“We will go in to Grandmother. She has just opened the window, and will call us to tea?”
“One word more, Vera. You have wisdom, lucidity, decision....”
“What is wisdom?” she asked mischievously.
“Observation and experience, harmoniously applied to life.”
“I have hardly any experience.”
“Nature has bestowed on you a sharp eye and a clear brain.”
“Is not such a possession disgraceful for a girl?”
“Your wholesome ideas, your cultivated speech....”
“You are surprised that a drop of village wisdom should have descended on your poor sister. You would have preferred to find a fool in my place, wouldn’t you, and now you are annoyed?”
“No, Vera, you intoxicate me. You do indeed forbid me to mention your beauty by so much as a syllable, and will not hear why I place it so high. Beauty is the aim and at the same time the driving power of art, and I am an artist. The beauty of which I speak is no material thing, she does not kindle her fires with the glow of passionate desire alone; more especially she awakens the man in man, arouses thought, inspires courage, fertilises the creative power of genius, even when that genius stands at the culmination of its dignity and power; she does not scatter her beams for trifles, does not besmirch purity—she is womanly wisdom. You are a woman, Vera, and understand what I mean. Your hand will not be raised to punish the man, the artist, for this worship of beauty.”