In the act of death, as in everything else that he had ever done, Sir
Frederick Harden had hit on the most inappropriate, the most
inconvenient moment--the moment, that is to say, when Horace Jewdwine
had been appointed editor of _The Museion_, when every minute of his
day was taken up with forming his staff and thoroughly reorganizing
the business of his paper. It was, besides, the long-desired moment,
for which all his years at Oxford had been a training and a
consecration; it was that supreme, that nuptial moment in which an
ambitious man embraces for the first time his Opportunity.
The news of Lucia's trouble found him, as it were, in the ardours and
preoccupations of the honeymoon.
It was characteristic of Jewdwine that in this courting of Opportunity
there had been no violent pursuit, no dishevelment, no seizing by the
hair. He had hung back, rather; he had waited, till he had given
himself value, till Opportunity had come to him, with delicate and
ceremonious approach. Still, his head had swum a little at her coming,
so that in the contemplation of his golden bride he had for the time
being lost sight of Lucia.
As for marrying his cousin, that was a question with which for the
present he felt he really could not deal. No doubt it would crop up
again later on to worry him.
Meanwhile he gave to Lucia every minute that he could spare from the
allurements of his golden bride. For more than a fortnight her affairs
had been weighing on him like a nightmare. But only like a nightmare,
a thing that troubled him chiefly in the watches of the night, leaving
his waking thoughts free to go about the business of the day, a thing
against which he felt that it was impossible to contend. For Lucia's
affairs had the vagueness, the confusion of a nightmare. Details no
doubt there were; but they had disappeared in the immensity of the
general effect. Being powerless to deal with them himself, he had sent
down his own solicitor to assist in disentangling them. But as the
full meaning of the disaster sank into him he realized with the cold
pang of disappointment that their marriage must now be indefinitely
postponed.
To be sure, what had as yet passed between them hardly amounted to an
understanding. All Jewdwine's understandings had been with himself.
But the very fact that he was not prepared to act on such an
understanding made him feel as responsible as if it actually existed.
Being conscious of something rather more than cousinly tenderness in
the past, he really could not be sure that he was not already
irretrievably committed. Not that Lucia's manner had ever taken
anything of the sort for granted. He had nothing to fear from her. But
he had much (he told himself) to fear from his own conscience and his
honour.
All this was the result of deliberate reflection. In the beginning of
the trouble, at the first news of his uncle's death, his sympathy with
Lucia had been free from any sordid anxiety for the future which he
then conceived to be inseparably bound up with his own. Rickman's
letter was the first intimation that anything had gone wrong. It was a
shock none the less severe because it was not altogether a surprise.
It was just like his uncle Frederick to raise money on the Harden
Library. The shock lay in Rickman's assumption that he, Jewdwine, was
prepared, instantly, at ten days' notice, to redeem it. It was what he
would have liked to have done; what, if he had been a rich man, he
infallibly would have done; what even now, with his limited resources,
he might do if it were not for the risk. Rickman had assured him that
there was no risk, had implied almost that it was an opportunity, a
splendid investment for his money. He could see for himself that it
was his chance of doing _the_ beautiful thing for Lucia. Looking back
upon it all afterwards, long afterwards, he found consolation in the
thought that his first, or nearly his first, impulse had been
generous.
At first, too, he had not given a thought to Rickman except as the
medium, the unauthorized and somewhat curious medium, of a very
startling communication. Enough that he was expected to produce at ten
days' notice a sum which might be anything you pleased over one
thousand two hundred pounds. It was not until he realized that he was
seriously invited to contend with Rickman's in a private bid for the
Harden library that he began to criticize Rickman's movement in the
matter. Everything depended on Rickman's estimate of the risk, and
Rickman was not infallible. In denying Rickman's infallibility he had
not as yet committed himself to any harsh judgement of his friend. His
first really unpleasant reflection was that Rickman's information was
unsatisfactory, because vague; his next that Rickman was giving him
precious little time for deliberation. He was excessively annoyed with
Rickman upon both these heads, but chiefly upon the latter. He was
being hurried; he might almost say that pressure was being put on him.
