And then, further, I felt that it was all too comfortable--it was all
built on a foundation of comfort; that lay really at the bottom of it
all. The house was too full of beautiful things; the dinner was too
long and too good; the wine was too choice. I am not going to pretend
that I do not like comfort; but I do not like luxury, and this was
luxurious. I do not want to have a long and elaborate dinner; it should
be _simplex munditiis_, as Horace said. And beautiful pictures and
furniture are more beautiful if there is not too much of them. One
felt, in this warm, fragrant house, with every room and wall crammed
with charming objects, with every desire anticipated, the dinner-table
bright with flowers and silver, with "orient liquor in a crystal
glass," as if one stifled under a load of delights; I yearned for
plainer rooms and simpler fare, and for freer and more genuine talk.
One felt that the aim of the circle was satisfaction rather than
beauty; to be sheltered and caressed rather than to be invigorated and
tranquillised.
I was standing in a drawing-room one night before dinner, already sated
with the food, the talk, the music, and the art of the day, as the
guests began to arrive: such clean, brilliant men, faultlessly
appointed; such beautiful and delicate women, with a vague sense of
fragrance and jewels, came stealing in. Suddenly among the company
there came stalking in a great literary man, an old friend of my own;
handsome, too, and well-appointed enough, but with a touch of roughness
and vigour that made him, I thought, like a chieftain among courtiers;
and wearing the haggard air of the man who toils at his art, and cannot
achieve his incommunicable hopes or capture his divine dreams.
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