CHAPTER XII
'Blight, Mildew, and Smut....' Mary was puzzled and distressed. Perhaps her ears had played her false. Perhaps what he had really said was, 'Squire,
Binyon, and Shanks,' or 'Childe, Blunden,
and Earp,' or even 'Abercrombie, Drinkwater,
and Rabindranath Tagore.' Perhaps. But then her ears never did play her
false. 'Blight,
Mildew, and Smut.' The impression
was distinct and ineffaceable. 'Blight,
Mildew ...' she was forced to the conclusion, reluctantly, that Denis had
indeed pronounced those improbable words.
He had deliberately repelled her attempt to open a serious
discussion. That was horrible. A man who would not talk seriously to a woman
just because she was a woman - oh, impossible!
Egeria or nothing. Perhaps Gombauld would be more satisfactory. True, his meridional
heredity was a little disquieting; but at least he was a serious worker, and it
was with his work that she would associate herself. And Denis? After all, what was Denis? A dilettante, an amateur....
Gombauld had annexed for his painting-room a little disused
granary that stood by itself in a green close beyond the farmyard. It was a square brick building with a peaked
roof and little windows set high up in each of its walls. A ladder of four rungs led up to the door;
for the granary was perched above the ground, and out of reach of the rats, on
four massive toadstools of grey stone.
Within, there lingered a faint smell of dust and cobwebs; and the narrow
shaft of sunlight that came slanting in at every hour of the day through one of
the little windows was always alive with silvery motes. Here Gombauld
worked, with a kind of concentrated ferocity, during six or seven hours of each
day. He was pursuing something new,
something terrific, if only he could catch it.
During the
last eight years, nearly half of which had been spent in the process of winning
the war, he had worked his way industriously through cubism. Now he had come out on the other side. He had begun by painting a formalized nature;
then, little by little, he had risen from nature into the world of pure form,
till in the end he was painting nothing but his own thoughts, externalized in
the abstract geometrical forms of the mind's devising. He found the process arduous and
exhilarating. And then, quite suddenly,
he grew dissatisfied; he felt himself cramped and confined within intolerably
narrow limitations. He was humiliated to
find how few and crude and uninteresting were the forms he could invent; the
inventions of nature were without number, inconceivably subtle and elaborate. He had done with cubism. He was out on the other side. But the cubist discipline preserved him from
falling into excesses of nature worship.
He took from nature its rich, subtle, elaborate forms, but his aim was
always to work them into a whole that should have the thrilling simplicity and
formality of an idea; to combine prodigious realism with prodigious
simplification. Memories of Caravaggio's
portentous achievements haunted him.
Forms of a breathing, living reality emerged
from darkness, built themselves up into compositions as luminously simple and
single as a mathematical idea. He
thought of the 'Call of Matthew,' of 'Peter Crucified,' of the 'Lute Players,'
of 'Magdalen.'
He had the secret, that astonishing ruffian, he had the secret! And now Gombauld
was after it, in hot pursuit. Yes, it
would be something terrific, if only he could catch it.
For a long time an idea had been stirring and spreading yeastily,
in his mind. He had made a
portfolio full of studies, he had drawn a cartoon; and now the idea was taking
shape on canvas. A man fallen from a
horse. The huge animal, a gaunt white
cart-horse, filled the upper half of the picture with its great body. Its head, lowered towards the ground, was in
shadow; the immense bony body was what arrested the eye, the body and the legs,
which came down on either side of the picture like the pillars of an arch. On the ground, between the legs of the
towering beast, lay the foreshortened figure of a man, the head in the extreme
foreground, the arms flung wide to right and left. A white, relentless light poured down from a
point in the right foreground. The beast, the fallen man, were sharply illuminated; round them,
beyond and behind them, was the night.
They were alone in the darkness, a universe in themselves. The horse's body filled the upper part of the
picture; the legs, the great hoofs, frozen to stillness in the midst of their
trampling, limited it on either side.
And beneath lay the man, his foreshortened face at the focal point in
the centre, his arms outstretched towards the sides of the picture. Under the arch of the horse's belly, between
his legs, they eye looked through into an intense darkness; below, the space
was closed in by the figure of the prostrate man. A central gulf of darkness surrounded by
luminous forms....
