Well, they were as crimson as their banner now, Jubal thought cynically. Mike put in a few weeks as assistant chaplain at his churchmouse alma mater — then broke with the sect in a schism and founded his own church. Completely kosher, legally airtight, as venerable in precedent as Martin Luther — and as nauseating as last week's garbage.
Jubal was called out of his sour daydream by Miriam. «Boss! Company!»
Jubal looked up to see a car about to land. «Larry, fetch my shotgun — swore I would shoot the next dolt who landed on the rose bushes.»
«He's landing on the grass, Boss.»
«Tell him to try again. We'll get him on the next pass.»
«Looks like Ben Caxton.»
«So it is. Hi, Ben! What'll you drink?»
«Nothing, you professional bad influence. Need to talk to you, Jubal.»
«You're doing it. Dorcas, fetch Ben a glass of warm milk; he's sick.»
«Without much soda,» amended Ben, «and milk the bottle with the three dimples. Private talk, Jubal.»
«All right, up to my study — although if you can keep anything from the kids around here, let me in on your method.» After Ben finished greeting properly (and unsanitarily, in three cases) members of the family, they moseyed upstairs.
Ben said, «What the deuce? Am I lost?»
«Oh. You haven't seen the new wing. Two bedrooms and another bath downstairs — and up here, my gallery.»
«Enough statues to fill a graveyard!»
«Please, Ben. “Statues” are dead politicians. This is “sculpture”. Please speak in a reverent tone lest I become violent. Here are replicas of some of the greatest sculpture this naughty globe has produced.»
«Well,that hideous thing I've seen before … but when did you acquire the rest of this ballast?»
Jubal spoke to the replica La Belle Heaulmiere. «Do not listen, ma petite chere — he is a barbarian and knows no better.» He put his hand to her beautiful ravaged cheek, then gently touched one empty, shrunken dug. «I know how you feel … it can't be much longer. Patience, my lovely.»
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 crum miest 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.»