And why?
It was at this point he found himself drawn into that dangerous line,
the attributing of motives.
He perceived in Rickman's suggestion a readiness, an eagerness to
stand back and, as it were, pass on the Harden library. Rickman was a
sharp fellow; he knew pretty well what he was about. Jewdwine's mind
went back to the dawn of their acquaintance, and to a certain Florio
Montaigne. Rickman had got the better of him over that Florio
Montaigne. Hitherto, whenever Jewdwine had thought of that little
transaction he had smiled in spite of himself; he really could not
help admiring the smartness of a young man who had worsted him in a
bargain. Jewdwine was a terror to all the second-hand booksellers in
London and Oxford; he would waste so much of their good time in
cheapening a book that it was hardly worth their while to sell it to
him at double the price originally asked. The idea that he had paid
five shillings for a book that he should have got for four and six
would keep Jewdwine awake at night. And now his thought advanced by
rapid steps in the direction unfavourable to Rickman. Rickman had
driven a clever bargain over that Florio Montaigne; Rickman had
cheated him, yes, cheated him infamously, over that Florio Montaigne.
You could see a great deal through a very small hole, and a man who
would cheat you over a Florio Montaigne would cheat you over a whole
library if he got the chance. Not that there was any cheating in the
second-hand book-trade; it was each man for himself and the Lord for
us all.
The question was, what was young Rickman driving at? And what was he,
Jewdwine, being let in for now? He found himself unable to accept
Rickman's alleged motive in all its grand simplicity. It was too
simple and too grand to be entirely probable. If young Rickman was not
infallible, he was an expert in his trade. He was not likely to be
grossly mistaken in his valuation. If the Harden library would be
worth four or five thousand pounds to Jewdwine it would be worth as
much or more to Rickman's. Young Rickman being merely old Rickman's
assistant, he could hardly be acting without his father's knowledge.
If young Rickman honestly thought that the library was worth that sum,
it was not likely that they would let the prize slip out of their
hands. The thing was not in human nature.
The more he thought of it the more he was convinced that it was a
put-up job. He strongly suspected that young Rickman, in the rashness
of his youth, had proceeded farther than he cared to own, that
Rickman's found themselves let in for a bad bargain, and were anxious
to get out of it. Young Rickman had no doubt discovered that the great
Harden library was not the prize they had always imagined it to be.
Jewdwine remembered that there was no record, no proper catalogue, or
if there ever had been, it had been mislaid or lost. He had a vision
(unconsciously exaggerated) of the inconceivable disorder of the place
when he had last visited it; and as he recalled those great gaps on
the shelves it struck him that the library had been gutted. His uncle
Frederick had not been altogether the fool he seemed to be; nothing
was more likely than that he knew perfectly well the value of the
volumes that were the unique glory of the collection, and had long ago
turned them into ready money. The rest would be comparatively
worthless.
He read Rickman's letter over again and had a moment of compunction.
It seemed a very simple and straightforward letter. But then, Rickman
was a very clever fellow, he had the gift of expression; and there was
that Florio Montaigne. He wouldn't have suspected him if only his
record had been pure.
So instead of committing himself by writing to Rickman, he had sent
his solicitor down to look into these matters. A day or two later, in
reply to his further inquiries his solicitor assured him that there
could be no doubt that the library was intact.
To Jewdwine in his present state of mind this information was
upsetting. It not only compelled him to modify his opinion of Rickman
after having formed it, but it threw him back on the agony and
responsibility of decision. On the last morning of the term allowed
him for reflection he received that hurried note from Rickman, who had
flung all his emotions into one agonized line, "For God's sake wire me
what you mean to do." The young poet, so careful of his prose style,
had not perceived that what he had written was blank verse of the
purest; which to Jewdwine in itself sufficiently revealed the disorder
of his mind.
That _cri de coeur_ rang in Jewdwine's brain for the next twenty-four
hours. Then at the last moment he came forward with an offer of one
thousand three hundred. The next day he heard from Lucia (what indeed
he feared) that he had stepped in too late. The library was sold, to
Isaac Rickman.
