“You’ve been looking for something, I judge,” said Colonel Voyt, “that you’re not likely to find. It doesn’t exist.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Dyott desired to know.
“I never look,” Maud remarked, “for anything but an interest.”
“Naturally. But your interest,” Voyt replied, “is in something different from life.”
“Ah not a bit! I LOVE life in art, though I hate it anywhere else. It’s the poverty of the life those people show, and the awful bounders, of both sexes, that they represent.”
“Oh now we have you!” her interlocutor laughed. “To me, when all’s said and done, they seem to be—as near as art can come—in the truth of the truth. It can only take what life gives it, though it certainly may be a pity that that isn’t better. Your complaint of their monotony is a complaint of their conditions. When you say we get always the same couple what do you mean but that we get always the same passion? Of course we do!” Voyt pursued. “If what you’re looking for is another, that’s what you won’t anywhere find.”
Maud for a while said nothing, and Mrs. Dyott seemed to wait. “Well, I suppose I’m looking, more than anything else, for a decent woman.”
“Oh then you mustn’t look for her in pictures of passion. That’s not her element nor her whereabouts.”
Mrs. Blessingbourne weighed the objection. “Does it not depend on what you mean by passion?”
“I think I can mean only one thing: the enemy to behaviour.”
“Oh I can imagine passions that are on the contrary friends to it.”
Her fellow-guest thought. “Doesn’t it depend perhaps on what you mean by behaviour?”
“Dear no. Behaviour’s just behaviour—the most definite thing in the world.”
“Then what do you mean by the ‘interest’ you just now spoke of? The picture of that definite thing?”
“Yes—call it that. Women aren’t ALWAYS vicious, even when they’re—”
“When they’re what?” Voyt pressed.
“When they’re unhappy. They can be unhappy and good.”
“That one doesn’t for a moment deny. But can they be ‘good’ and interesting?”
“That must be Maud’s subject!” Mrs. Dyott interposed. “To show a woman who IS. I’m afraid, my dear,” she continued, “you could only show yourself.”
“You’d show then the most beautiful specimen conceivable”—and Voyt addressed himself to Maud. “But doesn’t it prove that life is, against your contention, more interesting than art? Life you embellish and elevate; but art would find itself able to do nothing with you, and, on such impossible terms, would ruin you.”
The colour in her faint consciousness gave beauty to her stare. “‘Ruin’ me?”
“He means,” Mrs. Dyott again indicated, “that you’d ruin ‘art.’”
“Without on the other hand”—Voyt seemed to assent—”its giving at all a coherent impression of you.”
“She wants her romance cheap!” said Mrs. Dyott.
“Oh no—I should be willing to pay for it. I don’t see why the romance—since you give it that name—should be all, as the French inveterately make it, for the women who are bad.”
“Oh they pay for it!” said Mrs. Dyott.
“DO they?”
“So at least”—Mrs. Dyott a little corrected herself—”one has gathered (for I don’t read your books, you know!) that they’re usually shown as doing.”
Maud wondered, but looking at Voyt, “They’re shown often, no doubt, as paying for their badness. But are they shown as paying for their romance?”
“My dear lady,” said Voyt, “their romance is their badness. There isn’t any other. It’s a hard law, if you will, and a strange, but goodness has to go without that luxury. Isn’t to BE good just exactly, all round, to go without?” He put it before her kindly and clearly—regretfully too, as if he were sorry the truth should be so sad. He and she, his pleasant eyes seemed to say, would, had they had the making of it, have made it better. “One has heard it before —at least I have; one has heard your question put. But always, when put to a mind not merely muddled, for an inevitable answer. ‘Why don’t you, cher monsieur, give us the drama of virtue?’ ‘Because, chere madame, the high privilege of virtue is precisely to avoid drama.’ The adventures of the honest lady? The honest lady hasn’t, can’t possibly have, adventures.”
Mrs. Blessingbourne only met his eyes at first, smiling with some intensity. “Doesn’t it depend a little on what you call adventures?”
“My poor Maud,” said Mrs. Dyott as if in compassion for sophistry so simple, “adventures are just adventures. That’s all you can make of them!”
But her friend talked for their companion and as if without hearing. “Doesn’t it depend a good deal on what you call drama?” Maud spoke as one who had already thought it out. “Doesn’t it depend on what you call romance?”
Her listener gave these arguments his very best attention. “Of course you may call things anything you like— speak of them as one thing and mean quite another. But why should it depend on anything? Behind these words we use—the adventure, the novel, the drama, the romance, the situation, in short, as we most comprehensively say— behind them all stands the same sharp fact which they all in their different ways represent.”
“Precisely!” Mrs. Dyott was full of approval.
Maud however was full of vagueness. “What great fact?”
