"Ask me anything in all the world. I'd turn myself inside out to save you.""To 'save' me?" he quavered.
"To make you stick to it - to make you see it through. As I said to you the other night at Summersoft, let my example be vivid to you.""Why your books are not so bad as that," said Paul, fairly laughing and feeling that if ever a fellow had breathed the air of art - !
"So bad as what?"
"Your talent's so great that it's in everything you do, in what's less good as well as in what's best. You've some forty volumes to show for it - forty volumes of wonderful life, of rare observation, of magnificent ability.""I'm very clever, of course I know that" - but it was a thing, in fine, this author made nothing of. "Lord, what rot they'd all be if I hadn't been I'm a successful charlatan," he went on - "I've been able to pass off my system. But do you know what it is? It's cartonpierre.""Carton-pierre?" Paul was struck, and gaped.
"Lincrusta-Walton!"
"Ah don't say such things - you make me bleed!" the younger man protested. "I see you in a beautiful fortunate home, living in comfort and honour.""Do you call it honour?" - his host took him up with an intonation that often comes back to him. "That's what I want YOU to go in for. I mean the real thing. This is brummagem.""Brummagem?" Paul ejaculated while his eyes wandered, by a movement natural at the moment, over the luxurious room.
"Ah they make it so well to-day - it's wonderfully deceptive!"Our friend thrilled with the interest and perhaps even more with the pity of it. Yet he wasn't afraid to seem to patronise when he could still so far envy. "Is it deceptive that I find you living with every appearance of domestic felicity - blest with a devoted, accomplished wife, with children whose acquaintance I haven't yet had the pleasure of ******, but who MUST be delightful young people, from what I know of their parents?"St. George smiled as for the candour of his question. "It's all excellent, my dear fellow - heaven forbid I should deny it. I've made a great deal of money; my wife has known how to take care of it, to use it without wasting it, to put a good bit of it by, to make it fructify. I've got a loaf on the shelf; I've got everything in fact but the great thing.""The great thing?" Paul kept echoing.
"The sense of having done the best - the sense which is the real life of the artist and the absence of which is his death, of having drawn from his intellectual instrument the finest music that nature had hidden in it, of having played it as it should be played. He either does that or he doesn't - and if he doesn't he isn't worth speaking of. Therefore, precisely, those who really know DON'Tspeak of him. He may still hear a great chatter, but what he hears most is the incorruptible silence of Fame. I've squared her, you may say, for my little hour - but what's my little hour? Don't imagine for a moment," the Master pursued, "that I'm such a cad as to have brought you down here to abuse or to complain of my wife to you. She's a woman of distinguished qualities, to whom my obligations are immense; so that, if you please, we'll say nothing about her. My boys - my children are all boys - are straight and strong, thank God, and have no poverty of growth about them, no penury of needs. I receive periodically the most satisfactory attestation from Harrow, from Oxford, from Sandhurst - oh we've done the best for them! - of their eminence as living thriving consuming organisms.""It must be delightful to feel that the son of one's loins is at Sandhurst," Paul remarked enthusiastically.
"It is - it's charming. Oh I'm a patriot!"
The young man then could but have the greater tribute of questions to pay. "Then what did you mean - the other night at Summersoft -by saying that children are a curse?"
"My dear youth, on what basis are we talking?" and St. George dropped upon the sofa at a short distance from him. Sitting a little sideways he leaned back against the opposite arm with his hands raised and interlocked behind his head. "On the supposition that a certain perfection's possible and even desirable - isn't it so? Well, all I say is that one's children interfere with perfection. One's wife interferes. Marriage interferes.""You think then the artist shouldn't marry?"
"He does so at his peril - he does so at his cost.""Not even when his wife's in sympathy with his work?""She never is - she can't be! Women haven't a conception of such things.""Surely they on occasion work themselves," Paul objected.
"Yes, very badly indeed. Oh of course, often, they think they understand, they think they sympathise. Then it is they're most dangerous. Their idea is that you shall do a great lot and get a great lot of money. Their great nobleness and virtue, their exemplary conscientiousness as British females, is in keeping you up to that. My wife makes all my bargains with my publishers for me, and has done so for twenty years. She does it consummately well - that's why I'm really pretty well off. Aren't you the father of their innocent babes, and will you withhold from them their natural sustenance? You asked me the other night if they're not an immense incentive. Of course they are - there's no doubt of that!"Paul turned it over: it took, from eyes he had never felt open so wide, so much looking at. "For myself I've an idea I need incentives.""Ah well then, n'en parlons plus!" his companion handsomely smiled.
