have much self-respect or even self-esteem; but an accomplished
burglar must be proud of himself. In the play to which I am at
present preluding I have represented an artist who is so entirely
satisfied with his artistic conscience, even to the point of
dying like a saint with its support, that he is utterly selfish
and unscrupulous in every other relation without feeling at the
smallest disadvantage. The same thing may be observed in women
who have a genius for personal attractiveness: they expend more
thought, labor, skill, inventiveness, taste and endurance on
making themselves lovely than would suffice to keep a dozen ugly
women honest; and this enables them to maintain a high opinion of
themselves, and an angry contempt for unattractive and personally
careless women, whilst they lie and cheat and slander and sell
themselves without a blush. The truth is, hardly any of us have
ethical energy enough for more than one really inflexible point
of honor. Andrea del Sarto, like Louis Dubedat in my play, must
have expended on the attainment of his great mastery of design
and his originality in fresco painting more conscientiousness and
industry than go to the making of the reputations of a dozen
ordinary mayors and churchwardens; but (if Vasari is to be
believed) when the King of France entrusted him with money to buy
pictures for him, he stole it to spend on his wife. Such cases
are not confined to eminent artists. Unsuccessful, unskilful men
are often much more scrupulous than successful ones. In the ranks
of ordinary skilled labor many men are to be found who earn good
wages and are never out of a job because they are strong,
indefatigable, and skilful, and who therefore are bold in a high
opinion of themselves; but they are selfish and tyrannical,
gluttonous and drunken, as their wives and children know to their
cost.