Crome Yellow | Page 9

Future."
Denis blushed scarlet. Mr. Scogan had described the plan of his novel with an accuracy
that was appalling. He made an effort to laugh. "You're entirely wrong," he said. "My
novel is not in the least like that." It was a heroic lie. Luckily, he reflected, only two
chapters were written. He would tear them up that very evening when he unpacked.
Mr. Scogan paid no attention to his denial, but went on: "Why will you young men
continue to write about things that are so entirely uninteresting as the mentality of
adolescents and artists? Professional anthropologists might find it interesting to turn
sometimes from the beliefs of the Blackfellow to the philosophical preoccupations of the
undergraduate. But you can't expect an ordinary adult man, like myself, to be much
moved by the story of his spiritual troubles. And after all, even in England, even in
Germany and Russia, there are more adults than adolescents. As for the artist, he is
preoccupied with problems that are so utterly unlike those of the ordinary adult man--
problems of pure aesthetics which don't so much as present themselves to people like
myself--that a description of his mental processes is as boring to the ordinary reader as a
piece of pure mathematics. A serious book about artists regarded as artists is unreadable;
and a book about artists regarded as lovers, husbands, dipsomaniacs, heroes, and the like
is really not worth writing again. Jean-Christophe is the stock artist of literature, just as
Professor Radium of "Comic Cuts" is its stock man of science."
'I'm sorry to hear I'm as uninteresting as all that," said Gombauld.
"Not at all, my dear Gombauld," Mr. Scogan hastened to explain. "As a lover or a
dipsomaniac, I've no doubt of your being a most fascinating specimen. But as a combiner
of forms, you must honestly admit it, you're a bore."
"I entirely disagree with you," exclaimed Mary. She was somehow always out of breath
when she talked. And her speech was punctuated by little gasps. "I've known a great
many artists, and I've always found their mentality very interesting. Especially in Paris.
Tschuplitski, for example--I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring..."

"Ah, but then you're an exception, Mary, you're an exception," said Mr. Scogan. "You are
a femme superieure."
A flush of pleasure turned Mary's face into a harvest moon.

CHAPTER IV.
Denis woke up next morning to find the sun shining, the sky serene. He decided to wear
white flannel trousers--white flannel trousers and a black jacket, with a silk shirt and his
new peach- coloured tie. And what shoes? White was the obvious choice, but there was
something rather pleasing about the notion of black patent leather. He lay in bed for
several minutes considering the problem.
Before he went down--patent leather was his final choice--he looked at himself critically
in the glass. His hair might have been more golden, he reflected. As it was, its yellowness
had the hint of a greenish tinge in it. But his forehead was good. His forehead made up in
height what his chin lacked in prominence. His nose might have been longer, but it would
pass. His eyes might have been blue and not green. But his coat was very well cut and,
discreetly padded, made him seem robuster than he actually was. His legs, in their white
casing, were long and elegant. Satisfied, he descended the stairs. Most of the party had
already finished their breakfast. He found himself alone with Jenny.
"I hope you slept well," he said.
"Yes, isn't it lovely?" Jenny replied, giving two rapid little nods. "But we had such awful
thunderstorms last week."
Parallel straight lines, Denis reflected, meet only at infinity. He might talk for ever of
care-charmer sleep and she of meteorology till the end of time. Did one ever establish
contact with anyone? We are all parallel straight lines. Jenny was only a little more
parallel than most.
"They are very alarming, these thunderstorms," he said, helping himself to porridge.
"Don't you think so? Or are you above being frightened?"
"No. I always go to bed in a storm. One is so much safer lying down."
"Why?"
"Because," said Jenny, making a descriptive gesture, "because lightning goes downwards
and not flat ways. When you're lying down you're out of the current."
"That's very ingenious."
"It's true."

There was a silence. Denis finished his porridge and helped himself to bacon. For lack of
anything better to say, and because Mr. Scogan's absurd phrase was for some reason
running in his head, he turned to Jenny and asked:
"Do you consider yourself a femme superieure?" He had to repeat the question several
times before Jenny got the hang of it.
"No," she said, rather indignantly, when at last