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〃Words；〃 said Denis at last； 〃wordsI wonder if you can realise how much
I love them。 You are too much preoccupied with mere things and ideas
and people to understand the full beauty of words。 Your mind is not a
literary mind。 The spectacle of Mr。 Gladstone finding thirty…four rhymes
to the name 'Margot' seems to you rather pathetic than anything else。
Mallarme's envelopes with their versified addresses leave you cold； unless
they leave you pitiful； you can't see that
'Apte a ne point te cabrer； hue！ Poste et j'ajouterai； dia！ Si tu ne fuis
onze…bis Rue Balzac； chez cet Heredia；'
is a little miracle。〃
〃You're right；〃 said Mr。 Scogan。 〃I can't。〃
〃You don't feel it to be magical？〃
〃No。〃
〃That's the test for the literary mind；〃 said Denis； 〃the feeling of magic；
the sense that words have power。 The technical； verbal part of literature
is simply a development of magic。 Words are man's first and most
grandiose invention。 With language he created a whole new universe；
what wonder if he loved words and attributed power to them！ With fitted；
harmonious words the magicians summoned rabbits out of empty hats and
spirits from the elements。 Their descendants； the literary men； still go on
with the process； morticing their verbal formulas together； and； before the
power of the finished spell； trembling with delight and awe。 Rabbits out
of empty hats？ No； their spells are more subtly powerful； for they evoke
emotions out of empty minds。 Formulated by their art the most insipid
statements become enormously significant。 For example； I proffer the
constatation； 'Black ladders lack bladders。' A self…evident truth； one on
which it would not have been worth while to insist； had I chosen to
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formulate it in such words as 'Black fire…escapes have no bladders；' or； 'Les
echelles noires manquent de vessie。' But since I put it as I do； 'Black
ladders lack bladders；' it becomes； for all its self…evidence； significant；
unforgettable； moving。 The creation by word…power of something out of
nothing what is that but magic？ And； I may add； what is that but
literature？ Half the world's greatest poetry is simply 'Les echelles noires
manquent de vessie；' translated into magic significance as； 'Black ladders
lack bladders。' And you can't appreciate words。 I'm sorry for you。〃
〃A mental carminative；〃 said Mr。 Scogan reflectively。 〃That's what
you need。〃
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CHAPTER XXI。
Perched on its four stone mushrooms； the little granary stood two or
three feet above the grass of the green close。 Beneath it there was a
perpetual shade and a damp growth of long； luxuriant grasses。 Here； in
the shadow； in the green dampness； a family of white ducks had sought
shelter from the afternoon sun。 Some stood； preening themselves； some
reposed with their long bellies pressed to the ground； as though the cool
grass were water。 Little social noises burst fitfully forth； and from time to
time some pointed tail would execute a brilliant Lisztian tremolo。
Suddenly their jovial repose was shattered。 A prodigious thump shook
the wooden flooring above their heads； the whole granary trembled； little
fragments of dirt and crumbled wood rained down among them。 With a
loud； continuous quacking the ducks rushed out from beneath this
nameless menace； and did not stay their flight till they were safely in the
farmyard。
〃Don't lose your temper；〃 Anne was saying。 〃Listen！ You've
frightened the ducks。 Poor dears！ no wonder。〃 She was sitting
sideways in a low； wooden chair。 Her right elbow rested on the back of
the chair and she supported her cheek on her hand。 Her long； slender
body drooped into curves of a lazy grace。 She was smiling； and she
looked at Gombauld through half…closed eyes。
〃Damn you！〃 Gombauld repeated； and stamped his foot again。 He
glared at her round the half…finished portrait on the easel。
〃Poor ducks！〃 Anne repeated。 The sound of their quacking was faint
in the distance； it was inaudible。
〃Can't you see you make me lose my time？〃 he asked。 〃I can't work
with you dangling about distractingly like this。〃
〃You'd lose less time if you stopped talking and stamping your feet
and did a little painting for a change。 After all； what am I dangling about
for； except to be painted？〃
Gombauld made a noise like a growl。 〃You're awful；〃 he said； with
conviction。 〃Why do you ask me to come and stay here？ Why do you
tell me you'd like me to paint your portrait？〃
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〃For the simple reasons that I like youat least； when you're in a good
temperand that I think you're a good painter。〃
〃For the simple reason〃Gombauld mimicked her voice〃that you
want me to make love to you and； when I do； to have the amusement of
running away。〃
Anne threw back her head and laughed。 〃So you think it amuses me
to have to evade your advances！ So like a man！ If you only knew how
gross and awful and boring men are when they try to make love and you
don't want them to make love！ If you could only see yourselves through
our eyes！〃
Gombauld picked up his palette and brushes and attacked his canvas
with the ardour of irritation。 〃I suppose you'll be saying next that you
didn't start the game； that it was I who made the first advances； and that
you were the innocent victim who sat still and never did anything that
could invite or allure me on。〃
〃So like a man again！〃 said Anne。 〃It's always the same old story
about the woman tempting the man。 The woman lures； fascinates； invites；
and mannoble man； innocent manfalls a victim。 My poor Gombauld！
Surely you're not going to sing that old s