The picture
was more than half finished. Gombauld had been at work all the morning on the figure of
the man, and now he was taking a rest - the time to smoke a cigarette. Tilting back his chair till it touched the wall, he looked thoughtfully at his canvas. He was pleased, and at the same time he was
desolated. In itself, the thing was
good; he knew it. But that something he
was after, that something that would be so terrific if only he could catch it -
had he caught it? Would he ever catch it?
Three
little taps - rat, tat, tat! Surprised, Gombauld turned his eyes towards the door. Nobody ever disturbed him while he was at
work; it was one of the unwritten laws.
'Come in!' he called. The door,
which was ajar, swung open, revealing, from the waist upwards, the form of
Mary. She had only dared to mount
half-way up the ladder. If he didn't
want her, retreat would be easier and more dignified than if she climbed to the
top.
'May I come
in?' she asked.
'Certainly.'
She skipped
up the remaining two rungs and was over the threshold in an instant. 'A letter came for you by the second post,'
she said. 'I thought it might be
important, so I brought it out to you.'
Her eyes, her childish face were luminously candid as she handed him the
letter. There had never been a flimsier
pretext.
Gombauld looked at the envelope and put it in his pocket
unopened. 'Luckily,' he said, 'it isn't
at all important. Thanks very much all
the same.'
There was a
silence; Mary felt a little uncomfortable.
'May I have a look at what you've been painting?' she had the courage to
say at last.
Gombauld had only half smoked his cigarette; in any case he
wouldn't begin work again till he had finished.
He would give her the five minutes that separated him from the bitter
end. 'This is the best place to see it
from,' he said.
Mary looked
at the picture for some time without saying anything. Indeed, she didn't know what to say; she was
taken aback, she was at a loss. She had
expected a cubist masterpiece, and here was a picture of a man and a horse, not
only recognizable as such, but even aggressively in drawing. Trompe-l'œil
- there was no other word to describe the delineation of that foreshortened
figure under the trampling feet of the horse.
What was she to think, what was she to say? Her orientations were gone. One could admire representationalism
in the Old Masters. Obviously. But in a modern ...? At eighteen she might have done so. But now, after five years of schooling among
the best judges, her instinctive reaction to a contemporary piece of
representation was contempt - an outburst of laughing disparagement. What could Gombauld
be up to? She had felt so safe in
admiring his work before. But now - she
didn't know what to think. It was very
difficult, very difficult.
'There's
rather a lot of chiaroscuro, isn't there?' she ventured at last, and inwardly
congratulated herself on having found a critical formula so gentle and at the
same time so penetrating.
'There is,'
Gombauld agreed.
Mary was pleased;
he accepted her criticism; it was a serious discussion. She put her head on one side and screwed up
her eyes. 'I think it's awfully fine,'
she said. 'But of
course it's a little too ... too ... trompe
l'œil for my taste.' She looked at Gombauld,
who made no response, but continued to smoke, gazing meditatively all the time
at his picture. Mary went on gaspingly,
'When I was in
Gombauld dropped his cigarette end and trod on it. 'Tschuplitski's
finished painting,' he said. 'I've finished
my cigarette. But I'm going on
painting.' And, advancing towards her,
he put his arm round her shoulders and turned her round, away from the picture.
Mary looked
up at him; her hair swung back, a soundless bell of gold. Her eyes were serene; she smiled. So the moment had come. His arm was round her. He moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, and
she moved with him. It was a peripatetic
embracement. 'Do you agree with him?'
she repeated. The moment might have
come, but she would not cease to be intellectual, serious.
'I don't
know. I shall have to think about
it.' Gombauld
loosened his embrace, his hand dropped from her shoulder. 'Be careful going down the ladder,' he added
solicitously.
Mary looked
round, startled. They were in front of the
open door. She remained standing there
for a moment in bewilderment. The hand
that had rested on her shoulder made itself felt lower
down her back; it administered three or four kindly little smacks. Replying automatically to its stimulus, she
moved forward.
'Be careful
going down the ladder,' said Gombauld once more.
She was
careful. The door closed behind her and
she was alone in the little green close.
She walked slowly back through the farmyard; she was pensive.