Reginald on the Academy
One goes to the academy in self-defence, said Reginald. It is the one topic one has in common with the Country Cousins.
It is almost a religious observance with them, said the Other. A kind of artistic Mecca, and when the good ones die they go
To the Chantrey Bequest. The mystery is what they find to talk about in the country.
There are two subjects of conversation in the country: Servants, and Can fowls be made to pay? The first, I believe, is compulsory, the second optional.
As a function, resumed Reginald, the Academy is a failure.
You think it would be tolerable without the pictures?
The pictures are all right, in their way; after all, one can always look at them if one is bored with ones surroundings, or wants to avoid an imminent acquaintance.
Even that doesnt always save one. There is the inevitable female whom you met once in Devonshire, or the Matoppo Hills, or somewhere, who charges up to you with the remark that its funny how one always meets people one knows at the Academy. Personally, I dont think it funny.
I suffered in that way just now, said Reginald plaintively, from a woman whose word I had to take that she had met me last summer in Brittany.
I hope you were not too brutal?
I merely told her with engaging simplicity that the art of life was the avoidance of the unattainable.
Did she try and work it out on the back of her catalogue?
Not there and then. She murmured something about being so clever. Fancy coming to the Academy to be clever!
To be clever in the afternoon argues that one is dining nowhere in the evening.
Which reminds me that I cant remember whether I accepted an invitation from you to dine at Kettners tonight.
On the other hand, I can remember with startling distinctness not having asked you to.
So much certainty is unbecoming in the young; so well consider that settled. What were you talking about? Oh, pictures. Personally, I rather like them; they are so refreshingly real and probable, they take one away from the unrealities of life.
One likes to escape from oneself occasionally.
That is the disadvantage of a portrait; as a rule, ones bitterest friends can find nothing more to ask than the faithful unlikeness that goes down to posterity as oneself. I hate posterityits so fond of having the last word. Of course, as regards portraits, there are exceptions.
To die before being painted by Sargent is to go to heaven prematurely.
With the necessary care and impatience, you may avoid that catastrophe.