“Yes, but that is because you are in statu pupillari,” said Father Payne, “If a man begins by searching for colour and ornament and richness, he gets clotted and glutinous.  Colour looks after itself—­but it isn’t clearness that I am afraid of, it is shrewdness—­I think that is, on the whole, a low quality, but it is awfully strong!  What I am afraid of, in bare laborious country like that, is that people should only think of what is comfortable and sensible.  Imagination is what really matters.  It is not enough to have solid emotions; one ought not to be too reasonable about emotions.  The thing is to care in an unreasonable and rapturous way about beautiful things, and not to know why one cares.  That is the point of things which are simply beautiful and nothing else,—­that you feel it isn’t all capable of explanation.”

“But isn’t that rather sentimental?” said Rose.

“No, no, it’s just the opposite,” said Father Payne.  “Sentiment is when one understands and exaggerates an emotion; beauty isn’t that—­it is something mysterious and inexplicable; it makes you bow the head and worship.  Take the sort of thing you may see on the coast of Italy—­a blue sea, with gray and orange cliffs falling steeply down into deep water; a gap, with a clustering village, coming down, tier by tier, to the sea’s edge; fantastic castles on spires of rock, thickets and dingles running down among the clefts and out on the ledges, and perhaps a glimpse of pale, fantastic hills behind.  No one could make it or design it; but every line, every blending colour, all combine to give you the sense of something marvellously and joyfully contrived, and made for the richness and sweetness of it.  That is the sort of moment when I feel the overwhelming beauty and nearness of God—­everything done on a vast scale, which floods mind and heart with utter happiness and wonder.  Anything so overpoweringly joyful and delicious and useless as all that must come out of a fulness of joy.  The sharp cliffs mean some old cutting and slashing, the blistering and burning of the earth; and yet those old rents have been clothed and mollified by some power that finds it worth while to do it—­and it isn’t done for you or me, either—­there must be treasures of loveliness going on hidden for centuries in tropic forests.  It’s done for the sake of doing it; and we are granted a glimpse of it, just to show us perhaps that we are right to adore it, and to try in our clumsy way to make beautiful things too.  That is why I envy the musician, because he creates beauty more directly then any other mind—­and the best kind of poetry is of the same order.”

“But isn’t there a danger in all this?” said Lestrange.  “No, I don’t want to say anything priggish,” he added, seeing a contraction of Father Payne’s brows; “I only want to say what I feel.  I recognise the fascination of it as much as anyone can—­but isn’t it, as you said about travelling, a kind of intoxication?  I mean, may it not be right to interpose it, but yet not right to follow it?  Isn’t it a selfish thing, and doesn’t it do the very thing which you often speak against—­blind us to other experience, that is?”