“Why, yes,” the Doctor replied, “I merely remarked that there is a biological continuity about all things and that nothing dies.”
“Don’t you believe it, Doc,” Mr. Carr was earnest, “I am not part of a biological chain. You ask my old mother. She’ll tell you.” He looked threateningly at the gathering and made another exit.
Dr. Cornelius Bellamy smiled wanly. He could think of no comment upon Mr. Carr’s startling statement. “Well, my dear Emily,” he said, “there is work to be done. Let us put our shoulders to the wheel.” He turned towards the door, encountering Julian Ambleside.
“I think, Bellamy,” the high voice announced, “that my problem has solved itself and that there is no reason why I should trouble you tonight. Do you agree?”
“Why, certainly, my dear fellow,” the Doctor looked surprised, “but come round for a drink anyhow if you feel like it. I’ll be there.”
Douglas wondered vaguely what everyone was talking about. He came to the conclusion that it was none of his business, even if he had been able to understand it.
Chapter 5
The Disquieting Muses
AS HE had sadly feared would be the case, Douglas was rooted out of his quiet retreat in the library, where he was beginning to get the books under control, and asked to help with the final hanging and placing of the pictures and objects.
When he had looked at the gallery during the previous afternoon he had hoped that all the pictures would remain where they were hanging at that moment, but he might as well have hoped that the sun would stand still.
Dr. Cornelius Bellamy, looking like a lankier version of Benjamin Robert Haydon’s Napoleon brooding on the island of St. Helena, stood in the middle of the room, apparently oblivious to the rustle and bustle about him. He was sunk in aesthetic contemplation. Emily stood beside him, not daring to speak in case she broke the golden cord that was destined to lead the learned Doctor in through the hole in Jerusalem’s wall.
The Doctor nodded his head heavily and then readjusted his pince-nez which became dislodged in the process. “My dear Emily,” he said, slowly, weighing out each word as though it was an ounce of platinum, “what we have to do is to consider the effect of the gallery as a whole. And, it is most important that we should not fall into the usual error of gallery arrangers, the error of tastefulness. For God’s sake, I say, let us be brutal and forthright. Let us shock. Let the pictures clash with one another. We do not wish our public to be comfortable. We do not wish them to go away remembering that they have seen some pictures. We want them to go away feeling that they have been insulted and outraged. If I may coin a phrase, we wish the pictures to commit a mental rape upon their virgin security. I would suggest that that painting by Mondrian be placed above the public urinal, the Fountain by Marcel Duchamp. By arranging things in this manner we will bring them into a new perspective. The perspective of to-day is the new perspective of new man in a machine-age.”
Douglas thought gloomily that the Doctor had stuck fast with the Italian Futurists of 1914 who had seen a machine, any machine, as a terrifically romantic object. To himself a machine was just something that was useful, no more wonderful than a cow and no less useful. But then, he thought, I may be wrong, I usually am.
Francis Varley was standing by, in the attitude of one who collects pearls of wisdom to feed them to the swine.
“Good morning, my dear Douglas,” he said, “you see that we have got down to work already? That Picasso has already changed its location seven times and judging from the determination on Bellamy’s face it will change seventy times more. Poor dear Emily would have been content to hang the pictures on the walls and leave them there, thus obtaining the Doctor’s sine qua non of tastelessness, but it was not to be. By the time the pictures have been rehung, according to the tenets of violence, their surprise value will have vanished. Oh, by the way, here are a revised set of proofs for you to work on.”
He handed Douglas the sheaf of papers. Douglas groaned mentally. It seemed as though he was already condemned to work for his money. He looked through them quickly and realised that the printers had managed to cut out the vanished Chirico. Personally, he thought, it was very absurd of Emily to remove the picture from the catalogue. She should have relegated it to a sort of appendix.
“My dear Douglas,” it was the Doctor speaking in a lofty tone, “I wonder whether you would hold up that Miró next to the large Magritte. I have a feeling,” he turned to Emily, “that they will offset each other very well. The fantasy of Miró’s Catalan conception of a Dutch interior will compare excellently with the painting of the Flemish Magritte.”
