Some good genius took him by the hand next day and led him to the house
of Count Caloveglia, in response to that friendly twice-repeated
invitation. The old man saw at a glance that something serious was
amiss. He plunged at once, with quick insight, into what he took to be
extraneous topics of conversation.
"I am glad you like my fig tree! It gives a distinctive tone to this
quiet courtyard, don't you think? I could not have wished for anything
more appropriate. Its shape, its associations, are alike pleasing. The
fig is a legendary tree; a volume could be written about the stories
and superstitions which have twined themselves around it. Some think it
was the Biblical Tree of Knowledge. Judas Iscariot, they say, hanged
himself on a fig tree. It came from the East-Bacchus brought it on his
journey as a gift to mortal men. How much we owe to those of the Greek
gods who were yet not wholly divine! The Romans, too, held it in
veneration. You have doubtless heard about the FICUS RUMINALIS, at hose
feet the cradle of Romulus and Remus was stranded? Among many nations
it became the outward symbol of generative forces. The Egyptians
consecrated the fig to Isis, that fecund Mother of Earth. Statues of
Priapus were carved out of its wood in allusion, possibly, to its
reckless fertility or for some analogous reason; it was also held to be
sacred, I know not why, to Mercury--"
Denis, during this little speech, had begun to look more troubled than
ever. The other continued:
"There is something in the very twistings of that smooth trunk and
those heavy-laden branches that suggests fruitfulness, How voluptuously
they writhe! A kindly growth, lover of men, their dwellings and ordered
ways. That is why we foster it. We are all utilitarians here, Mr.
Denis; we think of the main purposes of life. Besides food, it gives us
welcome shade at this season; the leaves fall off in winter and allow
the sunlight to percolate into our rooms. You will not find evergreen
trees planted near our windows. We know the value of sunshine; where
the sun enters, we say, the physician does not enter. In England the
light is feebler and yet they made this mistake, during the Georgian
period of architecture. They thought that houses were invented to be
looked at, not to be lived in. Determined to be faithful to the
tradition and regardless of the difference in climate, they planted the
ilex about those mansions which must be dank and gloomy in wintertime,
however charming, externally, to those who relish the chill Palladian
outlines. You have lately been to Florence, I hear? Come! Let us sit
indoors. The courtyard is rather too sultry to-day, in spite of the
shade. My old servant will bring some tea, presently. Or perhaps you
would prefer some wine and a biscuit? Or a glass of liqueur?...
Well? And Florence?"
"It has left me rather confused, so far," replied Denis. "Some of the
things are overwhelming."
"Overwhelming? That is perhaps because you do not see the movement in
its continuity, because you have not traced the stream to its source. I
can understand your feelings. But one need not be overwhelmed by these
men. They were lovable folks, who played with their art like some child
that has discovered a long-lost toy. It is a pity that their activities
were so hampered by the conventions of religious dogma. Viewed by
itself, the Renaissance may seem overwhelming; it shoots up like a
portentous lily out of the blood-drenched soil of a thousand
battlefields. Let me take you to its real source."
He showed him that little statuette, the Locri Faun. Denis was
enchanted by it.
"You have heard of Sir Herbert Street? He also thinks highly of this
thing. He is now adviser in art matters to Mr. van Koppen who is a
patron of mine and who, I hear, will arrive to-morrow or the day
after."
"Street? I met him at my mother's house. Wasn't he at South Kensington?
A great man for dining out. You cannot pick up an evening paper without
reading something about him. That kind of man! All the same, he wrote a
good book on the Siena School. I liked it, didn't you?"
"It is a fair appreciation, from the collector's point of view. He has
stayed with me here once or twice, and given me reason to form a high
opinion of his capacities. Now if you will compare this Faun with your
Florentine art, you will see what I mean by going to the fountain.
There is a difference not only in technique, but in outlook. The man
who wrought this did not trouble about you, or me, or himself. He had
not moods. His art is purely intellectual; he stands aloof, like a
glacier. Here the spring issued, crystal-clear. As the river swells in
size it grows turbid and discoloured with alien elements--personality,
emotions."
"I have noticed that," said Denis. "It is what we call the malady of
thought. This Faun, you say, was found on the mainland yonder?"
