crome yellow(克罗姆·耶娄)-第16节
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miserably among the savage Greeks； another； in his white top hat； to lead
Italians against their oppressors。 Others have no business at all； they are
just giving their oddity a continental airing。 At home they cultivate
themselves at leisure and with greater elaboration。 Beckford builds
towers； Portland digs holes in the ground； Cavendish； the millionaire； lives
in a stable； eats nothing but mutton； and amuses himselfoh； solely for his
private delectationby anticipating the electrical discoveries of half a
century。 Glorious eccentrics！ Every age is enlivened by their presence。
Some day； my dear Denis；〃 said Mr Scogan； turning a beady bright regard
in his direction〃some day you must become their biographer'The Lives
of Queer Men。' What a subject！ I should like to undertake it myself。〃
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Mr。 Scogan paused； looked up once more at the towering house； then
murmured the word 〃Eccentricity；〃 two or three times。
〃Eccentricity。。。It's the justification of all aristocracies。 It justifies
leisured classes and inherited wealth and privilege and endowments and
all the other injustices of that sort。 If you're to do anything reasonable in
this world； you must have a class of people who are secure； safe from
public opinion； safe from poverty； leisured； not compelled to waste their
time in the imbecile routines that go by the name of Honest Work。 You
must have a class of which the members can think and； within the obvious
limits； do what they please。 You must have a class in which people who
have eccentricities can indulge them and in which eccentricity in general
will be tolerated and understood。 That's the important thing about an
aristocracy。 Not only is it eccentric itselfoften grandiosely so； it also
tolerates and even encourages eccentricity in others。 The eccentricities
of the artist and the new…fangled thinker don't inspire it with that fear；
loathing； and disgust which the burgesses instinctively feel towards them。
It is a sort of Red Indian Reservation planted in the midst of a vast horde
of Poor Whitescolonials at that。 Within its boundaries wild men disport
themselvesoften； it must be admitted； a little grossly； a little too
flamboyantly； and when kindred spirits are born outside the pale it offers
them some sort of refuge from the hatred which the Poor Whites； en bons
bourgeois； lavish on anything that is wild or out of the ordinary。 After
the social revolution there will be no Reservations； the Redskins will be
drowned in the great sea of Poor Whites。 What then？ Will they suffer
you to go on writing villanelles； my good Denis？ Will you； unhappy
Henry； be allowed to live in this house of the splendid privies； to continue
your quiet delving in the mines of futile knowledge？ Will Anne。。。〃
〃And you；〃 said Anne； interrupting him； 〃will you be allowed to go on
talking？〃
〃You may rest assured；〃 Mr。 Scogan replied； 〃that I shall not。 I shall
have some Honest Work to do。〃
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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
attempts to open a serious discussion。 That was horrible。 A man who
would not talk seriously to a woman just because she was a womanoh；
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 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 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 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
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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
