Somebody writing in
'The Germ' had said that a picture of a pheasant and an apple was
merely a picture of something to eat, and I was so angry with the
indifference to subject, which was the commonplace of all art
criticism since Bastien-Lepage, that I could at times see nothing
else but subject. I thought that, though it might not matter to
the man himself whether he loved a white woman or a black, a
female pickpocket or a regular communicant of the Church of
England, if only he loved strongly, it certainly did matter to his
relations and even under some circumstances to his whole
neighbourhood. Sometimes indeed, like some father in Moliere, I
ignored the lover's feelings altogether and even refused to admit
that a trace of the devil, perhaps a trace of colour, may lend
piquancy, especially if the connection be not permanent.
Among these men, of whom so many of the greatest talents were to
live such passionate lives and die such tragic deaths, one serene
man, T. W. Rolleston, seemed always out of place. It was I brought
him there, intending to set him to some work in Ireland later on.
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