and bright colors. Sinnott must have taught her how to dress. She had a frail look that Miles had never associated with her before, despite her small hands and thin waist. During their marriage, he had always been conscious of her tensile strength and durability—her Scandinavian side. Now it seemed as if the poetic side—the Italian mother—had got the upper hand. She appeared to be living constrainedly in some sort of romance: a projection of Sinnott’s, probably, a borrowed ego-ideal.
The fact that she had changed so was an eye-opener to Miles. It troubled him to think that he, in the past, might have handled her wrong, on the theory that what she wanted was a strong father-figure, whereas perhaps all along it had been a brother she was looking for. … And yet she was tenser than ever, he was disturbed to see. When he refilled his glass and brought her a strong drink from the table, to encourage her to talk, he was startled by the laughing sharpness with which she spoke of the local people. He would have said shrill, except that she spoke in such a low voice that he had to lean closer to catch the anecdotes she was relating. He was a critical man himself, but she made him feel old and tolerant, by contrast. Yet it puzzled him to remember, as he listened, that it was Martha’s arrogant intolerance that he had loved most about her. He shook himself a little as it occurred to him that it was he who had changed, grown soft and torpid from age and creature comforts. Listening to Martha now, he had the same unpleasant sensation that he got from leafing over his early plays when he was alone in his windmill with a gale blowing and a glass by his side. Is this I, he asked himself, or was that I, back there?
“Let’s sit down,” he said, interrupting her. He drew up two chairs and arranged them, a little apart from the group. On the couch, just to the right of them, Warren had cornered Miss Lamb, who sat upright and edgy, with a scared look, while he, leaning forward, his head to one side, was explaining the theory of his work to her. Miles motioned to Martha for silence. “Picasso,” they heard Warren’s modest voice say, “uses a succession of images, like the animated cartoonists to express linear time. I’ve gone a long way beyond that. Last year, I showed the continuum by painting both sides of the canvas. You get the idea? A mathematician up here suggested it to me. What you have is a continuous painting that curves back on itself. It’s the real break with easel painting.” “Why don’t you try sculpture?” the girl interposed, in a demure murmur, edging back from him on the couch. Mentally, Miles slapped his thigh, but Warren took the question literally. “I may,” he said, thoughtfully nodding. “I never thought of that. I guess it’s pretty obvious to an outsider.” The girl said something indistinct. Warren’s high laugh rang out. “Of course,” he cried, “I know it’s absurd that I should be ahead of Picasso—ever read Kierkegaard, by the way? Oh, you should, darn it; he taught me to accept the absurd. I’ve learned to accept a lot of things since I took up science and philosophy. The first thing I found out was that just about everything I thought was true wasn’t. Ever have that experience? I owe it mostly to Miles here.”
Miles turned his head and deliberately winked at Martha. “You remember,” he said in a whisper, “what you used to say about our host here and a six-year-old child? ‘Why?’?” Martha nodded. She smiled, like her old self. Then, all at once, she turned pink and dropped her gaze to her lap. Miles felt himself flush too. He knew what she was remembering. It was impossible, it seemed, to find a subject of conversation that did not contain an oblique reference to their common past. He decided to take the bull by the horns. “Thank you,” he said, in a low voice, “for writing to me about Barrett. I ought to have answered.” “Oh,” she said, hurriedly.
The fact that she had changed so was an eye-opener to Miles. It troubled him to think that he, in the past, might have handled her wrong, on the theory that what she wanted was a strong father-figure, whereas perhaps all along it had been a brother she was looking for. … And yet she was tenser than ever, he was disturbed to see. When he refilled his glass and brought her a strong drink from the table, to encourage her to talk, he was startled by the laughing sharpness with which she spoke of the local people. He would have said shrill, except that she spoke in such a low voice that he had to lean closer to catch the anecdotes she was relating. He was a critical man himself, but she made him feel old and tolerant, by contrast. Yet it puzzled him to remember, as he listened, that it was Martha’s arrogant intolerance that he had loved most about her. He shook himself a little as it occurred to him that it was he who had changed, grown soft and torpid from age and creature comforts. Listening to Martha now, he had the same unpleasant sensation that he got from leafing over his early plays when he was alone in his windmill with a gale blowing and a glass by his side. Is this I, he asked himself, or was that I, back there?
“Let’s sit down,” he said, interrupting her. He drew up two chairs and arranged them, a little apart from the group. On the couch, just to the right of them, Warren had cornered Miss Lamb, who sat upright and edgy, with a scared look, while he, leaning forward, his head to one side, was explaining the theory of his work to her. Miles motioned to Martha for silence. “Picasso,” they heard Warren’s modest voice say, “uses a succession of images, like the animated cartoonists to express linear time. I’ve gone a long way beyond that. Last year, I showed the continuum by painting both sides of the canvas. You get the idea? A mathematician up here suggested it to me. What you have is a continuous painting that curves back on itself. It’s the real break with easel painting.” “Why don’t you try sculpture?” the girl interposed, in a demure murmur, edging back from him on the couch. Mentally, Miles slapped his thigh, but Warren took the question literally. “I may,” he said, thoughtfully nodding. “I never thought of that. I guess it’s pretty obvious to an outsider.” The girl said something indistinct. Warren’s high laugh rang out. “Of course,” he cried, “I know it’s absurd that I should be ahead of Picasso—ever read Kierkegaard, by the way? Oh, you should, darn it; he taught me to accept the absurd. I’ve learned to accept a lot of things since I took up science and philosophy. The first thing I found out was that just about everything I thought was true wasn’t. Ever have that experience? I owe it mostly to Miles here.”
Miles turned his head and deliberately winked at Martha. “You remember,” he said in a whisper, “what you used to say about our host here and a six-year-old child? ‘Why?’?” Martha nodded. She smiled, like her old self. Then, all at once, she turned pink and dropped her gaze to her lap. Miles felt himself flush too. He knew what she was remembering. It was impossible, it seemed, to find a subject of conversation that did not contain an oblique reference to their common past. He decided to take the bull by the horns. “Thank you,” he said, in a low voice, “for writing to me about Barrett. I ought to have answered.” “Oh,” she said, hurriedly.
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