Kitabı oku: «Beyond», sayfa 13
Part III
I
Gyp was going up to town. She sat in the corner of a first-class carriage, alone. Her father had gone up by an earlier train, for the annual June dinner of his old regiment, and she had stayed to consult the doctor concerning “little Gyp,” aged nearly nineteen months, to whom teeth were making life a burden.
Her eyes wandered from window to window, obeying the faint excitement within her. All the winter and spring, she had been at Mildenham, very quiet, riding much, and pursuing her music as best she could, seeing hardly anyone except her father; and this departure for a spell of London brought her the feeling that comes on an April day, when the sky is blue, with snow-white clouds, when in the fields the lambs are leaping, and the grass is warm for the first time, so that one would like to roll in it. At Widrington, a porter entered, carrying a kit-bag, an overcoat, and some golf-clubs; and round the door a little group, such as may be seen at any English wayside station, clustered, filling the air with their clean, slightly drawling voices. Gyp noted a tall woman whose blonde hair was going grey, a young girl with a fox-terrier on a lead, a young man with a Scotch terrier under his arm and his back to the carriage. The girl was kissing the Scotch terrier’s head.
“Good-bye, old Ossy! Was he nice! Tumbo, keep DOWN! YOU’RE not going!”
“Good-bye, dear boy! Don’t work too hard!”
The young man’s answer was not audible, but it was followed by irrepressible gurgles and a smothered:
“Oh, Bryan, you ARE – Good-bye, dear Ossy!” “Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” The young man who had got in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather high-pitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and again the gurgles broke forth. Then the train moved. Gyp caught a side view of him, waving his hat from the carriage window. It was her acquaintance of the hunting-field – the “Mr. Bryn Summer’ay,” as old Pettance called him, who had bought her horse last year. Seeing him pull down his overcoat, to bank up the old Scotch terrier against the jolting of the journey, she thought: ‘I like men who think first of their dogs.’ His round head, with curly hair, broad brow, and those clean-cut lips, gave her again the wonder: ‘Where HAVE I seen someone like him?’ He raised the window, and turned round.
“How would you like – Oh, how d’you do! We met out hunting. You don’t remember me, I expect.”
“Yes; perfectly. And you bought my horse last summer. How is he?”
“In great form. I forgot to ask what you called him; I’ve named him Hotspur – he’ll never be steady at his fences. I remember how he pulled with you that day.”
They were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run.
Then, looking at the dog, Gyp said softly:
“HE looks rather a darling. How old?”
“Twelve. Beastly when dogs get old!”
There was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with his clear eyes.
“I came over to call once – with my mother; November the year before last. Somebody was ill.”
“Yes – I.”
“Badly?”
Gyp shook her head.
“I heard you were married – ” The little drawl in his voice had increased, as though covering the abruptness of that remark. Gyp looked up.
“Yes; but my little daughter and I live with my father again.” What “came over” her – as they say – to be so frank, she could not have told.
He said simply:
“Ah! I’ve often thought it queer I’ve never seen you since. What a run that was!”
“Perfect! Was that your mother on the platform?”
“Yes – and my sister Edith. Extraordinary dead-alive place, Widrington; I expect Mildenham isn’t much better?”
“It’s very quiet, but I like it.”
“By the way, I don’t know your name now?”
“Fiorsen.”
“Oh, yes! The violinist. Life’s a bit of a gamble, isn’t it?”
Gyp did not answer that odd remark, did not quite know what to make of this audacious young man, whose hazel eyes and lazy smile were queerly lovable, but whose face in repose had such a broad gravity. He took from his pocket a little red book.
“Do you know these? I always take them travelling. Finest things ever written, aren’t they?”
The book – Shakespeare’s Sonnets – was open at that which begins:
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove – ”
Gyp read on as far as the lines:
“Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom – ”
and looked out of the window. The train was passing through a country of fields and dykes, where the sun, far down in the west, shone almost level over wide, whitish-green space, and the spotted cattle browsed or stood by the ditches, lazily flicking their tufted tails. A shaft of sunlight flowed into the carriage, filled with dust motes; and, handing the little book back through that streak of radiance, she said softly:
“Yes; that’s wonderful. Do you read much poetry?”
