The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (59 page)

—Almost . . .

—Almost? Valentine repeated. He brought up the cold brilliance of his own eyes, to drive the feverish stare fixed upon him down to the floor between them. —Almost what?

—The . . . strength, the delicacy, the tenderness without . . .

—Weakness, yes. Valentine kicked a book on the floor at his feet. —Pliny? what, for his discourse on colors? Yes thanks, I wouldn’t mind a little of that myself, cognac is it? He held out the unwashed glass he was given while the bottle-neck clinked against it, but still looking at the damaged painting. —You do work fast, don’t you. Yes, van der Goes was a fast painter himself, but one, the Portinari triptych I think it was, took him a good three years. But after all this is rather different isn’t it, you know where you’re going all the time. None of that feeling of, what was Valéry’s line, that one can never finish a work of art? one only abandons it? But here there’s none of that problem, is there. Eh? What’s the matter.

—If one minute, first you say, or people say It’s beautiful! and then if, when they find out it isn’t what they were told, if it’s a painting when they find out it was done by, or rather when they find out it wasn’t done by who they thought . . .

—No, no, not this evening, or not today is it? No, really, we won’t settle that here now. It’s not . . . not the point, is it. Drawn by his eyes, Valentine faltered for the first time. —Or if it is the point? the whole point? And he looked away, to the damaged painting.

—What you said, about signing a picture? About that, that being all they care about, the law . . .

—Modern forgeries, forgeries of modern painters, Valentine dismissed him quickly, but looking about the room found only the man and the damaged painting to draw his eyes. —And be careful,
he said, forcing the ease in his voice. —If Brown should decide that there’s as much money in modern painters as there is in his old masters, no, it’s not funny, he’s already threatened you with van Gogh . . . He had commenced to pace the room, and paused to draw to him, with a toe of a black shoe, a detailed drawing which he picked up and studied. He held it up between them and said, —A remarkable likeness.

—A study, from the . . . last work.

—Yes, I see. And reversed, the mirrors? Backwards, like a contact print. Exactly like, and yet a perfect lie. The thing dropped from his fingers and he laughed. —You? the, what was it you said, the shambles of your work? What a pitifully selfish career! being lived, as you said? by something that uses you and then sheds you like a husk when its own ends are accomplished?

—Yes, but if the gods themselves . . .

—Is it worth . . .

—If they cannot recall their . . . gifts, to . . . redeem them, working them out, do you understand? living them through . . . ?

And Valentine turned quickly from those eyes back to the damaged painting leaned against the door, to murmur, —On second thought I believe I would have put another figure or two there in the lower left, the sense of ascendance in the upper part of the composition would gain a good deal . . .

—You?

—and the blue is rather light isn’t it. I think if I’d done it myself I would have used a more . . .

—But you didn’t.

Basil Valentine turned on him slowly, and studied him for a few moments before he spoke. —My dear fellow, he brought out finally. —If you are this sensitive to any sort of criticism, I didn’t come down here to . . .

—Why did you come down here?

—I came down to ask a favor of you. But if you are so painfully sensitive to criticism, such a self-conscious artist that . . .

—No I, it’s just, listen, criticism? It’s the most important art now, it’s the one we need most now. Criticism is the art we need most today. But not, don’t you see? not the “if I’d done it myself . . .” Yes, a, a disciplined nostalgia, disciplined recognitions but not, no, listen, what is the favor? Why did you come here?

Basil Valentine had dropped a cigarette on the stained floor; and stooping to get it, a suspender button at the back of his trousers came off, and he straightened up feeling half his trouser-seat hanging and the other half binding high. —That Patinir? he said. —The
painting that Brown has just inside the door, hung opposite that idiotic portrait. I wanted to ask you if you’d mind making a copy of it for me. He put his hands in his pockets, to hitch his trousers up square, and spoke rapidly. —It wouldn’t even have to be a perfect copy, you know, since the original doesn’t exist. You didn’t know? Brown had the painting heavily insured, and it was destroyed in a fire. At least he had the evidence that it was when the insurance company’s experts came. He’d sawed off one end of it and he showed them that, pretty badly charred but not so much that it couldn’t be identified as all that was left of the original, which he’s waiting now to dispose of again, “in secret” of course. Yes, what’s the matter? what’s funny?

