Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 6).djvu/111

ELBURY ROAD, Kensington, has for some years past been completely converted into a colony of eminent artists and sculptors in general, and R.A.'s in particular. Pedestrians seldom pass by that way. It is a corner of London which the birds seem to have singled out as a fitting place for early and impromptu concerts—a Kensingtonian nook, where the flowers bloom and the trees are positively patriotic towards our sister isle in a constant "wearing of the green." It is altogether an ideal spot for the artist. One house in the Melbury Road cannot fail to cause both eyes to "take it in." You cannot mistake it. It stands next to a habitation of the Norman period. It is of red brick, and its windows are brimming over with scarlet geraniums and marguerites. It is of Queen Anne design, and bears visible marks of the skill of Norman Shaw, who designed it some sixteen years ago. But, then, there are many other "Queen Annes" in Melbury Road. Still, there is no mistaking it; for if you listen at the gate you may sometimes hear little voices. You cannot see the owners of them, for they are playing about on the lawn at the back, and hidden by evergreens and bushy shrubs.

"Phyllis! Phyllis! if you're not quick you'll miss this butterfly."

"Is it a big one, Dorothy?"

"Yes—there—there it goes!" and you hear a delightful shriek go up, and you feel you would part with all your small earthly possessions if you could but laugh as happily as that. You were just then listening to the two little daughters of Luke Fildes, R.A.

Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A.
From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry.

The true chord of a genial spirit is struck immediately you meet the Royal Academician. He looks exactly what he is—an artist. Tall, well-built, with expressive features, and eyes that never fail to gather in "life"—he is undeniably handsome. His beard and moustache are brown, his hair black, and tinged with the very faintest sign of silver on the way. He talks to you earnestly, as though he considered that nothing should be said or uttered without thought. Every word, with him, has its due weight and value. Yet, notwithstanding this wise and commendable seriousness, there is a jollity of disposition, a keen appreciation of the merry side of things always apparent. That he is in love with his work is unquestionable, but the studio—and only an artist knows its fascinations—has has not severed him from home ties. His wife is his constant companion. She will spend hours with him in the studio: Mrs. Fildes is herself an admirable artist; hence her advice and criticism on an important detail of work are often of the greatest value. The children, too. There are four boys—Val, a godson of Mr.