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an amateur。。。
Gombauld had annexed for his painting…room a little disused granary
that stood by itself in a green close beyond the farm… yard。 It was a
square brick building with a peaked roof and little windows set high up in
each of its walls。 A ladder of four rungs led up to the door； for the
granary was perched above the ground； and out of reach of the rats； on
four massive toadstools of grey stone。 Within； there lingered a faint
smell of dust and cobwebs； and the narrow shaft of sunlight that came
slanting in at every hour of the day through one of the little windows was
always alive with silvery motes。 Here Gombauld worked； with a kind of
concentrated ferocity； during six or seven hours of each day。 He was
pursuing something new； something terrific； if only he could catch it。
During the last eight years； nearly half of which had been spent in the
process of winning the war； he had worked his way industriously through
cubism。 Now he had come out on the other side。 He had begun by
painting a formalised nature； then； little by little； he had risen from nature
into the world of pure form； till in the end he was painting nothing but his
own thoughts； externalised in the abstract geometrical forms of the mind's
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devising。 He found the process arduous and exhilarating。 And then；
quite suddenly； he grew dissatisfied； he felt himself cramped and confined
within intolerably narrow limitations。 He was humiliated to find how
few and crude and uninteresting were the forms he could invent； the
inventions of nature were without number； inconceivably subtle and
elaborate。 He had done with cubism。 He was out on the other side。
But the cubist discipline preserved him from falling into excesses of
nature worship。 He took from nature its rich； subtle； elaborate forms； but
his aim was always to work them into a whole that should have the
thrilling simplicity and formality of an idea； to combine prodigious
realism with prodigious simplification。 Memories of Caravaggio's
portentous achievements haunted him。 Forms of a breathing； living
reality emerged from darkness； built themselves up into compositions as
luminously simple and single as a mathematical idea。 He thought of the
〃Call of Matthew；〃 of 〃Peter Crucified；〃 of the 〃Lute players；〃 of
〃Magdalen。〃 He had the secret； that astonishing ruffian； he had the secret！
And now Gombauld was after it； in hot pursuit。 Yes； it would be
something terrific； if only he could catch it。
For a long time an idea had been stirring and spreading； yeastily； in his
mind。 He had made a portfolio full of studies； he had drawn a cartoon；
and now the idea was taking shape on canvas。 A man fallen from a horse。
The huge animal； a gaunt white cart…horse； filled the upper half of the
picture with its great body。 Its head； lowered towards the ground； was in
shadow； the immense bony body was what arrested the eye； the body and
the legs； which came down on either side of the picture like the pillars of
an arch。 On the ground； between the legs of the towering beast； lay the
foreshortened figure of a man； the head in the extreme foreground； the
arms flung wide to right and left。 A white； relentless light poured down
from a point in the right foreground。 The beast； the fallen man； were
sharply illuminated； round them； beyond and behind them； was the night。
They were alone in the darkness； a universe in themselves。 The horse's
body filled the upper part of the picture； the legs； the great hoofs； frozen to
stillness in the midst of their trampling； limited it on either side。 And
beneath lay the man； his foreshortened face at the focal point in the centre；
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his arms outstretched towards the sides of the picture。 Under the arch of
the horse's belly； between his legs； the eye looked through into an intense
darkness； below； the space was closed in by the figure of the prostrate man。
A central gulf of darkness surrounded by luminous forms。。。
The picture was more than half finished。 Gombauld had been at
work all the morning on the figure of the man； and now he was taking a
restthe time to smoke a cigarette。 Tilting back his chair till it touched
the wall； he looked thoughtfully at his canvas。 He was pleased； and at
the same time he was desolated。 In itself； the thing was good； he knew it。
But that something he was after； that something that would be so terrific if
only he could catch ithad he caught it？ Would he ever catch it？
Three little tapsrat； tat； tat！ Surprised； Gombauld turned his eyes
towards the door。 Nobody ever disturbed him while he was at work； it
was one of the unwritten laws。 〃Come in！〃 he called。 The door； which
was ajar； swung open； revealing； from the waist upwards； the form of
Mary。 She had only dared to mount half…way up the ladder。 If he didn't
want her； retreat would be easier and more dignified than if she climbed to
the top。
〃May I come in？〃 she asked。
〃Certainly。〃
She skipped up the remaining two rungs and was over the threshold in
an instant。 〃A letter came for you by the second post；〃 she said。 〃I
thought it might be important； so I brought it out to you。〃 Her eyes； her
childish face were luminously candid as she handed him the letter。 There
had never been a flimsier pretext。
Gombauld looked at the envelope and put it in his pocket unopened。
〃Luckily；〃 he said； 〃it isn't at all important。 Thanks very much all the
same。〃
There was a silence； Mary felt a little uncomfortable。 〃May I have a
look at what you've been painting？〃 she had the courage to say at last。
Gombauld had only half smoked his cigarette； in any case he wouldn't
begin work again till he had finished。 He would give her t