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‘You can take it from me that it’s the best thing in the gal-
lery except perhaps Whistler’s portrait of his mother.’
She gave him a certain time to contemplate the mas-
terpiece and then took him to a picture representing a
railway-station.
‘Look, here’s a Monet,’ she said. ‘It’s the Gare St. Lazare.’
‘But the railway lines aren’t parallel,’ said Philip.
‘What does that matter?’ she asked, with a haughty air.
Philip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked
up the glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in
impressing Philip with the extent of her knowledge. She
proceeded to explain the pictures to him, superciliously but
not without insight, and showed him what the painters had
attempted and what he must look for. She talked with much
gesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said
was new, listened with profound but bewildered interest.
Till now he had worshipped Watts and Burne-Jones. The
pretty colour of the first, the affected drawing of the sec-
ond, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities. Their
vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which
underlay the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very
well with the functions of art as from his diligent perusal of
Ruskin he understood it; but here was something quite dif-
ferent: here was no moral appeal; and the contemplation of
these works could help no one to lead a purer and a higher
life. He was puzzled.
At last he said: ‘You know, I’m simply dead. I don’t think
I can absorb anything more profitably. Let’s go and sit down
on one of the benches.’

0 Of Human Bondage