The Common Law. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ men? For a moment she had a little shrinking, a miniature panic lest this man turn too much like other men. But she let her eyes rest on him, and knew he would not. Whatever Protean changes might yet be reserved for her to witness, she came to the conclusion that this man was a man apart, different, and would not disappoint her no matter what he turned into.

      She thought to herself: "If I want Kelly to lean on, he'll surely appear, god-like, impersonally nice, and kindly as ever; if I want Louis to torment and provoke and flirt with—a little—a very little—I'm quite sure he'll come, too. Whatever else is contained in Mr. Neville I don't know; but I like him separately and compositely, and I'm happy when I'm with him."

      With which healthy conclusion she asked if she might rest, and came around to look at the canvas.

      As she had stood in silence for some time, he asked her, a little nervously, what she thought of it.

      "Louis—I don't know."

      "Is your opinion unfavourable?"

      "N-no. I am like that, am I not?"

      "In a shadowy way. It will be like you."

      "Am I as—interesting?"

      "More so," he said.

      "Are you going to make me—beautiful?"

      "Yes—or cut this canvas into shreds."

      "Oh-h!" she exclaimed with a soft intake of breath; "would you have the heart to destroy me after you've made me?"

      "I don't know what I'd do, Valerie. I never felt just this way about anything. If I can't paint you—a human, breathing you—with all of you there on the canvas—all of you, soul, mind, and body—all of your beauty, your youth, your sadness, happiness—your errors, your nobility—you, Valerie!—then there's no telling what I'll do."

      She said nothing. Presently she resumed the pose and he his painting.

      It became very still in the sunny studio.

      CHAPTER IV

      In that month of June, for the first time in his deliberately active career, Neville experienced a disinclination to paint. And when he realised that it was disinclination, it appalled him. Something—he didn't understand what—had suddenly left him satiated—and with all the uneasiness and discontent of satiation he forced matters until he could force no further.

      He had commissions, several, and valuable; and let them lie. For the first time in all his life the blank canvas of an unexecuted commission left him untempted, unresponsive, weary.

      He had, also, his portrait of Valerie to continue. He continued it mentally, at intervals; but for several days, now, he had not laid a brush to it.

      "It's funny," he said to Querida, going out on the train to his sister's country home one delicious morning—"it's confoundedly odd that I should turn lazy in my old age. Do you think I'm worked out?" He gulped down a sudden throb of fear smilingly.

      "Lie fallow," said Querida, gently. "No soil is deep enough to yield without rest."

      "Yours does."

      "Oh, for me," said Querida, showing his snowy teeth, "I often sicken of my fat sunlight, frying everything to an iridescent omelette." He shrugged, laughed: "I turn lazy for months every year. Try it, my friend. Don't you even keep mi-carême?"

      Neville stared out of the window at the station platform past which they were gliding, and rose with Querida as the train stopped. His sister's touring car was waiting; into it stepped Querida, and he followed; and away they sped over the beautiful rolling country, where handsome cattle tried to behave like genuine Troyon's, and silvery sheep attempted to imitate Mauve, and even the trees, separately or in groups, did their best to look like sections of Rousseau, Diaz, and even Corot—but succeeded only in resembling questionable imitations.

      "There's to be quite a week-end party?" inquired Querida.

      "I don't know. My sister telephoned me to fill in. I fancy the party is for you."

      "For me!" exclaimed Querida with delightful enthusiasm. "That is most charming of Mrs. Collis."

      "They'll all think it charming of you. Lord, what a rage you've become and what a furor you've aroused!… And you deserve it," added Neville, coolly.

      Querida looked at him, calm intelligence in his dark gaze; and understood the honesty of the comment.

      "That," he said, "if you permit the vigour of expression, is damn nice of you, Neville. But you can afford to be generous to other painters."

      "Can I?" Neville turned and gazed at Querida, gray eyes clear in their searching inquiry. Then he laughed a little and looked out over the sunny landscape.

      Querida's olive cheeks had reddened a trifle.

      Neville said: "What is the trouble with my work, anyway? Is it what some of you fellows say?"

      Querida did not pretend to misunderstand:

      "You're really a great painter, Neville. And you know it. Must you have everything?"

      "Well—I'm going after it."

      "Surely—surely. I, also. God knows my work lacks many, many things—"

      "But it doesn't lack that one essential which mine lacks. What is it?"

      Querida laughed: "I can't explain. For me—your Byzantine canvas—there is in it something not intimate—"

      "Austere?"

      "Yes—even in those divine and lovely throngs. There is, perhaps, an aloofness—even a self-denial—" He laughed again: "I deny myself nothing—on canvas—even I have the audacity to try to draw as you do!"

      Neville sat thinking, watching the landscape speed away on either side in a running riot of green.

      "Self-denial—too much of it—separates you from your kind," said Querida. "The solitary fasters are never personally pleasant; hermits are the world's public admiration and private abomination. Oh, the good world dearly loves to rub elbows with a talented sinner and patronise him and sentimentalise over him—one whose miracles don't hurt their eyes enough to blind them to the pleasant discovery that his halo is tarnished in spots and needs polishing, and that there's a patch on the seat of his carefully creased toga."

      Neville laughed. Presently he said: "Until recently I've cherished theories. One of 'em was to subordinate everything in life to the enjoyment of a single pleasure—the pleasure of work…. I guess experience is putting that theory on the blink."

      "Surely. You might as well make an entire meal of one favourite dish. For a day you could stand it, even like it, perhaps. After that—" he shrugged.

      "But—I'd rather spend my time painting—if I could stand the diet."

      "Would you? I don't know what I'd rather do. I like almost everything. It makes me paint better to talk to a pretty woman, for example. To kiss her inspires a masterpiece."

      "Does it?" said Neville, thoughtfully.

      "Of course. A week or two of motoring—riding, dancing, СКАЧАТЬ