“Perhaps you young men see the new ultra-shades at the end of the spectrum,” said Rocks, a little annoyed to find Matt restive under his patronizing geniality. “Apelles had only four colors, but his reputation has survived. It is the craze for novelty that makes these fads catch on.”
“On the contrary,” retorted Matt, hotly, “people are so accustomed to the false they have no eyes for the true. It’s the old fable of the man with the pig under his cloak. I read somewhere that in Sir Joshua’s day it was the convention to paint portraits with hats under their arm, and that Sir Joshua, having to paint a man with his hat on, automatically put a second hat under his arm. If he hadn’t found it out, I don’t believe the public would have. And weren’t the 1830 men laughed at in France, though now they’re thrown in the teeth of the Impressionists? It’s always the same tale—the revolutionary is always wrong till he’s right. Treason never prospers. What’s the reason? When ’tis successful, ’tis no longer treason.’ Truth and light—that’s the right formula of landscape-painting.”
Herbert laughed. “My stars, Matt!” he cried, gayly, “that’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you make! Is Cornpepper’s whiskey so much better than mine?”
It was, perhaps, not so much the whiskey as the reaction after the long, respectful self-repression of the evening. But Rocks caught fire in his turn.
“Revolution!” he cried, scornfully. “Doing things literally by halves—there’s a revolution, there’s a revelation for you. The new art! If the modern young man can’t draw, color’s the thing; and if he’s got no sense of color, color is vulgar. And even if he doesn’t offend my sense of line by figures that couldn’t stand and limbs that don’t fit on he won’t finish his work. He leaves it half-cooked to show his chic; to take it further would be Academic. It’s mere notes for pictures, not pictures. And even at that half the ideas come from Paris, like our ladies’ gowns; if you ran over there as often as I do you could put your finger on most of these azure fellows’ inspirations. If they would only search like the French! If they would only really imitate their Monet! That’s a real worker for you—how he slaves at his hay-stacks! More science than art to my thinking; but how he searches! These chaps are such dwarfs. Think of Leonardo, think of Raphael, think of Millet—real men, with big brains and big souls. No; this Azure Art Club’s a set of bounders and bad draughtsmen. There’s too much mutual admiration; it prevents men getting on; they’ll find themselves stranded with a half-talent.”
“And hasn’t Butler got a big soul?” cried Matt, boiling over. “And hasn’t Cornpepper got a big brain?”
“Cornpepper?—oh, but this is shop again. He’s a good little chap at bottom, but he’s succeeding too young.” And in Rocks’s hearty guffaw the storm-clouds rolled away.
“You mustn’t fancy I agree with him altogether, Mr. Rocks,” said Matt, simmering down in his turn. “About the morality of Art, now, isn’t there—”
“Ah, there’s the Methodist parson again,” interrupted Herbert, laughing. “Hang it all, man, you’re not a virgin, are you?”
“No, of course not,” faltered Matt, mendaciously. He went on in haste: “There’s a cab!”