There was something almost sacred to her in the limpid water, in the sweet air, and the light of day. The flower in the grass was not only colour, it was alive. The water was not merely a smooth surface, the air not merely an invisible current, the light not merely illumination. As if they had been living powers, so they influenced her. A feeling entered her from them: the light, the air, the water, the soft sward on which her hand rested, life came to her from them.
With them she felt her own life, she knew her own fullness of existence. Like this the maidens of ancient Greece sang to the stream when they filled their urns. Even Socrates the wisest sat pondering in reverence by the stream. Felise was full of the delicious influence of the great powers of nature. This susceptibility rendered her love so rich and deep.
She sat leaning on her left hand, her knees lying sideways, and her right hand on her ankle; the upper part of her form in shadow? her limbs in the brilliant light. The beams fell on her white rounded knees; the right knee being uppermost was entirely in light, but it cast a partial shadow on the left one.
Twins in exquisite whiteness and shape they reposed together, the under one a little in advance. The kneecap (which in woman is small), slipping naturally aside, left a space on the summit of each knee smooth and almost level, perhaps in the least degree concave. Upon these lovely surfaces the light rested lovingly; in the wide earth there was no spot the sun loved so well.
The rounded supple knee is where the form hinges; there all is poised. They are the centres from which beauty rises. With the knee all grace begins; they bend, and at the same moment the neck bows, and the forehead droops. Resting on them firmly the shape rises, the neck is straightened, and the brow thrown back. All is poised on the knee.
Because of its varying mood of grace the knee can with difficulty be seized in sculpture or painting. The least flexure alters the contour. Now from head to foot it is the flesh that is beautiful, that which covers and conceals the bones and muscles under its texture. Such is the rule, to express beauty you must delineate the adipose tissue; the knee is the exception.
Here the bone—the kneecap—is but thinly covered, and there is cartilage and sinew; not much more than the skin hides them. Here is the only place where the bone and sinew can approach the surface—can be recognised—and yet not interfere with the sense of loveliness. Why so?
Because at this centre motion commences; the idea of motion is inseparable from it, motion in graceful lines. In walking it is the knee that gives the step, in the dance, stooping to gather flowers, bending to prayer; from the knee passion springs to the arms of her lover. We have seen these movements and admired them, and the eye transfers their grace to the knee.
But it is also of itself shaped. There alone the bone and sinew assume an exquisite form. I cannot tell you why the human heart yearns towards that which is rounded, smooth, shapely; it is an instinct in the depth of our nature.
The knee is so very human, so nearly sorrowful in its humanity; sorrow seeks its knees, sadness bends on them, love desiring in secret does so on its knees. They have been bent in many moods in so many lands so many many centuries past Human life is centred in the knee. In the knee we recognise all that the heart has experienced.
Beautiful knees, the poise and centre of the form! Were I rich, how gladly I would give a thousand pounds for a true picture of the knee! and if the coloured shadow on convas were worth so much, how many times multiplied the value of the original reality!
However indifferent the person may be—the individual—to see the knee is to love it for itself.
The shadow of the upper one partially encroached on the lower; round about the under knee, too, the short grass rose. Immediately behind, the least way higher than the upper knee, the bullion fringe of the tunic drooped across the white skin. Her left hand rested among the daisies; her feet reached nearly to some golden lotus flowers.
The left, or under foot, was much hidden by the grass; the grass touched warm, having been hours in the sunshine. The upper foot was visible, and two straight strokes—two parallel dimples crossed the large toe (the thumb of the foot) at the second joint.
She held her ankle lightly with her right hand, so that her right arm descended beside her body. Bare from the shoulder in its luxurious fullness, it reposed against her. The slight pressure of its own weight enlarged it midway between the shoulder and the elbow. But the left arm being straightened appeared, on the contrary, largest at the shoulder.
That shoulder—the left—raised a little higher than the other, on account of her position, was partly bare, the tunic having slipped somewhat. Unconsciously she pressed her cheek against it, feeling and caressing it. Her shoulder lifted itself a little to meet the embrace of her cheek, and the tunic slipped still more, giving it and that side of her bust freedom to the air. She liked to feel herself; the soft skin of the shoulder met the softer cheek; her lips touched the place where arm and shoulder are about to mingle.
Shaw thought Felise had finished bathing, and kneeling behind her, undid her hair, which fell and reached the grass. It was somewhat wavy, very thick and long, and delicate in texture. As it descended it concealed the beautiful shoulders like a mantle. She took her strings of pearls from Shaw, and held