—These. I’ve done the same thing with these.

—What do you mean, the same thing? sawed the ends off and . . .

—Kept them.

—What? What for?

—Proof.

—Proof? Basil Valentine stepped aside quickly as he passed, and watched him pull canvases away from the wall.

—This! he said holding one up. —Do you see? It was going to be a study, it was a study for this . . . this new work, this van Eyck.

—But what? The
Annunciation?
Valentine hitched up the sagging side of his trousers. —And it’s not turning out what you wanted? But it’s an old thing. On linen? What is it? and this, these, earrings? Who is she? These old Byzantine-looking hoops, what is it? Who is she? This? a study for a van Eyck?

—No, but for what I want.

—What are you talking about? And this, what is it? It’s exquisite, this face, the reproach, like the faces, the Virgin in other things you’ve done, the reproach in this face. Your work, it’s old isn’t it, but a little always shows through, yes something, semper aliquid haeret? something always remains, something of you. But what are you talking about? Valentine found the feverish eyes fixed on him. —Here, this . . . I’ve brought down these pictures, these photographic details of, here, if you’re going to bring the critics back to believing in Hubert van Eyck? And the, why we may enshrine your arm in a casket right over the door here? in Horatio Street? like Hubert van Eyck’s right arm over the portals of the church of Saint Bavon’s in Ghent? But what is it? what’s the matter? what are you talking about, this proof? to prove what? Valentine demanded.

—Listen, this, if I wanted to go on with this work, myself? And to clear up the other things I’ve done? The Bouts, the van der Goes? If I want to tell them, and I have the proof, off every one of them,
a canvas or a panel, I cut a strip off the end when it was done, and I have them.

—Where? Valentine asked quickly.

—Yes, they’re safe.

—Where? Valentine repeated.

—And that will be proof, won’t it.

—Proof? Valentine stood up. —Do you think it’s going to be that easy? Yes, do you think they want to be told? Any more than Michelangelo’s Cardinale di San Giorgio? Yes, he’d kept aside an arm from his “antique” cupid, and he went to get the Cardinal’s help starting his career, showed him the arm from the statue to prove he’d done it, do you think the Cardinal thanked him? Valentine picked up his glass and finished it. —Do you think it’s that simple? Why . . . He put a hand out to the shoulder before him. —That you can do it alone, that simply? He withdrew his hand slowly. —But you’re wet, your jacket’s damp. You’ve been out?

—Earlier, just before you came, for a walk . . .

—But you told me, when I came in you said you’d been working here all night.

—Yes, but, I went out, I’ll tell you, I went out, I took those fragments, those strips from the ends of the paintings, where they’d be safe.

—Where? Valentine demanded.

—I took them up . . . where I used to live.

—Where you haven’t lived for, two years is it? To your wife, your wife, so you trust her? You trust your wife to watch over them?

—She doesn’t even know. She wasn’t there. Only her sister, yes her sister, we hid them.

But Basil Valentine had turned from him, to pace to the end of the room, where he stood looking at him, at his impatient eyes, and the crumpled damp black jacket hanging from his shoulders. —Your wife, eh? He paused, but spoke more rapidly as he went on, —The Rouge Cloître? Yes, and where’s the mother superior? Who keeps house for you here, then? This floor, how do you keep it so dirty? Why . . . so you trust her with it, do you? these fragments that are so important. And here, this van der Goes, what happens to her face in that, eh? All the rest of them, yes, the men, you out of your mirrors, you’re there half a dozen times, backwards? Drawing death and modeling it under your own hand, but what happens to her face? Oh, the damage doesn’t respect the composition? No, not a bit, not a bit of it. He stopped; the vein stood out like a bulb at his temple. He touched it with a fingertip, dropped his shoulders back against the empty irregular brick mantel, and lit
a cigarette. Immediately the draft caught its smoke and drew it up the flue behind him. —And this, who’s this in this study on the easel? It’s old, isn’t it. Your wife?

Standing under the bare bulb, facing Valentine, he started to speak, but all he said was, —She . . .

—Yes, or your mother?

—Yes. My mother, he admitted in a whisper, looking back at the picture on the soiled gesso, his face drawn up in lines of confusion as though he had just remembered.

