He turned to Caxton and said briskly, “Ben, you will have to wait while I give you a lesson in how to look at sculpture. You’ve been rude to a lady. I don’t tolerate that.”
“Huh? Don’t be silly, Jubal; you’re rude to ladies—live ones—a dozen times a day.”
Jubal shouted, “Anne! Upstairs! Wear your cloak!”
“You know I wouldn’t be rude to the old woman who posed for that. What I can’t understand is a so-called artist having the gall to pose somebody’s great grandmother in her skin . . . and you having the bad taste to want it around.”
Anne came in, cloaked. Jubal said, “Anne, have I ever been rude to you? Or to any of the girls?”
“That calls for opinion.”
“That’s what I’m asking for. You’re not in court.”
“You have never been rude to any of us, Jubal.”
“Have you ever known me to be rude to a lady?”
“I have seen you be intentionally rude to a woman. I have never seen you be rude to a lady.”
“One more opinion. What do you think of this bronze?”
Anne looked at Rodin’s masterpiece, said slowly, “When I first saw it, I thought it was horrible. But I have come to the conclusion that it may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“Thanks. That’s all.” She left. “Want to argue, Ben?”
“Huh? When I argue with Anne, that day I turn in my suit. But I don’t grok it.”
“Attend me, Ben. Anybody can see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl she used to be. A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see that this lovely young girl is still alive, prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn’t matter to you and me—but it does to them. Look at her!”
Ben looked a her. Presently Jubal said gruffly, “All right, blow your nose. Come sit down.”
“No,” Caxton answered. “How about this one? I see it’s a girl. But why tie her up like a pretzel?”
Jubal looked at the replica “Caryatid Who Has Fallen under Her Stone.” “I won’t expect you to appreciate the masses which make that figure much more than a ‘pretzel’—but you can appreciate what Rodin was saying. What do people get out of looking at a crucifix?”
“You know I don’t go to church.”
“Still, you must know that representations of the Crucifixion are usually atrocious—and ones in churches are the worst . . . blood like catsup and that ex-carpenter portrayed as if He were a pansy . . . which He certainly was not. He was a hearty man, muscular and healthy. But a poor portrayal is as effective as a good one for most people. They don’t see defects; they see a symbol which inspires their deepest emotions; it recalls to them the Agony and Sacrifice of God.”
“Jubal, I thought you weren’t a Christian?”
“Does that make me blind to human emotion? The crummiest plaster crucifix can evoke emotions in the human heart so strong that many have died for them. The artistry with which such a symbol is wrought is irrelevant. Here we have another emotional symbol—but wrought with exquisite artistry. Ben, for three thousand years architects designed buildings with columns shaped as female figures. At last Rodin pointed out that this was work too heavy for a girl. He didn’t say, ‘Look, you jerks, if you must do this, make it a brawny male figure.’ No, he showed it. This poor little caryatid has fallen under the load. She’s a good girl—look at her face. Serious, unhappy at her failure, not blaming anyone, not even the gods . . . and still trying to shoulder her load, after she’s crumpled under it.
“But she’s more than good art denouncing bad art; she’s a symbol for every woman who ever shouldered a load too heavy. But not alone women—this symbol means every man and woman who ever sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude until they crumpled under their loads. It’s courage, Ben, and victory.”
“ ‘Victory’?”
“Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn’t give up, Ben; she’s still trying to lift that stone after it has crushed her. She’s a father working while cancer eats away his insides, to bring home one more pay check. She’s a twelve-year-old trying to mother her brothers and sisters because mama had to go to Heaven. She’s a switchboard operator sticking to her post while smoke chokes her and fire cuts off her escape. She’s all the unsung heroes who couldn’t make it but never quit. Come. Salute as you pass and come see my Little Mermaid.”
Ben took him literally; Jubal made no comment. “Now this,” he said, “is one Mike didn’t give to me. I haven’t told Mike why I got it . . . since it is self-evident that it’s one of the most delightful compositions ever wrought by the eye and hand of man.”