His dominant emotion was now anger; he was furious with Rickman for
not having given him more time. He forgot his own delay, his fears and
vacillations; he felt that he would have done this thing if he had
only had more time. He had no doubt that Rickman had meant honestly by
him; but he had blundered; he could and he should have given him more
time. But gradually, as the certainty of his own generosity grew on
him, his indignation cooled. Reinstated in his self-esteem he could
afford to do justice to Rickman. What was more, now that the danger
was over he saw his risk more clearly than ever. He had a vision of
his brilliant future clouded by a debt of one thousand three hundred
pounds impetuously raised on the unknown, of the Harden library hung
like a mill-stone round his neck. He had no doubt that Rickman, in the
very ardour of his honesty, had greatly exaggerated its value. And as
he surveyed the probable consequences of his own superb impulse, he
was almost grateful to Rickman for not having given him time to make a
fool of himself. Thanks to Rickman, he had now all the credit of that
reckless offer without the risk.
A week later he had a long letter from Lucia. She thanked him with
much warmth and affection for his generosity; it was evident that it
had touched her deeply. She assured him (as she had assured him
before) that she needed no help. The library had sold for twelve
hundred pounds, and two hundred had been handed over to her. Mr.
Pilkington was afraid that no further sum would be forthcoming from
the sale of the pictures and furniture, which had been valued over
rather than under their present market price, and represented the bulk
of the security. Still, she hoped to sell Court House; it could not
bring in less than five thousand. That and a small part of her capital
would pay off all remaining debts. It was a wearisome business; but
Horace would be glad to hear that she would come out of it not owing a
farthing to anybody, and would still have enough to live on.
Yes. Jewdwine had his pride. He was glad that his disreputable uncle's
affairs had not landed him in the Bankruptcy Court after all; but he
had a movement of indignation on Lucia's account and of admiration for
Lucia.
No more of herself or her affairs; the rest was concerned with Rickman
and his. "My dear Horace," she wrote, "we must do something for this
poor little friend of yours. You were quite right about him. He is a
genius; but fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, for himself, he is
so much else besides. To think that _he_ of all people should be
entangled in our miserable business! He has got badly hurt, too. First
of all, it preyed on his mind till he worried himself into a nervous
fever. Kitty Palliser, who saw him, said he was nearly off his head.
It seems he considered his honour implicated. As it happens he has
behaved splendidly. He did everything in his power to prevent our
losing the library, or at any rate to keep it out of his father's
hands; and the mere fact that he failed doesn't lessen our obligation.
He has simply ruined his own prospects in the attempt. Do you know, he
tried to force his father to withdraw by threatening to leave their
business if he didn't; and he had to keep his word. The horrible
thing is that I actually owe him money--money which he won't take. He
had been working hard for three weeks on a catalogue for me, and is
insulted at the bare suggestion of payment. And here he is--absolutely
stranded; in debt, I believe, and without a farthing. What in the
world am I to do?"
"Poor Lucy!" thought Jewdwine, "as if she hadn't enough to bear
without having Rickman on her shoulders."
"It seems to me that as he has done all this for us, we ought to stand
by him. If you _could_ do anything for him--couldn't you help him with
some introductions? Or, better still, give him work, at any rate till
he has found his feet? I'm sure you can count on his devotion--"
"Dear Lucy, she might be recommending me a valet."
"_Do_ do something for him, and you will oblige me more than I can
say."
That letter of Lucia's gave Jewdwine much matter for reflection and
some pain. He had winced at the sale of Court House; it struck him as
a personal blow. He had had a kind of tacit understanding with himself
that, in that future which he had meant to share with Lucia, Court
House would be the home of his retirement. Still, it must go. He had
to live in town, and if at the moment he could have afforded to marry
a penniless Lucia he could not have afforded two establishments.
