As on the walls of the staircase and corridors, so on the walls here, there were many paintings, drawings, and engravings.  And of course the best were here in the museum.  The least uninteresting items of the collection were, speaking generally, reproductions in monotint of celebrated works, and a few second—­or third-rate loan pictures from South Kensington.  Aside from such matters I had noticed nothing but the usual local trivialities, gifts from one citizen or another, travel-jottings of some art-master, careful daubs of apt students without a sense of humour.  The aspect of the place was exactly the customary aspect of the small provincial museum, as I have seen it in half-a-hundred towns that are not among ‘the great towns’.  It had the terrible trite ‘museum’ aspect, the aspect that brings woe and desolation to the heart of the stoutest visitor, and which seems to form part of the purgatorio of Bank-holidays, wide mouths, and stiff clothes.  The movement for opening museums on Sundays is the most natural movement that could be conceived.  For if ever a resort was invented and fore-ordained to chime with the true spirit of the British sabbath, that resort is the average museum.  I ought to know.  I do know.

But there was the incomparable Wedgwood ware, and there was the little picture by Simon Fuge.  I am not going to lose my sense of perspective concerning Simon Fuge.  He was not the greatest painter that ever lived, or even of his time.  He had, I am ready to believe, very grave limitations.  But he was a painter by himself, as all fine painters are.  He had his own vision.  He was Unique.  He was exclusively preoccupied with the beauty and the romance of the authentic.  The little picture showed all this.  It was a painting, unfinished, of a girl standing at a door and evidently hesitating whether to open the door or not:  a very young girl, very thin, with long legs in black stockings, and short, white, untidy frock; thin bare arms; the head thrown on one side, and the hands raised, and one foot raised, in a wonderful childish gesture—­the gesture of an undecided fox-terrier.  The face was an infant’s face, utterly innocent; and yet Simon Fuge had somehow caught in that face a glimpse of all the future of the woman that the girl was to be, he had displayed with exquisite insolence the essential naughtiness of his vision of things.  The thing was not much more than a sketch; it was a happy accident, perhaps, in some day’s work of Simon Fuge’s.  But it was genius.  When once you had yielded to it, there was no other picture in the room.  It killed everything else.  But, wherever it had found itself, nothing could have killed it.  Its success was undeniable, indestructible.  And it glowed sombrely there on the wall, a few splashes of colour on a morsel of canvas, and it was Simon Fuge’s unconscious, proud challenge to the Five Towns.  It was Simon Fuge, at any rate all of Simon Fuge that was worth having, masterful, imperishable.  And not merely was it his challenge, it was his scorn, his aristocratic disdain, his positive assurance that in the battle between them he had annihilated the Five Towns.  It hung there in the very midst thereof, calmly and contemptuously waiting for the acknowledgement of his victory.