Robert Orange: Being a Continuation of the History of Robert Orange — Thomas Hobbes — John Shaqi
Robert Orange: Being a Continuation of the History of Robert Orange
Thomas Hobbes · en
"No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always regard artists as
madmen."
"But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I hate the word. He is
interested in art."
"No doubt--as a means of investment, an educational influence, or a
topic of conversation for light moments."
"You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk."
She hoped that his talk would drown the singing in her heart, the
whispering in her ears, the footsteps of doubt--doubt of herself, doubt
of Reckage, coming nearer and nearer. She had been taught everything.
She had discovered nothing. Love itself had come to her in the shape of
a cruel code of responsibilities. Lately she had been dwelling with an
almost feverish emphasis on the question of duty. She had wearied
Reckage; she had exhausted herself by the tenacity of her mind toward
that dull subject. And the real truth about much in life was forcing
itself upon her. She was essentially a woman of affairs. Her face
absorbed the poetry of her nature, just as a flower extracts every
excellence from its surrounding soil, and, shining out for the sun,
wastes no blossom underground. It had been her earliest ambition to
marry a Member of Parliament and help him--by her prayers and
counsel--on his conscientious career toward Downing Street. She had
received an austere education, and even her native generosity of heart
could not soften the indignation she had been trained to feel against
any neglect of duty. Duty was a term which she applied to that science
of things generally expedient which tradition has presented to us in the
household proverbs and maxims of every nation. Early rising, controlling
one's temper, paying one's debts, consideration for others, working
while it is day, taking stitches in time--all these to that orthodox
mind were matters of imperative obligation, if not Divine command.
David's impulsive nature and self-indulgent habits filled her with
overwhelming sorrow and dismay. She could not understand the rapid
changes of mood, the disordered views, the storm and violence which are
characteristic of every artist whose work is a form of autobiography
rather than a presentment of impersonal forms and effects.