"Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offered
me eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely original
conception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried it
away." "That is very regrettable." "Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor. Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Having
twice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying the
expenses of three households. The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table,
unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him. Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at
first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so
intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action. "By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?" "It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not without
surprise. "But, man, do you know that I have discovered my motive in it?" "What do you mean?" asked Ernest, looking first at Reginald and then at
Walkham, whose sanity he began to doubt. "Listen!" And the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whose
measured cadence delighted Ernest's ear, without, however, enlightening
his mind as to the purport of Walkham's cryptic remark. Reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time,
at least, his interest was alert. Walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without an
explanation. "I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, with
me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. I
do not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with painted
windows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I can
almost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by its
rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised
finally into my lost conception of Narcissus." "It is extraordinary," murmured Reginald. "I had not dreamed of it." "So you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked Ernest,
circumscribing his true meaning. "No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging the
sub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. And
surely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were not
reflected in our style." "Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read
beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what
we leave unexpressed?" "Undoubtedly." "Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? That would open a new field to psychology." "Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. It
is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the
threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint
faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities." "This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority,
delight the hearts of the few," Ernest interjected. "Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how an
uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and
blushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. The
man who had written it was a roué." "Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power
of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked. "If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I can
very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a
reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface,
undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and
Iseult." VI


Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke's
studio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows
with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. The
latter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem
blossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgot
that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now and
then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul. The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the
lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had come
on a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest's
soul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke. Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke of
his cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk. "Your friend Jack is delightful," Reginald remarked, looking up from his
papers. "And his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold in
yours. I should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes." "So we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between." "How long have you known him?" "We have been chums ever since our sophomore year." "What attracted you in him?" "It is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. Even
a tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under the
microscope. How can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude,
our souls, especially when, under the influence of feeling, we see as
through a glass darkly." "It is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distorts
the perspective. Still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. We must
learn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality to
our work. Indiscretion is the better part of literature, and it
behooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, and
convert it into copy." "It is because I am so self-analytical that I realise the complexity of
my nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. Conflicting forces
sway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. Physicology
isn't physics. There were many things to attract me to Jack. He was
subtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of my
college-mates." "That I have noticed. In fact, his lashes are those of a girl. You still
care for him very much?" "It isn't a matter of caring. We are two beings that live one life." "A sort of psychic Siamese twins?" "Almost. Why, the matter is very simple. Our hearts root in the same
soil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shaken
our being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom of
friendship." "He struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplace
companion." "There is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which only
intimate contact reveals. He is now taking his post-graduate course at
Harvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so many
invisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet after
years and still be near each other." "You are very young," Reginald replied. "What do you mean?" "Ah--never mind." "So you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?"