come in yesterday
at a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to
six--you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who
brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I
suffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion.
No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil.
You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find
me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You
remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who
spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance
redressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget exactly what it was.
Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He
had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a
confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really
want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to
see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who
used to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a
little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that
delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of
when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say
that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I
love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades,
green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings,
luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic
temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to
me. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is to
escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking
to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a
schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new
thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I
am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very
fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not
stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And how
happy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel
with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said."

The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,
an