When I had pressed his bell I had to step back and watch for his face at
the third-floor window, which, having emerged and grunted at me below,
would dwindle into a hand from which would drop the latchkey into my
upturned hat. Then very wearily--I had to live up to my mood, you see,
else why visit Nikolay?--I would climb the stone steps to his studio.
Once there, I resigned myself to a delicious and conscious indolence. My
thoughts drifted up with my cigarette smoke, and faded with it. My
special place was on the divan in the corner of the large room, under a
long shelf of neatly arranged first editions, from which I would now and
again pick one, finger it lazily, mutter just audibly that I had bought
that same book half-a-crown cheaper, and relapse into silence. If
uncongenial visitors dropped in, I would abuse Nikolay's hospitality by
at once turning over on my left side and going to sleep until they had
gone. But generally no one came, and we were alone and silent.
From the divan I would watch Nikolay at work at his long table in front
of the window, through which could be seen all the chimneys in Fitzroy
Street, Charlotte Street, and Tottenham Court Road. How he could do any
work at all (and work of colour!) with the drab cosmopolitanism of this
view ever before his eyes, I do not know; myself would have to be very
drunk before I could ignore those uncongenial backs of houses and
chimneys, stuck up in the air like the grimy paws of a gutter-brat
humanity. For an hour on end, until he turned to me and said, "Tea,
Dikran?" I would watch him through my smoke, as though fascinated by the
bent, slight figure as it drew and painted, with so delicate a precision
of movement, those unreal and intangible illustrations, which tried at
first to impress one by their drawing or colouring, but seemed to me
mainly expressions of the artist's grim and ironic detachment from other
men; a _macabre_ observer, as it were, of their passions, himself
passionless, but widely, almost wickedly, tolerant. An erect satyr in
topsy-turvydom.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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