“More law, I’m afraid. But it is about the finest thing in the world, isn’t it?”
“No; I think music.”
“Are you a musician?”
“Only a little.”
“You look as if you might be.”
“What? A little?”
“No; I should think you had it badly.”
“Thank you. And you haven’t it at all?”
“I like opera.”
“The hybrid form – and the lowest!”
“That’s why it suits me. Don’t you like it, though?”
“Yes; that’s why I’m going up to London.”
“Really? Are you a subscriber?”
“This season.”
“So am I. Jolly – I shall see you.”
Gyp smiled. It was so long since she had talked to a man of her own age, so long since she had seen a face that roused her curiosity and admiration, so long since she had been admired. The sun-shaft, shifted by a westward trend of the train, bathed her from the knees up; and its warmth increased her light-hearted sense of being in luck – above her fate, instead of under it.
Astounding how much can be talked of in two or three hours of a railway journey! And what a friendly after-warmth clings round those hours! Does the difficulty of making oneself heard provoke confidential utterance? Or is it the isolation or the continual vibration that carries friendship faster and further than will a spasmodic acquaintanceship of weeks? But in that long talk he was far the more voluble. There was, too, much of which she could not speak. Besides, she liked to listen. His slightly drawling voice fascinated her – his audacious, often witty way of putting things, and the irrepressible bubble of laughter that would keep breaking from him. He disclosed his past, such as it was, freely – public-school and college life, efforts at the bar, ambitions, tastes, even his scrapes. And in this spontaneous unfolding there was perpetual flattery; Gyp felt through it all, as pretty women will, a sort of subtle admiration. Presently he asked her if she played piquet.
“Yes; I play with my father nearly every evening.”
“Shall we have a game, then?”
She knew he only wanted to play because he could sit nearer, joined by the evening paper over their knees, hand her the cards after dealing, touch her hand by accident, look in her face. And this was not unpleasant; for she, in turn, liked looking at his face, which had what is called “charm” – that something light and unepiscopal, entirely lacking to so many solid, handsome, admirable faces.
But even railway journeys come to an end; and when he gripped her hand to say good-bye, she gave his an involuntary little squeeze. Standing at her cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his arm, and a look of frank, rather wistful, admiration on his face, he said:
“I shall see you at the opera, then, and in the Row perhaps; and I may come along to Bury Street, some time, mayn’t I?”
Nodding to those friendly words, Gyp drove off through the sultry London evening. Her father was not back from the dinner, and she went straight to her room. After so long in the country, it seemed very close in Bury Street; she put on a wrapper and sat down to brush the train-smoke out of her hair.
For months after leaving Fiorsen, she had felt nothing but relief. Only of late had she begun to see her new position, as it was – that of a woman married yet not married, whose awakened senses have never been gratified, whose spirit is still waiting for unfoldment in love, who, however disillusioned, is – even if in secret from herself – more and more surely seeking a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and beauty. To-night – gazing at her face, reflected, intent and mournful, in the mirror – she saw that position more clearly, in all its aridity, than she had ever seen it. What was the use of being pretty? No longer use to anyone! Not yet twenty-six, and in a nunnery! With a shiver, but not of cold, she drew her wrapper close. This time last year she had at least been in the main current of life, not a mere derelict. And yet – better far be like this than go back to him whom memory painted always standing over her sleeping baby, with his arms stretched out and his fingers crooked like claws.
After that early-morning escape, Fiorsen had lurked after her for weeks, in town, at Mildenham, followed them even to Scotland, where Winton had carried her off. But she had not weakened in her resolution a second time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit, and gone abroad. Since then – nothing had come from him, save a few wild or maudlin letters, written evidently during drinking-bouts. Even they had ceased, and for four months she had heard no word. He had “got over” her, it seemed, wherever he was – Russia, Sweden – who knew – who cared?
She let the brush rest on her knee, thinking again of that walk with her baby through empty, silent streets, in the early misty morning last October, of waiting dead-tired outside here, on the pavement, ringing till they let her in. Often, since, she had wondered how fear could have worked her up to that weird departure. She only knew that it had not been unnatural at the time. Her father and Aunt Rosamund had wanted her to try for a divorce, and no doubt they had been right. But her instincts had refused, still refused to let everyone know her secrets and sufferings – still refused the hollow pretence involved, that she had loved him when she never had. No, it had been her fault for marrying him without love —
“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds!”
