Part 17 (1/2)
”Everything. A really unbia.s.sed judgment is the rarest thing in the world, and there's always a charm about nave criticism.”
”I couldn't put the book down. Can I say more?”
”Yes, of course you can say more. You can tell me which legend you disliked least; you can criticise my hero's conduct, and find fault with my heroine's manners; you can object to my plot, pick holes in my style.
No, thank goodness, you can't do that; but you can take exception to my morality.”
She sat silent, waiting for her cue, and trying to collect her thoughts, which were fluttering all abroad in generalities.
He went on with a touch of bitterness in his voice--
”I thought so. It's the old stumbling-block--my morality. If it hadn't been for that, you would have told me, wouldn't you? that my figures breathe and move, that every touch is true to life. But you daren't. You are afraid of reality; facts are so immoral.”
It would be impossible to describe the accent of scorn which Wyndham threw into this last word.
”I thought your book very clever--in spite of the facts.”
”Facts or no facts, you'd rather have your beliefs, wouldn't you?”
”No, no; I lost them all long ago!” cried Audrey, indignantly.
”I don't mean the old vulgar dogmas, of course, but the dear little ideals that shed such a rosy light on things in general, you know. Ah!
that's what you want; and when an artist paints the real thing for you, you say, 'Thank you; yes, it's very clever, I see; but I prefer the pretty magic-lantern views, and the limelight of life.'”
”Not at all. I've much too great a regard for truth.”
”I know. You're always looking for Truth, with a capital T; but, when it comes to the point, you'd rather have two miserable little half-truths than one honest whole truth about anything. That's why you disliked my book.”
”I didn't.”
”Oh, yes, you did. What you disliked about it was this. It made you see men and women, not as you imagined them, but as G.o.d made them. You saw, that is, the naked human soul, stripped of the clumsy draperies that Puritanism wraps round it. You saw below the surface--below the top-dressing of education, below the solid layer of traditional morality--deep down to the primitive pa.s.sions, the fire of the clay we're all made of. You saw love and hate, forces which are older than all religions and all laws, older than man and woman, and which make men and women what they are. And they seemed to you not commonplaces, which they are--but something worse. You don't know that these _facts_ are the stuff of art, because they are the stuff of nature; that it takes mult.i.tudes of such facts, not just one or two picked out because of their 'moral beauty'--for you purists believe in the beauty of morality as well as in the immorality of beauty--to make up a faithful picture of life. And you shuddered, didn't you? as you laid down the book you sat up half the night to read, and you said it was ugly, revolting; you couldn't see any perfect characters in it--only character in the making, only wretched men and women acting according to certain disagreeable laws, which are none the less immutable because one half of the world professes to ignore their existence. You said, 'Take away the whole world of nature, take away logic and science and art, but leave me--leave me my ideals!' Isn't that it?”
The torrent of his rhetoric swept her away, she knew not whither. But in his last words she had caught her cue. If she was ever to be an influence in Wyndham's life, encouraging, inspiring his best work, she must not suffer him to speak lightly of ”ideals.” It seemed to her that her methods with Ted were crude compared with her management of Wyndham.
”Oh, don't, don't! It's dreadful! But you are right. I can't live without ideals. All the great artists had them. You have them yourself, or at least you _had_ them. I don't know what to think about your book--I can't think, I can only feel; and I read between the lines.
Surely you feel with me that there's nothing worth living for except morality? Surely you believe in purity and goodness?”
Her face was flushed, her hands were clasped tightly together in her intensity. So strong was the illusion her manner produced, that for one second Wyndham could have been convinced of her absolute sincerity. Not long--no, not long afterwards, her words were to come back to him with irony.
”Morality? I've the greatest respect for it. But after all, its rules only mark off one little corner from the plain of life. Out there, in the open, are the fine landscapes and the great highroads of thought.
And if you are to travel at all, you must go by those ways. There's dust on them, and there's mud--plenty of mud; but--there are no others.”
”I would be very careful where I put my feet, though. I don't like muddy boots.”
”I daresay not; who does? But the traveller is not always thinking about his boots.”
”Don't let's talk about boots.” She made a little movement with her mouth, simulating disgust.
”Your own metaphor; but never mind. _A propos des bottes_, I should like----” he broke off and added in a deep, hieratic voice, ”To the pure all things are pure, but to the Puritan most things are impure. I wish I could make you see that; but it's a large subject. And besides, I want to talk about you.”