“And now, Monsieur Louis, please get me my cloak, and will one of you be good enough to tell my chauffeur I am ready?—and one thing more, and this I insist on: please don’t any of you move—and, whatever you do, don’t bid me good-by. I want to carry away with me just the picture I am looking at: Monsieur Herbert there in his chair between the two live heads—yes, I believe it now—and Messieurs Louis and Brierley and Le Blanc, and our delightful host, and dear tantalizing Lemois, by the hearth—and the queer figures looking down at us through the smoke of our cigarettes—and the glow of the candles, and the light of the lovely fire to which you have welcomed me. Au revoir, messieurs—you have made me over new and I am very happy, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart!”
And she was gone.
When the door was shut behind her, Herbert strolled to the fire and stood with his face to the flickering blaze. We all remained standing, paying unconscious homage to her memory. For some seconds no one spoke. Then, turning and facing the group, Herbert said, half aloud, as if communing with himself:
“A real woman—human and big, half a dozen such would revolutionize France. And she knows—that is the best part of it”—and his voice grew stronger—“she knows! You may think you’ve reached the bottom of things—thought them all out, convinced you are right, even steer your course by your deductions—and here comes along a woman who lifts a lid uncovering a well in your soul you never dreamed of, and your conclusions go sky-high. And she does it so cleverly, and she is so sane about it all. If she were where I could get at her now and then I’d do something worth while. I’ve made up my mind to one thing, anyhow—I’m going to pull to pieces the thing I set up before I came down here and start something new. I’ve got another idea in my head—something a little more human.”
“Isn’t ‘The Savage’ human, Herbert?” I asked, filling his glass as I spoke, to give him time for reply.
“No; it’s only African—one phase of a race.”
“How about your ‘group,’ ‘They Have Eyes and They See Not’?” asked Brierley, who had drawn up a chair and stood leaning over its back, gazing into the fire.
“A little better, but not much. The Great Art is along other lines—bigger, higher, stronger—more universal lines, one that has nothing racial about it, one that expresses the human heart no matter what the period or nationality. The ‘Prodigal Son’ is a drama which has been understood and is still understood by the whole earth irrespective of creed or locality. It appeals to the savage and the savant alike and always will to the end of time. So with the Milo. She is Greek, English, or Slav at your option, but she will live forever because she expresses the divine essence of maternity which is eternal. It is this, and only this, which compels. I have had glimmerings of it all my life. Madame cleared out the cobwebs for me in a flash. A great woman—real human.”
Then noticing that no one had either interrupted his outburst or moved his position, he glanced around the group and, as if in doubt as to the way his outburst had been received, said simply:
“Well, speak up; am I right or wrong? You don’t seem to see it as I do. How did she appeal to you, Brierley?”