"Near the site of old Locri, on a piece of ground which still belongs
to me. I suspect there are still a good many Greek relics to be
excavated on the site. We have discovered a Demeter some years ago; a
mutilated head in marble; it is now in Paris. You can see the very
place from my roof here, on bright days. These men, Mr. Denis, were our
masters. Do not be misled by what you are told of the wanton luxury of
those shores; do not forget that your view of that age has filtered
through Roman stoicism and English puritanism which speak with envy
lurking at their hearts--the envy of the incomplete creature for him who
dares express himself. A plague has infected the world--the plague of
repression. Don't you think that the man who made this Faun was
entitled to dine well?"
"I cannot quite make it out," said Denis, still examining the
statuette.
"Ah! How does it make you feel?"
"Uneasy."
"You are unaware of a struggle between your own mind and that of the
artist? I am glad. It is the test of beauty and vitality that a
beholder refuses to acquiesce at first glance. There is a conflict to
be undergone. This thing thrusts itself upon us; it makes no
concessions, does it? And yet one cannot but admire! You will seldom
encounter that sensation among the masterpieces of the Renaissance.
They welcome you with open arms. That is because we know what the
creators were thinking about. They are quite personal and familiar;
they had as many moods, one suspects, as a fashionable prima donna.
They give pleasure. This Faun gives pleasure and something more--a sense
of disquieting intimacy. While intruding upon your reserve with his
solemn, stark and almost hostile novelty, he makes at the same time a
strange appeal--he touches upon chords in our nature of which we
ourselves were barely cognisant. You must yield, Mr. Denis, to this
stranger who seems to know so much about you. When you have done so,
you will make a surprising discovery. You have gained a friend--one of
those who never change."
"I am trying to," replied Denis. "But it is difficult. We are not
brought up that way, nowadays."
"No. Men have lost their frankness, their self-assurance. Whoever
yields, must be confident of his own strength. Our contemporaries have
lost that feeling. They dare not be themselves. They eke out lack of
sincerity by profusion of commonplace. Unlike the heroes of Homer, they
repress their fears--they repress everything, save their irrepressible
flatulence of mind. They are expansive in unimportant matters and at
wrong moments--blown about in a whirl of fatuous extremes. The
impersonal note has vanished. Why has it gone, Mr. Denis?" he suddenly
asked. "And when did it go?"
The other was rather puzzled what to reply.
"I suppose you could trace its disappearance to the days of which you
spoke, when artists began to display their moods to the world. Perhaps
further still. Some Roman writers were fond of talking about their own
affairs. If they do, the public naturally becomes interested. People
like Byron must have had a good deal to do with it. He was always
harping on his private life."
He paused, but the Count merely asked:
"No further back than that?"
"I don't know. Christianity made us interested in other people's
feelings. Brotherliness, you know. That must have helped. So did
Socrates, by the way. Of course it lowers the general standard. Where
everybody can read and write, there's an end of good taste. No, I don't
mean that exactly," he added, feeling that he was expressing himself
very stupidly.
"Well?"
"Oh, everything! The telegraph and society papers and interviewing and
America and yellow journalism ... and all those family memoirs and
diaries and autobiographies and Court scandals.... They produce a
new kind of public, a public which craves for personalities rather than
information. They want to learn about our clothes and incomes and
habits. Not a questioning public, I mean; a prying public--"
"A cannibalistic public," said the Count, quietly. "Men cannot live, it
seems, save by feeding on their neighbour's life-blood. They prey on
each other's nerve-tissues and personal sensations. Everything must be
shared. It gives them a feeling of solidarity, I suppose, in a world
where they have lost the courage to stand alone. Woe to him who dwells
apart! Great things are no longer contemplated with reverence. They are
hauled down from their pedestals in order to be rendered accessible to
a generation of pigmies; their dignity is soiled by vulgar contact.
This lust of handling--what is its ordinary name? Democracy. It has
abraded the edge of that keen anthropocentric outlook of the Greeks
which exalted whatever was distinctively human. Men have learnt to see
beauty here, there, and everywhere--a little beauty, mark you, not much!
