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Updated: May 19, 2025
Correctness is all very well: El Greco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express something he couldn't get any other way." "Damn El Greco," said Lawson, "what's the good of jawing about a man when we haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?" Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went away. Philip and Lawson looked at one another.
In the south-east transept, again, is a window of ancient glass, erected under the same circumstances. The figures in this case represent—1. St. Mary Magdalene; 2. St. Ethelbert; 3. St. Augustine; 4. St. George. In the north aisle of the nave is a two-light window by Warrington. It was erected in 1862 by Archdeacon Lane Freer to the memory of Canon and Mrs. Clutton.
We don't attach any meaning to greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it." There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him closely.
At Gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or at the Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He sat quietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when the opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was most cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his sarcasm.
He shook himself in his clothes like a wet dog. "I say, I'm jolly glad you like it." "I don't. I don't think it's of the smallest importance." Lawson's face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment: he had no notion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he spoke as though it were an effort.
You'll never be a painter as long as you live." "That is no business of yours either, is it?" said Philip, flushing. "Oh, you think it's only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice. Never, never, never. You haven't got it in you." Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after him. "Never, never, never."
"And the nuisance is," added Clutton, "that it takes him a devil of a time to get drunk." When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have to go in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had a morbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside. "He knows everyone worth knowing," Lawson explained.
They began to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less sardonic than usual, Philip determined to take advantage of his good humour. "I say I wish you'd come and look at my picture," he said. "I'd like to know what you think of it." "No, I won't do that." "Why not?" asked Philip, reddening. The request was one which they all made of one another, and no one ever thought of refusing.
Lawson dreaded the criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he might get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton's; but Philip knew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than Clutton's praise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then glanced at Philip's picture, which was standing on an easel. "What's that?" he asked.
Clutton Brock says, "The value of art is the value of the aesthetic activity of the spirit, and we must all value that before we can value works of art rightly: and ultimately we must value this glory of the universe, to which we give the name of beauty when we apprehend it."
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