Bright himself said nothing, but looked curiously at his brother-in-law, whom he disliked in an unaccountable way. He had never been able to understand Griggs’ apparent attachment to the man. He had heard that when Crowdie had been a young art student in Paris, twelve or fourteen years earlier, Griggs had nursed him through an illness, and had otherwise taken care of him. There was a mystery about it which Hamilton Bright had always wished to solve. According to him, the best thing about Crowdie was his friendship for the literary man. Bright could not fathom its mystery, any more than he could understand his sister’s passionate, all-devouring love for Crowdie. The husband and wife were almost inseparable. Such a state of things should have seemed admirable to the wife’s brother, but for some mysterious reason it did not. Bright had almost resented his sister’s ardent devotion to a man who seemed to him so unmanly. He always thought that Crowdie, with his soft, pale face and vividly red lips, was like a poisonous tropical flower that would ultimately harm Hester in some unimaginable way.
“No—I’m not ashamed of it,” said the painter, in answer to his mother-in-law’s remark. “But that isn’t the question. What I mean is, that we all love, or should love, in different ways—all five of us. Look at us—how different we are! There’s Griggs, now. I’ve known him half my life and a good bit of his. If he’s in love, he’s picked out a soul, and then a face, and then a set of ideas out of his extensive collection, and he’s sublimated the whole in that old retort of a brain of his, and he’s living on the perfume of the essence. Poor old Griggs!”
“Don’t pity me, and don’t patronize me, Crowdie!” laughed Griggs. “If you offend me, I’ll pay you off, you know.”
“I’m not frightened—but I’ve done with you. I’ll go on. There’s Ralston—he’s dangerous. He’d love like Othello, and lose his temper like Hotspur. As for Bright, he has permanent qualities. When he’s once made up his mind, it makes up him for the rest of his life. Faithful Johnnie, don’t you know? He’s a do or die sort of man—and with his constitution it means doing and not dying. Wingfield—oh, Wingfield’s Achilles. An Achilles with black hair—only rather more so. With his size, it’s lucky for the Trojans that he hasn’t got your Lauderdale temper that you’re always talking about. Schliemann wouldn’t even find the foundations of Troy. Wingfield would pulverize the whole place and use it up for polishing his weapons. Briseis, or nothing—while the mood lasts. I don’t mean to say that you’re fickle, Wingfield, but you’re much too human for an undying passion, you know.”
“How about yourself?” enquired young Wingfield. “We’ve each had our turn. Don’t forget yourself.”
“Oh—as for myself—I don’t know. I’ll leave that to you. You can all take your revenge, and define me, if you like. I’ll be patient. I’m not aggressive by nature. Besides, I’m quite different—I mustn’t be judged like you other men.”
“And why not?” enquired Katharine.
“Why—I’m an artist. The foundations of my nature are different from yours. I’m a skilled workman. It’s your business to be more or less skilled thinkers. I do things with my hands, you do things with your brains. The beginning of art is manual, mechanical skill. Any one who’s got it enough to be an artist must be something of a materialist. He can’t help it, any more than a surgeon can. What’s subject to you is object to me—so we can’t possibly look at the same things in the same way.”
“That’s why you’re such a confounded materialist!” exclaimed Griggs.
“Nonsense!” retorted Crowdie. “You’re always saying that matter’s an illusion and an idea. I’m the real idealist because I go in for matter, which is nothing but a dream, according to you.”