Douglas wandered across the room and picked up the gaily painted and charming painting which the Doctor had indicated. He held it up in the position required. It was not heavy, but after a minute or two, while Dr. Bellamy cocked his head this way and that, Douglas’s arms started to ache. The Doctor seemed to have forgotten that the picture was not hung upon the wall, his mental eye seemed to have cut out the figure of Douglas supporting it. The picture started to waver. The Doctor was recalled to reality by this. He eyed Douglas severely.
“My dear Douglas,” his voice was petulant, “would you mind holding the picture steady? It is not a heavy picture and you surely are capable of supporting it for a moment.”
The trouble, Douglas found, was that once he had become aware of the slight shivering of the canvas, it became quite impossible to still it.
“I’m most terribly sorry,” he said, employing a form of words which he did not mean, “but the thing is that I’m holding it in an awkward position and can’t keep it any steadier.”
Francis came to his rescue by bringing forward a chair. By resting his elbows on the back of it he found that he could hold the picture easily. He glared at the Doctor. The Doctor was unabashed.
“That’s much better, my dear fellow,” he said portentously, the tone shewing that the endearment was automatic and unmeant.
The morning went slowly. By eleven-thirty Douglas would have given all the contents of the Museum of Modern Art for one glass of beer. He was finally rescued by the Doctor himself who turned to Emily.
“I think, my dear Emily,” he announced, “that that is enough for the moment. We mustn’t let our eyes get stale, the freshness of vision perishes too easily. Ah, tempora, ah, mores.”
He took on the look of a man who felt age creeping up on him. Emily looked at him in concern.
“My dear Cornelius,” she said soberly, “you are tired. Of course we’ll stop now. Come and have a glass of sherry.”
The vision of Bristol Cream floated before Douglas’s eyes. He rejected it and fastened his mind firmly on a pint of bitter. It seemed to him that the room cleared very slowly. Francis was hauled in on the party that was retiring to Emily’s office. No one thought of inviting Douglas. Indeed he himself felt that he had become a fixture in the gallery, and did not blame them. After all who would have invited an easel to have a drink.
He waited until he thought that they were all safely ensconced in the holy of holies and then he made for the stairs as fast as he could. Outside on the edge of the pavement he encountered Mr. Carr. Mr. Carr was deep in the midday edition of the Star.
“Hullo, hullo, hullo,” he said, “how are you this morning, Douglas old cock? Feel like a drink? I wish you were. Ha, ha,” he grunted at the chestnut, “well, we will go and see what we can find.”
He folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket. He made off down the street as if he had been an electric hare chased by a persistent and unusually fast greyhound. Douglas trotted after him. They passed the Ely at a brisk canter. Mr. Carr turned down several side streets and they finished up at a small beer-only house.
“What are you having?” he enquired, “there’s only beer. Two pints of bitter, please, Miss.” The whole of this came out so quickly that even had Douglas desired mild he would not have had time to express his wishes.
“I got a horse,” his voice was s
lightly reminiscent of Prince Monolulu on Derby Day, “in fact,” he was confidential, “I’ve got three horses which are bound to win. They are one hundred per cent. certs. Would you like to risk something on them?”
Douglas, whose knowledge of horses was confined to the fact that they were mammals and quadrupeds and performed useful services on behalf of mankind, did not know anything about betting, but he took five shillings from his pocket. He handed it over.
“I’ll probably forget to place the bet,” Mr. Carr was frank, “and if it should be a case that you should win anything I might tell you you had lost. Trouble is, you see, I’m not honest. I was expelled from Harrow for stealing.”
“I thought,” Douglas was tentative, “that you said you were at Eton?”
“I was at both,” Mr. Carr was firmly unblushing, “I went to Eton after I was expelled from Harrow. But that is a matter of little importance. How is the worthy Doc this morning? Full of genius and Bile Beans?”
“I wish I could forget the Doctor,” said Douglas gloomily, “I don’t think he likes me and the feeling is mutual. I think he’ll get me sacked. Not that I care. I’ve not had jobs for long enough not to worry about the situation.”
