The thought of my work dispelled the enchanted dream into which I had fallen.  Instinctively I turned and very slowly began to retrace my steps amongst the yawning pitfalls.  As I did so I heard a hoarse hoot from the steamer lying below, to tell me it was about to leave, another and another resounded dully from it, warning me to hasten my return.

I made my way back to the shore where the boat and the impatient sailors awaited me.  I took my seat in it, turning my eyes to the glistening, glimmering white palisade rising over the sapphire sea.

When we had reached the steamer and its head was turned round I stood at the stern and watched that palisade for long, as it receded and receded.  At last the blue distance swallowed it up.  I could see no more than a silvery line dividing the blues of meeting sea and sky.  Then I went down to my cabin and locked the door and lay down on my berth in the quiet, trying to live over again that one hour of close contact with the beauty of the North.

After dinner that night I wrote a long letter to my cousin Viola about the beauty of the Muir.  She would understand, I knew.  What I thought she would feel, for our brains were cast in the same mould.  The letter finished, it was still too early to go to bed; so I picked up a curious book called “Life’s Shop Window” which I had been reading the previous night, and read this passage which had struck me before, over again: 

“So, as we look into our future, we see ourselves beloved and wealthy; victorious, famous, and free to wander through the sweetest paths of the world, passing through a thousand scenes, sometimes loving, sometimes warring, tasting and drinking of everything sweet and stimulating, knowing all things, enjoying all in turn; but this is the life of a God, not a man.  And it is perhaps the God in us which so savagely demands the life of a God.”

“But it is not granted to us.”

Yet this was the life I was trying to lead, and to some extent I succeeded.  Change, change, it is the life of life, perhaps especially to the artist.

And I was an artist now, thanks to the decision of the Royal Academy last year to accept the worst picture I had submitted to them for four years.  Ever since my fingers could clasp round anything at all they had loved to hold a brush; for years in my teens I had studied painting under the best teachers of technique in Italy.  For two or three years I had done really good work, with the divine afflatus thrilling through every vein.  And last year I had painted rather a commonplace picture and it had been hung on the line in the Academy, and so my friends all said I really was an artist now, and I modestly accepted the style and title, with outward diffidence.

How little any of them guessed, as they congratulated me, of the wild rapture of feeling, of intense gratitude with which I had listened to the Divine whisper that had come to my ears as a boy of seventeen sitting in a small bare bedroom, on the floor with the sheet of paper before me on which I had drawn a woman’s head.  As I looked at it, I knew suddenly my power, and the Voice that is above all others said within me:  “I have made you an artist.  None can undo or dispute my work.”