begun some months before. With him, for the impressionist’s necessity to remain in front of the object to be represented * was substituted a sensation of the desirability of finishing a canvas in the place where it had been begun. From this point of view he had an impressionist’s horror of change.
So he had evolved a plan. At first sight it was wicked, though not blacker than most of his ingenuities of the same order. Bertha, as he had suggested to Butcher, he had in some lymphatic manner within his skin. It appeared a matter of physical discomfort to leave her altogether. It must be effected gradually. In consequence he had resolved that, instead of going away to England, where the separation might cause him restlessness, he had perhaps better settle down in her neighbourhood. Through a series of specially tended ennuis, he would soon find himself in a position to depart. Thus the extreme nearness of the studio to Bertha’s flat was only another inducement for him to take it. ‘If it were next door, so much the better!’ thought he.
Now for this famous feeling of indifference
. Was there anything in it? That was the question. The studio for the moment should be put aside: he would go to see Bertha. Let this visit solve this question.
CHAPTER 4
T HE new summer heat drew heavy pleasant ghosts out of the ground, like plants disappeared in winter; spectres of energy, bulking the hot air with vigorous dreams. Or they had entered into the trees, in imitation of pagan gods, and nodded their delicate distant intoxication to him. Visions were released in the sap, with scented explosion, the Spring one bustling and tremendous reminiscence.
Tarr felt the street was a pleasant current, setting from some immense and tropic gulf, neighboured by Floridas of remote invasions: * he ambled down it puissantly, shoulders shaped like these waves, a heavy-sided drunken fish. The houses, with winks of the shocked clock-work, were grazed, holding along their surface a thick nap of soft warmth. The heat poured weakly into his veins—a big dog wandering on its easily transposable business, inviting some delightful accident to deflect it from maudlin and massive promenade: in his mind, too, as in the dog’s, his business was doubtful—a small black spot ahead in his brain, half puzzling but peremptory.
The mat ponderous light-grey of putty-coloured houses—like a thickening merely of hot summer atmosphere without sun—gave a spirituality to this deluge of animal well-being, in weighty pale sense-solidarity. Through the opaquer atmosphere sounds came lazilyor tinglingly. People had become a balzacian species, boldly tragic and comic. *
Tarr stopped at a dairy. He bought saladed potatoes, a Petit Suisse. * The coolness, as he entered the small tiled box, gave an eerie shock to his sharply switched senses. The dairy-man, in blue-striped smock and black cap, peaked and cylindrical, came out of an inner room. Through its glasses several women were visible, busy at a meal. The isolation of this person from the heat and mood of the world outside impressed his customer as he came forward with truculent ‘Monsieur!’ Tarr, while his things were done up, watched the women. The discreet voices, severe reserve of keen business preoccupations, showed the usual Paris commerçante; the white, black and slate-grey of the dresses, the extreme neatness, silent felt over-slippers, make their commercial devotions rather conventual. With this purchase—followed by one of strawberries at a fruiterer’s opposite—his destination was no longer doubtful.
He was going to Bertha’s to eat his lunch. Hence the double quantity of saladed potatoes. He skirted the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens * for fifteen yards. Crossing the road, he entered the Rue Martine, a bald expanse of uniformly coloured rose-grey pavement plaster and shutter. A large iron gate led into a short avenue of trees: at its extremity Bertha lived in a three-storey house.
The leaden
So he had evolved a plan. At first sight it was wicked, though not blacker than most of his ingenuities of the same order. Bertha, as he had suggested to Butcher, he had in some lymphatic manner within his skin. It appeared a matter of physical discomfort to leave her altogether. It must be effected gradually. In consequence he had resolved that, instead of going away to England, where the separation might cause him restlessness, he had perhaps better settle down in her neighbourhood. Through a series of specially tended ennuis, he would soon find himself in a position to depart. Thus the extreme nearness of the studio to Bertha’s flat was only another inducement for him to take it. ‘If it were next door, so much the better!’ thought he.
Now for this famous feeling of indifference
. Was there anything in it? That was the question. The studio for the moment should be put aside: he would go to see Bertha. Let this visit solve this question.
CHAPTER 4
T HE new summer heat drew heavy pleasant ghosts out of the ground, like plants disappeared in winter; spectres of energy, bulking the hot air with vigorous dreams. Or they had entered into the trees, in imitation of pagan gods, and nodded their delicate distant intoxication to him. Visions were released in the sap, with scented explosion, the Spring one bustling and tremendous reminiscence.
Tarr felt the street was a pleasant current, setting from some immense and tropic gulf, neighboured by Floridas of remote invasions: * he ambled down it puissantly, shoulders shaped like these waves, a heavy-sided drunken fish. The houses, with winks of the shocked clock-work, were grazed, holding along their surface a thick nap of soft warmth. The heat poured weakly into his veins—a big dog wandering on its easily transposable business, inviting some delightful accident to deflect it from maudlin and massive promenade: in his mind, too, as in the dog’s, his business was doubtful—a small black spot ahead in his brain, half puzzling but peremptory.
The mat ponderous light-grey of putty-coloured houses—like a thickening merely of hot summer atmosphere without sun—gave a spirituality to this deluge of animal well-being, in weighty pale sense-solidarity. Through the opaquer atmosphere sounds came lazilyor tinglingly. People had become a balzacian species, boldly tragic and comic. *
Tarr stopped at a dairy. He bought saladed potatoes, a Petit Suisse. * The coolness, as he entered the small tiled box, gave an eerie shock to his sharply switched senses. The dairy-man, in blue-striped smock and black cap, peaked and cylindrical, came out of an inner room. Through its glasses several women were visible, busy at a meal. The isolation of this person from the heat and mood of the world outside impressed his customer as he came forward with truculent ‘Monsieur!’ Tarr, while his things were done up, watched the women. The discreet voices, severe reserve of keen business preoccupations, showed the usual Paris commerçante; the white, black and slate-grey of the dresses, the extreme neatness, silent felt over-slippers, make their commercial devotions rather conventual. With this purchase—followed by one of strawberries at a fruiterer’s opposite—his destination was no longer doubtful.
He was going to Bertha’s to eat his lunch. Hence the double quantity of saladed potatoes. He skirted the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens * for fifteen yards. Crossing the road, he entered the Rue Martine, a bald expanse of uniformly coloured rose-grey pavement plaster and shutter. A large iron gate led into a short avenue of trees: at its extremity Bertha lived in a three-storey house.
The leaden
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