“Letters, yes!” said Father Payne; “of course the great men know each other, and respect each other; but they don’t tend to coagulate.  They relish an occasional meeting and an occasional letter, and they say how deeply they regret not seeing more of each other—­but they tend to seek the repose of their own less exalted circle.  The man who has fine ideas prefers his own disciples to the men who have got a different set of fine ideas.  That is natural enough!  You want to impart the ideas you believe in—­you don’t want to argue about them, or to have them knocked out of your hand.  Depend upon it, the society of an intelligent person, who can understand you enough to stimulate you, and who is grateful for your talk, is much pleasanter, and indeed more fruitful, than the society of a man who is fully as intelligent as yourself, and thinks some of your conclusions to be rot!”

“But doesn’t all that encourage people to be prophets?” Vincent said.  “One of the depressing things about great men is that they grow to consider themselves a sort of special providence—­the originators of great ideas rather than the interpreters.”

“Yes,” said Father Payne, “of course the little coteries and courts of great men are rather repulsive.  But the best people don’t do that.  They live contentedly in a circle which combines with its admiration for the hero a comfortable feeling that, if other people knew what they know, they wouldn’t feel genius to be quite so extraordinary as is commonly believed.  And we must remember, too, that most great men seem greater afterwards than they did at the time.  More of a treat and a privilege, I mean.”

“Do you think one ought to try to catch a sight of great men who are contemporaries?” said I.

“Yes, a sight, I think,” said Father Payne.  “It’s a pleasant thing to realise how your big man sits and looks and talks, what his house is like, and so forth.  I have often rather regretted I haven’t had the curiosity to get a sight of the giants.  It helps you to understand them.  I remember a pleasant old gentleman, Vinter by name, who lived in London.  Vinter the novelist was his son.  When young Vinter became famous for a bit, and people wanted to know him, old Vinter made a glorious rule.  He told his son that he might invite any well-known person he liked to the house, to luncheon or dinner—­but that unless he made a special exception in any one’s favour, they were not to be invited again.  There’s a fine old Epicurean!  He liked to realise what the bosses looked like, but he wasn’t going to be bothered by having to talk respectfully to them time after time.”

“But that’s rather tame,” said Vincent.  “The point surely would be to get to know a big man well.”