“I am sure he does. Consider how much he endured formerly because he would not write down to the level of the popular taste.”
“Depend upon it, either he did not get the chance or he could not. Mozart, I believe, wrote ballets and Masses in the Italian style. If Jack had Mozart’s versatility, he would, in similar circumstances, act just as Mozart acted. I do not make a virtue of never having condescended to draw for the illustrated papers, because if anyone had asked me to do it, I should certainly have tried, and probably have failed.”
“Adrian,” said Mary, coming down from the throne, and approaching him: “do you know that it gives me great pain to hear you talk in this way? If there was one vice more than another which I felt sure could never taint your nature, it was the vice of cynicism.”
“You reproach me with cynicism!” he said, with a smile, evidently enjoying some inconsistency in her.
“Why not?”
“There is, of course, no reason why you should not — , except that you seem to have come to very similar conclusions yourself.”
“You never made a greater mistake, Adrian. My faith in the ennobling power of Art, and in the august mission of the artist, is steadfast as it was years ago, when you first instilled it into me.”
“And that faith has never wavered?*
“Never.”
“Not even for a moment”
“Not even for a moment.”
A slight shrug was his only comment. He took up his palette and busied himself with it, with a curious expression at the corners of his mouth.
“What do you mean, Adrian?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“You used to be more candid than that.”
“I used to be many that I am not now.”
“You admit that you are changed!”
“Surely.”
“Then the change in me that you hint at is only a change in your way of looking at me.”
“Perhaps so.”
A pause followed, during which he put a few touches on the canvas, and she watched him in growing doubt.”
“You won’t mind my working whilst you are here.” he said, presently.
“Adrian: do you remember that day on the undercliff at Bonchurch, when I announced my falling off, in principle, from the austerity of our worship of art?”
“I do. Why do you ask?”
“I little thought, then, which of us would be the first to fall off in practice. If a prophet had shewn you to me as you are now, contemning loftiness of purpose and renouncing arduous work, I should have been at a loss for words strong enough to express my repudiation of the forecast.”
“I cannot say that I did not suspect then who would be the first to fall off,” said Adrian, quietly, though his color deepened a little. “But I should have been as sceptical as you, if your prophet had shewn me you—” He checked himself.
“Well, Adrian?”
“No. I beg your pardon: I was going to say something I have no right to say.”
“Whatever it may be, you think it: and I have a right to hear it, so that I may justify myself. How could a prophet have shewn me so as to astonish you?”
“As Mrs Hoskyn,” he replied, looking at her steadily for a moment, and then resuming his work.
“I don’t understand,” said Mary anxiously, after a pause.
“I told you there was nothing to understand,” said he, relieved. “I meant that it is odd in the first place that we are both married, and not to one another — I suppose you don’t mind my alluding to that. It is still odder that I should be married to Aurélie, who knows nothing about painting. But it is oddest that you should be married to Mr Hoskyn, who knows nothing about art at all.”
Mary, understanding him well now, became very red, and for a moment tried hard to keep back a retort which came to her lips. He continued to paint attentively. Then she said indignantly, “Do you conclude that I do not care for my husband because I can still work and think and respect myself — because I am not his slave when he is present, and a slave to my thoughts of him when he is absent?”
“Mary!” exclaimed Herbert, putting down his palette and confronting her with a color as deep as her own. She stood her ground without flinching. Then he recovered himself, and said, “I beg your pardon. I was quite wrong to say anything about your marriage. Have I annoyed you?”
“You have let slip your opinion of me, Adrian.”
“And you yours of me, I think, Mary.”
After this there was another strained pause, disconcerting to both. This time Mary gained her self-possession first. “I was annoyed just now,” she said: “but I did not mean that we should quarrel. I hope you did not.”
“No, indeed,” he said fervently. “I trust we shall never have any such meaning, whatever may pass between us.”
“Then,” she rejoined, instinctively responding to his emotion with an impulse of confession, “let me tell you candidly how far you were right in what you said. I married because I discovered, as you have that the world is larger than Art and that there is plenty of interest in it for those who do not even know what Art means. But I have never been in love in the storybook fashion; and I had given up all belief in the reality of that fashion when I cast in my lot with John’s, though I am very fond of him, and do not at all regret being Mrs. Hoskyn.”
“It is curious that our courses of action should be so similar and our motives so different! My confession is so obvious that it is hardly worth while to make it. I did fall in love in the storybook fashion: and that is the true explanation of what the Times notices in my work. I will not say that I can no longer work, think, or respect myself — I hope I am not so bad as that: but the rest is true. I am a slave to her when she is present, and a slave to my thoughts of her when she is absent. Perhaps you despise me for it.”
“I can hardly despise you for loving your wife. It would be rather unreasonable.”
“There are many things which are not reasonable, and are yet quite natural. I sometimes despise myself. That occurs when I contrast Aurélie’s influence on my work with yours. Before I met her, I worked steadfastly in this studio, thinking of you whenever my work palled on me, and never failing to derive fresh courage from you. I know now, better than I did then, how much of my first success, and of the resolute labor that won it, was due to you. The new influence is a different — a disturbing one. When I think of Aurélie, there is an end of my work. Where in the old time I used to be reinforced and concentrated, I am now excited and distracted; impatient for some vague tomorrow that never comes; capable of nothing but trouble or ecstasy. Imagine, then, how I value your friendship — for you must not think that you have lost your old power over me. Even to-day, because I have had this opportunity of talking with you, I feel more like my old artist self than I have been for a longtime. We understand each other: I could not say the same to Aurélie. Therefore, Mary, will you — however ill I may in your opinion have deserved it — will you still stand my friend, and help me to regain the ground I have lost, as you formerly helped me to win it?”
“Most willingly, “said Mary with enthusiasm, holding out both her hands to him. “I will take your word for my ability to help you, though I know that you used to help yourself by helping me. Now we are fast friends again, are we not?”
“Fast friends,” he repeated, taking her hands, and turning her with affectionate admiration and gratitude.
“Aha!” cried a voice. They released each other’s hands quickly, and turned,