Never, he said to himself, should he find a woman who suited both sides; gave him ardour and left him respect, satisfying body and soul...
Fantine, with her subtle instinct, divined the change in his mood. She swept aside personalities and started to talk of the Russian Ballet.
"It's curious how it has left its mark. It seems to have bitten and to have scratched!"
McTaggart, despite himself, smiled at the clever, brutal touch. This was Fantine at her best.
"To succeed now one must surprise!—the days of Mendelssohn are past. I suppose the world is getting old with emotions that Time has dulled."
"Or the Worldlings too degenerate." McTaggart still felt gloomy. "These Cubists now ... What do you think of their pictures? Do you call it really Art?"
"I can't somehow make up my mind. I like the idea at the back of it. I think they're groping in the dark for a sign not yet vouchsafed to us."
McTaggart tried to follow her thought, failed and asked for a nearer clue.
Fantine's eyes were far away, the fine brows drawn together in an effort of concentration. She pushed her plate away from her and, with hands clasped on the table, leaned unconsciously toward him.
"Have you ever read Swedenborg? His 'Heaven and Hell!' No? What a pity! Well one of his favourite theories is on what he calls 'Correspondences.' He thinks that everything lovely here is the symbol, materialized, of a higher, more exquisite spiritual force—known to angels in Paradise. For instance, a rose—with its perfect shape, its colour, its scent, has a counterpart—a 'Correspondence' is his word—with a 'state'—it's difficult to explain—-a ... sense of happiness above. Well, it seems to me that artists now, in music and painting—in all the arts—are trying to get away from form to express the meaning in their work. It's a wireless message to the mind away beyond the animal senses; something above the mere glamour of appeal to the flesh—it's 'correspondence.'"