As for the redemption of the Harden library he realized with a sharp
pang that risk there had been none. He saw that what young Rickman had
offered him was a unique and splendid opportunity, the opportunity of
doing a beautiful thing for Lucia, and that without the smallest
inconvenience to himself. And this opportunity had been missed. Just
because he could not make up his mind about Rickman, could not see
what Lucia had always seen, what he too saw now, that positively
luminous sincerity of his. He saw it even now reluctantly--though he
could never veer round again to his absurd theory of Rickman's
dishonesty. He would have liked, if he could, to regard him as a
culpable bungler; but even this consoling view was closed to him by
Lucia. It was plain from her account that Rickman's task had been
beyond human power. Jewdwine, therefore, was forced to the painful
conclusion that for this loss to himself and Lucia he had nothing to
blame but his own vacillation.
As for Rickman--
Lucia had taken a great deal of pains with that part of her subject,
for she was determined to do justice to it. She was aware that it was
open to her to take the ordinary practical view of Rickman as a
culpable blunderer, who, by holding his tongue when he should have
spoken, had involved her in the loss of much valuable property. To an
ordinary practical woman the fact that this blunder had entailed such
serious consequences to herself would have made any other theory
impossible. But Lucia was not a woman who could be depended on for any
ordinary practical view. Mere material issues could never confuse her
estimate of spiritual values. To her, Rickman's conduct in that
instance was a flaw in honour, and as such she had already
sufficiently judged it. The significant thing was that he too should
have so judged it; that he should have been capable of such profound
suffering in the thought of it.
And now, somehow, it didn't seem to her to count.
It simply disappeared in her final pure and luminous view of Rickman's
character. What really counted was the alertness of his whole attitude
to honour, his readiness to follow the voice of his own ultimate
vision, to repudiate the unclean thing revealed in its uncleanness;
above all, what counted was his passionate sincerity. With her
unerring instinct of selection Lucia had again seized on the
essential. The triumph of Rickman's greater qualities appealed to her
as a spectacle; it was not spoiled for her by the reflection that she
personally had been more affected by his failure. If she showed her
insight into Rickman's character by admitting the relative
insignificance of that failure, she showed an equal insight into
Jewdwine's by suppressing all mention of it now. For Horace would have
regarded it as essential. It would have loomed large in his view by
reason of its material consequences. Allowing for Horace's view she
kept her portrait truer by omitting it.
And Jewdwine accepted her portrait as the true one. It appealed
irresistibly to his artistic sense. He was by profession a connoisseur
of things beautifully done. Rickman's behaviour, as described by
Lucia, revived his earlier amused admiration for his young disciple.
It was so like him. In its spontaneity, its unexpectedness, its--its
colossal impertinence, it was pure Rickman.
Lucia had achieved a masterpiece of appreciation.
But what helped him in his almost joyous re-discovery of his Rickman
was his perception that here (in doing justice to Rickman) lay his
chance of rehabilitating himself. If he could not buy back the Harden
library, he could at any rate redeem his own character. He did not
hold himself responsible for Lucia's father's debts, but he was
willing, not to say glad, to take up Lucia's. It was certainly most
improper that she should be under any obligation to Rickman. In any
case, Rickman's action concerned Lucia's family as much as Lucia; that
is to say, it was his (Jewdwine's) affair. And personally he disliked
indebtedness.
Another man might have handed Rickman a cheque for fifty pounds (the
price of the catalogue _raisonné_) and washed his hands of him. But
Jewdwine was incapable of that grossness.
He gave the matter a fortnight's delicate consideration. At the end of
that time he had made up his mind not only to invite Rickman to
contribute regularly to _The Museion_ (a thing he would have done in
any case) but to offer him, temporarily, the sub-editorship. Rash as
this resolution seemed, Jewdwine had fenced himself carefully from any
risk. The arrangement was not to be considered permanent until Rickman
had proved himself both capable and steady--if then. In giving him any
work at all on _The Museion_ Jewdwine felt that he was stretching a
point. It was a somewhat liberal rendering of his editorial programme.