“Have you ever thought of being a genius?” Mr. Carr leaned forward and placed his hand on Douglas’s knee. “If you were a genius he’d treat you proper. He’s got a great respect for genius, the Doctor has. You write him a poem which he can’t understand. All nonsense like, you understand? He’ll start saying you are the best poet in the country. Put in lots of dirty words so’s they don’t seem dirty, you know? He’ll think you’ve got genius. Then you’ll find he can’t do enough for you. I’m a genius, you see. Look at the way he treats me. ‘My dear Carr this,’ and ‘My dear Carr that.’ You should try your hand at being a genius, cock. It pays. Just you do as you want and persuade ’em that that’s the way to behave and they’ll be eating out of your hand before you know where you are. Now I’ve been a genius all my life. When I was at Winchester,” he caught Douglas’s look of incredulity and hurried on, “I didn’t tell you I was there too, did I? Well I was. I went there after they sacked me from Eton. As I was saying, when I was at Winchester, they thought I would be a genius. It only shews that sometimes schoolmasters do know, don’t they. Now you, Douglas, are a poet. You are a genius. You must behave like a genius. Let me see something you’ve written.”
Douglas dug through his pockets but the only thing he could find was a hastily scribbled attack on the learned Doctor. He handed it to Mr. Carr who took it as if he had been receiving the Crown Jewels.
Bellamy died in the middle of the night
And went at once to the judgment seat.
“My dear friend God,” said he with delight,
“I did not dream we two would meet
In surroundings as cheap as these are here.”
He waved in disgust at the marble towers,
Said,“Don’t you think that ornament drear?
And my friend, just look at those bowers!”
The Almighty scowled and took up his pen,
Waggled his beard and let out a roar;
“Bah,” he yelled, “you’re a wart and a wen,
I made you clever, you became a bore,
Through eternal Academies you shall ride
With Sir A. J. Munnings as your only guide!”
Mr. Carr read this through carefully. He shook his head solemnly.
“Munnings now,” he asked, “he paints horses, doesn’t he? I thought so. No, Douglas old cock, speaking as one friend to another, I don’t think you’d get very far with the Doc on the strength of that. Not that I don’t think it good, for it is good; goes, as you might say, right to the point. I don’t think,” his air was that of a man announcing a profound discovery, “that you like the Doc much, do you? No, I thought not.”
He shook his head solemnly and absent-mindedly finished off the reminder of Douglas’s pint. Douglas had the glasses recharged.
“Now take me,” Mr. Carr began again, “or you needn’t if you don’t want to. I’m going to tell you anyhow. Now, I had no ideas myself that I was as high a quality of genius as it seems I am. I always assumed that I was somewhere at the bottom of the class. Not a bit of it. Old Bellamy finds me and I’m up along with Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci and, believe me, living a good deal fatter than ever they did. You think it over. Just you become a copper-bottomed genius and you’ll be set for life—or until they find you out.”
The thought of himself as genius-in-chief to Dr. Cornelius Bellamy did nothing to cheer Douglas. He glowered hopelessly into his beer glass.
“How did you get on last night night with the dice?” he asked, thinking it as good a way of changing the subject as any he could think of.
“Cock,” Mr. Carr was excessively solemn, “let me give you a word of advice. Never play cards with a woman. I told her that I couldn’t put up with her crooked dice and she said she’d play me at cards. How the hell,” he sounded aggrieved, “was I to know that she changed me cards for a set of her own, I ask you? Was that fair?”
“Does that mean that you’re broke again?” Douglas asked sympathetically. Being broke was a condition which, having experienced himself, he could well understand.
“Not broke,” said Mr. Carr rather more cheerfully, “only a bit bent, if you take my meaning. Sometimes I think I’ve got sense as well as genius. I left half my winnings with the bookie to put on for me again to-day. I only took a little home with me. That I lost. I expected that. I’ve got no grumble, no grumble at all. What’s happening in the jolly old Museum this afternoon? They all seem pretty het up about something?”
