"Your visit brings me great joy," Reginald Clarke uttered warmly as he ushered Ernest into his studio, a space lavished with luxury and offering a panoramic view of the Hudson and Riverside Drive.
The room's splendor struck Ernest with a sense of awe and confusion. His gaze flitted from one piece to another, from the art adorning the walls to the statues that seemed to hold silent conversations across the room. Each detail, regardless of its apparent oddity, melded into a scene that exuded elegance and a unique flair.
On the mantelpiece, a satyr divulged lewd secrets to the ears of Saint Cecilia, while the classic lines of Antinous seemed to caress the fabric of Mona Lisa's robe. Tucked in a corner, a rococo figurine flirted with the stoic, stony gaze of an Egyptian sphinx. Across the room, the stern countenance of Napoleon challenged the pained serenity of the Crucified. Dominating this eclectic assembly, shrouded in the half-light of the draped chamber, stood two imposing busts.
"Shakespeare and Balzac!" Ernest voiced his recognition, tinged with a hint of astonishment.
"Yes," Reginald intoned, "they are my deities."
Clarke's gods—they offered a glimpse into the man's psyche. It is in the elevation of our own essence to its highest form that we find our gods.
The juxtaposition of Clarke with Shakespeare struck a chord of disquiet in Ernest. It felt almost sacrilegious to align a living writer, no matter how talented, with the colossal figure of the Bard, whose formidable legacy, cast against the tapestry of time, had grown to mythic proportions.
And yet, there was a thread of similarity to be drawn. Clarke's work, much like Shakespeare's, was marked by a universal scope and a masterful concealment of the artist within the artistry. The two shared a kinship in their craft. It would scarcely surprise Ernest if Shakespeare's serene visage were to materialize beside their host.
Perhaps, and who could tell, the very presence of Shakespeare's bust exerted an unseen influence over Reginald Clarke's life. The soul of a person, akin to the chameleon, adapts hues from its surroundings. Sometimes, even the minor details—the digits of an address, the shade of wallpaper in a room—might steer the course of one's fate.
Amidst the curios and art that surrounded him, Ernest's gaze absorbed the fantasticality of the studio, while Clarke watched him intently, as if trying to trace Ernest's musings through the winding mazes of his mind. For a fleeting moment, Ernest felt as if each object in the room held a mirror to Clarke's writing. In the porcelain figure of a long-queued Chinese mandarin, he thought he saw the whimsical lines of one of Clarke's poems come to life. And the mischievous smirk of a Hindu monkey-god on the writing desk seemed to leap into the peculiar meter of verses that had lingered in Ernest's memory for years.
Breaking the silence, Clarke inquired, "You like my studio?"
Snapped out of his reverie by the question, Ernest responded earnestly.
"Like it? It's incredible. It sparked a whole sequence of thoughts in me."
"I've been feeling rather whimsical myself tonight. Whimsy, unlike inspiration, can be contagious."
"What shape did your musings take?" Ernest asked, intrigued.
"I've been pondering if the objects that surround us daily could be molding our thoughts more than we realize. Even this little mandarin and the monkey idol, which I acquired from India, might be casting a subtle, yet tangible influence over my writing."
"God!" Ernest could hardly contain his astonishment, "I've had the exact same notion!"
"How peculiar that is!" Clarke remarked, feigning astonishment.
"It's often said, though it's a cliché, that great minds tread similar paths," Ernest noted, feeling a sense of pride.
"No," Clarke replied with a hint of depth, "but they arrive at the same destination, albeit by different routes."
"And you think there's real weight to this idea?" Ernest pressed, curious about Clarke's belief.
"Why not?"
Clarke's gaze had shifted, and now rested thoughtfully on the bust of Balzac.
"The measure of an artist's genius is his capacity to absorb the essence of life needed to complete his artistic vision. Balzac had this capacity to an extraordinary degree. Curiously, it was the darker aspects of life that he captured most vividly. He drew them in like a sponge soaks up water; perhaps because there was a scarcity of darkness within him. It's as if he purified the air for miles around him, by channeling all the malevolence lurking in the air and dormant in human souls into the tip of his pen.
"And he"—Clarke's gaze lingered on Shakespeare's likeness as one might regard a kindred spirit—"he was of similar mold. He epitomized the ideal artist. Nothing eluded his perception. His insights were gleaned from both life and literature, each time refashioned with the touch of a master craftsman. To create is a divine quality. Yet to re-create, to bring forth something even more astounding than the simple act of creation, is the domain of the poet. Shakespeare drew inspiration from a myriad of sources. That's the key to his grandeur, and why his works transcend even his own monumental presence. It's the only way to make sense of his singular legacy. Who was he really? What was his education, what chances did he have? Virtually none. Yet, his writings encompass the sagacity of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's imaginings and discoveries, the thunderous language of Marlowe, and the enigmatic beauty of Mr. W.H."
Ernest hung on every word, spellbound by Clarke's resonant voice. Clarke was not merely a speaker but a conjurer, weaving the most extravagant of imaginations with threads of reality, lending the unbelievable a sheen of the plausible.