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第17节

crome yellow(克罗姆·耶娄)-第17节

小说: crome yellow(克罗姆·耶娄) 字数: 每页4000字

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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; 



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his arms outstretched towards the sides of the picture。               Under the arch of 

the horse's belly; between his legs; the 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 

restthe 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 ithad he caught it?           Would he ever catch it? 

     Three   little   tapsrat;   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。 



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     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'oeilthere        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 

contemptan         outburst     of   laughing      disparagement。          What       could 

Gombauld be up to?            She had felt so safe in admiring his work before。 

But    nowshe     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'oeil      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 Paris this 

spring   I   saw   a   lot   of   Tschuplitski。 I   admire   his   work   so   tremendously。 

Of course; it's frightfully abstract nowfrightfully abstract and frightfully 

intellectual。     He   just   throws   a   few   oblongs   on   to   his   canvasquite   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 



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architecture。      He    says   it's  more   intellectual    than   painting。    Do    you 

agree?〃 she asked; with a final gasp。 

     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。 



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                           CHAPTER XIII。 



     Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed 

sheets loosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio。 

     〃To…day;〃   he   said;   exhibiting   it   with   a   certain   solemnity;   〃to…   day   I 

have finished the printing of my 'History of Crome'。                I helped to set up 

the type of the last page this evening。〃 

     〃The famous History?〃 cried Anne。             The writing and the printing of 

this   Magnum   Opus   had   been   going   on   as   long   as   she   could   remember。 

All   her   childhood    long   Uncle    Henry's   History   had    been   a  vague   and 

fabulous thing; often heard of and never seen。 

     〃It has taken me nearly thirty years;〃 said Mr。 Wimbush。 〃Twenty…five 

year

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