What I
wish to know is what form your art may take. How marshal odours as
melodies in a symphony, as colours on a canvas?" She made an impatient
gesture.
"And how like an amateur you talk. Melody! When harmony is infinitely
greater in music! Form! When colour is infinitely greater than line! The
most profound music gives only the timbre--melodies are for infantile
people without imagination, who believe in patterns. Tone is the quality
_I_ wish on a canvas, not anxious drawing. So it is with perfumes. I can
blend them into groups of lovely harmony; I can give you single notes of
delicious timbre--in a word, I can evoke an odour symphony which will
transport you. Memory is a supreme factor in this art. Do not forget how
the vaguest scent will carry you back to your youthful dreamland. It is
also the secret of spiritual correspondences--it plays the great role of
bridging space between human beings."
"I sniff the air promise-crammed," he gayly misquoted. "But when will
you rewrite this Apocalypse? and how am I to know whether I shall really
enjoy this feast of perfume, if you can simulate the odour of iris as
you did an hour ago?"
"I propose to show you an artificial paradise," she firmly asserted.
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