Likewise he was fond of music, and could accompany himself on the piano as he sang the love songs of his friend A—­ or gipsy songs or themes from operas; but he had no love for serious music, and would frankly flout received opinion by declaring that, whereas Beethoven’s sonatas wearied him and sent him to sleep, his ideal of beauty was “Do not wake me, youth” as Semenoff sang it, or “Not one” as the gipsy Taninsha rendered that ditty.  His nature was essentially one of those which follow public opinion concerning what is good, and consider only that good which the public declares to be so. [It may be noted that the author has said earlier in the chapter that his father possessed “much originality.”] God only knows whether he had any moral convictions.  His life was so full of amusement that probably he never had time to form any, and was too successful ever to feel the lack of them.

As he grew to old age he looked at things always from a fixed point of view, and cultivated fixed rules—­but only so long as that point or those rules coincided with expediency, The mode of life which offered some passing degree of interest—­that, in his opinion, was the right one and the only one that men ought to affect.  He had great fluency of argument; and this, I think, increased the adaptability of his morals and enabled him to speak of one and the same act, now as good, and now, with abuse, as abominable.

XI —­ IN THE DRAWING-ROOM AND THE STUDY

Twilight had set in when we reached home.  Mamma sat down to the piano, and we to a table, there to paint and draw in colours and pencil.  Though I had only one cake of colour, and it was blue, I determined to draw a picture of the hunt.  In exceedingly vivid fashion I painted a blue boy on a blue horse, and—­but here I stopped, for I was uncertain whether it was possible also to paint a blue hare.  I ran to the study to consult Papa, and as he was busy reading he never lifted his eyes from his book when I asked, “Can there be blue hares?” but at once replied, “There can, my boy, there can.”  Returning to the table I painted in my blue hare, but subsequently thought it better to change it into a blue bush.  Yet the blue bush did not wholly please me, so I changed it into a tree, and then into a rick, until, the whole paper having now become one blur of blue, I tore it angrily in pieces, and went off to meditate in the large arm-chair.

Mamma was playing Field’s second concerto.  Field, it may be said, had been her master.  As I dozed, the music brought up before my imagination a kind of luminosity, with transparent dream-shapes.  Next she played the “Sonate Pathetique” of Beethoven, and I at once felt heavy, depressed, and apprehensive.  Mamma often played those two pieces, and therefore I well recollect the feelings they awakened in me.  Those feelings were a reminiscence—­of what?  Somehow I seemed to remember something which had never been.