Gombauld had annexed7 for his painting-room a little disused granary that stood by itself in a green close beyond the farm-yard. 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 shaft8 of sunlight that came slanting9 in at every hour of the day through one of the little windows was always alive with silvery motes10. 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 industriously11 through cubism. Now he had come out on the other side. He had begun by painting a formalised 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, externalised in the abstract geometrical forms of the mind’s devising. He found the process arduous12 and exhilarating. And then, quite suddenly, he grew dissatisfied; he felt himself cramped13 and confined within intolerably narrow limitations. He was humiliated14 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 simplicity15 and formality of an idea; to combine prodigious16 realism with prodigious simplification. Memories of Caravaggio’s portentous17 achievements haunted him. Forms of a breathing, living reality emerged from darkness, built themselves up into compositions as luminously19 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 portfolio20 full of studies, he had drawn21 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, relentless22 light poured down from a point in the right foreground. The beast, the fallen man, were sharply illuminated23; 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 hoofs24, frozen to stillness in the midst of their trampling25, 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 belly26, between his legs, the eye looked through into an intense darkness; below, the space was closed in by the figure of the prostrate27 man. A central gulf28 of darkness surrounded by luminous18 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. Tilting29 back his chair till it touched the wall, he looked thoughtfully at his canvas. He was pleased, and at the same time he was desolated30. 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 upwards31, 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 dignified32 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 candid33 as she handed him the letter. There had never been a flimsier pretext34.
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 recognisable as such, but even aggressively in drawing. Trompe-l’oeil—there was no other word to describe the delineation35 of that foreshortened figure under the trampling feet of the horse. What was she to think, what was she to say? Her orientations36 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 schooling37 among the best judges, her instinctive38 reaction to a contemporary piece of representation was contempt—an outburst of laughing disparagement39. 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 chiaroscuro40, 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 penetrating41.
“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 awfully42 fine,” she said. “But of course it’s a little too...too...trompe-l’oeil for my taste.” She looked at Gombauld, who made no response, but continued to smoke, gazing meditatively43 all the time at his picture. Mary went on gaspingly. “When I was in Paris this spring I saw a lot of Tschuplitski. I admire his work so tremendously. Of course, it’s frightfully abstract now—frightfully abstract and frightfully intellectual. He just throws a few oblongs on to his canvas—quite flat, you know, and painted in pure primary colours. But his design is wonderful. He’s getting more and more abstract every day. He’d given up the third dimension when I was there and was just thinking of giving up the second. Soon, he says, there’ll be just the blank canvas. That’s the logical conclusion. Complete abstraction. Painting’s finished; he’s finishing it. When he’s reached pure abstraction he’s going to take up architecture. He says it’s more intellectual than painting. Do you agree?” she asked, with a final gasp44.
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 serene45; 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 peripatetic46 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 solicitously47.
Mary looked round, startled. They were in front of the open door. She remained standing48 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 kindly49 little smacks50. Replying automatically to its stimulus51, 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 pensive52.
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1
mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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8
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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industriously
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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24
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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28
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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34
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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36
orientations
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| n.方向( orientation的名词复数 )；定位；（任职等前的）培训；环境判定 | |
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37
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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38
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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40
chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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41
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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42
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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43
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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44
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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45
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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46
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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47
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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50
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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51
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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52
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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