Part 11 (1/2)

”Look at me!” said the Queen, as if her filthy, torn clothes were the fault of the gatekeeper and his dogs. ”Look at me!” she raged, bursting into tears. ”You'll pay for this, villain! As sure as I'm standing here you'll pay for this!”

”Oh, Mistress, Mistress,” he wailed again, as if it were the only phrase he knew, wringing his hands more fervently than before.

”Undo the gate, you stupid old man!” the Queen shouted. ”Must we just stand here?” Timidly, Vlemk touched her arm to calm her. She pretended not to notice.

Nearly falling in his haste, the old man got out his key ring, turned the lock, and began pus.h.i.+ng at the gate. The five dogs leaped all around him, joyfully yapping.

”Fool,” said the Queen, seizing the gate bars in her own two hands, her eyes filled with tears, ”can you do nothing right?”

That instant, with her hair flying out around her head, crackling with the lightning-bolt charge of her anger, the Queen looked exactly like the picture Vlemk had called ”The Princess Gives Way to Wrath.” Her cheeks were so bright that Vlemk held his breath.

Almost at once his senses came back to him. He rubbed his hands on the sides of his trousers and stared morosely at the ground. He understood well enough that it was the Queen's fright and feeling of having been betrayed when her dogs turned against her, also her shame at coming home in this condition, looking like a strumpet who'd been run over by a cart, conceivably also a touch of embarra.s.sment over the fact that Vlemk had been witness to it all, had seen with his own eyes how the palace, so well run and orderly even at the height of her father's illness, was now reduced to chaos, when the rule was hers. Even so, her anger seemed excessive, in fact mad, as was the fear he'd seen in her when they'd first arrived here, her desire that he come in with her and protect her from the glances of her servants. He shook his head, hardly knowing he was doing it.

Now, since the gate stood wide open, they went in. She was no less fierce with the servants inside. Vlemk moved away from her while she yelled at them, and occupied himself with the paintings on the walls, family portraits. He saw how the King had looked once, or anyway, how the painter had chosen to see him, tall and elegant but very stern. His hand around the ball of his cane was, for no clear reason, clenched, as if in a moment he might raise it and brandish it, and his hat was c.o.c.ked forward, not jauntily but somehow fiercely, as if it were intended to cus.h.i.+on the blow if he should suddenly choose to b.u.t.t someone. Her mother, on the other hand, was the soul of sweetness and gentleness, such gentleness that it verged on feebleness. One wouldn't have been surprised to learn (and indeed it was true) that she'd been dead for years and years.

The Queen's chambermaid came running past him, her hands over her face, weeping.

”A terrible business,” thought Vlemk, and shook his head. The Queen's hands, he saw, were jerking and twitching. It was terrible! A tragedy! But what was he to do?

Now servants were running in every direction, weeping and wringing their hands or tearing out their hair. When the Queen had finished with the last of them, she came to him and said, ”Wretches! I have half a mind to order them all whipped!”

Vlemk did nothing but stare at the floor with his head bowed.

”Would you care for tea?” asked the Queen.

”Perhaps another time,” Vlemk said in gestures. ”You should rest.”

Quickly, before she could think better of it, she reached out to touch his arm with her trembling hand. ”Must you leave so soon?” she asked. ”Just one cup of tea?”

Vlemk shook his head, then shrugged and nodded.

”Tea!” shouted the Queen, as if expecting the paintings to jump down off the walls in fearful obedience and serve it. Then more quietly she said, ”This way,” and led him toward another room. Strange to say, eager as she was to have him stay longer with her, she said not a word to him as she led him to the door, opened it and, not quite meeting his eyes, waved him in. Just inside the door Vlemk stopped short and wiped his hands on his trousers, utterly at a loss. Though it was true that there were chairs and tables in the room, it was also true that the room was the Queen's bedroom; and Vlemk was becoming more and more, these days, a man of rule and decorum. Perhaps it was the influence of the middle-cla.s.s visitors who were of late his main customers, or perhaps it was the influence of the mellower paintings themselves-or again, conceivably, it was the queer muttering that for a moment he imagined to be coming from the sinister paintings he'd made on the boxes, indifferently scattered around the room. But whatever the reason, Vlemk the box-painter felt wretchedly out of place there where she slept and did all that is most private, and if he dared, he would have fled like a rabbit. But too late to worry about it now, he saw; for that minute a serving girl arrived, sniffing and hiding her face, bringing the tea-tray.

”Over on the table,” said the Queen. When the tea things were in place the Queen sent the serving girl out again and invited Vlemk to take a chair. No sooner had he come where she could see him than the picture that could talk cried out, ”Vlemk! Vlemk!”

Vlemk smiled and threw up his hands as joyfully as an old man when he sees his son. ”My little masterpiece,” he cried in gesture, and in his delight did not even remember that she was the reason he could never speak aloud.

”Oh, Vlemk,” cried the picture, ”take me home, I beg you! She's so cruel I'd die of sorrow if you'd made me of anything less durable than paint!”

The Queen became still with rage, more angry even than he'd imagined her in his painting. She was so angry all the breath went out of her, and her face became as gray as old snow. ”Do take her back, by all means!” she said as soon as she could speak. ”All she does is whine and revile me and complain! Take her back at once and good riddance!”

”I can't do that,” said Vlemk in gesture. ”She's your own very self, a picture so real it can speak. Surely you can find a way to live with your own very self!”

But the Queen was too angry to be reasoned with, slamming the table with the flat of her hand so that the box made little jumps up and down. ”Get it away from me! Take it back! Get it from my sight!” cried the Queen.

