The Cardinal's Snuff Box

"Yes--in England," he declared.

"In England? Why especially in England?"

"In English-speaking--in Anglo-Saxon lands, if you prefer. The

Anglo-Saxon public is beauty-blind. They have fifty religions

--only one sauce--and no sense of beauty whatsoever. They can

see the nose on one's face--the mote in their neighbour's eye;

they can see when a bargain is good, when a war will be

expedient. But the one thing they can never see is beauty.

And when, by some rare chance, you catch them in the act of

admiring a beautiful object, it will never be for its beauty

--it will be in spite of its beauty for some other, some

extra-aesthetic interest it possesses--some topical or historical

interest. Beauty is necessarily detached from all that is

topical or historical, or documentary or actual. It is also

necessarily an effect of fine shades, delicate values,

vanishing distinctions, of evasiveness, inconsequence,

suggestion. It is also absolute, unrelated--it is positive or

negative or superlative--it is never comparative. Well, the

Anglo-Saxon public is totally insensible to such things. They

can no more feel them, than a blind worm can feel the colours

of the rainbow."

She laughed again, and regarded him with an air of humorous

meditation.

"And that accounts for the unsuccess of 'A Man of Words'?"

"You might as well offer Francois Villon a banquet of Orient

pearls."

"You are bitterly hard on the Anglo-Saxon public."

"Oh, no," he disclaimed, "not hard--but just. I wish them all

sorts of prosperity, with a little more taste."

"Oh, but surely," she caught him up, "if their taste were

greater, their prosperity would be less?"

"I don't know," said he. "The Greeks were fairly prosperous,

were n't they? And the Venetians? And the French are not yet

quite bankrupt."

Still again she laughed--always with that little air of

humorous meditation.

"You--you don't exactly overwhelm one with compliments," she

observed.

He looked alarm, anxiety.

"Don't I? What have I neglected?" he cried.

"You 've never once evinced the slightest curiosity to learn

what I think of the book in question."

"Oh, I'm sure you like it," he rejoined hardily. "You have

'the seeing eye.'"

"And yet I'm just a humble member of the Anglo-Saxon public."

"No--you're a distinguished member of the Anglo-Saxon

'remnant.' Thank heaven, there's a remnant, a little scattered

remnant. I'm perfectly sure you like 'A Man of Words.'"

"'Like it' is a proposition so general. Perhaps I am burning

to tell someone what I think of it in detail."