Chapter XXIII.

by Aldous Huxley

　　Gombauld was by no means so furious at their apparition as Denishad hoped and expected he would be. Indeed, he was ratherpleased 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 wouldhave been losing his temper again--and Anne would be keepinghers, 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 andstepped over the threshold. He looked suspiciously from Gombauldto his sitter, and could learn nothing from the expression oftheir faces except that they both seemed pleased to see thevisitors. Were they really glad, or were they cunninglysimulating gladness? He wondered.Mr. Scogan, meanwhile, was looking at the portrait."Excellent," he said approvingly, "excellent. Almost too true tocharacter, if that is possible; yes, positively too true. ButI'm surprised to find you putting in all this psychologybusiness." He pointed to the face, and with his extended fingerfollowed the slack curves of the painted figure. "I thought youwere one of the fellows who went in exclusively for balancedmasses and impinging planes."Gombauld laughed. "This is a little infidelity," he said."I'm sorry," said Mr. Scogan. "I for one, without ever havinghad the slightest appreciation of painting, have always takenparticular pleasure in Cubismus. I like to see pictures fromwhich nature has been completely banished, pictures which areexclusively the product of the human mind. They give me the samepleasure as I derive from a good piece of reasoning or amathematical problem or an achievement of engineering. Nature,or anything that reminds me of nature, disturbs me; it is toolarge, too complicated, above all too utterly pointless andincomprehensible. I am at home with the works of man; if Ichoose to set my mind to it, I can understand anything that anyman 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 thewindow-boxes. But travel by Tube and you see nothing but theworks of man--iron riveted into geometrical forms, straight linesof concrete, patterned expanses of tiles. All is human and theproduct of friendly and comprehensible minds. All philosophiesand all religions--what are they but spiritual Tubes boredthrough the universe! Through these narrow tunnels, where all isrecognisably human, one travels comfortable and secure,contriving to forget that all round and below and above themstretches the blind mass of earth, endless and unexplored. Yes,give me the Tube and Cubismus every time; give me ideas, so snugand neat and simple and well made. And preserve me from nature,preserve me from all that's inhumanly large and complicated andobscure. I haven't the courage, and, above all, I haven't thetime to start wandering in that labyrinth."While Mr. Scogan was discoursing, Denis had crossed over to thefarther side of the little square chamber, where Anne wassitting, still in her graceful, lazy pose, on the low chair."Well?" he demanded, looking at her almost fiercely. What was heasking of her? He hardly knew himself.Anne looked up at him, and for answer echoed his "Well?" inanother, a laughing key.Denis had nothing more, at the moment, to say. Two or threecanvases stood in the corner behind Anne's chair, their facesturned to the wall. He pulled them out and began to look at thepaintings."May I see too?" Anne requested.He stood them in a row against the wall. Anne had to turn roundin her chair to look at them. There was the big canvas of theman fallen from the horse, there was a painting of flowers, therewas a small landscape. His hands on the back of the chair, Denisleaned over her. From behind the easel at the other side of theroom Mr. Scogan was talking away. For a long time they looked atthe pictures, saying nothing; or, rather, Anne looked at thepictures, 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 ithad cost him a great effort to utter the words, he said, "I loveyou."It was a remark which Anne had heard a good many times before andmostly heard with equanimity. But on this occasion--perhapsbecause they had come so unexpectedly , perhaps for some otherreason--the words provoked in her a certain surprised commotion."My poor Denis," she managed to say, with a laugh; but she wasblushing as she spoke.