She was delighted by that; she saw it as proof that their first rendezvous was something other than a conspiracy of bodies taking advantage of a situation. But when love occupies both body and soul, it takes more time; Mama had to keep inventing new friends to justify (especially to Grandmama and Jaromil) her frequent absences from the house.
She would sit beside the painter as he worked, but that was not enough for him; he explained to her that painting, as he conceived it, was merely one method among others of quarrying the marvelous from life; and even a child could discover the marvelous at play or an ordinary man by recalling a dream. The painter gave Mama a sheet of paper and colored inks; she was told to make blots on the paper with the various colors and blow on them; rays ran over the paper in all directions and covered it with a multicolored web; the painter displayed Mama's output behind the glass panes of his bookcase and praised them to his guests.
On one of her earliest visits, he gave her several books as she was leaving. At home she had to read them secretly because she was afraid that Jaromil would ask her where she got the books, or another member of the family might ask her the same question, and she would find it difficult to find a satisfactory lie because a glance at them was enough to show that they were very different from the ones in the libraries of their friends or parents. She therefore hid the books in the drawer under her brassieres and nightgowns and read them during the moments when she was alone. The feeling of doing something forbidden and the fear of being caught probably prevented her from concentrating on what she was reading, for she seemed not to be absorbing much of what she read, not understanding most of it even when she reread many pages two or three times in a row.
She would then return to the painter's with the anxiety of a student who was afraid of being quizzed, because the painter would begin by asking her whether she had liked a certain book, and she knew that he wanted to hear not merely a positive answer but also that for him the book was the point of departure for a conversation, and that there were observations in the book on a subject he wanted to be in alliance with her about, as if it were a matter of a truth they defended in common. Mama knew all that, but it didn't make her understand any more of what was in the book, or what in the book was so important. And so, like a cunning pupil, she came up with an excuse: she complained that she had to read the books in secret to avoid being discovered, and she therefore couldn't concentrate on them as well as she wanted to.
The painter accepted this excuse, but he found an ingenious way out: at the next lesson he spoke to Jaromil about the currents of modern art and gave him several books to read, which the boy gladly accepted. When Mama first saw these books on her son's desk and realized that this contraband literature was actually intended for her she was frightened. Until then she alone had taken on the entire burden of her adventure, but now her son (that image of purity) had become an unwitting emissary of adulterous love. But there was nothing to be done, the books were on Jaromil's desk and Mama had no choice but to leaf through them in the guise of understandable maternal concern.
One day she dared to say to the painter that the poems he had lent her seemed needlessly obscure and confused. She regretted uttering these words the moment after she said them, for the painter considered the slightest divergence from his opinions as a betrayal. Mama quickly tried to erase her blunder. As the painter, his brow wrathful, turned away toward his canvas, she rapidly slipped off her blouse and brassiere. She had pretty breasts and knew it; now she proudly displayed them (but not without a remnant of shyness) as she crossed the studio, and then, half hidden by the canvas on the easel, she planted herself in front of the
She would sit beside the painter as he worked, but that was not enough for him; he explained to her that painting, as he conceived it, was merely one method among others of quarrying the marvelous from life; and even a child could discover the marvelous at play or an ordinary man by recalling a dream. The painter gave Mama a sheet of paper and colored inks; she was told to make blots on the paper with the various colors and blow on them; rays ran over the paper in all directions and covered it with a multicolored web; the painter displayed Mama's output behind the glass panes of his bookcase and praised them to his guests.
On one of her earliest visits, he gave her several books as she was leaving. At home she had to read them secretly because she was afraid that Jaromil would ask her where she got the books, or another member of the family might ask her the same question, and she would find it difficult to find a satisfactory lie because a glance at them was enough to show that they were very different from the ones in the libraries of their friends or parents. She therefore hid the books in the drawer under her brassieres and nightgowns and read them during the moments when she was alone. The feeling of doing something forbidden and the fear of being caught probably prevented her from concentrating on what she was reading, for she seemed not to be absorbing much of what she read, not understanding most of it even when she reread many pages two or three times in a row.
She would then return to the painter's with the anxiety of a student who was afraid of being quizzed, because the painter would begin by asking her whether she had liked a certain book, and she knew that he wanted to hear not merely a positive answer but also that for him the book was the point of departure for a conversation, and that there were observations in the book on a subject he wanted to be in alliance with her about, as if it were a matter of a truth they defended in common. Mama knew all that, but it didn't make her understand any more of what was in the book, or what in the book was so important. And so, like a cunning pupil, she came up with an excuse: she complained that she had to read the books in secret to avoid being discovered, and she therefore couldn't concentrate on them as well as she wanted to.
The painter accepted this excuse, but he found an ingenious way out: at the next lesson he spoke to Jaromil about the currents of modern art and gave him several books to read, which the boy gladly accepted. When Mama first saw these books on her son's desk and realized that this contraband literature was actually intended for her she was frightened. Until then she alone had taken on the entire burden of her adventure, but now her son (that image of purity) had become an unwitting emissary of adulterous love. But there was nothing to be done, the books were on Jaromil's desk and Mama had no choice but to leaf through them in the guise of understandable maternal concern.
One day she dared to say to the painter that the poems he had lent her seemed needlessly obscure and confused. She regretted uttering these words the moment after she said them, for the painter considered the slightest divergence from his opinions as a betrayal. Mama quickly tried to erase her blunder. As the painter, his brow wrathful, turned away toward his canvas, she rapidly slipped off her blouse and brassiere. She had pretty breasts and knew it; now she proudly displayed them (but not without a remnant of shyness) as she crossed the studio, and then, half hidden by the canvas on the easel, she planted herself in front of the
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