Deeply hurt, Denis emitted the imitation of a loud Homeric laugh. ‘I’m getting sunstroke here,’ he said, and got up.
Mr Scogan followed his example, and they walked slowly away down the narrow path, brushing the blue lavender flowers in their passage. Denis pulled a sprig of lavender and sniffed at it; then some dark leaves of rosemary that smelt like incense in a cavernous church. They passed a bed of opium poppies, dispetaled now; the round, ripe seed-heads were brown and dry – like Polynesian trophies, Denis thought; severed heads stuck on poles. He liked the fancy enough to impart it to Mr Scogan.
‘Like Polynesian trophies. . . .’ Uttered aloud, the fancy seemed less charming and significant that it did when it first occurred to him.
There was a silence, and in a growing wave of sound the whir of the reaping machines swelled up from the fields beyond the garden and then receded into a remoter hum.
‘It is satisfactory to think,’ said Mr Scogan, as they strolled slowly onward, ‘that a multitude of people are toiling in the harvest fields in order that we may talk of Polynesia. Like every other good thing in this world, leisure and culture have to be paid for. Fortunately, however, it is not the leisured and the cultured who have to pay. Let us be duly thankful for that, my dear Denis – duly thankful,’ he repeated, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
Denis was not listening. He had suddenly remembered Anne. She was with Gombauld – alone with him in his studio. It was an intolerable thought.
‘Shall we go and pay a call on Gombauld?’ he suggested carelessly. ‘It would be amusing to see what he’s doing now.’
He laughed inwardly to think how furious Gombauld would be when he saw them arriving.
CHAPTER XXIII
GOMBAULD WAS BY no means so furious at their apparition as Denis had hoped and expected he would be. Indeed, he was rather pleased than annoyed when the two faces, one brown and pointed, the other round and pale, appeared in the frame of the open door. The energy born of his restless irritation was dying within him, returning to its emotional elements. A moment more and he would have been losing his temper again – and Anne would be keeping hers, infuriatingly. Yes, he was positively glad to see them.
‘Come in, come in,’ he called out hospitably.
Followed by Mr Scogan, Denis climbed the little ladder and stepped over the threshold. He looked suspiciously from Gombauld to his sitter, and could learn nothing from the expression of their faces except that they both seemed pleased to see the visitors. Were they really glad, or were they cunningly simulating gladness? He wondered.
Mr Scogan, meanwhile, was looking at the portrait.
‘Excellent,’ he said approvingly, ‘excellent. Almost too true to character, if that is possible; yes, positively too true. But I’m surprised to find you putting in all this psychology business.’ He pointed to the face, and with his extended finger followed the slack curves of the painted figure. ‘I thought you were one of the fellows who went in exclusively for balanced masses and impinging planes.’
Gombauld laughed. ‘This is a little infidelity,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Scogan. ‘I for one, without ever having had the slightest appreciation of painting, have always taken particular pleasure in Cubismus. I like to see pictures from which nature has been completely banished, pictures which are exclusively the product of the human mind. They give me the same pleasure as I derive from a good piece of reasoning or a mathematical problem or an achievement of engineering. Nature, or anything that reminds me of nature, disturbs me; it is too large, too complicated, above all too utterly pointless and incomprehensible. I am at home with the works of man; if I choose to set my mind to it, I can understand anything that any man has made or thought. That is why I always travel by Tube, never by bus if I can possibly help it.
For, travelling by bus, one can’t avoid seeing, even in London, a few stray works of God – the sky, for example, an occasional tree, the flowers in the window-boxes. But travel by Tube and you see nothing but the works of man – iron riveted into geometrical forms, straight lines of concrete, patterned expanses of tiles. All is human and the product of friendly and comprehensible minds.
All philosophies and all religions – what are they but spiritual Tubes bored through the universe! Through these narrow tunnels, where all is recognizably human, one travels comfortable and secure, contriving to forget that all round and below and above them stretches the blind mass of earth, endless and unexplored. Yes, give me the Tube and Cubismus every time; give me ideas, so snug and neat and simple and well made. And preserve me from nature, preserve me from all that’s inhumanly large and complicated and obscure. I haven’t the courage, and, above all, I haven’t the time to start wandering in that labyrinth.’
While Mr Scogan was discoursing, Denis had crossed over to the farther side of the little square chamber, where Anne was sitting, still in her graceful, lazy pose, on the low chair.
‘Well?’ he demanded, looking at her almost fiercely. What was he asking of her? He hardly knew himself.
Anne looked up at him, and for answer echoed his ‘Well?’ in another, a laughing key.
Denis had nothing more, at the moment, to say. Two or three canvases stood in the corner behind Anne’s chair, their faces turned to the wall. He pulled them out and began to look at the paintings.
‘May I see too?’ Anne requested.
He stood them in a row against the wall. Anne had to turn round in her chair to look at them. There was the big canvas of the man fallen from the horse, there was a painting of flowers, there was a small landscape. His hands on the back of the chair, Denis leaned over her. From behind the easel at the other side of the room Mr Scogan was talking away. For a long time they looked at the pictures, saying nothing; or, rather, Anne looked at the pictures, while Denis, for the most part, looked at Anne.
‘I like the man and the horse; don’t you?’ she said at last, looking up with an inquiring smile.
Denis nodded, and then in a queer, strangled voice, as though it had cost him a great effort to utter the words, he said, ‘I love you.’
It was a remark which Anne had heard a good many times before and mostly heard with equanimity. But on this occasion – perhaps because they had come so unexpectedly, perhaps for some other reason – the words provoked in her a certain surprised commotion.
‘My poor Denis,’ she managed to say, with a laugh; but she was blushing as she spoke.
CHAPTER XXIV
IT WAS NOON. Denis, descending from his chamber, where he had been making an unsuccessful effort to write something about nothing in particular, found the drawing-room deserted. He was about to go out into the garden when his eye fell on a familiar but mysterious object – the large red notebook in which he had so often seen Jenny quietly and busily scribbling. She had left it lying on the window-seat. The temptation was great. He picked up the book and slipped off the elastic band that kept it discreetly closed.
‘Private. Not to be opened,’ was written in capital letters on the cover. He raised his eyebrows. It was the sort of thing one wrote in one’s Latin Grammar while one was still at one’s preparatory school.
‘Black is the raven, black is the rook,
But blacker the thief who steals this book!’
It was curiously childish, he thought, and he smiled to himself. He opened the book. What he saw made him wince as though he had been struck.
Denis was his own severest critic; so, at least, he had always believed. He liked to think of himself as a merciless vivisector probing into the palpitating entrails of his own soul; he was Brown Dog to himself. His weaknesses, his absurdities – no one knew them better than he did. Indeed in a vague way he imagined that nobody beside himself was aware of them at all. It seemed, somehow, inconceivable that he should appear to other people as they appeared to him, inconceivable that they ever spoke of him among themselves in that same freely critical and, to be quite honest, mildly malicious tone in which he was accustomed to talk of them. In his own eyes he had defects, but to see them was a privilege reserved to him alone. For the rest of the world he was surely an image of flawless crystal. It was almost axiomatic.
On opening the red notebook that crystal image of himself crashed to the ground, and was irreparably shattered. He was not his own severest critic after all. The discovery was a painful one.
The fruit of Jenny’s unobtrusive scribbling lay before him. A caricature of himself, reading (the book was upside-down). In the background a dancing couple, recognizable as Gombauld and Anne. Beneath, the legend: ‘Fable