What irony – giving her that to read – if her fellow traveller had only known!
She got up from before the mirror, and stood looking round her room, the room she had always slept in as a girl. So he had remembered her all this time! It had not seemed like meeting a stranger. They were not strangers now, anyway. And, suddenly, on the wall before her, she saw his face; or, if not, what was so like that she gave a little gasp. Of course! How stupid of her not to have known at once! There, in a brown frame, hung a photograph of the celebrated Botticelli or Masaccio “Head of a Young Man” in the National Gallery. She had fallen in love with it years ago, and on the wall of her room it had been ever since. That broad face, the clear eyes, the bold, clean-cut mouth, the audacity – only, the live face was English, not Italian, had more humour, more “breeding,” less poetry – something “old Georgian” about it. How he would laugh if she told him he was like that peasant acolyte with fluffed-out hair, and a little ruching round his neck! And, smiling, Gyp plaited her own hair and got into bed.
But she could not sleep; she heard her father come in and go up to his room, heard the clocks strike midnight, and one, and two, and always the dull roar of Piccadilly. She had nothing over her but a sheet, and still it was too hot. There was a scent in the room, as of honeysuckle. Where could it come from? She got up at last, and went to the window. There, on the window-sill, behind the curtains, was a bowl of jessamine. Her father must have brought it up for her – just like him to think of that!
And, burying her nose in those white blossoms, she was visited by a memory of her first ball – that evening of such delight and disillusionment. Perhaps Bryan Summerhay had been there – all that time ago! If he had been introduced to her then, if she had happened to dance with him instead of with that man who had kissed her arm, might she not have felt different toward all men? And if he had admired her – and had not everyone, that night – might she not have liked, perhaps more than liked, him in return? Or would she have looked on him as on all her swains before she met Fiorsen, so many moths fluttering round a candle, foolish to singe themselves, not to be taken seriously? Perhaps she had been bound to have her lesson, to be humbled and brought low!
Taking a sprig of jessamine and holding it to her nose, she went up to that picture. In the dim light, she could just see the outline of the face and the eyes gazing at her. The scent of the blossom penetrated her nerves; in her heart, something faintly stirred, as a leaf turns over, as a wing flutters. And, blossom and all, she clasped her hands over her breast, where again her heart quivered with that faint, shy tremor.
It was late, no – early, when she fell asleep and had a strange dream. She was riding her old mare through a field of flowers. She had on a black dress, and round her head a crown of bright, pointed crystals; she sat without saddle, her knee curled up, perched so lightly that she hardly felt the mare’s back, and the reins she held were long twisted stems of honeysuckle. Singing as she rode, her eyes flying here and there, over the field, up to the sky, she felt happier, lighter than thistledown. While they raced along, the old mare kept turning her head and biting at the honeysuckle flowers; and suddenly that chestnut face became the face of Summerhay, looking back at her with his smile. She awoke. Sunlight, through the curtains where she had opened them to find the flowers, was shining on her.
II
Very late that same night, Summerhay came out of the little Chelsea house, which he inhabited, and walked toward the river. In certain moods men turn insensibly toward any space where nature rules a little – downs, woods, waters – where the sky is free to the eye and one feels the broad comradeship of primitive forces. A man is alone when he loves, alone when he dies; nobody cares for one so absorbed, and he cares for nobody, no – not he! Summerhay stood by the river-wall and looked up at the stars through the plane-tree branches. Every now and then he drew a long breath of the warm, unstirring air, and smiled, without knowing that he smiled. And he thought of little, of nothing; but a sweetish sensation beset his heart, a kind of quivering lightness his limbs. He sat down on a bench and shut his eyes. He saw a face – only a face. The lights went out one by one in the houses opposite; no cabs passed now, and scarce a passenger was afoot, but Summerhay sat like a man in a trance, the smile coming and going on his lips; and behind him the air that ever stirs above the river faintly moved with the tide flowing up.
