The Horse's Tale by Anna Kavan & K.T. Bluth

Author:Anna Kavan & K.T. Bluth
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Art, Picaresque, Fiction
ISBN: 9780720617092
Publisher: Gaberbocchus Press
Published: 1949-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Ultimately I let myself be persuaded to move to the summerhouse near the park. The effort of painting this last picture had again deprived me of all energy. I felt weak and irritable, the perpetual stir created by the pupils and their friends got on my nerves, I was glad to retreat to the quiet garden where I was left in peace. True to his word, the painter had fitted up the little house very luxuriously, and though the warmed pool, lined with Persian blue mosaic, struck me as rather absurd, I willingly took advantage of it for a daily swim. My friend, alone or accompanied by one or two of the girls, frequently came to watch me in my bath, and I began to feel like a baby being shown off to admiring guests, especially when my visitors threw pine extract or scented essences into the water.

All the same, the rest did me good: my depression became less acute, sleep returned, I was able to concentrate once again.

Seeing me more myself, the art master reopened his arguments, urging me to evolve a new style. My last piece of work, though good, was, in his opinion, not good enough. Certainly it would not do for Mr. Patronage, who had already bought several examples of Hoofism from imitators of mine, and would probably scorn my picture as plagiarism.

“Do you mean to tell me that the originator can be superceded by a mere copyist?” I exclaimed in disgust. Resentment suddenly made me see the handsome brown-skinned rascal before me in a new light, all sorts of doubts flooded my mind, and I burst out accusingly: “Why have you always kept me hidden away from the public? Why didn’t you let me meet Patronage? You could easily have arranged it. Are you ashamed of me because I’m a horse?”

“Don’t get so excited!” the teacher said in a propitiatory tone, eager to calm me down. “You’re an artist and you don’t understand practical matters. Leave all the arrangements to me: it’s true I’m a painter myself, but running an art school has taught me how to be businesslike, I know how things have to be managed. You’re not losing faith in me, surely? I’ve looked after your interests well enough up till now; what have you to complain of? Haven’t I made a small fortune for you? Provided you with every comfort, even down to a warm swimming bath? Don’t you like this place I’ve fixed up for you?”

“I hate it!” Although he spoke in such a cajoling way, exerting all his charm and showing all his perfect teeth in a dazzling smile, my suspicions were not allayed. “Why do you keep me shut up here?” I demanded. “Why should I live like a hermit behind these walls? I need contact with people of my own sort, sensitive, cultured people who can appreciate me and stimulate my creative faculties. I don’t care whether I’m called a Hoofist or anything else. The quality of my work is distinctive, peculiar to myself, superior to all mannerisms and modes.

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