the parts of his work he loved, the splendid things he had found in
it, beyond the
compass of any other
writer of the day? St. George
listened a while,
courteously; then he said, laying his hand on his
visitor's: "That's all very well; and if your idea's to do nothing
better there's no reason you shouldn't have as many good things as
I - as many human and material appendages, as many sons or
daughters, a wife with as many gowns, a house with as many
servants, a
stable with as many horses, a heart with as many
aches." The Master got up when he had
spoken thus - he stood a
moment - near the sofa looking down on his agitated pupil. "Are
you possessed of any property?" it occurred to him to ask.
"None to speak of."
"Oh well then there's no reason why you shouldn't make a goodish
income - if you set about it the right way. Study ME for that -
study me well. You may really have horses."
Paul sat there some minutes without
speaking. He looked straight
before him - he turned over many things. His friend had wandered
away,
taking up a
parcel of letters from the table where the roll
of proofs had lain. "What was the book Mrs. St. George made you
burn - the one she didn't like?" our young man brought out.
"The book she made me burn - how did you know that?" The Master
looked up from his letters quite without the
facialconvulsion the
pupil had feared.
"I heard her speak of it at Summersoft."
"Ah yes - she's proud of it. I don't know - it was rather good."
"What was it about?"
"Let me see." And he seemed to make an effort to remember. "Oh
yes - it was about myself." Paul gave an irrepressible groan for
the
disappearance of such a production, and the elder man went on:
"Oh but YOU should write it - YOU should do me." And he pulled up
- from the
restlessmotion that had come upon him; his fine smile a
generous glare. "There's a subject, my boy: no end of stuff in
it!"
Again Paul was silent, but it was all tormenting. "Are there no
women who really understand - who can take part in a sacrifice?"
"How can they take part? They themselves are the sacrifice.
They're the idol and the altar and the flame."
"Isn't there even ONE who sees further?" Paul continued.
For a moment St. George made no answer; after which, having torn up
his letters, he came back to the point all ironic. "Of course I
know the one you mean. But not even Miss Fancourt."
"I thought you admired her so much."
"It's impossible to admire her more. Are you in love with her?"
St. George asked.
"Yes," Paul Overt
presently said.
"Well then give it up."
Paul stared. "Give up my 'love'?"
"Bless me, no. Your idea." And then as our hero but still gazed:
"The one you talked with her about. The idea of a
decentperfection."
"She'd help it - she'd help it!" the young man cried.
"For about a year - the first year, yes. After that she'd be as a
millstone round its neck."
Paul
frankly wondered. "Why she has a
passion for the real thing,
for good work - for everything you and I care for most."
"'You and I' is
charming, my dear fellow!" his friend laughed.
"She has it indeed, but she'd have a still greater
passion for her
children - and very proper too. She'd insist on everything's being
made comfortable,
advantageous, propitious for them. That isn't
the artist's business."
"The artist - the artist! Isn't he a man all the same?"
St. George had a grand grimace. "I
mostly think not. You know as
well as I what he has to do: the
concentration, the finish, the
independence he must
strive for from the moment he begins to wish
his work really
decent. Ah my young friend, his relation to women,
and especially to the one he's most
intimatelyconcerned with, is
at the mercy of the damning fact that
whereas he can in the nature
of things have but one standard, they have about fifty. That's