It was nearly three, just coming dawn, when he went in, and, instead of going to bed, sat down to a case in which he was junior on the morrow, and worked right on till it was time to ride before his bath and breakfast. He had one of those constitutions, not uncommon among barristers – fostered perhaps by ozone in the Courts of Law – that can do this sort of thing and take no harm. Indeed, he worked best in such long spurts of vigorous concentration. With real capacity and a liking for his work, this young man was certainly on his way to make a name; though, in the intervals of energy, no one gave a more complete impression of imperturbable drifting on the tides of the moment. Altogether, he was rather a paradox. He chose to live in that little Chelsea house which had a scrap of garden rather than in the Temple or St. James’s, because he often preferred solitude; and yet he was an excellent companion, with many friends, who felt for him the affectionate distrust inspired by those who are prone to fits and starts of work and play, conviviality and loneliness. To women, he was almost universally attractive. But if he had scorched his wings a little once or twice, he had kept heart-free on the whole. He was, it must be confessed, a bit of a gambler, the sort of gambler who gets in deep, and then, by a plucky, lucky plunge, gets out again, until some day perhaps – he stays there. His father, a diplomatist, had been dead fifteen years; his mother was well known in the semi-intellectual circles of society. He had no brothers, two sisters, and an income of his own. Such was Bryan Summerhay at the age of twenty-six, his wisdom-teeth to cut, his depths unplumbed.
When he started that morning for the Temple, he had still a feeling of extraordinary lightness in his limbs, and he still saw that face – its perfect regularity, its warm pallor, and dark smiling eyes rather wide apart, its fine, small, close-set ears, and the sweep of the black-brown hair across the low brow. Or was it something much less definite he saw – an emanation or expression, a trick, a turn, an indwelling grace, a something that appealed, that turned, and touched him? Whatever it was, it would not let him be, and he did not desire that it should. For this was in his character; if he saw a horse that he liked, he put his money on whatever it ran; if charmed by an opera, he went over and over again; if by a poem, he almost learned it by heart. And while he walked along the river – his usual route – he had queer and unaccustomed sensations, now melting, now pugnacious. And he felt happy.
He was rather late, and went at once into court. In wig and gown, that something “old Georgian” about him was very visible. A beauty-spot or two, a full-skirted velvet coat, a sword and snuff-box, with that grey wig or its equivalent, and there would have been a perfect eighteenth-century specimen of the less bucolic stamp – the same strong, light build, breadth of face, brown pallor, clean and unpinched cut of lips, the same slight insolence and devil-may-caredom, the same clear glance, and bubble of vitality. It was almost a pity to have been born so late.
Except that once or twice he drew a face on blotting-paper and smeared it over, he remained normally attentive to his “lud” and the matters in hand all day, conducted without error the examination of two witnesses and with terror the cross-examination of one; lunched at the Courts in perfect amity with the sucking barrister on the other side of the case, for they had neither, as yet, reached that maturity which enables an advocate to call his enemy his “friend,” and treat him with considerable asperity. Though among his acquaintances Summerhay always provoked badinage, in which he was scarcely ever defeated, yet in chambers and court, on circuit, at his club, in society or the hunting-field, he had an unfavourable effect on the grosser sort of stories. There are men – by no means strikingly moral – who exercise this blighting influence. They are generally what the French call “spirituel,” and often have rather desperate love-affairs which they keep very closely to themselves.
When at last in chambers, he had washed off that special reek of clothes, and parchment, far-away herrings, and distemper, which clings about the law, dipping his whole curly head in water, and towelling vigorously, he set forth alone along the Embankment, his hat tilted up, smoking a cigar. It was nearly seven. Just this time yesterday he had got into the train, just this time yesterday turned and seen the face which had refused to leave him since. Fever recurs at certain hours, just so did the desire to see her mount within him, becoming an obsession, because it was impossible to gratify it. One could not call at seven o’clock! The idea of his club, where at this time of day he usually went, seemed flat and stale, until he remembered that he might pass up Bury Street to get to it. But, near Charing Cross, a hand smote him on the shoulder, and the voice of one of his intimates said:
“Halo, Bryan!”
