The Secret Glory
the artist—and kills him if it can? You are an artist and mystic, too. What a fate!
"Yes; but it is that applause, that réclame that comes after the artist is dead," he went on, replying to some objection of Ambrose's; "it is that which is the worst cruelty of all. It is fine for Burns, is it not, that his stupid compatriots have not ceased to utter follies about him for the last eighty years? Scotchmen? But they should be ashamed to speak his name! And Keats, and how many others in my country and in yours and in all countries? The imbeciles are not content to calumniate, to persecute, to make wretched the artist in his lifetime. They follow him with their praise to the grave—the grave that they have digged! Praise of the populace! Praise of a race of pigs! For, you see, while they are insulting the dead with their compliments they are at the same time insulting the living with their abuse."
He dropped into silence; from his expression he seemed to be cursing "the populace" with oaths too frightful to be uttered. He rose suddenly and turned to Ambrose.
"Artist—and mystic. Yes. You will probably be crucified. Good evening … and a fine martyrdom to you!"
He was gone with a charming smile and a delightful bow to "Madame." Ambrose looked
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