They fail to realize that in widening their capacity of appreciation
they dilute its intensity. They have watered their wine. There is more
to drink. The draught is poorer."
It seemed to Denis that the Count's wine had not been watered.
"Let me show you one or two other things," said the old man.
They wandered about the premises awhile, looking at marbles, prints,
intaglios, coins, till a serving man entered--a clean-shaven and rather
bony old creature whom the Count called Andrea--to announce tea. Denis
was feeling calmer; he had fallen under the beguiling influence of this
place. He realized that his host was different from the artist type he
had hitherto encountered; more profound, more veracious. Already he
formed the project of returning to listen to his melodious voice, and
learn some more about that Hellenic life which had hitherto been a
sealed book to him. Nobody every spoke to him after the Count's
fashion. He contrasted his address with the bantering, half-apologetic,
supercilious tone of those other elderly persons who had heretofore
deigned to enlightened him. He was flattered and pleased at being taken
seriously and bidden to think in this straightforward, manly fashion;
it unstrung his reserve and medicined to his wounded self-respect.
"So your mother would like to see you in Parliament?" asked the Count.
"Politics are apt to be a dirty game. One cannot touch dirt without
soiling one's hands. We have a deputy here, the Commendator
Morena--well, one does not like to speak about him. Let me ask you a
question, Mr. Denis. Why do politicians exist?"
"I suppose the answer would be that is profitable to mankind to be run
by somebody."
"Profitable, at all events, to those who do the running. Your good Sir
Herbert Street has lately sent me a batch of books about the ideal
public life of the future. Socialistic forecasts, and that kind of
literature. He is a world-improver, you know, among other things. They
have amused me more than I thought they would. That venerable blunder:
to think that in changing the form of government you change the heart
of man. And in other respects, too, these dreamers are at sea. For
surely we should aim at simplification of machinery. Conceive, now, the
state of affairs where everybody is more or less employed by the
community--the community, that comfortable word!--in some patriotic
business or other. Everybody an official, all controlling each other!
It would be worse than the Spanish Inquisition. A man could live at
Toledo by subscribing to certain fixed opinions; he could be assured of
a reasonable degree of privacy. Nothing could save him, under
socialism. An insupportable world! When people cease to reflect they
become idealists."
"I suppose they do," replied Denis, rather dubiously. Then it struck
him that this might account for his own hazy state of mind--this lack of
occupation or guiding principle. For the rest, he had not given much
thought to such questions. To be a politician--it was one of the few
projects which had never seriously entered his head. After a pause, he
remarked:
"I can't help noticing that portrait over there. It's a very pretty
thing."
"The little pastel? It is a sketch of my daughter Matilda. I did it
myself when she was here last Christmas. Poor child, she can only come
for the holidays; there is no chance of a respectable education o this
island. But I can run over to see her every now and then. You will
observe I am not much of a colourist!"
"You have been parsimonious with the tints. It reminds me of some of
Lenbach's work which I saw at Florence; it is in the same manner."
"It appears you like art," said the Count. "Why not devote yourself to
it? But perhaps your English social conditions are not propitious. Here
is a letter from a friend of mind which arrived this morning; you know
his name--I will not mention it! A well-known Academician, whose life is
typical of your attitude towards art. Such a good fellow. He likes
shooting and fishing; he is a favourite at Court, and quite an
authority on dress-reform. He now writes to ask me about some detail of
Greek costume which he requires for one of his lectures to a Ladies'
Guild. Art, to him, is not a jealous mistress; she is an indulgent
companion, who will amiably close an eye and permit a few wayside
flirtations to her lover--enthusiasms for quite other ideals, and for
the joys of good society in general. That is the way to live a happy
life. It is not the way to create masterpieces."
"I would take myself seriously, I think," said Denis. "I would not
dissipate my energies."
He meant it. To be an artist--it dawned upon him that this was his true
vocation. To renounce pleasure and discipline the mind; to live a life
of self-denial, submitting himself humbly to the inspiration of the
great masters.... To be serene, like this old man; to avoid that
facile, glib, composite note--those monkey-tricks of cleverness....
