Tarr (Oxford World's Classics) (48 page)

‘What is that?’

‘This is my theory. I believe that all the fuss he made was an attempt to get out of Art back into Life again. He was like a fish floundering about who had got into the wrong tank.
Back into sex
I think would describe where he wanted to get to: he was doing his best to get back into sex again out of a little puddle of art where he felt he was gradually expiring. He was an art-student without any talent you see, so the poor devil was leading a slovenly meaningless existence like thousands of others in the same case. He was very hard up, also. The sex-instinct of the average sensual man had become perverted into a false channel. Put it the other way round and say his art-instinct had been rooted out of sex, where it was useful, and naturally flourished,
and had been exalted into a department by itself, where it bungled. The nearest the general run get to art is
Action
: sex is their form of art: the battle for existence is their picture. The moment they
think
or
dream
they develop an immense weight of cheap stagnating passion. Art, in the hands of the second-rate, is a curse, it is on a par with “freedom”—but we are not allowed to say
second-rate
are we’ he grinned ‘in the midst of a democracy! particularly such a “cultivated” one as this! But if you are forbidden to say
second-rate
, why then you must leave behind you all good sense—
nothing
can be discussed at all if you can’t say
second-rate!
’

The drunkenness of Tarr had passed through the first despondent silence, and as his intelligence grew less firm in battle with the
Roederer
*
he began to bluster in a sheepish sing-song interlarding his spasms of argument with dumb
prosits
.

‘Nobody’s claim is individual—
issit!
’ he hiccuped at his vis-à-vis, who now did nothing but eat. She shook her head, her mouth full.

‘Nobody’s!—an important type or original—as a pattern,
that
is the sanction of the first-ranker, am I right? The Many they are the eccentric—what do they matter? am I right or not?—they are “the individuals,” yes. Individuals! Well! Prosit Anastasya, let us drink to their confusion! To hell with economy, in any shape or form, to hell with it! Long live Waste! Hoch!’

‘I’ll drink to that!’ she exclaimed raising her glass. ‘Here’s to Waste. Hoch! Waste!’

‘Of course! Curse curse the principle of Humanity, curse that principle! Mute inglorious Miltons
*
are not mute for God in Heaven—they have the Silence!’

‘Ah. The Silence, that’s what they must have—Heaven is silent! How did you guess that?’

‘Bless Waste—Heaven bless Waste! Hoch Waste!’

‘Hoch!’

‘Here’s to Waste!’ Tarr announced loudly to the two waiters in front of the table. ‘Waste,
waste
; fling out into the streets: accept fools, compromise yourselves with the poor in spirit, it will all come in handy! Live like the lions in the forests, with fleas on your back. Above all, down with the
Efficient Chimpanzee!
’

Anastasya’s eyes were bloodshot, Tarr patted her on the back.

‘There are no lions in the forests!’ she hiccuped, aiming blows at her chest. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

They had finished the fruit and were sitting before coffee filters while the
sommelier
hunted for vodka. Tarr had grown extremely expansive in every way: he began slapping her thighs to emphasize his points, as Diderot was in the habit of doing with the Princesse de Clèves.
*
After that he began kissing her when he had made a successful remark, to celebrate it. Their third bottle of wine had put art to flight; he lay back in his chair in prolonged bursts of laughter. She, in german fashion, clapped her hand over his mouth. He seized it with his teeth and made pale shell shapes in its brown fat.

In a Café opposite the restaurant, where they next went, they had more vodka. They caressed each other’s hands now continually and even allowed themselves more intimate caresses: indifferent to the supercilious and bitter natives they became lost in lengthy kisses, their arms round each other’s necks.

In a little cave of intoxicated affection, a conversation took place.

‘Have you darling often?’

‘What’s that you say dear?’ she asked with eager sleepy seriousness. The ‘dear’ reminded his dim spirit of accostings in the night-streets.

‘Have you often, I mean are you a grande amoureuse—on the grand scale?’

‘Why do you ask? are you curious?’

‘Only out of sympathy, only out of sympathy!’

‘I mustn’t tell you, you’d despise me terribly.’

‘I promise not to!’

‘I know I shall regret it!’

‘Never.’

‘I shall, all men are the same.’

‘Make an exception with me!’