Odd, that he had never noticed before how vacuous this fellow was – with his talk of politics, and racing, of this ass and that ass – subjects hitherto of primary importance! And, stopping suddenly, he drawled out:
“Look here, old chap, you go on; see you at the club – presently.”
“Why? What’s up?”
With his lazy smile, Summerhay answered:
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’” and turned on his heel.
When his friend had disappeared, he resumed his journey toward Bury Street. He passed his boot shop, where, for some time, he had been meaning to order two pairs, and went by thinking: ‘I wonder where SHE goes for things.’ Her figure came to him so vividly – sitting back in that corner, or standing by the cab, her hand in his. The blood rushed up in his cheeks. She had been scented like flowers, and – and a rainy wind! He stood still before a plate-glass window, in confusion, and suddenly muttered aloud: “Damn it! I believe I am!” An old gentleman, passing, turned so suddenly, to see what he was, that he ricked his neck.
But Summerhay still stood, not taking in at all the reflected image of his frowning, rueful face, and of the cigar extinct between his lips. Then he shook his head vigorously and walked on. He walked faster, his mind blank, as it is sometimes for a short space after a piece of sell-revelation that has come too soon for adjustment or even quite for understanding. And when he began to think, it was irritably and at random. He had come to Bury Street, and, while he passed up it, felt a queer, weak sensation down the back of his legs. No flower-boxes this year broke the plain front of Winton’s house, and nothing whatever but its number and the quickened beating of his heart marked it out for Summerhay from any other dwelling. The moment he turned into Jermyn Street, that beating of the heart subsided, and he felt suddenly morose. He entered his club at the top of St. James’ Street and passed at once into the least used room. This was the library; and going to the French section, he took down “The Three Musketeers” and seated himself in a window, with his back to anyone who might come in. He had taken this – his favourite romance, feeling in want of warmth and companionship; but he did not read. From where he sat he could throw a stone to where she was sitting perhaps; except for walls he could almost reach her with his voice, could certainly see her. This was imbecile! A woman he had only met twice. Imbecile! He opened the book —
“Oh, no; it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown altho’ its height be taken.”
“Point of five! Three queens – three knaves! Do you know that thing of Dowson’s: ‘I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion’? Better than any Verlaine, except ‘Les sanglots longs.’ What have you got?”
“Only quart to the queen. Do you like the name ‘Cynara’?”
“Yes; don’t you?”
“Cynara! Cynara! Ye-es – an autumn, rose-petal, whirling, dead-leaf sound.”
“Good! Pipped. Shut up, Ossy – don’t snore!”
“Ah, poor old dog! Let him. Shuffle for me, please. Oh! there goes another card!” Her knee was touching his – !..
The book had dropped – Summerhay started.
Dash it! Hopeless! And, turning round in that huge armchair, he snoozed down into its depths. In a few minutes, he was asleep. He slept without a dream.
It was two hours later when the same friend, seeking distraction, came on him, and stood grinning down at that curly head and face which just then had the sleepy abandonment of a small boy’s. Maliciously he gave the chair a little kick.
Summerhay stirred, and thought: ‘What! Where am I?’
In front of the grinning face, above him, floated another, filmy, charming. He shook himself, and sat up. “Oh, damn you!”
“Sorry, old chap!”
“What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
Summerhay uttered an unintelligible sound, and, turning over on the other arm, pretended to snooze down again. But he slept no more. Instead, he saw her face, heard her voice, and felt again the touch of her warm, gloved hand.
III
At the opera, that Friday evening, they were playing “Cavalleria” and “Pagliacci” – works of which Gyp tolerated the first and loved the second, while Winton found them, with “Faust” and “Carmen,” about the only operas he could not sleep through.
Women’s eyes, which must not stare, cover more space than the eyes of men, which must not stare, but do; women’s eyes have less method, too, seeing all things at once, instead of one thing at a time. Gyp had seen Summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera hat against his white waistcoat, looking round, as if for – someone. Her eyes criticized him in this new garb – his broad head, and its crisp, dark, shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy, lovable audacity. He looked well in evening clothes. When he sat down, she could still see just a little of his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout Santuzza and the stouter Turiddu, she wondered whether, by fixing her eyes on him, she could make him turn and see her. Just then he did see her, and his face lighted up. She smiled back. Why not? She had not so many friends nowadays. But it was rather startling to find, after that exchange of looks, that she at once began to want another. Would he like her dress? Was her hair nice? She wished she had not had it washed that morning. But when the interval came, she did not look round, until his voice said:
“How d’you do, Major Winton? Oh, how d’you do?”
