Chapter XXIII — Crome yellow
byChapter XXIII opens with an unexpected shift in Gombauld’s mood. Just moments before, frustration had bubbled under his calm exterior, mostly directed at Anne. But when Mr. Scogan and Denis step into the studio, the irritation vanishes, replaced by a sudden buoyancy. Their arrival acts as a welcome disruption, saving Gombauld from what might have turned into a quarrel. He greets them with exaggerated warmth, even inviting them to inspect his latest work. Mr. Scogan immediately obliges, leaning in to study the portrait in progress. To everyone’s surprise, including Gombauld’s, he offers something akin to praise. The painting’s emotional undercurrent and psychological depth impress him—especially considering Gombauld’s usual loyalty to abstraction. The conversation quickly drifts into Scogan’s familiar territory: the tension between natural disorder and human-imposed structure.
Scogan, as usual, positions himself as a man disillusioned with nature. To him, the organic world is chaotic, excessive, and ultimately indifferent to reason. He claims to prefer environments designed by human logic—grids, angles, clean lines—where unpredictability is reduced and everything has its place. The London Underground, in all its mechanical precision, is described as a triumph of human will over natural sprawl. Similarly, he speaks of Cubism with enthusiasm, admiring how it eliminates natural references in favor of abstract geometry. Art, he argues, should not imitate nature but replace it. Gombauld, half-listening and half-painting, seems amused more than persuaded. Denis, meanwhile, absorbs the scene with quiet tension, torn between the pull of Scogan’s ideas and his own conflicting emotions about Anne.
Denis finds himself drifting toward Anne, though not with deliberate intention. Something unspoken stirs in him, a longing he hasn’t fully admitted. His gaze meets hers—not boldly, but searchingly, almost pleading for clarity. Anne’s response is light and ironic, her smile a surface over something unreadable. The exchange passes quickly, but it lingers with Denis, who can’t decide whether to feel hopeful or dismissed. He turns instead to the nearest distraction—Gombauld’s paintings—and invites Anne to join him. She agrees, and together they step aside to examine the works. There’s no conversation, just shared glances at oil and canvas. They look at a painting of a man thrown from a horse, the composition dramatic and chaotic. A delicate still life follows, and finally, a quiet countryside framed in soft tones. Each piece carries Gombauld’s signature style, but the mood shifts with each image, like emotional chapters in a silent story.
As they move from painting to painting, Mr. Scogan continues to expound in the background. His commentary is both lofty and absurd, as he dismisses the natural world as an outdated backdrop for human drama. He suggests that true beauty lies in synthetic creation—in minds, not mountains. Denis, half-engaged with the artwork, listens and wonders whether Scogan’s cynicism hides disappointment or simply serves as armor. There’s a theatrical quality to Scogan’s disdain, but it resonates. Denis has always struggled with the rawness of emotion and the disorder of human relationships. The clean lines of Cubism, or the structured clarity of poetic form, seem safer by comparison. And yet, Anne, unpredictable and softly smiling, holds more power over him than any concept ever could.
Anne, for her part, seems unbothered by the intellectual fog that fills the room. She moves with ease, commenting occasionally on a color or a brushstroke. Her words are neither shallow nor profound—they are simply present, grounded. Denis admires her self-possession, even envies it. He feels himself more a bundle of interpretations than a person. Standing beside her, he wishes to speak with ease, to connect without analysis. But he cannot escape his habit of observation. He watches everything—Scogan’s gesturing hands, Gombauld’s squint of concentration, the curve of Anne’s wrist as she points at a frame. Everything is meaningful, and yet nothing is said aloud.
The scene settles into a quiet rhythm—paint, light, talk, silence. Gombauld paints. Scogan rambles. Anne moves. Denis thinks. In this small studio, the larger themes of the novel echo: the friction between intellect and feeling, the safety of abstraction versus the chaos of real connection. Art becomes a backdrop for personal truth, a mirror reflecting the tensions everyone tries to conceal. Chapter XXIII doesn’t end with drama, but with something softer—a question left hanging between two people, and the ongoing hum of a conversation no one knows how to finish.