The Pool in the Desert [27]
good old smell of oil paints and turpentine and mediums and varnish and new canvas that you never by any chance put your nose into in any part of Asia. It carried me back twenty years to old haunts, old friends, old joys, ideals, theories. Ah, to be young and have a temperament! For I had one then--that instant in Armour's veranda proved it to me forever.
'No thanks,' I said. 'If you don't mind I'll just have the smell.'
The young fellow knew at once that I liked the smell. 'Well, have a chair, anyhow,' he said, and took one himself and sat down opposite me, letting his lean brown hands fall between his knees.
'Do you mind,' I said, 'if for a minute I sit still and look round?'
He understood again.
'I haven't brought much,' he said, 'I left pretty near everything in Paris.'
'You have brought a world.' Then after a moment, 'Did you do that?' I asked, nodding towards a canvas tacked against the wall. It was the head of a half-veiled Arab woman turned away.
The picture was in the turning away, and the shadow the head- covering made over the cheek and lips.
'Lord, no! That's Dagnan Bouveret. I used to take my things to him, and one day he gave me that. You have an eye,' he added, but without patronage. 'It's the best thing I've got.'
I felt the warmth of an old thrill.
'Once upon a time,' I said, 'I was allowed to have an eye.' The wine, untasted all those years, went to my head. 'That's a vigorous bit above,' I continued.
'Oh, well! It isn't really up to much, you know. It's Rosario's. He photographs mostly, but he has a notion of colour.'
'Really?' said I, thinking with regard to my eye that the sun of that atrocious country had put it out. 'I expect I've lost it,' I said aloud.
'Your eye? Oh, you'll easily get a fresh one. Do you go home for the exhibitions?'
'I did once,' I confessed. 'My first leave. A kind of paralysis overtakes one here. Last time I went for the grouse.'
He glanced at me with his light clear eyes as if for the first time he encountered a difficulty.
'It's a magnificent country for painting,' he said.
'But not for pictures,' I rejoined. He paid no attention, staring at the ground and twisting one end of his moustache.
'The sun on those old marble tombs--broad sun and sand--'
'You mean somewhere about Delhi.'
'I couldn't get anywhere near it.' He was not at that moment anywhere near me. 'But I have thought out a trick or two--I mean to have another go when it cools off again down there.' He returned with a smile, and I saw how delicate his face was. The smile turned down with a little gentle mockery in its lines. I had seen that particular smile only on the faces of one or two beautiful women. It had a borrowed air upon a man, like a tiara or an earring.
'There's plenty to paint,' he said, looking at me with an air of friendly speculation.
'Indeed, yes. And it has never been done. We are sure it has never been done.'
'"We"--you mean people generally?'
'Not at all. I mean Miss Harris, Miss Harris and myself.'
'Your daughter?'
'My name is Philips,' I reminded him pleasantly, remembering that the intelligence of clever people is often limited to a single art. 'Miss Harris is the daughter of Mr. Edward Harris, Secretary of the Government of India in the Legislative Department. She is fond of pictures. We have a good many tastes in common. We have always suspected that India had never been painted, and when we saw your things at the Town Hall we knew it.'
His queer eyes dilated, and he blushed.
'Oh,' he said, 'it's only one interpretation. It all depends on what a fellow sees. No fellow can see everything.'
'Till you came,' I insisted, 'nobody had seen anything.'
He shook his head, but I could read in his face that this was not news to him.
'That is mainly what I came up to tell you,' I continued, 'to beg that you will go on and on. To hope that you will stay a long time and do a great deal. It is such an extraordinary chance that any one should turn up who can say what the country
'No thanks,' I said. 'If you don't mind I'll just have the smell.'
The young fellow knew at once that I liked the smell. 'Well, have a chair, anyhow,' he said, and took one himself and sat down opposite me, letting his lean brown hands fall between his knees.
'Do you mind,' I said, 'if for a minute I sit still and look round?'
He understood again.
'I haven't brought much,' he said, 'I left pretty near everything in Paris.'
'You have brought a world.' Then after a moment, 'Did you do that?' I asked, nodding towards a canvas tacked against the wall. It was the head of a half-veiled Arab woman turned away.
The picture was in the turning away, and the shadow the head- covering made over the cheek and lips.
'Lord, no! That's Dagnan Bouveret. I used to take my things to him, and one day he gave me that. You have an eye,' he added, but without patronage. 'It's the best thing I've got.'
I felt the warmth of an old thrill.
'Once upon a time,' I said, 'I was allowed to have an eye.' The wine, untasted all those years, went to my head. 'That's a vigorous bit above,' I continued.
'Oh, well! It isn't really up to much, you know. It's Rosario's. He photographs mostly, but he has a notion of colour.'
'Really?' said I, thinking with regard to my eye that the sun of that atrocious country had put it out. 'I expect I've lost it,' I said aloud.
'Your eye? Oh, you'll easily get a fresh one. Do you go home for the exhibitions?'
'I did once,' I confessed. 'My first leave. A kind of paralysis overtakes one here. Last time I went for the grouse.'
He glanced at me with his light clear eyes as if for the first time he encountered a difficulty.
'It's a magnificent country for painting,' he said.
'But not for pictures,' I rejoined. He paid no attention, staring at the ground and twisting one end of his moustache.
'The sun on those old marble tombs--broad sun and sand--'
'You mean somewhere about Delhi.'
'I couldn't get anywhere near it.' He was not at that moment anywhere near me. 'But I have thought out a trick or two--I mean to have another go when it cools off again down there.' He returned with a smile, and I saw how delicate his face was. The smile turned down with a little gentle mockery in its lines. I had seen that particular smile only on the faces of one or two beautiful women. It had a borrowed air upon a man, like a tiara or an earring.
'There's plenty to paint,' he said, looking at me with an air of friendly speculation.
'Indeed, yes. And it has never been done. We are sure it has never been done.'
'"We"--you mean people generally?'
'Not at all. I mean Miss Harris, Miss Harris and myself.'
'Your daughter?'
'My name is Philips,' I reminded him pleasantly, remembering that the intelligence of clever people is often limited to a single art. 'Miss Harris is the daughter of Mr. Edward Harris, Secretary of the Government of India in the Legislative Department. She is fond of pictures. We have a good many tastes in common. We have always suspected that India had never been painted, and when we saw your things at the Town Hall we knew it.'
His queer eyes dilated, and he blushed.
'Oh,' he said, 'it's only one interpretation. It all depends on what a fellow sees. No fellow can see everything.'
'Till you came,' I insisted, 'nobody had seen anything.'
He shook his head, but I could read in his face that this was not news to him.
'That is mainly what I came up to tell you,' I continued, 'to beg that you will go on and on. To hope that you will stay a long time and do a great deal. It is such an extraordinary chance that any one should turn up who can say what the country