What is property, after all? The law says there are two kinds, real
and personal. But it seems to me that the only real property is
that which is truly personal, that which we take into our inner life
and make our own forever, by understanding and admiration and
sympathy and love. This is the only kind of possession that is
worth anything.
A gallery of great paintings adorns the house of the Honourable
Midas Bond, and every year adds a new treasure to his collection.
He knows how much they cost him, and he keeps the run of the
quotations at the auction sales, congratulating himself as the price
of the works of his well-chosen artists rises in the scale, and the
value of his art treasures is enhanced. But why should he call them
his? He is only their custodian. He keeps them well varnished, and
framed in gilt. But he never passes through those gilded frames
into the world of beauty that lies behind the painted canvas. He
knows nothing of those lovely places from which the artist's soul
and hand have drawn their inspiration. They are closed and barred
to him. He has bought the pictures, but he cannot buy the key. The
poor art student who wanders through his gallery, lingering with awe
and love before the masterpieces, owns them far more truly than
Midas does.
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