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Of all unhappy artists the most unhappy are those who are impelled by temperament to mingle social propaganda with their artistic work. Rutland Boughton has the soul [260] ]of the artist-preacher. He has persuaded me to many things: he almost persuaded me to “try” vegetarianism, and I remember one morning very well when, sitting on the end of my bed, he pointed a finger at me and enumerated all the evils that infallibly follow on the immoderate drinking of whisky.
I regret this tendency in him: it does not strengthen his art, and it exhausts a good deal of his energy and time. A practical mystic, a man of intense and sometimes difficult moods, a man so honest himself that he is incapable of suspecting dishonesty in others, a man who is always poor, for he loves his art better than riches: he is all these things. Now, a man who endures poverty as cheerfully as he may, who is continually bashing his head against the brick-wall indifference of others, and who at the same time is extraordinarily sensitive, may seek happiness, but, if he does, it will always elude him. Boughton, of course, would deny this. I can hear him saying: “But of course I’m happy!” At times, Rutland, you are happy. You are happy when you are immersed in a new composition, when you are playing Beethoven (do you remember that evening when, on a poorish piano, you played so bravely a couple of sonatas for Edward Carpenter and me?), when you are lecturing, when you have made a convert. But when you believe, as you do, that the world is awry, has always been awry, and shows every sign of continuing indefinitely to be awry, how can you, with your ardour for rightness, for justice, for goodness, be happy?
For years Boughton has done very special Festival work at Glastonbury where, when the war has spent itself, I hope to go for a week’s music, for at Glastonbury strange things are being done—things that are destined, perhaps, to divert in some measure the stream of our native music.
In the early days of August, 1914, Boughton burst into my flat. I was still in civilian clothes and was [261] ]reading Ernest Dowson to discover how he stood the war atmosphere: I thought he stood it very well.
“What, Gerald!” Boughton exclaimed; “not enlisted yet?”
“My dear chap,” I protested, “I am old and married and have a family. Besides, I don’t like killing people: I’ve tried it. And I strongly object to being killed.”
“Oh, you can help without killing people. There’s the A.S.C., for example.”
“A.S.C.? What’s that?”
“I’m going to enlist as a cook. Come along with me.”