Луна и грош

Chapter XLII

           

           ButifIwaspuzzledanddisconcerted,Iwasnotunimpressed.EvenI,inmycolossalignorance,couldnotbutfeelthathere,tryingtoexpressitself,wasrealpower.Iwasexcitedandinterested.Ifeltthatthesepictureshadsomethingtosaytomethatwasveryimportantformetoknow,butIcouldnottellwhatitwas.Theyseemedtomeugly,buttheysuggestedwithoutdisclosingasecretofmomentoussignificance.Theywerestrangelytantalising.TheygavemeanemotionthatIcouldnotanalyse.Theysaidsomethingthatwordswerepowerlesstoutter.IfancythatStricklandsawvaguelysomespiritualmeaninginmaterialthingsthatwassostrangethathecouldonlysuggestitwithhaltingsymbols.Itwasasthoughhefoundinthechaosoftheuniverseanewpattern,andwereattemptingclumsily,withanguishofsoul,tosetitdown.Isawatormentedspiritstrivingforthereleaseofexpression.

           Iturnedtohim.

           "Iwonderifyouhaven’tmistakenyourmedium,"Isaid.

           "Whatthehelldoyoumean?"

           "Ithinkyou’retryingtosaysomething,Idon’tquiteknowwhatitis,butI’mnotsurethatthebestwayofsayingitisbymeansofpainting."

           WhenIimaginedthatonseeinghispicturesIshouldgetacluetotheunderstandingofhisstrangecharacterIwasmistaken.Theymerelyincreasedtheastonishmentwithwhichhefilledme.Iwasmoreatseathanever.Theonlythingthatseemedcleartome—andperhapseventhiswasfanciful—wasthathewaspassionatelystrivingforliberationfromsomepowerthatheldhim.Butwhatthepowerwasandwhatlinetheliberationwouldtakeremainedobscure.

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