“This one I don’t need explained—it’s pretty!”
“Which is excuse enough, as with kittens and butterflies. But there is more. She’s not quite a mermaid—see?—nor is she human. She sits on land, where she has chosen to stay . . . and stares eternally out to sea, forever lonely for what she left. You know the story?”
“Hans Christian Andersen.”
“Yes. She sits by the haven of København—and she’s everybody who ever made a difficult choice. She doesn’t regret it but she must pay for it; every choice must be paid for. The cost is not only endless homesickness. She can never be quite human; when she uses her dearly bought feet, every step is on sharp knives. Ben, I think that Mike walks always on knives—but don’t tell him I said so.”
“I won’t. I’d rather look at her and not think about knives.”
“She’s a little darling, isn’t she? How would you like to coax her into bed? She would be lively as a seal, and as slippery.”
“Cripes! You’re an evil old man, Jubal.”
“And getting eviler each year. We won’t look at any others—usually I ration myself to one a day.”
“Suits. I feel as if I had had three quick drinks. Jubal, why isn’t there stuff like this where a person can see it?”
“Because the world has gone nutty and art always paints the spirit of its times. Rodin died about the time the world started flipping its lid. His successors noted the amazing things he had done with light and shadow and mass and composition and they copied that part. What they failed to see was that the master told stories that laid bare the human heart. They became contemptuous of painting or sculpture that told stories—they dubbed such work ‘literary.’ They went all out for abstractions.”
Jubal shrugged. “Abstract design is all right—for wallpaper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity and terror. What modern artists do is pseudo-intellectual masturbation. Creative art is intercourse, in which the artist renders emotional his audience. These laddies who won’t deign to do that—or can’t—lost the public. The ordinary bloke will not buy ‘art’ that leaves him unmoved. If he does pay, the money is conned out of him, by taxes or such.”
“Jubal, I’ve always wondered why I didn’t give a hoot for art. I thought it was something missing in me.”
“Mmm, one does have to learn to look at art. But it’s up to the artist to use language that can be understood. Most of these jokers don’t want to use language you and I can learn; they would rather sneer because we ‘fail’ to see what they are driving at. If anything. Obscurity is the refuge of incompetence. Ben, would you call me an artist?”
“Huh? You write a fair stick.”
“Thank you. ‘Artist’ is a word I avoid for the same reason I hate to be called ‘Doctor.’ But I am an artist. Most of my stuff is worth reading only once . . . and not even once by a person who knows the little I have to say. But I am an honest artist. What I write is intend
ed to reach the customer—and affect him, if possible with pity and terror . . . or at least divert the tedium of his hours. I never hide from him in a private language, nor am I seeking praise from other writers for ‘technique’ or other balderdash. I want praise from the customer, given in cash because I’ve reached him—or I don’t want anything. Support for the arts—merde! A government-supported artist is an incompetent whore! Damn it, you punched one of my buttons. Fill your glass and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Jubal, I’m unhappy.”
“This is news?”
“I’ve got a fresh set of troubles.” Ben frowned. “I’m not sure I want to talk about them.”
“Then listen to my troubles.”
“You have troubles? Jubal, I thought you were the one man who had managed to beat the game.”
“Hmm, sometime I must tell you about my married life. Yes, I’ve got troubles. Duke has left—or did you know?”
“I knew.”
“Larry is a good gardener—but the gadgets that run this hogan are falling to pieces. Good mechanics are scarce. Ones that will fit into this household are almost non-existent. I’m limping along on repairmen—every visit a disturbance, all of them with larceny in their hearts, and most of them can’t use a screw driver without cutting themselves. Nor can I, so I’m at their mercy.”
“My heart aches for you, Jubal.”
“Never mind the sarcasm. Mechanics and gardeners are convenient; secretaries are essential. Two of mine are pregnant, one is getting married.”
