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people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain man-
ner, and when Monet came along and painted differently,
people said: But trees aren’t like that. It never struck them
that trees are exactly how a painter chooses to see them. We
paint from within outwards—if we force our vision on the
world it calls us great painters; if we don’t it ignores us; but
we are the same. We don’t attach any meaning to greatness
or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is
unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we
were doing it.’
There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite
devoured the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking
a cheap cigar, observed him closely. The ruggedness of the
head, which looked as though it were carved from a stone
refractory to the sculptor’s chisel, the rough mane of dark
hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, sug-
gested a man of strength; and yet Philip wondered whether
perhaps the mask concealed a strange weakness. Clutton’s
refusal to show his work might be sheer vanity: he could
not bear the thought of anyone’s criticism, and he would
not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Sa-
lon; he wanted to be received as a master and would not
risk comparisons with other work which might force him to
diminish his own opinion of himself. During the eighteen
months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more
harsh and bitter; though he would not come out into the
open and compete with his fellows, he was indignant with
the facile success of those who did. He had no patience with
Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms