view of himself！ Naively happy with a long and pleasant conversation； the interviewer will leave the subject in a blithe mood； only to learn later； when he sits chagrined at his typewriter； that he has nothing to write about。
The toilet flushed。 Debierue waited politely for me to continue； but I swirled the juice in my glass； sipped the rest of it slowly until Berenice rejoined us； and then excused myself on the pretense that I also had to use the facility。
I still carried my camera； of course； and I quickly opened the door on the left of the hall； across from the padlocked door。 I closed it softly behind me and took the room in rapidly。 If one of Debierue's paintings was on the wall； I was going to take a picture of it。 But there was only one painting on the wall； a dime…store print in a cheap black frame of Trail's End…the ancient Indian sitting on his wornout horse。 In the 1930s almost every lower middle class home in America contained a print of Trail's End； but I hadn't expected to find one in Debierue's bedroom。 Either Cassidy； in his meanness； had hung it on the wall； or it had been left there by the owner of the house。 But I still couldn't fathom how Debierue could tolerate the corny picture； unless； perhaps； he was amused by the ironic idea behind the print。 Of course； that was probably the reason。
The bedroom was austere。 A Hollywood single bed； made up with apple…green sheets…and no bedspread…an unpainted pine highboy； a wrought…iron bedside table with a slab of white tile for a top； and a red plastic Charles Eames chair beside the bed made up the inventory。 There was a ceiling light； but no lamp。 Debierue was a nihilist and stoic in his everyday life as well as in his art； but I felt a wave of sympathy for the painter all the same。 It was a shame； I felt； that this great man had so few creature forts in his old age。 There was no need for me to slide open the closet door； or to search the drawers of the highboy and paw through his clothing。
I took a nervous leak in the bathroom； and turned on the tap to wash my hands in the washbowl。 I opened the mirrored cabinet to see what kind of medicines he kept there。 If he had any diseases； or an illness of some kind； the medicines he used would furnish a valid clue； and that might be worth writing about。 Except for Elixophyllin…KI （an expectorant that eases the ability to breathe for persons with asthma； emphysema； and bronchitis） and three bars of Emulave （a kind of 〃soapless〃 soap； or cleansing bar for people with very dry skin…and I had noted the dryness of the painter's hands already）； there was nothing out of the ordinary in the cabinet。 A pearl…handled straight razor； a cup with shaving soap and brush； a bottle of blue green Scope； a half…used tube of Stripe toothpaste； a green plastic Dr。 West toothbrush； a 100…tablet bottle of Bayer aspirin； with the cotton gone； and that was it。 There wasn't even a b； although Debierue； with a bald head as slick as a peeled almond； didn't need a b。 As bathroom medicine chests in America go； this was the barest cabinet…outside of a rented motel room…I had ever seen。
I returned to the living room in time to hear Berenice say； 〃Don't you get lonely； Mr。 Debierue； living way out here all alone？〃
He smiled； patted her hand； and shook his head。
〃It's the nature of the artist to be lonely；〃 I answered for him。 〃But the painter has his work to do； which is ample pensation。〃
〃I know；〃 Berenice said； 〃but this place is a million miles from nowhere。 You ought to get a car； Mr。 Debierue。 Then you could drive over to Dania for jai…alai at night or something。〃
〃No； no；〃 he protested； still patting her hand； 〃I am too old now to learn how to drive an automobile。〃
〃You could take some students；〃 Berenice said eagerly。 〃There would be a lot of students who would like to work with you in your studio！ And I bet they'd e with cars from all over〃…she turned to me…〃wouldn't they； James？〃
Debierue laughed； and I joined him； although I was laughing more at Berenice's droll expression…half anger and half bewilderment…because we were laughing at her。 For any other painter of equal stature； Picasso； for instance； the suggestion of a student working with a master was valid enough。 But for Debierue； who showed his work to no one； the idea was absurd。 Debierue had sidetracked me neatly。 It was time to get back to business。
I put an affectionate arm around Berenice's waist and squeezed her as a signal to keep quiet。 〃You didn't answer my question a while ago； M。 Debierue；〃 I said soberly。 〃You have been very nice to me…to us both…even though we've invaded your privacy。 But I would like to see your present work…〃
