This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <patcat@ctnet.net>
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
1905
Beauty, of course, is for the hero. Nevertheless, it is not always he onwhom beauty works its most conquering influence. It is the dullcommonplace man into whose slow brain she drops like a celestial light,and burns lastingly. The poet, for instance, is a connoisseur of beauty:to the artist she is a model. These gentlemen by much contemplation ofher charms wax critical. The days when they had hearts being gone, theyare haply divided between the blonde and the brunette; the aquiline noseand the Proserpine; this shaped eye and that. But go about among simpleunprofessional fellows, boors, dunderheads, and here and there you shallfind some barbarous intelligence which has had just strength enough toconceive, and has taken Beauty as its Goddess, and knows but one form toworship, in its poor stupid fashion, and would perish for her. Nay,more: the man would devote all his days to her, though he is dumb as adog. And, indeed, he is Beauty's Dog. Almost every Beauty has her Dog.The hero possesses her; the poet proclaims her; the painter puts her uponcanvas; and the faithful Old Dog follows her: and the end of it all isthat the faithful Old Dog is her single attendant. Sir Hero is revellingin the wars, or in Armida's bowers; Mr. Poet has spied a wrinkle; thebrush is for the rose in its season. She turns to her Old Dog then. Shehugs him; and he, who has subsisted on a bone and a pat till there hesquats decrepit, he turns his grateful old eyes up to her, and has not anotion that she is hugging sad memories in him: Hero, Poet, Painter, inone scrubby one! Then is she buried, and the village hears languidhowls, and there is a paragraph in the newspapers concerning theextraordinary fidelity of an Old Dog.
Excited by suggestive recollections of Nooredeen and the Fair Persian,and the change in the obscure monotony of his life by his having quartersin a crack hotel, and living familiarly with West-End people—living onthe fat of the land (which forms a stout portion of an honest youth'sromance), Ripton Thompson breakfasted next morning with his chief athalf-past eight. The meal had been fixed overnight for seven, but Riptonslept a great deal more than the nightingale, and (to chronicle his exactstate) even half-past eight rather afflicted his new aristocratic sensesand reminded him too keenly of law and bondage. He had preferred tobreakfast at Algernon's hour, who had left word for eleven. Him,however, it was Richard's object to avoid, so they fell to, and Ripton nolonger envied Hippias in bed. Breakfast done, they bequeathed theconsoling information for Algernon that they were off to hear a popularpreacher, and departed.
"How happy everybody looks!" said Richard, in the quiet Sunday streets.
"Yes—jolly!" said Ripton.
"When I'm—when this is over, I'll see that they are, too—as many as Ican make happy," said the hero; adding softly: "Her blind was down at aquarter to six. I think she slept well!"
"You've been there this morning?" Ripto