The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (14 page)

My mother made a wry face, as if she had bitten into a tart plum. Then she smiled compassionately, first at Mona, then at me. Indeed she was almost at the point of laughter when she answered: Don’t worry, he’ll go like all of us. Look at him—he’s already bald and he’s only in his thirties. He doesn’t take care of himself. Nor you either. Her look now changed to one of benevolent reproval.

Val’s a genius, said Mona, putting her foot in still deeper. She was about to amplify but my mother stalled her.

Do you have to be a genius to write stories? she asked. There was an ominous challenge in her tone.

No, said Mona, but Val would be a genius even if he didn’t write.

Tsch tsch! He certainly is no genius at making money.

He shouldn’t think about money, came Mona’s quick reply. That’s for me to worry about.

While he stays home and scribbles, is that it? The venom had started to flow. And you, a handsome young woman like you, you have to go out and take a job. Times have changed. When I was a girl my father sat on the bench from morning till night. He earned the money. He didn’t need inspiration … nor genius. He was too busy keeping us children alive and happy. We had no mother … she was in the insane asylum. But we had him—and we loved him dearly. He was father and mother to us. We never lacked for anything. She paused a moment, to take a good aim. But this fellow, and she nodded in my direction, this genius, as you call him, he’s too lazy to take a job. He expects his wife to take care of him—and his other wife and child. If he earned anything from his writing I wouldn’t mind. But to go on writing and never get anywhere, that I don’t understand,

But mother … Mona started to say.

Look here, said I, hadn’t we better drop the subject? We’ve been all over this dozens of times. It’s no use. I don’t expect you to understand. But you should understand this … Your father didn’t become a first-class coat maker over night, did he? You told me yourself that he served a long, hard apprenticeship, that he traveled from town to town, all over Germany, and finally, to avoid the army, he went to London. It’s the same with writing. It takes years to acquire mastery. And still more years to attain recognition. When your father made a coat there was some one ready to wear it; he didn’t have to peddle it around until some one admired it and bought it…

You’re just talking, said my mother. I’ve heard enough. She rose to go to the kitchen.

Don’t go! begged Mona. Listen to me, please. I know Val’s faults. But I also know what’s in him. He’s not an idle dreamer, he really works. He works harder at his writing than he possibly could at any job. That is his job, scribbling, as you call it. It’s what he was born to do. I wish to God I had a vocation, something I could pursue with all my heart, something I believed in absolutely. Just to watch him at work gives me joy. He’s another person when he’s writing. Sometimes even I don’t recognize him. He’s so earnest, so full of thoughts, so wrapped up in himself … Yes, I too had a good father, a father I loved dearly. He also wanted to be a writer. But his life was too difficult. We were a big family, immigrants, very poor. And my mother was very exacting. I was drawn to my father much more than to my mother. Perhaps just because he was a failure. He wasn’t a failure to me, understand. I loved him. It didn’t matter to me what he was or what he did. At times, just like Val here, he would make a clown of himself…

Here my mother gave a little start, looked at Mona with curious eyes, and said—Oh? Evidently, no one had ever expatiated on this aspect of my personality before.

I know he has a sense of humor, she said, but … a clown?

That’s only her way of putting it, the old man threw in.

No, said Mona doggedly, I mean just that … a clown.

I never heard of a writer being a clown too, was my mother’s sententious, asinine remark.

At this point any one else would have given up. Not Mona. She amazed me by her persistence. This time she was all earnestness. (Or was she exploiting this opportunity to convince me of her loyalty and devotion?) Anyway, I decided to let her have full swing. Better a good argument, whatever the risk, than the other sort of lingo. It was revivifying, if nothing more.

When he acts the buffoon, said Mona, it’s usually because he’s been hurt. He’s sensitive, you know. Too sensitive.

I thought he had a pretty thick hide, said my mother.

You must be joking. He’s the most sensitive being alive. All artists are sensitive.

That’s true, said my father. Perhaps he was thinking of Ruskin—or of that poor devil Ryder whose landscapes were morbidly sensitive.

