Woman and Artist
9781465519627
pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
THE HOUSE IN ELM AVENUE Of all the rustic neighbourhoods bordering on London city, there is none prettier, fresher, and more verdant than St. John’s Wood. It is the refuge of workers in search of light, air, and tranquillity. Painters, sculptors, writers, journalists, actors, and musicians—in fact, the majority of the highest intellectual Bohemia—inhabit these semi-rural acres, lying between Regent’s Park and Hampstead Heath. Among the leafy haunts of St. John’s Wood, numberless masterpieces have been produced by writers and artists whose fame has rung through the world. It is there, in short, that chiefly congregates the artistic intelligence of London. If you doubt my testimony on this point, apply direct for further particulars to the inhabitants of this favoured district. No. 50 Elm Avenue, St. John’s Wood, did not attract the gaze of the passer-by. Walled around and almost hidden by large trees, the house, which could be seen through the iron gates, was a modest, unpretentious, two-storeyed structure. On the ground floor it was traversed by a long vestibule. Those who had been privileged to enter it knew that there was a long drawing-room and boudoir on one side, and on the other a spacious dining-room, and a library with a French window and steps leading down to a beautiful garden, surrounded by spreading elms and chestnut trees. On the outside, glossy ivy with gnarled stems mantled the lower part of the house, and in autumn bold virginia creepers hung wreaths of scarlet around the chamber windows. At the side of the house, with the door opening on the adjacent street, stood a building with high north window, which indicated that the house was the abode of an artist. In this spacious, well-lit studio, worked Philip Grantham, A.R.A. The house was furnished with great taste; everything spoke of that comfort which the English value before luxury. A thousand and one little details told of an artistic woman’s hand reigning supreme in the little domain, and one left the house feeling, these people are happy and evidently well-off; there may be artists who vegetate, but Philip Grantham is not one of them. The garden was admirably kept, the lawn smooth and soft as a Turkey carpet to the foot; and when the sun filtered through the trees to the grass, you could imagine yourself in the depths of the country, instead of near the centre of a great city. The studio was a favourite room of the Granthams. Loving care had been expended upon it, and the result was a worker’s paradise that invited to lofty labours and cosy conversation. Dora Grantham was her husband’s comrade in art, and all the leisure that was hers, after seeing well to her household, was spent at Philip’s side. The studio was more than comfortable—it was even luxurious, with its beautiful Renaissance mantelpiece of carved oak, its rich oriental rugs and curtains and hanging eastern lamps. All these gave an atmosphere of restful, dreamy ease to the place; and the fresh flowers that in all seasons filled the rare porcelain vases struck a note of gaiety among the sombreness of the old oak furniture. A thousand curios from all the ends of the earth had been accumulated in this beloved apartment, and here, too, stood Dora’s Pleyel piano and Philip’s bookcase of precious volumes on art, all richly bound. A huge screen, gay with eastern embroideries, hid the door that opened into the road; and in this veritable nest, nothing reminded of a hustling and bustling world outside. In summer, through the open door that led into the garden, one got a delicious vista of green foliage and turf
