"God began with chaos," said he, quoting
Prudhon. "We cannot expect to do better than God."
With intensest enjoyment I watched the chaotic clouds forming on the
canvas round a certain nucleus, gradually resolving themselves into
shape, and lightening up with tints and touches, until a head seemed
slowly emerging from amidst the shadows.
Meanwhile, an animated conversation was proceeding. M. Belloc, in his
rich, glorious French, rolling out like music from an organ, discussed
the problems of his art; while we ever and anon excited him by our
speculations, our theories, our heresies. H. talked in English, and
Mrs. C. translated, and I put in a French phrase sidewise every now
and then.
By and by, M. Charpentier came in, who is more voluble, more _ore
rotundo, grandiose_, than M. Belloc. He began panegyrizing Uncle
Tom; and this led to a discussion of the ground of its unprecedented
success. In his thirty-five years' experience as a bookseller, he had
known nothing like it. It surpassed all modern writers. At first he
would not read it; his taste was for old masters of a century or two
ago. "Like M. Belloc in painting," said I.
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