Caxton looked flabbergasted. Jubal growled, “Oh, I’m not telling tales. They’re sore because I took you up here without giving them time to boast. So be surprised when they tell you.”
“Uh, which one is getting married?”
“Isn’t that obvious? The happy man is that smooth-talking refugee from a sand storm, our esteemed water brother Stinky Mahmoud. I told him that they have to live here whenever they’re in this country. Bastard laughed and pointed out that I had invited him to, long ago.” Jubal sniffed. “Wouldn’t be so bad if he would. I might get some work out of her.”
“You probably would. She likes to work. The other two are pregnant?”
“Higher ’n a kite. I’m refreshing in O.B. because they say they’re going to have ’em at home. What a crimp babies will put in my working habits! But why do you assume that neither turgescent tummy belongs to the bride?”
“Why, I assumed that Stinky was more conventional than that . . . or more cautious.”
“Stinky wouldn’t be given a ballot. Ben, in all the years I have studied this subject, trying to trace the meanderings of their twisty little minds, the only thing I have learned is that when a gal is gonna, she’s gonna. All a man can do is cooperate with the inevitable.”
“Well, which one isn’t getting married or anything? Miriam? Or Anne?”
“Hold it, I didn’t say the bride was pregnant . . . and you seem to be thinking that Dorcas is the prospective bride. It’s Miriam who is studying Arabic.”
“Huh? I’m a cross-eyed baboon!”
“Obviously.”
“But Miriam was always snapping at Stinky—”
“And they trust you with a newspaper column—Ever watch a bunch of sixth-graders?”
“Yes, but—Dorcas did everything but a nautch dance.”
“That is Dorcas’s natural behavior. Be sure that when Miriam shows you her ring—size of a roc’s egg and about as scarce—act surprised. I’m damned if I’ll sort out which are spawning. Just remember that they are pleased . . . which is why I tipped you off, so that you wouldn’t think they thought they were ‘caught.’ They don’t. They weren’t. They’re smug.” Jubal sighed. “I’m too old to enjoy the patter of little feet— but I won’t lose perfect secretaries—and kids that I love—for any reason if I can induce them to stay. This household has become steadily disorganized ever since Jill kicked Mike’s feet out from under him. Not that I blame her . . . and I don’t think you do, either.”
“No, but—Jubal, are you under the impression that Jill started Mike on his merry rounds?”
“Huh?” Jubal looked startled. “Then who was it?”
“ ‘Don’t be nosy, bub.’ However, Jill straightened me out when I jumped to the same conclusion. As I understand it, which one scored first was more or less chance.”
“Mmm . . . yes. I believe so.”
“Jill thinks so. She thinks Mike was lucky in happening to seduce, or be seduced by, the one best fitted to start him off right. Which gives you a hint if you know how Jill’s mind works.”
“Hell, I don’t even know how mine works. As for Jill, I would never have expected her to take up preaching no matter how love-struck she was—so I don’t know how her mind works.”
“She doesn’t preach much—we’ll get to that. Jubal, what do you read from the calendar?”
“Huh?”
“You think Mike did it—in both cases—if his visits home match up.”
Jubal said guardedly, “Ben, I’ve said nothing to lead you to think so.”
“The hell you haven’t. You said they were smug. I know the effect that goddam superman has on women.”
“Hold it, son—he’s our water brother.”
Ben said levelly, “I know it—and I love him, too. But that’s all the more reason I understand why they are smug.”
Jubal stared at his glass. “Ben, seems to me your name could be on the list easier than Mike’s.”
“Jubal, you’re out of your mind!”
“Take it easy. While I really do so help me by all the Billion Names of God believe in not poking my nose into other people’s business, nevertheless I have normal eyesight and hearing. If a brass band parades through my home, I notice. You’ve slept under this roof dozens of times. Did you ever sleep alone?”