_The Museion_ was the one solitary literary journal that had the
courage to profess openly a philosophy of criticism. Its philosophy
might be obsolete, it might be fantastic, it might be altogether
wrong; the point was that it was there. Its presence was a protest
against the spirit of anarchy in the world of letters. The paper had
lost influence lately owing to a certain rigidity in the methods of
its late editor, also to an increasing dulness in its style. It was
suffering, like all old things, from the unequal competition with
insurgent youth. The proprietors were almost relieved when the death
of its editor provided them with a suitable opportunity for giving it
over into the hands of younger men. "We want new blood," said the
proprietors. The difficulty was how to combine new blood with the old
spirit, and Horace Jewdwine solved their problem, presenting the
remarkable combination of an old head upon comparatively young
shoulders. He was responsible, authoritative, inspired by a high and
noble seriousness. He had taken his Aristotle with a high and noble
seriousness; and in the same spirit he had approached his Kant, his
Hegel and his Schopenhauer in succession. He was equipped with the
most beautiful metaphysical theory of Art, and had himself written
certain _Prolegomena to Æsthetics_.
Metaphysics had preyed on Jewdwine like a flame. He was consumed with
a passion for unity. The unity which Nature only strives after,
blindly, furiously, ineffectually; the unity barely reached by the
serene and luminous processes of Thought--the artist achieves it with
one stroke. In him, by the twin acts of vision and creation, the
worlds of Nature and the Idea are made one. He leaps at a bound into
the very heart of the Absolute. He alone can be said to have attained,
and (this was the point which Jewdwine insisted on) attained only by
the sacrifice of his individuality.
Thus Jewdwine in his _Prolegomena to Æsthetics_.
As that work could be regarded only as a brutal and terrific challenge
to the intellect, the safer course was to praise it, and it was
unanimously praised. Nobody was able to understand a word of it except
the last chapter on "Individualism in Modern Art." But as criticism
wisely concentrated itself on this the only comprehensible portion of
the book, Jewdwine (who otherwise would have perished in his own
profundity) actually achieved some journalistic notoriety as a dealer
in piquant paradox and vigorous personalities.
Jewdwine was ambitious. On the strength of his _Prolegomena_ he had
come up from Oxford with a remarkable reputation, which he had every
inducement to cherish and to guard. He was therefore the best possible
editor for such a review as _The Museion_, and such a review as _The
Museion_ was the best possible instrument of his ambition.
His aim was to preserve the tradition of the paper as pure as on the
day when it was given into his hands.
He was a little doubtful as to how far young Rickman would lend
himself to that.
However, as the fruit of Jewdwine's meditations, Rickman received a
note inviting him to dine with the editor alone, at Hampstead.
Jewdwine, whose health required pure air, had settled very comfortably
in that high suburb. And, as his marriage seemed likely to remain long
a matter for dubious reflection, he had arranged that his sister Edith
should keep house for him. In inviting Rickman to dine at Hampstead
his intention was distinctly friendly; at the same time he was careful
to fix an evening when Miss Jewdwine would not be there. He was
willing to help Rickman in every possible way short of introducing him
to the ladies of his family.
But before dinner was ended he had to admit that this precaution was
excessive. Rickman (barring certain dreadful possibilities of speech)
was really by no means unpresentable. He was attired with perfect
sanity. His methods at the dinner table, if at all unusual, erred on
the side of restraint rather than of extravagance; he gave indications
of a certain curious personal refinement; and in the matter of wine he
was almost incredibly abstemious. It was the first time that Jewdwine
had come to close quarters with his disciple, and with some surprise
he saw himself going through the experience without a shock. Either he
had been mistaken in Rickman, or Rickman had improved. Shy he still
was, but he had lost much of his old ungovernable nervousness, and
gave Jewdwine the impression of an immense reserve. He seemed to have
entered into some ennobling possession which raised him above the
region of small confusions and excitements. His eye, when Jewdwine
caught it, no longer struggled to escape; but it seemed to be held
less by him than by its own controlling inner vision.
Jewdwine watched him narrowly. It never entered into his head that
what he was watching was the effect of three weeks' intercourse with
Lucia Harden. He attributed it to Rickman's deliverance from the shop.
To be sure Rickman did not strike him as particularly happy, but this
again he accounted for by the depressing state of his finances.
