"A great wrong--?"
"Yes--to the human race. I talk--I talk; I say the things other people don"t, the things they can"t the things they won"t," Gabriel went on with his inimitable candour.
"If it"s a question of mastery and perfection you certainly have them,"
his companion replied.
"And you haven"t, alas; that"s the pity of it, that"s the scandal.
That"s the wrong I want to set right before it becomes too public a shame. If I called you just now grossly immoral it"s on account of the spectacle you present--a spectacle to be hidden from the eye of ingenuous youth: that of a man neglecting his own fiddle to blunder away on that of one of his fellows. We can"t afford such mistakes, we can"t tolerate such licence."
"You think then I _have_ a fiddle?"--and our young man, in spite of himself, attached to the question a quaver of suspense finer, doubtless, than any that had ever pa.s.sed his lips.
"A regular Stradivarius! All these things you"ve shown me are remarkably interesting. You"ve a talent of a wonderfully pure strain."
"I say--I say--I say!" Nick exclaimed, hovering there with his hands in his pockets and a blush on his lighted face, while he repeated with a change of accent Nash"s exclamation of half an hour before.
"I like it, your talent; I measure it, I appreciate it, I insist upon it," that critic went on between the whiffs of his cigarette. "I have to be awfully wise and good to do so, but fortunately I am. In such a case that"s my duty. I shall make you my business for a while. Therefore," he added piously; "don"t say I"m unconscious of the moral law."
"A Stradivarius?" said Nick interrogatively and with his eyes wide open.
The thought in his mind was of how different this seemed from his having gone to Griffin.
XXIV
His counsellor had plenty of further opportunity to develop this and other figurative remarks, for he not only spent several of the middle hours of the day at the studio, but came back in the evening--the pair had dined together at a little foreign pothouse in Soho, revealed to Nick on this occasion--and discussed the great question far into the night. The great question was whether, on the showing of those examples of his ability with which the scene of their discourse was now densely bestrewn, Nick Dormer would be justified in "really going in" for the practice of pictorial art. This may strike many readers of his history as a limited and even trivial inquiry, with little of the heroic or the romantic in it; but it was none the less carried to the finest point by our impa.s.sioned young men. Nick suspected Nash of exaggerating his encouragement in order to play a malign trick on the political world at whose expense it was his fond fancy to divert himself--without indeed making that organisation perceptibly totter--and reminded him that his present accusation of immorality was strangely inconsistent with the wanton hope expressed by him in Paris, the hope that the Liberal candidate at Harsh would be returned. Nash replied, first, "Oh I hadn"t been in this place then!" but he defended himself later and more effectually by saying that it was not of Nick"s having got elected he complained: it was of his visible hesitancy to throw up his seat. Nick begged that he wouldn"t mention this, and his gallantry failed to render him incapable of saying: "The fact is I haven"t the nerve for it." They talked then for a while of what he _could_ do, not of what he couldn"t; of the mysteries and miracles of reproduction and representation; of the strong, sane joys of the artistic life. Nick made afresh, with more fulness, his great confession, that his private ideal of happiness was the life of a great painter of portraits. He uttered his thought on that head so copiously and lucidly that Nash"s own abundance was stilled and he listened almost as if he had been listening to something new--difficult as it was to conceive a point of view for such a matter with which he was unacquainted.
"There it is," said Nick at last--"there"s the naked, preposterous truth: that if I were to do exactly as I liked I should spend my years reproducing the more or less vacuous countenances of my fellow-mortals.
I should find peace and pleasure and wisdom and worth, I should find fascination and a measure of success in it--out of the din and the dust and the scramble, the world of party labels, party cries, party bargains and party treacheries: of humb.u.g.g.e.ry, hypocrisy and cant. The cleanness and quietness of it, the independent effort to do something, to leave something which shall give joy to man long after the howling has died away to the last ghost of an echo--such a vision solicits me in the watches of night with an almost irresistible force."
As he dropped these remarks he lolled on a big divan with one of his long legs folded up, while his visitor stopped in front of him after moving about the room vaguely and softly, almost on tiptoe, so as not to interrupt him. "You speak," Nash said, "with the special and dreadful eloquence that rises to a man"s lips when he has practically, whatever his theory may be, renounced the right and dropped hideously into the wrong. Then his regret for the right, a certain exquisite appreciation of it, puts on an accent I know well how to recognise."
Nick looked up at him a moment. "You"ve hit it if you mean by that that I haven"t resigned my seat and that I don"t intend to."
"I thought you took it only to give it up. Don"t you remember our talk in Paris?"
"I like to be a part of the spectacle that amuses you," Nick returned, "but I could scarcely have taken so much trouble as that for it."
"Isn"t it then an absurd comedy, the life you lead?"
"Comedy or tragedy--I don"t know which; whatever it is I appear to be capable of it to please two or three people."
"Then you _can_ take trouble?" said Nash.
"Yes, for the woman I"m to marry."
"Oh you"re to marry?"
"That"s what has come on since we met in Paris," Nick explained, "and it makes just the difference."
"Ah my poor friend," smiled Gabriel, much arrested, "no wonder you"ve an eloquence, an accent!"
"It"s a pity I have them in the wrong place. I"m expected to have them in the House of Commons."
"You will when you make your farewell speech there--to announce that you chuck it up. And may I venture to ask who"s to be your wife?" the visitor pursued.
"Mrs. Dallow has kindly consented to accept that yoke. I think you saw her in Paris."
"Ah yes: you spoke of her to me, and I remember asking you even then if you were in love with her."
"I wasn"t then," said Nick.
Nash had a grave pause. "And are you now?"
"Oh dear, yes."
"That would be better--if it wasn"t worse."
"Nothing could be better," Nick declared. "It"s the best thing that can happen to me."
"Well," his friend continued, "you must let me very respectfully approach this lady. You must let me bring her round."
"Bring her round to what?"
"To everything. Talk her over."
"Talk her under!" Nick laughed--but making his joke a little as to gain time. He remembered the effect this adviser had produced on Julia--an effect that scantly ministered to the idea of another meeting. Julia had had no occasion to allude again to Nick"s imperturbable friend; he had pa.s.sed out of her life at once and for ever; but there flickered up a quick memory of the contempt he had led her to express, together with a sense of how odd she would think it her intended should have thrown over two pleasant visits to cultivate such company.
"Over to a proper pride in what you may do," Nash returned--"what you may do above all if she"ll help you."
"I scarcely see how she can help me," said Nick with an air of thinking.
"She"s extremely handsome as I remember her. You could do great things with _her_."
"Ah, there"s the rub," Nick went on. "I wanted her to sit for me this week, but she wouldn"t hear of it."
"_Elle a bien tort_. You should attack some fine strong type. Is Mrs.
Dallow in London?" Nash inquired.
"For what do you take her? She"s paying visits."
"Then I"ve a model for you."
"Then _you_ have--?" Nick stared. "What has that to do with Mrs.
Dallow"s being away?"
"Doesn"t it give you more time?"