Winton had been told of the meeting in the train. He was pining for a cigarette, but had not liked to desert his daughter. After a few remarks, he got up and said:
“Take my pew a minute, Summerhay, I’m going to have a smoke.”
He went out, thinking, not for the first time by a thousand: ‘Poor child, she never sees a soul! Twenty-five, pretty as paint, and clean out of the running. What the devil am I to do about her?’
Summerhay sat down. Gyp had a queer feeling, then, as if the house and people vanished, and they two were back again in the railway-carriage – alone together. Ten minutes to make the most of! To smile and talk, and enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice and laugh. To laugh, too, and be warm and nice to him. Why not? They were friends. And, presently, she said, smiling:
“Oh, by the way, there’s a picture in the National Gallery, I want you to look at.”
“Yes? Which? Will you take me?”
“If you like.”
“To-morrow’s Saturday; may I meet you there? What time? Three?”
Gyp nodded. She knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the warmth in her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, she had the sensation, so rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful. Then he was gone! Her father was slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she touched his arm, and murmured:
“Dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row but one; did you ever see anything so delicious!”
And while Winton was star-gazing, the orchestra struck up the overture to “Pagliacci.” Watching that heart-breaking little plot unfold, Gyp had something more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she understood it with other than her aesthetic sense. Poor Nedda! and poor Canio! Poor Silvio! Her breast heaved, and her eyes filled with tears. Within those doubled figures of the tragi-comedy she seemed to see, to feel that passionate love – too swift, too strong, too violent, sweet and fearful within them.
“Thou hast my heart, and I am thine for ever —
To-night and for ever I am thine!
What is there left to me? What have I but a heart that is broken?”
And the clear, heart-aching music mocking it all, down to those last words:
La commedia e finita!
While she was putting on her cloak, her eyes caught Summerhay’s. She tried to smile – could not, gave a shake of her head, slowly forced her gaze away from his, and turned to follow Winton.
At the National Gallery, next day, she was not late by coquetry, but because she had changed her dress at the last minute, and because she was afraid of letting him think her eager. She saw him at once standing under the colonnade, looking by no means imperturbable, and marked the change in his face when he caught sight of her, with a little thrill. She led him straight up into the first Italian room to contemplate his counterfeit. A top hat and modern collar did not improve the likeness, but it was there still.
“Well! Do you like it?”
“Yes. What are you smiling at?”
“I’ve had a photograph of that, ever since I was fifteen; so you see I’ve known you a long time.”
He stared.
“Great Scott! Am I like that? All right; I shall try and find YOU now.”
But Gyp shook her head.
“No. Come and look at my very favourite picture ‘The Death of Procris.’ What is it makes one love it so? Procris is out of drawing, and not beautiful; the faun’s queer and ugly. What is it – can you tell?”
Summerhay looked not at the picture, but at her. In aesthetic sense, he was not her equal. She said softly:
“The wonder in the faun’s face, Procris’s closed eyes; the dog, and the swans, and the pity for what might have been!”
Summerhay repeated:
“Ah, for what might have been! Did you enjoy ‘Pagliacci’?”
Gyp shivered.
“I think I felt it too much.”
“I thought you did. I watched you.”
“Destruction by – love – seems such a terrible thing! Now show me your favourites. I believe I can tell you what they are, though.”
“Well?”
“The ‘Admiral,’ for one.”
“Yes. What others?”
“The two Bellini’s.”
“By Jove, you ARE uncanny!”
Gyp laughed.
“You want decision, clarity, colour, and fine texture. Is that right? Here’s another of MY favourites.”
On a screen was a tiny “Crucifixion” by da Messina – the thinnest of high crosses, the thinnest of simple, humble, suffering Christs, lonely, and actual in the clear, darkened landscape.
