The Philistines | Page 9

told his wife, "that I always have a strong
inclination to rub him out and make him over again." In that inmost

chamber of his consciousness where he allowed himself the luxury of
absolute frankness, however, the artist confessed that his animosity to
the young rector had other causes.
As Fenton sank into his seat, Mrs. Staggchase leaned over to quote
from the poem,--
"'For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke.'"
The artist turned upon her a glance of comprehension and amusement,
but before he could reply, the rough, rather loud voice of Mr. Candish
arrested his attention.
"If the poem teaches anything," Mr. Candish said, speaking according
to his custom, somewhat too warmly, "it seems to me it is the sophistry
of the sort of talk which puts art above religion. The thing that offends
an honest man in Bishop Blougram is the fact that he looks at religion
as if it were an art, and not a vital and eternal necessity,--a living truth
that cannot be trifled with."
"Ah," Fenton's smooth and beautiful voice rejoined, "that is to
confound art with the artificial, which is an obvious error. Art is a
passion, an utter devotion to an ideal, an absolute lifting of man out of
himself into that essential truth which is the only lasting bond by which
mankind is united."
Fenton's coolness always had a confusing and irritating effect upon Mr.
Candish, who was too thoroughly honest and earnest to quibble, and far
from possessing the dexterity needed to fence with the artist. He began
confusedly to speak, but with the first word became aware that Mrs.
Fenton had come to the rescue. Edith never saw a contest between her
husband and the clergyman without interfering if she could, and now
she instinctively spoke, without stopping to consider where she was.
"It is precisely for that reason," she said, "that art seems to me to fall
below religion. Art can make man contented with life only by keeping
his attention fixed upon an ideal, while religion reconciles us to life as
it really is."
A murmur of assent showed Arthur how much against the feeling of
those around him were the views he was advancing.
"Oh, well," he said, in a droll sotto voce, "if it is coming down to a
family difference we will continue it in private."
And he abandoned the discussion.
"It seems to me," pursued Mr. Candish, only half conscious that Mrs.

Fenton had come to his aid, "that Bishop Blougram represents the most
dangerous spirit of the age. His paltering with truth is a form of
casuistry of which we see altogether too much nowadays."
"Do you think," asked a timid feminine voice, "that Blougram was
quite serious? That he really meant all he said, I mean?"
The president looked at the speaker with despair in his glance; but she
was adorably pretty and of excellent social position, so that snubbing
was not to be thought of. Moreover, he was thoroughly well trained in
keeping his temper under the severest provocation, so he expressed his
feelings merely by a deprecatory smile.
"We have the poet's authority," he responded, in a softly patient voice,
"for saying that he believed only half."
There was a little rustle of leaves, as if people were looking over their
books, in order to find the passage to which he alluded. Then a young
girl in the front row of chairs, a pretty creature, just on the edge of
womanhood, looked up earnestly, her finger at a line on the page before
her.
"I can't make out what this means," she announced, knitting her girlish
brow,--
"'Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks That used to puzzle
people wholesomely.'"
"Of course he can't mean that the Madonna winks; that would be too
irreverent."
There were little murmurs of satisfaction that the question had been
asked, confusing explanations which evidently puzzled some who had
not thought of being confused before; and then another girl, ignoring
the fact that the first difficulty had not been disposed of, propounded
another.
"Isn't the phrase rather bold," she asked, "where he speaks of 'blessed
evil?'"
"Where is that?" some one asked.
"On page 106, in my edition," was the reply; and a couple of moments
were given to finding the place in the various books.
"Oh, I see the line," said an old lady, at last. "It's one--two--three-- five
lines from the bottom of the page:"
"'And that's what all the blessed evil's for.'"
"You don't think," queried the first speaker, appealing personally to the

president, "that Mr. Browning can really have meant that evil is blessed,
do you?"
The president regarded her with an affectionate and fatherly smile.
"I think," he said, with an air of settling everything, "that the
explanation of his