“You had the same idea yourself, or you would never have detected it in me. I am no draughtsman; but I recognize weakness by instinct. You feel that he is a duffer. So do I.”
“Do you think, if he were a duffer, that his picture of last year would have been hung on the line at the Academy; or that the Art Union would have bought it to engrave; or that the President would have spoken of it so highly to Adrian himself?”
“Pshaw! There must be nearly two hundred pictures on the line every year at the Academy; and did you, or anyone else, ever see an Academy exhibition with ten pictures in it that had twenty years of life in them? Did the President of the Academy of Music ever speak well of me; or, if he did, do you think I should fell honored by his approval? That is another superfine duffer’s quality in your Mr Adrian. He is brimming over with reverence. He is humble, and speaks with bated breath of every painter that has ever had a newspaper notice written about him. He grovels before his art because he thinks that grovelling becomes him.”
“I think his modesty and reverence do become him.”
“Perhaps they do, because he has nothing to be bumptious about; but they are not the qualities that make a creative artist. Ha! ha!”
Mary opened her fan, and began to fan herself, with her face turned away from Jack.
Well,” said he, “are you angry?”
“No. But if you must disparage Adrian, why do you do so to me? You know the relation between us.”
“I disparage him because I think he is a humbug. If he spends whole days in explaining to you what a man of genius is and feels, knowing neither the one nor the other, I do not see why I should not give you my opinion on the subject, since I am in my own way — not a humble way — a man of genius myself.”
“Adrian, unfortunately, has not the same faith in himself that you have.”
“Perhaps he has got a good reason. A man’s own self is the last person to believe in him, and is harder to to cheat than the rest of the world. I sometimes wonder whether I am not an impostor. Old Beethoven once asked a pupil whether he really considered him a good composer. Shakespeare, as far as I can make out, only succeeded about half-a-dozen times in his attempts at play writing. Do you suppose he didn’t know it?”
“Then why do you blame Adrian for his diffidence?”
“Ah! that’s a horse another color. He thinks himself worse than other men, mortal like himself. I think myself a fool occasionally, because there are times when composing music seems to me to be a ridiculous thing in itself. Why should a rational man spend his life in making jingle-jingle with twelve notes? But at such times, Bach seems just as great a fool as I. Ask me at any time whether I cannot compose as good or better music than any Tom, Dick, or Harry now walking upon two legs in England; and I shall not trouble you with any cant about my humbleness or unworthiness.”
“Can you compose better music than Mozart’s? I believe you are boasting out of sheer antipathy to poor Adrian.”
“Does Mozart’s music express me? If not, what does it matter to me whether it is better or worse? I must make my own music, such as it is or such as I am — and I would as soon be myself as Mozart or Beethoven or any of them. To hear your Adrian talk one would think he would rather be anybody than himself. Perhaps he is right there, too.”
“Let it be agreed, Mr Jack, that you have a low opinion of Adrian; and let us say no more about him.”
“Very well. But let us go back to the other room. You are in a bad humor for a quiet chat, Miss Mary.”
“Then go alone; and leave me here. I do not mind being here by myself at all. I know I am not gaily disposed; and I fear I am spoiling your evening.”
“You are gay enough for me. I hate women who are always grinning. Besides, Miss Mary, I am fond of you, and find attraction in all your moods.”
“Yes, I am sure you are very fond of me,” said Mary with listless irony, as she walked away with him. In the other room they came upon Herbert, seeking anxiously someone in the eddy near the door, formed by people going away. Mary did not attempt to disturb him; but he presently caught sight of her. Thinking that she was alone — for Jack, buttonholed by Phipson, had fallen behind for a moment — he made his way to her and said:
“Where is Mrs Phipson, Mary? Are you alone?”
“I have not seen her for some time.” She had all but added that she hoped he had not disturbed himself to come to her; but she refrained, feeling that spiteful speeches were unworthy of herself and of him.
“Where did you vanish to for so long?” he said. “I have hardly seen you the whole evening.”
“Were you looking for me?”
He avoided her eyes, and stepped aside to make way for a lady who was passing. “Shall I get you an ice he said, after this welcome interruption. “It is very warm in here.”
“No. thank you. You know that I never eat ices.”
“I thought that this furnace of a room might have prevailed over your hygienic principles. Have you enjoyed yourself?”
I have not been especially happy or the reverse. I enjoyed the music.”
“Oh yes. Don’t you think Mlle. Sczympliça plays beautifully?”
“I saw that you thought so. She is able to bring an expression into your face that I have never seen there before.”
Herbert looked at her quickly: he became quite red. “Yes.” he said, “she certainly plays most poetically. By the bye, I think Mr. Jack behaved very badly in publicly making game of Mr. Maclagan. Everyone in the room was disgusted.”
Mary was ready to retort in defence of Jack; but before she could utter it Mrs Phipson came up, aggrieved and and speaking more loudly than was at all necessary. “Well, Mr Herbert,” she was saying, “you really have behaved most charmingly to us all the evening. I think we may go now, Mary. Josefs has gone; and Szczympliça is going, so there is really nothing to stay for. Why Adrian Herbert is gone again! How excessively odd!”
“He is gone to get Mdlle Sczympliça’s carriage,” said Mary, quietly. “Be careful,” she added, in a lower tone: “Mdlle Sczympliça is close behind us.”
“Indeed! And who is to get our carriage?” said Mrs Phipson, crossly, declining to abate her voice in the least. “Oh, really, Mary, you must speak to him about this. What is the use of your being his fiancée if he never does anything for you? He has behaved very badly. Mr Phipson is with that Frenchwoman who sang. He is only happy when he is running errands for celebrities. I suppose we must either take care of ourselves, or wait until Adrian condescends to come back for us.”
“We had better not wait. I see Charlie in the next room: he will look after us. Come.”
The Polish lady passed them, and followed her mother down the staircase. The cloak room was crowded; but Madame Sczympliça fought her way in, and presently returned with an armful of furs. She was assisted into some of these by her daughter, who was about to wrap herself in a cloak, when it was taken from her by Herbert.
“Allow me,” he said, placing the cloak on her shoulders. “I must not delay you: your servant has brought up your carriage; but—”
“Let us go quickly, my child,” said Madame. “They scream like devils for us. Au revoir, Monsieur Herbert. Come, Aurélie!”
“Adieu,” said Aurélie, hurrying away. He kept beside her until she stepped into the carriage. “Certainly not adieu,” he said eagerly. “May I not come to see you, as we arranged?”
“No,” she replied. “Your place is beside Miss Sutherland, your affianced. Adieu.” The carriage sped off; and he stood, gaping, until a footman reminded him that he was in the way of the next party. He then returned to the hall, where Mrs Phipson informed him coldly