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he does； but you don't have much of an argument without some apparent
difference of opinion； so； for the nonce； I became a realist of whom Zola
himself would have been proud。 〃Why； man；〃 I said； 〃realism is truth。
You certainly can't have any quarrel with that。〃 I knew this would have
the effect of a red rag flaunted in the face of a bull。
〃Truth！ Bah！〃 he exclaimed excitedly。 〃I have no patience with
such aesthetic hod…carriers！ Truth； indeed！ Is there no other truth in art
but that coarse verisimilitude； that vulgar trickery； which appeals to the
eyes and the ears of the rabble？ Are there not psychological truths of
immensely greater importance？ What sane man imagines for a moment
that the pleasure he derives from seeing that greatest of all tragedians；
Edwin Booth； in one of Shakespeare's matchless tragedies； is dependent
upon his believing that this or that character is actually killed？ Why；
even the day of the cranberry…juice dagger is long since passed。 When
Miss Davenport shrieks in 'Fedora；' the shriek is literal … 'real；' you would
call it … and you find yourself instinctively saying； 'Don't！ … don't！' and
wishing you were out of the house。 When Mr。 Booth； as 'Shylock'
shrieks at 'Tubal's' news； the cry is not real； is not literal； but is suggestive；
and you see at once the fiendish glee of which it is the expression。 The
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difference between the two is the difference between vocal cords and grey
matter。〃
〃But surely；〃 I rejoined； 〃one doesn't want untruth； one wants … 〃 but
he did not let me finish。
〃Always that cry of truth！〃 he retorted。 〃Do you not see how absurd
it is； as used by your exponents of realism？ With a bit of charcoal some
Raphael draws a face with five lines； and some photographer snaps a
camera at the same face。 Which would any sane man choose as the best
work of art？ The five…line face； of course。 Why？ Is the work of the
camera unreal？ Is it not more accurate in drawing； more subtle in
gradation than the less mechanical picture？ To be sure。 What； then；
makes the superiority of the few lines of our Raphael？ That which makes
the superiority of all noble art … its truth；； not on a low； but on a high； plane：
its power of interpreting。 See！〃 he said； fairly aglow with excitement。
〃What does your realist do； even assuming that he has reached that never…
tobe…attained perfection which is the lifelong Mecca of his desires？ He
gives you； by his absolutely realistic goes with you； and interprets its
grandeur to you。 Stand before his canvas and enjoy it as you would Nature
herself if there。 Surely； you say； nothing more could be desired； and you
clap your hands； and shout； 'Bravo！' But wait a bit； the other side is yet
to be heard from。 What does the true artist do for you by his picture of
Yosemite Valley？ He not only gives you a free conveyance to it； but he
goes with you； and interprets its grandeur to you。 He translates into the
language of your consciousness beauties which； without him； you would
entirely miss。 It is this very capability of seeing more in Nature than is
ever perceived by the common throng that constitutes the especial genius
of the artist； and a work that is not aglow with its creator's personality …
personality； mind you； not coarse realism … can never rank as a masterpiece。
But； come； this won't do。 Why did you want to get me astride my
hobby？〃
I thought it advisable to answer this question by asking another； so I
said： 〃But how about Davenport？ Will you go？〃
〃Yes；〃 he replied。 〃Anything with a Cleopatra to it interests me。 I'll
go now and see about the tickets；〃 and he left me。
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I have related Maitland's aesthetic views as expressed to me upon this
occasion； not because they have any particular bearing upon the mystery I
am narrating； but because they cast a strong side…light upon the young
man's character； and also for the reason that I believe his personality to be
sufficiently strong and unique to be of general interest。
We went that same night to see Sardou's 〃Cleopatra。〃 I asked Maitland
how he liked the piece； and the only reply he vouchsafed was： 〃I have
recently read Shakespeare's treatment of the same theme。〃=20
CHAPTER II
If events spread themselves out fanwise from the past into the
future； then must the occurrences of the present exhibit convergence
toward some historical burning…point； … some focal centre whereat the
potential was warmed=20into the kinetic。
It was nearly a week after the events last narrated before I saw
Maitland again； and then only by chance。 We happened to meet in the
Parker House； and； as he had some business pertaining to a case he was on；
to transact at the Court House； I walked up Beacon Street with him。
There is a book or stationery store； on Somerset Street； just before you
turn down toward Pemberton Square。 As we were passing this store；
Maitland espied a large photographic reproduction of some picture。
〃Let us cross over and see what it is；〃 he said。 We did so。 It was a
photograph of L。 Alma…Tadema's painting of Antony and Cleopatra。
Maitland started a little as he read the title； and then said lightly： 〃Do you
suppose； Doc； that woman's mummy is in existence？ I should like to find
it。 I've an idea she left some hieroglyphic message for me on her
mummy…case； and doesn't propose to let me rest easy until I find and
translate it。 Now； if I believed in transmigration of souls … do you see any
mark of Antony about me？ Say； though； just imagine the spirit of Marcus
Antonius in a rubber apron； making an analysis of oleomargarine！ But
here we are； good…bye；〃 and he left me without awaiting any reply。 He
seemed to me to be in decidedly better spirits than formerly； and I was at
the time at a loss to account for it。 The cause of his levity； however； was
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soon explained； for that night； as Gwen； my sister； and I were sitting cosily
in the study according to our usual custom； Maitland walked in；
unannounced。 He had come now to be a regular visitor； and I invented
not a few subterfuges to get him to call even oftener than he otherwise
would； for I perceived that his coming gave pleasure to Gwen。 She
exhibited less depression when in his presence than at any other time。 I
had learned that hers was one of those deep natures in which grief
crystallises slowly； but with an unconquerable persistence。 Inst