Recktall Brown just looked at him. He began to trim the end of the cigar. Finally he said, — It's my party.
— But you can't. . you can't…
— I can't xvhat. Brown did not raise his eyes from what he was doing.
— Good God…
Brown raised his eyes at that, to stare at the face before him. He looked very tired: that was the only way to explain the expression on his face which he lowered quickly, as though his features, so familiar in the daylight of triumph, or wrath, or satisfaction, might betray him. He finished trimming the cigar, and folded the penknife closed in his hand. — What did you do that for? he asked quietly, as he raised his face, and with it the cigar, — about the money in the account? Like you just told me in the back room. . the money I'd already paid him like he earned it. With the last word, he bit the cigar.
— What do you think I did it for?! Valentine stared. — And what are you suddenly so… My God, what's come over you?
— What did you do it for?
— To slow him down a little, to make him think twice before he went on with this. . idea of his. . But you. . you. .
— And he's trying it anyways. Recktall Brown turned away. Valentine got round in front of him, and broke out again,
— What's come over you? Why you. . and that picture you just showed, in the back room, they know something's wrong. They won't say anything, they won't even say anything to each other but they know something's wrong. You couldn't have chosen a more stupid moment. What are you trying to do, see how far you can push them?
Recktall Brown lit the cigar, and then laughed in his face. — They know something's wrong all right. Who the hell told you to paint that face on it? They loved that, didn't they?
Then a man appeared before them and said, — Merry Christmas, Brown. . holding out a glass across the. table of the Seven Deadly Sins.
— What's this? Brown said, taking it.
— I don't know. Whatever you're serving.
— Listen, you go find Fuller, and tell him to bring out some of that good brandy, the ones with the blue ribbons on.
Whoever that was, was gone.
There he stood, staring, as his vision shrank from the gold and the wealth of colors and delicate forms of Hieronymus ßosch to the mass of his own hands. As Crémer and a few others came up behind him, he stood back and made a gesture with the spatula shape of his thumb. — That's a beautiful thing, he said.
— Sar?
— What does Ds videt mean? — Sar? breaks in upon him again.
— God sees… or is watching, Valentine murmurs with a sharp breath.
— Fuller?
— Sar a gentlemahn whom I do not recollect enter demandin me to open the bottles you keep so close with the blue ribbons upon them. .
— That's right, Fuller.
— Yes sar. Fuller stands before him, finally able to move his hands, which he takes one in the other, clasped before him, and with a wrenching motion turns his sagging figure away.
— Fuller!
— Sar? Fuller startles, with a flash of gold. Recktall Brown stands looking at him, the full of his lower lip moving as though behind it the tongue is searching for something on the face of the gum. And finally, — Stand up straight, Fuller, Brown said, and turned away.
M. Crémer was finishing a conversation as they approached. — Enfin, there is so little of fine art in the world, one should not question too closely…? As said Coulanges. . pictures are bullion.
Someone had turned the radio on; but there was still enough noise in the room to keep it unnoticed. Here and there, a few guests departed.
As they came up they were, in fact, again discussing the painting they had been shown privately a little earlier; discussing, that is, not the painting itself, but the face of the central figure, as though in that portion they had found a mutually satisfactory repository for peripheral doubts. — It is done with some taste, certainly, the R.A. mumbled.
— Taste! Crémer exclaimed, smiling at Brown and Basil Valentine to include them in the hind end, at any rate, of this conversation. — Taste is one thing, and the genius to create quite another. Eh?. . Fie glanced up, and stopped at the expression on Valentine's face which, whatever it might have been, was exaggerated by the swollen lip into one of extreme contempt.
And the white-haired man, who was not looking at Basil Valentine, took up agreeably, — Yes, when I was young, you know? I recall considering my work… as a sort of mmph. . disciplined nostalgia for the things I umm. . might have done. Eh? Yes. Yes. . mmmph, he mumbled, looking down as Basil Valentine's expression turned upon him. Then he went on to break what he would later describe as an "awkward silence" with, — That face in there, don't you know. . the face on the. . ummph the figger in the van der Goes, the highlights round about the eyes, don't you know. Won't do, won't do at all.
— Won't do? Valentine demanded abruptly.
— Eh? Oh dear no, won't do at all. Zinc white, don't you know. Zinc white. I think you'll come upon that when you make an analysis of the pigments, don't you know.
— Zinc white?
— Oh dear, yes. An umm eighteenth-century color, don't you know.
Then (after what Créiner would later describe as un silence de mort) the older man bumbled on with, — Odd sort of fellow you had in here earlier. . eh! Damned odd, eh? Bit of a lunatic, you might say, eh? Prancing about with mmph two suits of clothes on him, eh? I mean, you know? Rather. . mmph. Ever seen the fellow before?
— Oh yes. . Basil Valentine came in, his voice very level, and even and cutting. He offered a cigarette from a packet of Virginia. — Mad, of course, as you say. He drinks, you know. .
— Oh yes, drinks, eh? Ummph. . shouldn't be surprised.
— A morbid condition aggravated by drink, I suppose would be more to the point. He has all sorts of delusions about himself, Valentine went on, turning to Recktall Brown. — He's been quite a problem for some time, hasn't he.
— He wasn't drunk just now, when he was in here, Brown answered looking up at each of them.
— He wasn't eh? Oh dear, I shouldn't like to run on him drunk then, eh? Ho ho, hmmph. . Oh dear no. Can't have that sort of thing.
— And if he comes back? Valentine's tone rang with a summons.
— If he comes back. . Recktall Brown commenced, looking down before him.
— One has the police?. . Crémer said with a shrug. — Après tout, charge de défendre. .
— Shouldn't hesitate a moment. . mmph, calling them in. Might get about it right now. This sort of thing, don't you know. Can't have it, don't you know.
Basil Valentine murmured something, smiling with the slight distortion his lip compelled, and started to turn away. Recktall Brown swung on him and demanded, — Where are you going?
— If you can spare me for a moment, Basil Valentine rasped, — I thought I might put some ice on this. . swelling. And he touched the lip with a fingertip and left them.
— My, he's a bit. . mmph. . rather touchy tonight. Eh? Mmhp. . yes. We all are a bit. . mmp. . eh? I beg your pardon, miss. Eh?
— Is it true the British Museum has a toupee that George the Third had made for himself out of his mistresses'. .
— I daresay. . mmp! What was that, young woman? Ghood heavens! Ghood heavens!. . He towered over Miss Stein for a moment and then got by her, though from the disparity in their presences and the haste he made in his escape, he might have stepped over her. — Ghood heavens. . eh? he addressed Crémer's pinched back. — The damnedest. . presumption. Mmmph. . going upstairs are we, eh? Ummp. There's a pretty thing. German, I should think. Eh? Polychrome wood, fifteenth century or so. Saint John Baptist, eh? L'minp. Shame he's lost an arm here. Damn shame. He paused for a moment there on the landing, running a finger over the coarse-grained marrow of the break, and then followed the heels up the stairs before him muttering, — Eh?. . The armor? good heavens, no one wants to look at armor. .