Antic Hay, Aldous Huxley [whitelam books .txt] 📗

a Vermouth advertisement in the streets of Padua. Cinzano, Bonomelli, Campari⁠—illustrious names. Giotto and Mantegna mouldered meanwhile in their respective chapels.

“And look at this,” Lypiatt went on. He took down the canvas that was clamped to the easel and held it out for her inspection. It was one of Casimir’s abstract paintings: a procession of machine-like forms rushing up diagonally from right to left across the canvas, with as it were a spray of energy blowing back from the crest of the wave towards the top right-hand corner. “In this painting,” he said, “I symbolize the Artist’s conquering spirit⁠—rushing on the universe, making it its own.” He began to declaim:

“Look down, Conquistador,
There on the valley’s broad green floor,
There lies the lake, the jewelled cities gleam,
Chalco and Tlacopan
Awaiting the coming Man;
Look down on Mexico, Conquistador,
Land of your golden dream.

Or the same idea in terms of music⁠—” and Lypiatt dashed to the piano and evoked a distorted ghost of Scriabin. “You see?” he asked feverishly, when the ghost was laid again and the sad cheap jangling had faded again into silence. “You feel? The artist rushes on the world, conquers it, gives it beauty, imposes a moral significance.” He returned to the picture. “This will be fine when it’s finished,” he said. “Tremendous. You feel the wind blowing there, too.” And with a pointing finger he followed up the onrush of the forms. “The great southwester driving them on. ‘Like leaves from an enchanter fleeing.’ Only not chaotically, not in disorder. They’re blown, so to speak, in column of four⁠—by a conscious wind.” He leaned the canvas against the table and was free again to march and brandish his conquering fists.

“Life,” he said, “life⁠—that’s the great, essential thing. You’ve got to get life into your art, otherwise it’s nothing. And life only comes out of life, out of passion and feeling; it can’t come out of theories. That’s the stupidity of all this chatter about art for art’s sake and the aesthetic emotions and purely formal values and all that. It’s only the formal relations that matter; one subject is just as good as another⁠—that’s the theory. You’ve only got to look at the pictures of the people who put it into practice to see that it won’t do. Life comes out of life. You must paint with passion and the passion will stimulate your intellect to create the right formal relations. And to paint with passion, you must paint things that passionately interest you, moving things, human things. Nobody, except a mystical pantheist, like Van Gogh, can seriously be as much interested in napkins, apples and bottles as in his lover’s face, or the resurrection, or the destiny of man. Could Mantegna have devised his splendid compositions if he had painted arrangements of Chianti flasks and cheeses instead of Crucifixions, martyrs and triumphs of great men? Nobody but a fool could believe it. And could I have painted that portrait if I hadn’t loved you, if you weren’t killing me?”

Ah, Bonomelli and illustrious Cinzano!

“Passionately I paint passion. I draw life out of life. And I wish them joy of their bottles and their Canadian apples and their muddy table napkins with the beastly folds in them that look like loops of tripe.” Once more Lypiatt disintegrated himself with laughter; then was silent.

Mrs. Viveash nodded, slowly and reflectively. “I think you’re right,” she said. Yes, he was surely right; there must be life, life was the important thing. That was precisely why his paintings were so bad⁠—she saw now; there was no life in them. Plenty of noise there was, and gesticulation and a violent galvanized twitching; but no life, only the theatrical show of it. There was a flaw in the conduit; somewhere between the man and his work life leaked out. He protested too much. But it was no good; there was no disguising the deadness. Her portrait was a dancing mummy. He bored her now. Did she even positively dislike him? Behind her unchanging pale eyes Mrs. Viveash wondered. But in any case, she reflected, one needn’t always like the people with whom one associates. There are music halls as well as confidential boudoirs; some people are admitted to the tea-party and the tête-à-tête, others, on a stage invisible, poor things! to themselves, do their little song-and-dance, roll out their characteristic patter, and having provided you with your entertainment are dismissed with their due share of applause. But then, what if they become boring?

“Well,” said Lypiatt at last⁠—he had stood there, motionless, for a long time, biting his nails, “I suppose we’d better begin our sitting.” He picked up the unfinished portrait and adjusted it on the easel. “I’ve wasted a lot of time,” he said, “and there isn’t, after all, so much of it to waste.” He spoke gloomily, and his whole person had become, all of a sudden, curiously shrunken and deflated. “There isn’t so much of it,” he repeated, and sighed. “I still think of myself as a young man, young and promising, don’t you know. Casimir Lypiatt⁠—it’s a young, promising sort of name, isn’t it? But I’m not young, I’ve passed the age of promise. Every now and then I realize it, and it’s painful, it’s depressing.”

Mrs. Viveash stepped up on to the model’s dais and took her seat. “Is that right?” she asked.

Lypiatt looked first at her, then at his picture. Her beauty, his passion⁠—were they only to meet on the canvas? Opps was her lover. Time was passing; he felt tired. “That’ll do,” he said and began painting. “How young are you?” he asked after a moment.

“Twenty-five, I should imagine,” said Mrs. Viveash.

“Twenty-five? Good Lord, it’s nearly fifteen years since I was twenty-five. Fifteen years, fighting all the time. God, how I hate people sometimes! Everybody. It’s not their malignity I mind; I can give them back as good as they give me. It’s their power of silence and indifference, it’s their capacity for making themselves deaf. Here am I with something to say to them,