Neither of them made the most distant allusion to Lucia. Jewdwine was
not aware of the extent of Rickman's acquaintance with his cousin,
neither could he well have conceived it. And for Rickman it was not
yet possible either to speak or to hear of Lucia without pain.
It was not until dinner was over, and Rickman was no longer eating
Jewdwine's food, that they ventured on the unpleasant topic that lay
before them, conspicuous, though untouched. Jewdwine felt that, as it
was impossible to ignore what had passed between them since they had
last met, the only thing was to refer to it as casually as might be.
"By the way, Rickman," he said when they were alone in his study, "you
were quite right about that library. I only wish you could have let me
know a little sooner."
"I wish I had," said Rickman, and his tone implied that he appreciated
the painfulness of the subject.
There was a pause which Rickman broke by congratulating Jewdwine on
his appointment. This he did with a very pretty diffidence and
modesty, which smoothed over the awkwardness of the transition, if
indeed it did not convey an adroit suggestion of the insignificance of
all other affairs. The editor, still observing his unconscious
candidate, was very favourably impressed. He laid before him the views
and aims of _The Museion_.
Yes; he thought it had a future before it. He was going to make it the
organ of philosophic criticism, as opposed to the mere personal view.
It would, therefore, be unique. Yes; certainly it would also be
unpopular. Heaven forbid that anything he was concerned in should be
popular. It was sufficient that it should be impartial and
incorruptible. Its tone was to be sober and scholarly, but militant.
Rickman gathered that its staff were to be so many knights-errant
defending the virtue of the English Language. No loose slip-shod
journalistic phrase would be permitted in its columns. Its articles,
besides being well reasoned, would be examples of the purity it
preached. It was to set its face sternly against Democracy,
Commercialism and Decadence.
The disciple caught fire from the master's enthusiasm; he approved,
aspired, exulted. His heart was big with belief in Jewdwine and his
work. Being innocent himself of any sordid taint, he admired above all
things what he called his friend's intellectual chastity. Jewdwine
felt the truth of what Lucia had told him. He could count absolutely
on Rickman's devotion. He arrived by well-constructed stages at the
offer of the sub-editorship.
Rickman looked up with a curious uncomprehending stare. When he
clearly understood the proposal that was being made to him, he flushed
deeply and showed unmistakable signs of agitation.
"Do you think," said Jewdwine discreetly, "you'd care to try it for a
time?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said Rickman thoughtfully.
"Well, it's only an experiment. I'm not offering you anything
permanent."
"Of course, that makes all the difference."
"It does; if it isn't good enough--"
"You don't understand me. That's what would make it all right."
"Make what all right?"
"My accepting--if you really only want a stop-gap."
"I see," said Jewdwine to himself, "the youth has tasted liberty, and
he objects to being caught and caged."
"The question is," said Rickman, sinking into thought again, "whether
you really want _me_."
"My dear fellow, why on earth should I say so if I didn't?"
"N--no. Only I thought, after the mess I've made of things, that none
of your family would ever care to have anything to do with me again."
It was the nearest he had come to mentioning Lucia Harden, and the
pain it cost him was visible on his face.
"My family," said Jewdwine with a stiff smile, "will _not_ have
anything to do with you. It has nothing to do with _The Museion_.
"In that case, I don't see why I shouldn't try it, if I can be of any
use to you." From the calmness of his manner you would have supposed
that salaried appointments hung on every lamp-post, ready to drop into
the mouths of impecunious young men of letters.
"Thanks. Then we'll consider that settled for the present."
Impossible to suppose that Rickman was not properly grateful. Still,
instead of thanking Jewdwine, he had made Jewdwine thank him. And he
had done it quite unconsciously, without any lapse from his habitual
sincerity, or the least change in his becoming attitude of modesty.
Jewdwine considered that what Maddox had qualified as Rickman's
colossal cheek was simply his colossal ignorance; not to say his
insanely perverted view of the value of salaried appointments.
