“She saw that although he lived in the world of art, that is to say, the world of books, literature and poetry, the world of artists was unknown to him. That was a world which she knew all too well. She had lived in it ever since her childhood, and she had known more than enough of it. She had seen a sordid side of Bohemian life, which had kindled in her a violent reaction. Her father and mother were both of them natural Bohemians. Their friends were nearly all of them Bohemians, and, for the most part, unsuccessful artists, forgotten musicians, unpublished poets and unplayed playwrights. They knew, it is true, some successful artists and some well-known authors, but they drew the unsuccessful and the needy toward them like magnets. Uncouth, talkative, shabby, hard-up, easy-going people were constantly in and out of the house, and Beatrice had often said to herself, ‘Philistia, be thou glad of me,’ only the trouble was there was no chance of getting anywhere near Philistia. She knew that C. knew nothing of all her world. She saw plainly that he imagined the world of artists and writers to be an ideal framework for all that was finest in art and literature, and to correspond to that. He imagined it to consist of nothing but completely disinterested, devoted and self-sacrificing Paladins, who were working, all of them under great difficulties and at great personal sacrifice, for the good and glory of mankind, and living masterpieces as well as painting and writing them. He mentioned artists with bated breath, as if they belonged to a higher sphere into which he would never be allowed to set foot. Beatrice, who knew the reality, foresaw that he would scarcely be able to avoid disenchantment and disillusion.”
Maurice Baring, C