—Yes, is it? Valentine muttered. —The
Visitation
, then? He laughed. —A
Stabat Mater?
No. No more, thank you. Suppose . . . like Nicodemus I come down here? Yes, the Pharisee Nicodemus in Saint John, that . . . least reliable of the gospels? “Except a man be born again”? Yes, verily, “. . . Nicodemus saith unto him, How can a man be born when he is old? can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb, and be born?” Valentine coughed and cleared his throat. He’d snatched up his coat before he seemed aware of the clouding of anxiety which had risen in the eyes fixed on his sudden movements, an expression near a wince drawing up the face, and the figure seated unbalanced on a high stool, retreated there from avoiding him with the alert caution of a shadow, the crumpled shoulders sunk unevenly and still. Nonetheless Valentine pulled on his coat, but slowed, and his voice recovered its sharp ease. —You want to get on with this work, don’t you. But we might go up together sometime, and have a look at that
Eden?
The snake there, he laughed, gripping his lapels and lifted his overcoat into shape at the front. —The snake of consciousness? And there she is, Eve, the woman. The same woman, personalizing everything. Good Christians, good targets for advertising, because they personalize everything. A deodorant or a crucifix, they take it and make it part of them. He picked up his hat, dropping his voice to an irritating monotone. —What was it, in Ecclesiastes? God hath made man upright, but the women have sought out many inventions . . . ?

—Wait . . .

—Eh?

—Do you think . . . here, do you want some more brandy?

—I’ll get along, I don’t want to keep you, Valentine said, in his voice a tone of cordial deference; and back a step, something rolled away from his foot, and he stooped to retrieve it. —Rose madder? he read from the label.

—Oh that, it’s nothing. Rose madder, it’s too late.

—Too late? Valentine looked up pretending surprise at the eager
distress in the voice, and the unsteady hand where he surrendered the packet.

—I got it for a Bouts, the first Dierick Bouts, but these colors, . . . madder lake wasn’t used until the sixteenth century. And Bouts was dead. Dierick Bouts, he . . . he was dead. Wait . . . listen, do you think something might go wrong?

—Go wrong?

—If I try to tell them, about these pictures?

—Have it your own way, Valentine shrugged. —If you think you can do it alone.

—But the proof? even with that?

—You’re sure they’re safe? Valentine’s lips drew to a thin smile.

—Well, wait then. Wait. If you . . .

—I? If I could help you?

—Yes, these fragments . . .

—Bring them along, then, if you like. We’ll work this thing out. Basil Valentine put on his hat; and his eyes, gone hard under the black brim, were drawn over the wrinkled shoulder from the lined face before him to the clear face on the easel, as he added, —Bring them up to my place, then. Do you hear? There’s no room for mistakes. He stood like that, staring at the picture up on the easel whose unsurprised eyes looked beyond him; and finally, murmuring, —Your mother, eh? he took his eyes from it with abrupt effort. —A
Stabat Mater?
Not a girl, not a woman at all.

He turned on his heel and pulled open the door. —It’s going to smell strange out there, after this . . . odor of sanctity? The gold seal ring shone against the edge of the open door, glittering softly in the light of the bare electric bulb, as the slow light of day entered behind him with the sound of bells. —Hear Saint Bavon’s? Another blue day. I’ll be waiting for you. And many thanks for the cognac.

There was not a cab in sight.

—Blood is all they know, every hour boys being killed, an airplane just crashed and who was surprised, forty-one people killed, though there is some hope that the stewardess, who survived, will be able to tell police, because it is all there in the newspapers that anyone can read . . .

What was it?

Stanley sat down. Across from him a woman stared into his face, lips moving, fingers moving on her beads. He clutched the chisel in his pocket, the first time in years he had been on the subway, as though overcome with the necessity to dive down into darkness and not emerge until he reached home. He was not shivering from
the cold, though it was cold in the subway. He was still buttoning his shirt. What was it she had cried to him when he asked her to kneel beside him, beside the bed; and then as he retreated through one door, fled toward another, escaped naked with all of his clothes in his hand, out into the hall where her voice died but the smell of her perfume followed him. He pulled his necktie’s knot to his throat. The train roared into its rock firmament where lights twinkled in warning ahead of this front car and the woman’s voice disappeared while her lips still moved, steaming the glass before them, and Stanley realized that he was on the wrong train, going in the wrong direction.