"Oh," said he, "I shall want you as a contributor, too. I don't know
how you'll work in with the rest, but we shall see. I won't have any
but picked men. The review has always stood high; but I want it to
stand higher. It isn't a commercial speculation. There's no question
of making it pay. It must keep up its independence whether it can
afford it or not. We've been almost living on Vaughan's
advertisements. All the same, I mean to slaughter those new men he's
got hold of."
Rickman admired this reckless policy. It did not occur to him at the
moment that Jewdwine was reader to a rival publisher.
"What," he said, "all of them at once?"
"No--We shall work them off weekly, one at a time."
Rickman laughed. "One at a time? Then you allow them the merit of
individuality?"
"It isn't a merit; it's a vice, _the_ vice of the age. It shrieks; it
ramps. Individuality means slow disease in ethics and politics, but
it's sudden death to art. When will you young men learn that art is
self-restraint, not self-expansion?"
"Self expansion--it seems an innocent impulse."
"If it were an impulse--but it isn't. It's a pose. A cold, conscious,
systematic pose. So deadly artificial; and so futile, if they did but
know. After all, the individual is born, not made."
"I believe you!"
"Yes; but he isn't born nowadays. He belongs to the ages of inspired
innocence and inspired energy. We are not inspired; we are not
energetic; we are not innocent. We're deliberate and languid and
corrupt. And we can't reproduce by our vile mechanical process what
only exists by the grace of nature and of God. Look at the modern
individual--for all their cant and rant, is there a more contemptible
object on the face of this earth? Don't talk to me of individuality."
"It's given us one or two artists--"
"Artists? Yes, artists by the million; and no Art. To produce Art, the
artist's individuality must conform to the Absolute."
Jewdwine in ninety-two was a man of enormous utterances and noble
truths. With him all artistic achievements stood or fell according to
the canons of the _Prolegomena to Æsthetics_. Therefore in ninety-two
his conversation was not what you would call diverting. Yet it made
you giddy; his ideas kept on circulating round and round the same icy,
invisible pole. Rickman, in describing the interview afterwards, said
he thought he had caught a cold in the head talking to Jewdwine; his
intellect seemed to be sitting in a thorough draught.
"And if the artist has a non-conforming devil in him? If he's the sort
of genius who can't and won't conform? Strikes me the poor old
Absolute's got to climb down."
"If he's a genius--he generally isn't--he'll know that he'll express
himself best by conforming. He isn't lost by it, but enlarged. Look at
Greek art. There," said Jewdwine, a rapt and visionary air passing
over his usually apathetic face, "the individual, the artist, is
always subdued to the universal, the absolute beauty."
"And in modern art, I take it, the universal absolute beauty is
subdued to the individual. That seems only fair. What you've got to
reckon with is the man himself."
"Who wants the man himself? We want the thing itself--the reality, the
pure object of art. Do any of your new men understand that?"
"We _want_ it--some of us."
"Do you _understand_ it?"
"Not I. Do you understand it yourself? Would you know it if you met it
in the street?"
"It never is in the street."
"How do you know? You can't say where it is or what it is. You can't
say anything about it at all. But while you're all trying to find out,
the most unlikely person suddenly gets up and produces it. And _he_
can't tell you where he got it. Though, if you ask him, ten to one
he'll tell you he's been sitting on it all the time."
"Well," said Jewdwine, "tell me when you've 'sat on' anything
yourself."
"I will." He rose to go, being anxious to avoid the suspicion of
having pushed that question to a personal issue. It was only in reply
to more searching inquiries that he mentioned (on the doorstep) that a
book of his was coming out in the autumn.
"What, _Helen_?"
"No. _Saturnalia_ and--a lot of things you haven't seen yet." It was a
rapid nervous communication, made in the moment of withdrawing his
hand from Jewdwine's.
"Who's your publisher?" called out Jewdwine.
Rickman laughed as the night received him. "Vaughan!" he shouted from
the garden gate.
"Now, what on earth," said Jewdwine, "could have been his motive for
not consulting me?" He had not got the clue to the hesitation and
secrecy of the young man's behaviour. He did not know that there were
three things which Rickman desired at any cost to keep pure--his
genius, his friendship for Horace Jewdwine, and his love for Lucia
Harden.