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 recognisably 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.