“Why, you scoundrel! Uh, I slept alone the first night I was here.”
“Dorcas must have been off her feed. No, you were under sedative that night—doesn’t count. Some other night?”
“Your question is irrelevant, immaterial, and beneath my notice.”
“That’s an answer. Please note that the added bedrooms are as far from mine as possible. Soundproofing is never perfect.”
“Jubal, wouldn’t your name be higher up that list than mine?”
“What?”
“Not to mention Larry and Duke. Jubal, everybody assumes that you are keeping the fanciest harem since the Sultan. Don’t misunderstand me—they envy you. But they think you’re a lecherous old goat.”
Jubal drummed on his chair arm. “Ben, I do not mind being treated flippantly by my juniors. But in this matter I insist that my years be treated with respect.”
“Sorry,” Ben said stiffly. “I thought if it was all right for you to kick my sex life around, you would not mind my being equally frank.”
“No, no, Ben!—you misunderstand. I require the girls to treat me with respect—on this subject.”
“Oh—”
“I am, as you pointed out, old—quite old. Privately, I am happy to say that I am still lecherous. But lechery does not command me. I prefer dignity to indulging in pastimes which, believe me, I have enjoyed in full measure and do not need to repeat. Ben, a man my age, who looks like a slum clearance in its grimmest stage, can bed a young girl—and possibly big her and thanks for the compliment; it might not be amiss—through three means: money . . . or the equivalent in terms of wills and community property and such . . . and—pause for question: Can you imagine any of these four bedding with a man for those reasons?”
“No. Not any of them.”
“Thank you, sir. I associate only with ladies; I’m pleased that you know it. The third incentive is a most female one. A sweet young girl sometimes takes an old wreck to bed because she is fond of him, sorry for him, and wishes to make him happy. Would that apply?”
“Uh . . . Jubal, it might. With any of them.”
“I think so, too. But this reason which any of these l
adies might find sufficient is not sufficient for me. I have my dignity, sir—so please take my name off the list.”
Caxton grinned. “Okay—you stiff-necked old coot. I hope that when I am your age I won’t be so hard to tempt.”
Jubal smiled. “Better to be tempted and resist, than be disappointed. Now about Duke and Larry: I don’t know nor care. Whenever anyone comes here to live, I make it plain that this is neither a sweat shop nor a whore house, but a home . . . and, as such, it combines anarchy and tyranny without a trace of democracy, as in any well-run family, i.e., they are on their own except where I give orders, which orders are not subject to debate. My tyranny never extends to love life. The kids have always kept their private matters reasonably private. At least—”Jubal smiled ruefully. “—until the Martian influence got out of hand. Perhaps Duke and Larry have been dragging the gals behind every bush. But there have been no screams.”
“Then you think it’s Mike.”
Jubal scowled. “Yes. That’s all right—I told you the girls were smugly happy . . . and I’m not broke plus the fact that I could bleed Mike for any amount. Their babies won’t lack. But, Ben, I’m troubled about Mike himself.”
“So am I, Jubal.”
“And about Jill.”
“Uh . . . Jubal, Jill isn’t the problem. It’s Mike.”
“Damn it, why can’t the boy come home and quit this obscene pulpit pounding?”
“Mmm . . . Jubal, that’s not quite what he’s doing.” Ben added, “I’ve just come from there.”
“Huh? Why didn’t you say so?”
Ben sighed. “First you talked art, then you sang the blues, then you wanted to gossip.”
“Uh . . . you have the floor.”
“Coming back from the Capetown conference, I visited them. What I saw worried the hell out of me—so I stopped by my office, then came here. Jubal, couldn’t you rig it with Douglas to close down this operation?”
Jubal shook his head. “What Mike does with his life is his business.”
“You would if you had seen what I saw.”
“Not I! But in the second place I can’t. Nor can Douglas.”
“Jubal, Mike would accept any decision you made about his money. He probably wouldn’t even understand it.”