‘Oh I mustn’t!’

‘Mustn’t you?’

‘Well I’ll tell you!’

‘Darling! Don’t if it hurts you!’

‘Not at all. Well then—I know you’ll hate me—well then, only one old Russian—oh yes and a Japanese, but that was a mistake.’

‘Have you only, with one old Russian?’

‘I knew you’d despise me, I should not have told you!’

‘Only one old Russian!’

‘There was the Japanese—but he was a mistake.’

‘Of what nature? Are you quite sure?’

‘Alas yes! He betrayed me upon the links
*
in New England.’

‘The cad!’

‘He was a caddie—but he apologized, he was most polite: he assured me it was an accident and I believe it was an accident.’

‘But how grim—I should have thought the colour line—.’
*

‘He explained how it was a complete misunderstanding. His politeness left nothing to be desired, he was a perfect gentleman!’

‘Oh I am so glad!’

‘You despise me now?’

‘No women pals?’
*

‘Nothing nothing nothing! I have told you except one old Russian!’

She began sobbing upon his shoulder, her face covered with a lace handkerchief. He kissed her through the handkerchief and struck her gently upon the back.

‘Never mind’ he muttered ‘it’s all over now. It’s
all
over now!’

She put her mouth up to be kissed exclaiming brokenly:

‘Say you don’t despise me too terribly Tarr! I want
you
so much! I really do want you—so much, so much!
You
will make up for everything!’

A frown had gathered upon his flushed forehead.

‘Shall I? Why should I? I’m not going to be made a convenience of!’

‘I want you, I really do, enormously, I know you don’t believe me! I feel most terribly, oh! back-to-nature-like—
do please
believe me!’

He thrust her rather brutally away on to her chair and himself lurched in the opposite direction, eyeing her askance.

‘Why should I? I don’t see that! One paltry—
one
—!’

‘Tell me what you want!’

‘I want a woman. What I want is a woman, you understand, I want a woman badly, that’s all!’

‘But I am one!’

‘I agree, of sorts—very much of sorts!’

She whispered in his ear, hanging upon his neck.

‘No no!’ he answered: ‘all that may be true but—.’

‘It is.’

He sat frowning intently at the table.

‘Don’t be quarrelsome Tarr!’

For a moment she considered him then she pushed her glass away, lay back and remarked with rapid truculence.

‘It’s all right when you’re talking about art but at present you are engaged in the preliminaries to love with a woman.’

‘So you say.’

‘This is something that can die! Ha! Ha! we’re in life my Tarr: we represent
absolutely nothing
thank God!’

‘I realize I’m in life, but I don’t like being reminded of it in that way. It makes me feel as though I were in a “mauvais lieu.” ’
*

‘My confession has been unavailing I observe.’

‘To cut a long story short, you disgust me!’

‘Give me a kiss you
efficient chimpanzee
.’

Tarr scowled at her but did not alter the half embrace in which they sat.

‘You won’t give me a kiss? Silly old
in
efficient chimpanzee!’

She sat back in her chair, and head down, looked through her eyelashes at him with arch menace.

‘Garçon! garçon!’ she called.

‘Mademoiselle?’ the waiter said, approaching slowly, with dignified scepticism.

‘This gentleman, waiter, wants to be a lion with fleas on his back—at least so he says! At the same time he wants a woman if we are to believe him. I don’t know if he expects the woman to catch his fleas or not, I haven’t asked him: but he’s a funny looking bird isn’t he?’

The waiter withdrew with hauteur.

‘What’s the meaning of your latest tack you great he-man of a german art-tart?’

‘What am I?’

‘I called you german pastry on the large side, with the icing laid on with a shovel.’

‘Oh,
tart
is it—?’

‘Quite well made, well puffed out, with a great line of talk—.’

‘And what, good God, shall we call the cow-faced specimen you spend the greater part of your days with—?’

‘She, too, is german pastry, more homely than you though—.’

‘Homely’s
*
the word!’

‘But not quite so fly-blown and not above all, at least,
pretentious
—yes pre-ten—.’

‘I see, and takes you more seriously than other people would be likely to: that’s what all your “quatsch” about “woman” means. I guess you know that?’

She had recovered from the effect of the drinks. Sitting up stiffly she examined him as he spoke.

