be the same.’
Tarr always embarrassed him: Lowndes huddled himself tensely together, worked at his pipe, and met his visitor’s jokes painfully. He hesitated.
‘What are your ideas on the subject of girls?’ he asked in a moment.
‘Oh I think they ought to be convex if you are concave—stupid if you are intelligent, hot if you are cold, refrigerators if you are a volcano. Always
white
all over—clothes, underclothes, skin and all. My ideas do not extend much beyond that for the present on the subject of girls—white girls, I mean.’
Lowndes organized Tarr’s statement, with a view to an adequate and easy reply. He gnawed at his pipe.
‘Well, german women are usually convex. There are also concave ones. There are cold ones and hot ones.’ He looked up. ‘It all seems to depend what
you
are like!’
‘I Lowndes am cold; inclined to be fat; strong i’ the head; and uncommonly swarthy, as you see.’
‘In that case, if you took plenty of exercise’ Lowndes undulated himself as though for the passage of the large bubbles of the chain of an ever-growing chuckle, ‘I should think that german women would suit you very well!’
Tarr rose.
‘I wish I hadn’t come to see you, Lowndes. Your answer is disappointing.’
Lowndes got up, disturbed at Tarr’s sign of departure.
‘I’m sorry. But I’m not an authority.’ He leant against the fireplace to arrest Tarr’s withdrawal for a minute or two. ‘Are you doing much work?’
‘I? No.’
‘Are you ever in in the afternoons?’
‘Not much. I’m just moving into a new studio.’
Lowndes looked suddenly at his watch, with calculated, apelike impulsiveness.
‘Where are you having lunch? I thought of going down to Vallet’s to see if I could come across a beggar of the name of Kreisler: he could tell you much more about german women than I can. He’s a German. Come along won’t you? Are you doing anything?’
‘No, I know quite enough Germans. Besides, I must go somewhere—I can’t have lunch just yet. Good-bye. Thank you for your opinion.’
‘Don’t mention it’ Lowndes replied softly, his head turned obliquely to his shoulder, as though he had a stiff neck, rocking upon his pneumatic calves.
He was rather hurt at the brevity of Tarr’s visit. His ‘morning’ had not received enough respect: it had been treated, in fact, cavalierly by this imperious visitor. As to his ‘work’ that had never been so much as mentioned, directly.
When Tarr got outside he stood on the narrow pavement, looking into a shop window. It was a florist’s and contained a great variety of flowers. The Spring for him was nameless: he could not give a single flower its name. He hung on in front of this shop before pushing off, as a swimmer clings to a rock, waving his legs. Then he got back into the street from which his visit to Lowndes had deflected him. Down it he drifted, paddling his sombrero * at his side. He still had some way to go before he need decide between the Rue Martine (where Bertha lived) and the Rue Lhomond.
Resolution had not come to him out of his talks: that already existed, the fruit of various other conversations on his matrimonial position—held with the victim, Fräulein Lunken, herself.
Not to go near Bertha was the negative programme for that particular day. To keep away was seldom easy. But ever since his conversation at the Berne he had been conscious of the absurd easiness of doing so, if he wished. He had not the least inclination to go to the Rue Martine! This sensation was so grateful and exhilarating that its object shared in its effect. He determined to go and see her. This present magisterial feeling of full-blooded indifference was born to be enjoyed: where best to enjoy it was beyond question where Bertha was.
As to the studio, he hesitated. A new situation had been created by this new feeling of indifference. Its duration could not be gauged.
Tarr wished to stay in Paris just then to finish two large paintings
Tarr always embarrassed him: Lowndes huddled himself tensely together, worked at his pipe, and met his visitor’s jokes painfully. He hesitated.
‘What are your ideas on the subject of girls?’ he asked in a moment.
‘Oh I think they ought to be convex if you are concave—stupid if you are intelligent, hot if you are cold, refrigerators if you are a volcano. Always
white
all over—clothes, underclothes, skin and all. My ideas do not extend much beyond that for the present on the subject of girls—white girls, I mean.’
Lowndes organized Tarr’s statement, with a view to an adequate and easy reply. He gnawed at his pipe.
‘Well, german women are usually convex. There are also concave ones. There are cold ones and hot ones.’ He looked up. ‘It all seems to depend what
you
are like!’
‘I Lowndes am cold; inclined to be fat; strong i’ the head; and uncommonly swarthy, as you see.’
‘In that case, if you took plenty of exercise’ Lowndes undulated himself as though for the passage of the large bubbles of the chain of an ever-growing chuckle, ‘I should think that german women would suit you very well!’
Tarr rose.
‘I wish I hadn’t come to see you, Lowndes. Your answer is disappointing.’
Lowndes got up, disturbed at Tarr’s sign of departure.
‘I’m sorry. But I’m not an authority.’ He leant against the fireplace to arrest Tarr’s withdrawal for a minute or two. ‘Are you doing much work?’
‘I? No.’
‘Are you ever in in the afternoons?’
‘Not much. I’m just moving into a new studio.’
Lowndes looked suddenly at his watch, with calculated, apelike impulsiveness.
‘Where are you having lunch? I thought of going down to Vallet’s to see if I could come across a beggar of the name of Kreisler: he could tell you much more about german women than I can. He’s a German. Come along won’t you? Are you doing anything?’
‘No, I know quite enough Germans. Besides, I must go somewhere—I can’t have lunch just yet. Good-bye. Thank you for your opinion.’
‘Don’t mention it’ Lowndes replied softly, his head turned obliquely to his shoulder, as though he had a stiff neck, rocking upon his pneumatic calves.
He was rather hurt at the brevity of Tarr’s visit. His ‘morning’ had not received enough respect: it had been treated, in fact, cavalierly by this imperious visitor. As to his ‘work’ that had never been so much as mentioned, directly.
When Tarr got outside he stood on the narrow pavement, looking into a shop window. It was a florist’s and contained a great variety of flowers. The Spring for him was nameless: he could not give a single flower its name. He hung on in front of this shop before pushing off, as a swimmer clings to a rock, waving his legs. Then he got back into the street from which his visit to Lowndes had deflected him. Down it he drifted, paddling his sombrero * at his side. He still had some way to go before he need decide between the Rue Martine (where Bertha lived) and the Rue Lhomond.
Resolution had not come to him out of his talks: that already existed, the fruit of various other conversations on his matrimonial position—held with the victim, Fräulein Lunken, herself.
Not to go near Bertha was the negative programme for that particular day. To keep away was seldom easy. But ever since his conversation at the Berne he had been conscious of the absurd easiness of doing so, if he wished. He had not the least inclination to go to the Rue Martine! This sensation was so grateful and exhilarating that its object shared in its effect. He determined to go and see her. This present magisterial feeling of full-blooded indifference was born to be enjoyed: where best to enjoy it was beyond question where Bertha was.
As to the studio, he hesitated. A new situation had been created by this new feeling of indifference. Its duration could not be gauged.
Tarr wished to stay in Paris just then to finish two large paintings
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