Part 29 (1/2)
He glared at me over his shoulder. If he was infected by Cubist tendencies he evidently had not understood what I said.
”If you won't talk about my pictures I don't mind your investigating this district,” he grunted, dabbing at his palette and plastering a wad of vermilion upon his canvas; ”but I object to any public invasion of my artistic privacy until I am ready for it.”
”When will that be?”
He pointed with one vermilion-soaked brush toward a long, low, log building.
”In that structure,” he said, ”are packed one thousand and ninety-five paintings--all signed by me. I have executed one or two every day since I came here. When I have painted exactly ten thousand pictures, no more, no less, I shall erect here a gallery large enough to contain them all.
”Only real lovers of art will ever come here to study them. It is five hundred miles from the railroad. Therefore, I shall never have to endure the praises of the dilettante, the patronage of the idler, the vapid rhapsodies of the vulgar. Only those who understand will care to make the pilgrimage.”
He waved his brushes at me:
”The conservation of national resources is all well enough--the setting aside of timber reserves, game preserves, bird refuges, all these projects are very good in a way. But I have dedicated this wilderness as a last and only refuge in all the world for true Art! Because true Art, except for my pictures, is, I believe, now practically extinct!... You're in my way. Would you mind getting out?”
I had sidled around between him and his bowl of nasturtiums, and I hastily stepped aside. He squinted at the flowers, mixed up a flamboyant mess of colour on his palette, and daubed away with unfeigned satisfaction, no longer noticing me until I started to go. Then:
”What is it you're here for, anyway?” he demanded abruptly. I said with dignity:
”I am here to investigate those huge rings of earth thrown up in the forest as by a gigantic mole.” He continued to paint for a few moments:
”Well, go and investigate 'em,” he snapped. ”I'm not infatuated with your society.”
”What do you think they are?” I asked, mildly ignoring his wretched manners.
”I don't know and I don't care, except, that sometimes when I begin to paint several trees, the very trees I'm painting are suddenly heaved up and tilted in every direction, and all my work goes for nothing. _That_ makes me mad! Otherwise, the matter has no interest for me.”
”But what in the world could cause--”
”I don't know and I don't care!” he shouted, waving palette and brushes angrily. ”Maybe it's an army of moles working all together under the ground; maybe it's some species of circular earthquake. I don't know! I don't care! But it annoys me. And if you can devise any scientific means to stop it, I'll be much obliged to you. Otherwise, to be perfectly frank, you bore me.”
”The mission of Science,” said I solemnly, ”is to alleviate the inconveniences of mundane existence. Science, therefore, shall extend a helping hand to her frailer sister, Art--”
”Science can't patronize Art while I'm around!” he retorted. ”I won't have it!”
”But, my dear Mr. Blythe--”
”I won't dispute with you, either! I don't like to dispute!” he shouted.
”Don't try to make me. Don't attempt to inveigle me into discussion! I know all I want to know. I don't want to know anything you want me to know, either!”
I looked at the old pig in haughty silence, nauseated by his conceit.
After he had plastered a few more tubes of vermilion over his canvas he quieted down, and presently gave me an oblique glance over his shoulder.
”Well,” he said, ”what else are you intending to investigate?”
”Those little animals that live in the crater fires,” I said bluntly.
”Yes,” he nodded, indifferently, ”there are creatures which live somewhere in the fires of that crater.”
”Do you realize what an astounding statement you are making?” I asked.