‘I know you are a famous whore who becomes rather acid in her cups!—when you showed me your legs this evening I suppose I was meant—.’

‘Assez! Assez!!’ She struck the table with her fist and flashed her eyes picturesquely over him.

‘Let’s get to business.’ He put his hat on and leant towards her. ‘It’s getting late. Twenty-five francs, I’m afraid, is all I can manage, you’ve cleaned me out with the meal.’

‘Twenty-five francs for
what
? with you—it would be robbery! Twenty-five francs to be your audience while you drivel about art? Keep your money and buy Bertha an—
efficient chimpanzee
—she will need it poor bitch if she marries you!’

Her mouth uncurled, a thin red line, her eyes glaring and her hands in her overcoat pockets she walked out of the door of the Café.

Tarr ordered another drink.

‘It’s like a moral tale told on behalf of Bertha’ he pondered. That was the temper of Paradise!

Much sobered, he sat in a grim sulk at the thought of the good time he had lost. For half an hour he plotted his revenge and satisfaction together. With a certain buffoonish lightness he went back to his studio with smug, thick secretive pleasure settling down upon his body’s exquisite reproaches and burning retaliations.

T
ARR
went slowly up the stairs feeling for his key. He arrived at the door without having found it. The door was ajar: at first this seemed quite natural to him and he continued the search for the key. Then suddenly he dropped that occupation, pushed the door open and entered his studio. The moonlight came heavily through the windows: in a part of the room where it did not strike he became aware of an apparition of solid white. It was solid white flowed round by a dark cloud: it crossed into the moonlight and faced him, its hands placed
like a modest statue’s: the hair reached below the waist, and flowed to the right from the head. This tall nudity began laughing with a harsh sound like stone laughing.

‘Close that door!’ it shouted, ‘there’s a draught. You took a long time to consider my words. I’ve been waiting chilled to the bone my dear. Forgive me, Tarr, my words belied me, the acidulated demimondaine
*
was a trick. It occupied your mind—you didn’t notice me take your key!’

Tarr’s vanity was soothed: the key, which could only have been taken in the Café, justified the harsh dialogue.

She stood before him now with her arms up, hands joined behind her head: this impulse to be naked and unashamed had the cultural hygienic touch so familiar to him: the dark ash of the hair was the same colour as Bertha’s only it was darker and coarser, Bertha’s being fine. Anastasya’s white face, therefore, had the appearance almost of a mask.

‘Will you engage me as your model sir? Je fais de la réclame pour les Grecs!’
*

‘You are very ionian—hardly greek.
*
But I don’t require a model thank you, I never use nude models for my pictures.’

‘Well I must dress again, I suppose.’ She turned towards a chair where her clothes were piled. But Tarr shouted ‘I accept, I accept!’ a simultaneous revolt of all his tantalized senses shouted its veto upon further acts of that sort. He seized her from behind and heaving her up from the ground, kissing her in the mass, as it were, carried his mighty, luminous burden through the door at the back of the studio leading to his bedroom.

‘Tarr be my love! we’ll be the doviest couple on the
erdball
honey!’ Next morning, the sunlight having taken the place of the moonlight, but striking on the opposite side of the house, they lay in muscular masses side by side, smoking and drinking coffee.

‘You’ll never hear the horrid word
marriage
from me—I want to rescue you from your Bertha habits. We’re very well together, aren’t we? I’m not doing Bertha a bad turn, either.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Why when that sort of cattle mix themselves with the likes of us, it’s at their peril! They suffer for their effrontery.’

Anastasya rolled up against him with the movement of a seal.

‘Thank you Tarr for being so nice to me just now. It was perfect.’

Tarr drove the smoke away from his face and wiped his eye.

‘You are my efficient chimpanzee then for keeps?’

‘No I’m the new animal; we haven’t thought up a name for him yet—the thing that will succeed the Superman.’
*

T
ARR
crawled towards Bertha that day upon the back of a St. Germain omnibus: as he crawled his mind lazily wandered in the new scene to whose first landmarks he had now grown accustomed. He also turned back into the old with a fresh eye. He really had never meant to leave Bertha at all, he saw: he had not meant to leave her altogether. He had just been playing. A long debt had accumulated, it had been deliberately increased by him because he knew he would not repudiate it.