combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all these things so much that I can do them all just her way, though I don't know the law of any of them. But she knows the law. She knows the why and the how both; but I don't know the why; I only know the how." He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroom as I had not seen for years: white counterpane, white pillows, carpeted floor, papered walls, pictures, dressing−table, with mirror and pin−cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash−stand, with real china−ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china dish, and on a rack more than a dozen towelstowels too clean and white for one out of practice to use without some vague sense of profanation. So my face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words: "All her work; she did it all herselfevery bit. Nothing here that hasn't felt the touch of her hand. Now you would thinkBut I mustn't talk so much." By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail of the room's belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place, where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and his spirit; and I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you know, that there was something there somewhere that the man wanted me to discover for myself. I knew it perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me by furtive indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the right track, being eager to gratify him. I failed several times, as I could see out of the corner of my eye without being told; but at last I knew I must be looking straight at the thingknew it from the pleasure issuing in invisible waves from him. He broke into a happy laugh, and rubbed his hands together, and cried out
"All her work," he said, caressingly; "she did it all herselfevery bit," and he took the room in with a glance which was full of affectionate worship. One of those soft Japanese fabrics with which women drape with careful negligence the upper part of a picture−frame was out of adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautious pains, stepping back several times to gauge the effect before he got it to suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two with his hand, and said: "She always does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, but it does lack something until you've done thatyou can see it yourself after it's done, but that is all you know; you can't find out the law of it. It's like the finishing pats a mOther gives the child's hair after she's got it combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all these things so much that I can do them all just her way, though I don't know the law of any of them. But she knows the law. She knows the why and the how both; but I don't know the why; I only know the how." He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroom as I had not seen for years: white counterpane, white pillows, carpeted floor, papered walls, pictures, dressing−table, with mirror and pin−cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash−stand, with real china−ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china dish, and on a rack more than a dozen towelstowels too clean and white for one out of practice to use without some vague sense of profanation. So my face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words: "All her work; she did it all herselfevery bit. Nothing here that hasn't felt the touch of her hand. Now you would thinkBut I mustn't talk so much." By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail of the room's belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place, where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and his spirit; and I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you know, that there was something there somewhere that the man wanted me to discover for myself. I knew it perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me by furtive indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the right track, being eager to gratify him. I failed several times, as I could see out of the corner of my eye without being told; but at last I knew I must be looking straight at the thingknew it from the pleasure issuing in invisible waves from him. He broke into a happy laugh, and rubbed his hands together, and cried out
