Harp's Manor

INSTALLMENT VII

April 21, 1928

Many things have happened this week, and I am eager to record them here.

I shall start on Thursday of last week, at dinner. Just to note, I have begun writing my installments on Thursday and sending them in before dinner, just so I am less pressed for time. 

Miss Jacobs had somehow secured a seat as far from Mrs. Maxwell as the table would possibly allow. Mrs. Maxwell cast frequent glances towards her enemy, but the latter seemed completely oblivious. Too oblivious, in fact. There is no way that a woman, even from so far away, could have ignored such penetrating stares as were directed towards Miss Jacobs that night. My conclusion is that she was pointedly ignoring Mrs. Maxwell.

This idea gained support on Sunday, when I witnessed Mrs. Maxwell nearly chase Miss Jacobs through the foyer. "I insist that I must speak with you!" Mrs. Maxwell was calling. I wonder why Miss Jacobs is so steadfast in ignoring her. Similar events occurred on Tuesday and Wednesday. Mrs. Maxwell seems to have given it a break for today, or possibly given up. Miss Jacobs appears unbending in her resolve.

On Friday, Mr. Forrest and I met to admire the outdoors and transcribe it to canvas, or at least attempt to do so. Mr. Forrest was kind enough to provide me with the necessary utensils. I met him directly outside, on the pathway leading into the rose garden. "I thought we may start with some freestyle work today," he explained.

"Good. The lesser the expectations, the better."

It didn't take nearly as long to find a suitable bush to use as our model as it did for me to figure out how to apply paint to the canvas without splattering it everywhere. "It's so very runny!" I exclaimed out of frustration at last. "How do you work with this stuff?"

"You're applying too much," Mr. Forrest said without looking up from his own board.

"Well, how do I apply less?"

"You need to dip it in, not bathe it," he replied, demonstrating. Of course his refined technique made my paintbrush look like a drowned goose.

A little begrudgingly, I attempted to follow his example. The brush came out as drippy as ever. I dangled it over the palette, watching the paint slip off the end and back into the puddle from whence it came. "It did not work," I observed.

"Perhaps you need to clean off your brush," Mr. Forrest said. "If it was already covered in paint, it makes sense that it would still be so."

I began wiping it off on the cloth sitting by the palette. Mr. Forrest, with mild alarm, quickly corrected me and placed the brush in the terracotta mug he had brought along. He swished it around in the water a few times, before pulling it up, perfectly clean of the red goo that had adorned it only moments earlier. "Is that what that is for?" I said, accepting the brush back. "Am I ever thankful I decided against drinking it."

"I made that mistake once," Mr. Forrest said. "Mixed up my coffee with the paint-water. That taught me to check twice before sipping out of any mug lying about my painting area!"

I hesitantly touched the paint with my brush. Confident that no drips followed, I began swiping it across the canvas. After a few swirls, however, I discovered that the paintbrush was quite dry. I applied a little more the next time, only to discover the same result. "I don't think I'm doing this correctly," I said with a sigh.

Mr. Forrest glanced over. "I think it looks quite nice. The brushstrokes are a little rustic, don't you think?"

I thought they looked a little sad, to be honest, but said nothing. We continued in silence for a little while longer, before I realized I had become inattentive and, without thinking, covered the entire canvas in red, tip to tip. "Oh no!" I cried once I realized what I had done.