Eusebe imparted his reflections to his new friend, Paul Buck, the
painter. The artist smiled, and said,--
“Eusebe,--my friend Eusebe,--what pleasure your society affords
me! Since I made your acquaintance, I have sought to understand
the sympathy I feel for you, and I have hitherto been unable to
comprehend the cause. Those who say such sentiments arise without
cause are fools. I like you, and now I know why. You were born
an artist; and it is, perhaps, for the best that your father,
whom they accuse of having neglected to cultivate your intellect,
did not spoil your nature by routine culture. You know nothing,
barbarian that you are; but you have good instincts, since you
have not fallen, as I feared you would, into admiration of the
_rengaines_ of the modern theatre.”
“Tell me, pray, what you mean by _rengaines_.”
“The _rengaines_, my dear fellow, are all the familiar commonplaces
and vulgar and hackneyed sentiments. The narrow and plodding
spirits have formed a museum, which they open, at a specified
hour, to human stupidity. The crowd have visited the museum for
centuries, and departed every evening, perfectly satisfied, without
seeming to be aware that the spectacle always amounts to the same
thing.”
“I believe I comprehend you. You do not wish me to share the
opinion of the crowd.”
“I should pity you if you did. Observe: I am fortunate in having a
feeling of the good, the true, and the just. The sentiment of the
beautiful--which is the same thing--is born in some men: it cannot
be acquired. Happy are those who possess it! They may be hooted
and scorned; but they will live in a world of enchantment to which
they alone have access. Their lives will be totally unlike the
existence of those who rail at them; and, while the latter may be
cast down by the petty trials of every-day life, the privileged
ones soar into those regions where they revel in the perfection of
the ideal,--the true.”
“Are you one of those favored ones, Paul Buck?”
“I am.”
“Well, then, by the affection you say you bear me, and by the love
of my father, whose wisdom you admire, tell me where the true may
be found.”
“In art:--nowhere else,” responded Paul Buck. And, lighting his
pipe, he turned the conversation to other topics.