Look, mother, it doesn’t matter how long it takes for Val to be recognized and given his due. He’ll always have me. And I won’t let him starve or suffer. (I could feel my mother freezing up again.) I saw what happened to my father; it’s not going to happen to Val. He’s going to do as he likes. I have faith in him. And I’ll continue to have faith in him even if the whole world denies him. She paused a long moment, then even more seriously she continued: Why it is you don’t want him to write is beyond me. It can’t be because he isn’t earning a living at it. That’s his worry and mine, isn’t it? I don’t mean to hurt you by what I say, but I’ve got to say this—if you don’t accept him as a writer you’ll never have him as a son. How can you understand him if you don’t know this side of him? Maybe he could have been something else, something you like better, though it’s hard to see what once you know him … at least, as I know him. And what good would it do for him to prove to you or me or any one that he can be like any one else? You wonder if he’s a good husband, a good father, and so on. He is, I can tell you that. But he’s so much more! What he has to give belongs to the whole world, not merely to his family, his children, his mother or his father. Perhaps this sounds strange to you. Or cruel?

Fantastic! said my mother, and it cut like a whip.

All right, fantastic then. But that’s how it is. One day you may read what he’s written and be proud of having him for a son.

Not I! said my mother. I’d rather see him digging ditches.

He may have to do that too—some day, said Mona. Some artists commit suicide before they’re recognized. Rembrandt finished his life in the streets, as a beggar. And he was one of the greatest…

And what about Van Gogh? chirped Stasia.

Who’s that? said my mother. Another scribbler?

No, a painter. A mad painter too. Stasia’s ruff was rising.

They all sound like crackpots to me, said my mother.

Stasia burst out laughing. Harder and harder she laughed. And what about me? she cried. Don’t you know that I’m also a crackpot?

But an adorable one, said Mona.

I’m plumb crazy, that’s what! said Stasia, chortling some more. Every one knows it.

I could see that my mother was frightened. It was all right to banter the word crackpot about, but to confess to being mad, that was another matter.

It was my father who saved the situation. One’s a clown, said he, the other’s a crackpot, and what are you? He was addressing himself to Mona. Isn’t there anything wrong with you.?

She smiled and answered blithely: I’m perfectly normal. That’s what’s the trouble with me.

He now turned to my mother. Artists are all alike.

They have to be a little mad to paint—or to write. What about our old friend John Imhof?

What about him? said my mother, glaring at him uncomprehendingly. Did he have to run away with another woman, did he have to desert his wife and children to prove that he was an artist?

That’s not what I mean at all. He was getting more and more irritated with her, knowing only too well how stubborn and obtuse she could be. Don’t you remember the look on his face when we would surprise him at his work? There he was, in that little room, painting water colors after every one had gone to bed. He turned to Lorette. Go upstairs and fetch that painting that hangs in the parlor, will you? You know, the one with the man and woman in the rowboat … the man has a bundle of hay on his back.

Yes, said my mother pensively, he was a good man, John Imhof, until his wife took to drink. Though I must say he never showed much interest in his children. He thought of nothing but his art.

He was a good artist, said my father. Beautiful work. Do you remember the stained glass windows he made for the little church around the corner? And what did he get for his labor? Hardly anything. No, I’ll always remember John Imhof, no matter what he did. I only wish we had more of his work.

Lorette now appeared with the painting. Stasia took it from her and examined it, apparently with keen interest. I was fearful lest she say something about it being too academic but no, she was all tact and discretion. She remarked that it was beautifully executed … very skillful.

It’s not an easy medium, she said. Did he ever do oils? I’m not a very good judge of water colors. But I can see that he knew what he was about. She paused. Then, as if she had divined the right tack, she said: There’s one water colorist I really admire. That’s—

John Singer Sargent! exclaimed my father.

Right! said Stasia. How did you know that? I mean, how did you know I had him in mind?

There’s only one Sargent, said my father. It was a pronouncement he had heard many times from the lips of his predecessor, Isaac Walker. There’s only one Sargent, just as there’s only one Beethoven, one Mozart, one da Vinci … Right?

Stasia beamed. She felt emboldened to speak her mind now. She gave me a look, as she opened her mouth, which said—Why didn’t you tell me these things about your father?

