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good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite
things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were
whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. It was in reaction
from what Hayward represented that Philip clamoured for
life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend
him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and
he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him
of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real
thing. In Paris he had learned that there was neither ug-
liness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty
was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of
chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the
tyranny of prettiness?
But here he seemed to divine something new. He had
been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only
now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of
a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was something better
than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was
not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in
weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in
all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it
was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher
pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid
light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more
profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen
of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had
seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysteri-
ous significance. But he could not tell what that significance
was. It was like a message which it was very important for

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