“I must say that I am quite unable to find anything of that sort in the work of that dreadful man,” the Rector answered, “I admit that he had talents; the world has decided that; of course, the question whether a man has talent is something which the world decides; the world judges the point and none may appeal. But whatever his talents may have been, they were blinded and nullified by habits of excess.”
“But artists are men of excess,” Mansell said. “They live in overwhelming excitement, and when the world doesn’t give them commissions to keep that excess boiling out into their work all the time, they seek equivalent wherever they can get it. They drink and they fly over the traces, because they are men of excess. Thank heaven they are, I say. I’ve got a little portrait by your uncle. It’s one of the finest things I’ve got. You know, facially you’re rather like him.”
The Rector looked as though he would have his face lifted as soon as he was in funds.
The door opened; Mr. and Mrs. Method-Methodde came in. Mrs. Methodde was ambitious for her husband; she took a lot of pains, but was not intelligent; Mr. Methodde was ambitious for his wife, did not take many pains and was not intelligent. They were frequently photographed together, gardening in their rock-garden. Their nicknames were Ducky and Twee; it did not much matter which was which.
“Oh, Rector,” Mrs. Methodde began, in the gushing manner usual to her, “oh, my dear Rector, can you forgive us for being so disgracefully late. We have broken all the speed limits and all the traffic regulations to get here.”
“I’m so glad you were able to come,” the Rector said. “I think you know all here. We’ve decided to have a work of art, and are now just deciding where to put it. Shall we go on from there?”
“Oh, I am so glad we aren’t too late,” Mrs. Methodde said. “Is this Mr. Mansell of
As Frampton judged that he had been avoided by them of set purpose, he bowed, but said nothing, except that it would be delicious.
“Oh, I am so glad that you have decided to have a work of art,” Mrs. Methodde cried to the Committee. “And now, will you let us take our places. Admiral, I want you to let me sit next you, and Twee the other side of you.”
As they took their places, Frampton produced a portfolio. The Rector said that they had better get on with the next point, where the Memorial was to go. They decided, in a few minutes, that by much the best place was the triangular island-site.
“We’ve decided on a work of art, and we’ve decided on the place for it,” the Rector said. “Now the real debate begins. What are we to put up? I have to tell you that the sum of money at our disposal, three hundred and sixty pounds odd, has been increased since we came into this room by an anonymous donor—please do not ask me for the name; it must be kept secret—to four hundred pounds. For that sum we can do much.”
“I wonder,” Frampton said, “I wonder, Rector, if I might be allowed to say a few words here, in my momentary capacity as adviser?”
“Certainly; do,” the Rector said.
Frampton rose with his portfolio.
“I have here,” Frampton said, “a portfolio of some fifty or sixty of the best of the smaller War Memorials in this country. It excludes all the social service memorials, such as water supplies or playing fields, but includes some of what you might call garden shrines.”
He produced his portfolio, which was a remarkable collection.
“How did you get this book?” Mrs. Methodde asked. “I mean, is it published? I haven’t seen it anywhere.”
“It isn’t published,” he said. “But the country was stirred by its losses in the War and showed deep feeling in many of its designs. I took the trouble to collect photographs of all that I could hear of, and when the result seemed good, I went down to see the place and had good photographs taken. Wherever I could, I learned the cost of each Memorial; the figures are very interesting to me; so much good work was given free. I have a couple of other portfolios at home, not quite so good as these, but good.”
“After all,” Lady Susan said, as she sniffed above the designs, “four hundred pounds isn’t quite the Bank of England. We have to cut our coat according to our cloth. We can’t afford anything out of the way.”
“Why not?” Frampton asked. “There are scores of young geniuses in this land, eager to give of their best.”
“We don’t want genius in Stubbington,” Mr. Quart said. “Thank God, we’re plain folk in Stubbington.”
“You know them better than I do,” Frampton said, “but in this case the plain folk are not quite plain folk, but sorrowing humanity; they demand the very best that they can get, in memory of the extremity of their loss.”