I’ve studied them all, she said, and now I’m trying to find myself. I’m not quite as mad as I pretended a moment ago. I know more than I can ever digest, that’s all. I have talent but not genius. Without genius, nothing matters. And I want to be a Picasso … a female Picasso. Not a Marie Laurencin. You see what I mean?

Certainly! said my father. My mother, incidentally, had left the room. I could hear her fiddling around with the pots and pans. She had suffered a defeat.

He copied that from a famous painting, said my father, indicating John Imhof’s water color.

It doesn’t matter, said Stasia. Many artists have copied the works of the men they loved … But what did you say happened to him … this John In—?

He ran away with another woman. Took her to Germany, where he had known her as a boy. Then the war came and we heard no more from him. Killed probably.

How about Raphael, do you like his work?

No greater draughtsman ever, said my father promptly. And Correggio—there was another grand painter. And Corot! You can’t beat a good Corot, can you? Gainsborough I never cared much for. But Sisley…

You seem to know them all, said Stasia, ready now to play the game all night. How about the moderns … do you like them too?

You mean John Sloan, George Luks … those fellows?

No, said Stasia, I mean men like Picasso, Miro, Matisse, Modigliani…

I haven’t kept up with them, said my father. But I do like the Impressionists, what I’ve seen of their work. And Renoir, of course. But then, he’s not a modern, is he?

In a way, yes, said Stasia. He helped pave the way.

He certainly loved paint, you can see that, said my father. And he was a good draughtsman. All his portraits of women and children are strikingly beautiful; they stick with you. And then the flowers and the costumes … everything so gay, so tender, so alive. He painted his time, you’ve got to admit that. And it was a beautiful period—Gay Paree, picnics along the Seine, the Moulin Rouge, lovely gardens…

You make me think of Toulouse-Lautrec, said Stasia.

Monet, Pissarro…

Poincare! I put in.

Strindberg! This from Mona.

Yeah, there was an adorable madman, said Stasia.

Here my mother stuck a head in. Still talking about madmen? I thought you had finished with that subject. She looked from one to the other of us, saw that we were enjoying ourselves, and turned tail. Too much for her. People had no right to be merry talking art. Besides, the very mention of these strange, foreign names offended her. Un-American.

Thus the afternoon wore on, far better than I had expected, thanks to Stasia. She had certainly made a hit with the old man. Even when he good-naturedly remarked that she should have been a man, nothing was made of it.

When the family album was suddenly produced she became almost ecstatic. What a galaxy of screw-balls! Uncle Theodore from Hamburg: a sort of dandified prick. George Schindler from Bremen: a sort of Hessian Beau Brummel who clung to the style of the 1880’s right up to the end of the first World War. Heinrich Muller, my father’s father, from Bavaria: a ringer for the Emperor Franz Joseph. George Insel, the family idiot, who stared like a crazy billy-goat from behind a huge pair of twirling moustaches, a la Kaiser Wilhelm. The women were more enigmatic. My mother’s mother, who had spent half of her life in the insane asylum: might have been a heroine out of one of Walter Scott’s novels. Aunt Lizzie, the monster who had slept with her own brother: a merry looking harridan with bloated rats in her hair and a smile that cut like a knife. Aunt Annie, in a bathing suit of pre-war vintage, looking like a Mack Sennett zany ready for the dog-house. Aunt Amelia, my father’s sister: an angel with soft brown eyes … all beatitude. Mrs. Kicking, the old housekeeper: definitely screwy, ugly as sin, her mug riddled with warts and carbuncles…

Which brought us to the subject of genealogy … In vain I plied them with questions. Beyond their own parents all was vague and dubious.

But hadn’t their parents ever talked of their kin?

Yes, but it was all dim now.

Were any of them painters? asked Stasia.

Neither my mother nor my father thought so.

But there were poets and musicians, said my mother.

And sea captains and peasants, said my father.

Are you sure of that? I asked.

Why are you so interested in all that stuff? said my mother. They’ve all been dead a long time.

I want to know, I replied. Some day I’ll go to Europe and find out for my self.

A wild goose chase, she retorted.