DOI Artikel:
Dixon, Ella Hepworth: The Sweet o' the Year
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26392#0162
The Sweet o’ the Year
By Ella Hepworth Dixon
Indoors, in the austere northern light of the studio, one hardly
realised that the trees on the boulevard were all a-flutter in
their pale green garments, that outside, all over Paris, the fairy-
tale of spring was being told. The only vernal sound which the
painter could hear as he worked, was the monotonous cooing of a
pair of ring-doves, whose cage hung at the end of the passage, at
an open door which gave on a strip of sun-flooded court. Inter-
mittently, he could hear, too, the shuffling of a pair of feet—feet
which pottered about in the aimless way of the old and tired.
The familiar sound brought up a vision of Virginie, the woman
who swept out 'the studio, kept the models from the door, and
made him an excellent tisane when he was out of sorts. Yes,
Virginie certainly had her uses, although she was old, and
shrivelled and unsightly. The young man hummed a love-song
of Chaminade’s as he stepped away from his picture, screwing up
his eyes the better to judge of the values. Poor, bent old
Virginie, with the failing memory, the parchment skin, and the
formless lips ! He was sorry for women—even for old women.
Being a Frenchman, he had an innately tender regard for the sex.
“The world is made for men,” he said to himself, “tiens, I am
glad I was born a man.”
And
By Ella Hepworth Dixon
Indoors, in the austere northern light of the studio, one hardly
realised that the trees on the boulevard were all a-flutter in
their pale green garments, that outside, all over Paris, the fairy-
tale of spring was being told. The only vernal sound which the
painter could hear as he worked, was the monotonous cooing of a
pair of ring-doves, whose cage hung at the end of the passage, at
an open door which gave on a strip of sun-flooded court. Inter-
mittently, he could hear, too, the shuffling of a pair of feet—feet
which pottered about in the aimless way of the old and tired.
The familiar sound brought up a vision of Virginie, the woman
who swept out 'the studio, kept the models from the door, and
made him an excellent tisane when he was out of sorts. Yes,
Virginie certainly had her uses, although she was old, and
shrivelled and unsightly. The young man hummed a love-song
of Chaminade’s as he stepped away from his picture, screwing up
his eyes the better to judge of the values. Poor, bent old
Virginie, with the failing memory, the parchment skin, and the
formless lips ! He was sorry for women—even for old women.
Being a Frenchman, he had an innately tender regard for the sex.
“The world is made for men,” he said to himself, “tiens, I am
glad I was born a man.”
And