“Oh, there’s the press-show, you know,” Douglas replied, “plenty to drink and a lot of blah. I’ve worked in galleries before and I must say I like press-shows. Do you?”
“I?” Mr. Carr was even more solemn, “I like anything where there is plenty to drink and where no one questions your right to drink it. Tell you what, old cock, can you get me an extra card for the private view to-morrow, do you think? I’d like to bring my old mother along. I’m bringing Maggie and the kids anyhow, but I thought the old girl herself might like an outing.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Douglas promised. He looked at his watch and realised that he had quite a lot to do before the press arrived. He made his excuses and left Mr. Carr to his contemplation of beer and the back page of the Star.
Inside the Museum there was a tremendous hustle. Men in green baize aprons were running around like automatons, picking up pictures and objects and laying them down again. The learned Doctor had taken up his stance again in the centre of the main gallery.
Douglas sneaked up the stairs successfully. He stood in the middle of the library in an unconscious parody of the Doctor’s pose. Looking round he felt fairly satisfied. The place looked pretty good and all the books were on the shelves.
He sat down at the desk and wondered what he should do next. He really did not want to have to go and give Dr. Bellamy any assistance. However, after a few minutes he came to the conclusion that he really should go down and see what he could do to help. It was not that his conscience was worrying him so much as the fact that he knew there was a great deal to be done. He told himself that if he went now, he would be able to take things easily. If, on the other hand, he delayed until they called for him at the last moment, he realised that it would be the most awful rush. In self-protection he went downstairs.
Crab-like, the figure of Julian Ambleside went before him into the gallery and scuttled towards the Doctor. Douglas arrived in time to hear Julian saying something about the other Chiricos in his possession.
Dr. Cornelius Bellamy turned an amused face. “My dear fellow,” he said in a bland patronising tone, “you really shouldn’t worry yourself about them. I have told you that they are genuine and that should be sufficient. But, if it will help to reassure you, I’ll take another look at them after the press have gone. As you see,” he swept his ha
nd round the gallery, “I will not have a minute that I can call my own until then, as I want to get everything arranged perfectly. By the way, my dear Ambleside, we, that is, dear Emily and myself, have come to the conclusion that we will keep your great Max Ernst hidden until the private-view, when it will be unveiled as a special treat.”
He caught sight of Douglas, hanging around trying to look as though he was busy.
“Oh, Douglas, my dear fellow,” he called out, “I wonder whether you would be good enough to move the Arp over there?” He pointed, “Yes, that’s right, under the Juan Gris.”
Douglas looked at the large white mass. He wondered whether the Doctor thought he was a reincarnation of Hercules. He gave the stand a shove with his shoulder and found that it moved easily. The large white stone was hollow.
Francis Varley came in with Emily. He seemed to be feeling very pleased with himself, but then, as Douglas thought, he usually was pleased. He ran his slender hand through the greying curls, so neatly placed on his head, and smiled cheerfully.
“Everything proceeding according to plan, Bellamy?” he asked and the Doctor nodded his head portentously.
After that, it seemed to Douglas, the fountains of the deep were opened and the deluge began. By the time the first newspaper men arrived, he was feeling as though he had been swimming in a Turkish bath. He did not know what he looked like and he did not care, but, judging from the looks of the others, he knew he must look pretty damp and dirty.
Among the early arrivals he noted an old acquaintance. This was Mr. Alec Dolittle.
“Hullo, Alec,” Douglas said, “how did you manage to persuade them that you are an art critic?”
“Hush, Douglas,” Alec looked conspiratoral, “I’m anything they like to call me, and I’ll go anywhere they like to send me. I am the voice of the great British public. I know nothing about art and I don’t know what I like. The trouble with most of the people who go to galleries is that either they know nothing about art but know what they like, or else they know all about art but don’t know what they like. I am original. I know nothing. I record my impressions with the fresh eyes of the Polynesian savage. I am the mass-observer’s standard rule. I was thinking of offering myself to Tom Harrisson but I doubt if he’d buy me. What do you think?”
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