"To whom do you refer?" asked Don.
"To those young men wearing Soho whiskers and coloured collars. I call them Johnsons because they regard Augustus John as their spiritual father."
"And what is your opinion of his school?" inquired Don.
"He has no school. His work is aspirative, if you will grant me the word; the striving of a soul which knew the art of an earlier civilisation to seek expression in this. Such a man may have imitators, but he can never have disciples."
"He is a master of paint."
"Quite possibly. Henry James was a master of ink, but only by prayer and fasting can we hope to grasp his message. Both afford examples of very strange and experienced spirits trammelled by the limitations of imperfect humanity. Their dreams cannot be expressed in terms within the present human compass. Debussy's extraordinary music may be explained in the same way. Those who seek to follow such a lead follow a Jack-o'-lantern. The more I see of the work of the Johnsons the more fully I recognise it to embody all that we do not ask of art."
"Those views do not apply to the Johnsons' spiritual father?" suggested Paul, laughingly.
"Not in the least. If we confounded the errors of the follower with the message of the Master must not the Messianic tradition have died with Judas?"
Paul gave an order to the waiter and Don began to load his pipe. Thessaly watched him, smiling whilst he packed the Latakia mixture into the bowl with meticulous care, rejecting fragments of stalk as Paphnutius rejected Thais; more in sorrow than in anger.
"Half the absinthe drinker's joy is derived from filtering the necessary drops of water through a lump of sugar," he said as Don reclosed his pouch; "and in the same way, to the lover of my lady Nicotine the filling of the pipe is a ritual, the lighting a burnt offering and the smoking a mere habit."