The light is dim, through the deeply embrased and
narrow window, and the space is so obstructed that I must pick my way
warily. All around are deep wooden cupboards, faced with glass; and I
become dimly aware that through each glass some one is watching me.
Like sentinels in sentry-boxes, they fix me with their eyes, seeming
as though they would challenge me. How shall I account to them for my
presence? I slip my note-book into my pocket, and try, in the dim
light, to look as unlike a spy as possible. But I cannot, try as I
will, acquit myself of impertinence. Who am I that I should review
this `ragged regiment'? Who am I that I should come peering in upon
this secret conclave of the august dead? Immobile and dark, very gaunt
and withered, these personages peer out at me with a malign dignity,
through the ages which separate me from them, through the twilight in
which I am so near to them. Their eyes... Come, sir, their eyes are
made of glass. It is quite absurd to take wax-works seriously. Wax-
works are not a serious form of art. The aim of art is so to imitate
life as to produce in the spectator an illusion of life. Wax-works, at
best, can produce no such illusion. Don't pretend to be illuded. For
its power to illude, an art depends on its limitations.
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