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Now if this analysis be anywhere near the truth, it is clear that our task for the future is one of synthesis on the lines of social progress. Knowledge, power, wealth, increase of skill, increase of health, we have them all in growing measure, and Mr. Clutton Brock will tell us in his chapter in this volume that we may be able by an exercise of will to achieve even a new renascence in art.
At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of Ruth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go and see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his work and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money than most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea.
"Oh yes, I know about him," said Lawson, "he's the old master whose distinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns." Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at Lawson with a sardonic air. "Are you going to show us the stuff you've brought back from Spain?" asked Philip. "I didn't paint in Spain, I was too busy." "What did you do then?" "I thought things out.
Something of that idea of damnation as a lack of the will for salvation has crept at a number of points into contemporary religious thought. It was the fine fancy of Swedenborg that the damned go to their own hells of their own accord. It underlies a queer poem, "Simpson," by that interesting essayist upon modern Christianity, Mr. Clutton Brock, which I have recently read.
Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master, whose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris.
She's been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with old Foinet that's why he takes so much trouble about her and now two of you, you and Lawson. It makes me sick." "Oh, what nonsense! She's a very decent sort. One treats her just as if she were a man." "Oh, don't speak to me, don't speak to me." "But what can it matter to you?" asked Philip.
Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained to see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward's elegant clothes and grand manner. They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby little studio which Lawson and Philip had shared. At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to America. Clutton had disappeared.
He found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his spirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier's the table at which Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he called out to him. They made room.
He came to Clutton, and by this time Philip was nervous too but Mrs. Otter had promised to make things easy for him. Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton's work, biting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas the little piece of skin which he had bitten off. "That's a fine line," he said at last, indicating with his thumb what pleased him.
"You want me to repent." She coloured guiltily, and he laughed like a boy, delighted with his own cleverness. "There's one thing Mr. Haggard might do for me," he said. "Lend me Clutton Brock's Shelley, if he would. He's got it, I know." The girl made a mental note, wrinkling her brow. "Shelley's Clutton Brock," she said. "I'll remember." She sat beside his bed.
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