Then, after this vision had passed before his eyes like a flash, he
remembered his grief. The notion of becoming a world-famous artist lost
all meaning for him. Everything was blighted. There was not a grain of
solace to be found on earth.
The Count, meanwhile, was looking with concern upon his companion's
grave face, whose flawless profile might have emerged into life under
the thought-laden chisel of Lysippus. He wondered what he could say or
do to drive away this melancholy. The youth had been so bright that day
at the entertainment of the Duchess; he seemed to have stepped straight
out of a sunny dialogue of Plato. Serious trouble now shone out of his
eyes. Something had happened. Something was wrong with him; wrong,
too--he reflected--with a world which could find no better occupation for
such a person than to hand round buttered tea-cakes at an old woman's
party to a crowd of cosmopolitan scandalmongers.
Denis rose, remarking:
"I wish I could stay a little longer! But it is getting so late. I'm
afraid I must be going."
He held out his hand.
"You have caught me in a somewhat sad and depressed mood, I fear,"
replied the other, heaving a most artistic sigh. And his features
suddenly looked quite careworn. As a matter of fact, he had not been so
joyous for many long years--that news of Mr. van Koppen's proximate
arrival having made him feel fifty years younger and, but for his
ingrained sense of Hellenic moderation, almost ready to dance with
delight.
"I am sorry I have been so despondent," he went on. "Sometimes one
cannot help oneself. It shall not occur again! I will try to be more
amusing next time you come. If I thought it would help, I would
communicate my sorrows and claim your sympathy. But what does it avail
to unburden oneself? Friends will share our joys, but every man is a
solitary in his griefs. One soon finds that out! One soon realizes the
vanity of all those talks about the consolations of philosophy and the
comforts of religion, doesn't one? I suppose even you have your moments
of dejection?"
"One worries about things now and then. It is perfectly natural, I
daresay."
"Perfectly. We are not stones--least of all persons like yourself. I
would not be at your age again, not for the wealth of Croesus! I
suffered too much. All young people suffer too much; they bear it
silently, like heroes. The eye of youth dilates and distorts the
images. The focussing process is painful. Youth has no norm. It was in
one of my worst fits of despondency, I remember, that my old teacher
gave me certain advice, after I had puzzled it out, did me some good.
In fact, I have acted upon it to this very day; I recall it as plainly
as if he were speaking now. Well, I am sorry you are leaving. I would
keep you hear if I could. But I hope you will not forget to come
another day. You have cheered me up wonderfully! Shall Andrea find you
a carriage?"
"What did he say?" asked Denis.
"The old teacher? Let me see.... He said: do not be discomposed by
the opinions of inept persons. Do not swim with the crowd. They who are
all things to their neighbours, cease to be anything to themselves.
Even a diamond can have too many facets. Avoid the attrition of vulgar
minds; keep your edges intact. He also said: A man can protect himself
with fists or sword but his best weapon is his intellect. A weapon must
be forged in the fire. The fire, in our case, is tribulation. It must
also be kept untarnished. If the mind is clean, the body can take care
of itself. He said: delve deeply; not too deeply into the past, for it
may make you derivative; nor yet into yourself--it will make you
introspective. Delve into the living world and strive to bind yourself
to its movement by a chain of your own welding. Once that contact is
established, you are unassailable. Externalize yourself! He told me
many things of this kind. You think I was consoled by his words? Not in
the slightest degree. I was annoyed. In fact, I thought him rather a
hypocrite; anybody could have spoken as he did! I was so disappointed
that I went to him next day and told him frankly what I thought of his
counsel. He said--do you know what he said?"
"I cannot even guess."
"He said: 'What is all wisdom save a collection of platitudes? Take
fifty of our current proverbial sayings--they are so trite, so
threadbare, that we can hardly bring our lips to utter them. None the
less they embody the concentrated experience of the race, and the man
who orders his life according to their teaching cannot go far wrong.
How easy that seems! Has any one ever done so? Never. Has any man ever
attained to inner harmony by pondering the experiences of others? Not
since the world began! He must pass through the fire.'"
"I had no teacher like that," observed Denis. "He must have been a man
of the right kind."
"Oh, he meant well, the old rascal," replied the Count with a curious
little smile.