He sighed。 〃I'm sorry； M。 Figueras。 You have made your visit without reason。 You see；〃 he shrugged； 〃I have no work to show you。〃
〃Nothing at all？ Not even a drawing？〃
The corners of his mouth drooped morosely。 〃Work I have； yes。 But what things I have done in Florida are not deserving of your attention。〃
〃Why don't you let me be the judge of that？〃
His strained half…smile was weary； but his features stiffened with a mask of discernible dignity。 His voice dropped to a husky whisper。 〃The artist alone is the final judge of his work； M。 Figueras。〃
I flushed。 〃please don't misunderstand me；〃 I said quickly。 〃I didn't mean what I said to e out that way。 What I meant was that I don't intend to criticize your work； or judge it in any way。 I meant to say that I would prefer to be the judge of whether I'd like to see it or not。 And I would。 It would be an honor。〃
〃No。 I am sorry but I must refuse。 You are a critic and you cannot help yourself。 For you； to see a picture is to make a judgment。 I do not want your judgment。 I paint for Debierue。 I please myself and I displease myself。 For a young man like you to say to me； 'Ah； M。 Debierue； here in this corner a touch of terracotta might strengthen the visual weight；〃 or 'I like the tactile texture； but I believe I see a hole in the overall position。。。：〃 He chuckled drily。 〃I must say No； M。 Figueras。〃
〃You are putting me down； sir；〃 I said。 〃I know there are critics such as you describe； but I'm not one of them。〃 My face was flaming； but my voice was under control。
〃With the art of Debierue； one man is a crowd。 Me。 Debierue。 Two people are a noisy audience。 But to have one spectator with a pen； the critic； is to have many thousands of spectators。 Surrealism does not need your rationale； M。 Figueras。 And Debierue does not paint 'bicephalous centaursY'
〃He won't let you see his pictures； will he？〃 Berenice guessed； looking at my face。
I shook my head。
〃Maybe；〃 she turned and looked coyly at Debierue； 〃you'll let me see them instead； Mr。 Debierue？〃
He stepped back a few feet and examined her figure admiringly。 〃You have a wide pelvis； my dear； and it will be very easy for you to have many fine； beautiful babies。〃
〃By that he means No for me too； doesn't he？〃
〃What else？〃 I shrugged； and lit a cigarette。
As I had suspected； Debierue had disliked Galt's criticism。 I could have begged； but that would have been abhorrent to me。 If this was the way he felt there was no point in pursuing the matter anyway。 In one way； he was right about me。 It would have been impossible for me to look at his work without judging it。 And although I would not have said anything derogatory about his work； no matter how I felt about it； there was bound to be some indication of how I felt…pro or con…reflected in my face。 If he didn't actually believe that his paintings were worthy （although his faculty for criticism was certainly not as good as mine）； all I could do now was take him at his word。 I felt almost like crying。 It was one of the greatest disappointments of my life。
〃Perhaps another time； then； M。 Debierue；〃 I said。
〃Yes； perhaps。〃 He stroked his beaked nose pensively and studied my face。 Not rudely； but earnestly。 He glanced toward the hallway leading to his padlocked studio； looked back at me； smiled at Berenice； and tugged pensively at his lower lip。 I suspect that he had expected me to put up a prolonged； involved argument； and now he didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed by my failure to protest。
〃Tell me something； M。 Figueras。 I am called the Nihilistic Surrealist； but I have never known why。 Do you see much disorder here； in my little house？〃
〃No； sir' I looked around。 〃Far from it。〃
For an artist； the lack of clutter was most unusual。 Painters； as a 〃class〃； are a messy lot。 They collect things。 An old board with concentric swirls； a rock with an intriguing shape； jumbles of wire； seashells； any and all kinds of things that have； to them； interesting shapes or colors。 A chunk of wood； for example； may gather a heavy patina of dust for years before a sculptor finally detects the shape within the object and liberates it into a piece of sculpture。
Painters are even messier； in most instances； than sculptors。 They stick drawings up here and there。 Pads with sketches are scattered about haphazardly； and they clutter their quarters with all kinds of props and worthless junk。 Things are needed for visual stimulation and possible ideas。 This clutter is not confined to