”Very well,” said Vlemk with gestures, humbly; and then he began to nod up and down like an old philosopher, for an idea was taking shape in his mind. ”Perhaps,” he said in gesture, ”I can change the picture's personality a little, so that when you look at it again you may find it somewhat more acceptable.”

”Change it to a spider, for all I care,” said the Queen. ”Just get it out of here, away from my sight!”

”I like my personality,” said the picture.

”Will you shut up?” screamed the Queen, and raised both fists above her head to smash it. But Vlemk was too quick for her, and soon the box was in his pocket and his feet were on the road again, trudging toward the city.

12.

Vlemk the box-painter thought long and hard about the idea that had come to him in the Queen's bedroom. Sometimes he thought the idea was stark mad, so that he would clutch his head, eyes wide open, and whisper, ”Woe is me! What's become of me?” At other times he thought it magnanimous beyond the wildest dreams of any ordinary mortal, and he would put on such airs that to everyone he met he seemed insufferable. But usually he hung undecided between opinions and could do nothing but pull at his knuckles and rock back and forth on his stool, with his eyes tight shut and his lips between his teeth, like a woman who has a baby that won't stop crying. The idea that had come to him in the Queen's room was this: that perhaps he could alter the painting here and there, removing those hints of imperfection in its character, so that it was no longer a true-to-life miniature of the Queen but a picture of what she might be if she had no faults at all. Then she would surely like it, he thought-how could she not? especially considering the fact that (but ah, this was the hard part!) it would no longer talk back to her; indeed, since it would no longer be a perfect imitation, it would no longer talk at all. There would go not only the picture's chief glory, the unanswerable proof that no one in the world had ever captured such a likeness in a painting on a box-no small matter, to Vlemk, for he had hardly gotten where he was without a trace of artistic vanity-but also, alas, there would go Vlemk's hopes of regaining his speech, since it was the picture that had put the curse on him, and the picture-the picture or no one!-that must take it off.

The idea of living out his life as a mute was by no means a pleasant one to Vlemk, for though it is true that he'd been mute for some time and had in a way gotten used to it, indeed, had learned secrets about everyone around him, thanks to his affliction, that had enriched his knowledge of the world immeasurably, with no small effect on his box-painting, it is also true that, with the optimism natural to living creatures, however they may resist it or in their worst moods mock it, the box-painter had always gone on hoping in secret that his bad luck would someday change to good and the picture would relent. Now, sitting in his busy studio with the picture that could talk on the table before him, his apprentices sawing, hammering and painting, or sweeping up the sawdust, cleaning brushes, and talking with visitors-the tiny image of the Queen chattering happily, telling him of life at the palace, how the King had died, how the Queen had frequently covered her with a quilt-Vlemk wrung his hands and rocked back and forth and considered the idea that had come to him again and again. He was so abstracted that he hardly looked up when people spoke to him, and so sick with indecision-whether to do this or, on the other hand, do that-that he would sometimes heave such a deep sigh of woe that people would step back from him in fear.

”If I'm really going to do it,” he told himself, ”I should get out my brushes and start painting.” But day after day he did nothing but sit rocking and sighing, weighing the arguments on this side and that. He thought of the picture he'd painted of the barmaid and how it had seemingly changed her life. On the other hand he thought of the incident with the bee, how in his attempt to be helpful he'd done nothing but harm. Though the monk's opinions might offend and annoy him, he couldn't help but see that there was truth in them: what good was it, loving this physical world-gardens and queens, barmaids and poor trembling maniacs? Where would they be in a thousand years? Painting them was one thing-a record for posterity-but throwing away all one's hopes for their sake ... ”No, no!” thought Vlemk. ”Absurd!” Also, there was the matter of the feelings of the picture herself. Had he really any right to deprive his creation of speech? Is all life not sacred? Is not the true work of art a thing greater than its maker? Indeed, wasn't it the case that a work of art, once out of the artist's hands-if not before-belonged to no one, or to all humanity? He began to find it hard to meet the eyes of the picture on the box. He could see that she was worried and suspicious, watching him like a hawk. ”How queer it is,” he thought, ”that what ought to be the n.o.blest, most selfless act of my life should be made to seem sordid and inhumane!” Vlemk clenched his fists. He should have known, of course, from the moment the picture first opened its mouth. She was unnatural, a piece of Devil's work! Indeed, had she not ensorcelled him? And hadn't she clung to her meanness through good times and bad times, chattering endlessly, refusing to let Vlemk get out a gesture? Well, her days of meanness were ended, thought Vlemk with a terrible scowl.

But no sooner would Vlemk reach this sensible decision than the picture would speak up and charm him again with that seeming childlike innocence, and he would feel she was breaking his heart. The terrible truth was that he loved with all his heart that saucy, incorrigible little picture on the box-and no doubt also the Queen, since the two were identical; but that he would not think about. However fine the reason, and even though she stubbornly held out on him, refusing to lift the curse, he would rather be dead than change a line on that complicated face.

”Vlemk?” the picture would say, smiling to hide her fear. ”A penny for your thoughts?”

Vlemk would shrug guiltily and would realize that among the many other thoughts was this one, shameful as it might be: that if he played his cards right-since the picture was so happy to be home again-he could get her to cancel the curse of silence and then perhaps repaint her. At once, at the thought of such treachery, he would become glum-irritable and irritating so that the picture would look put out and hurt, then gradually become crotchety, and in the end fall silent. This went on for days and days, and he seemed no nearer a decision than he'd been in the beginning.

One night when his anger at himself was intense, Vlemk stood up abruptly and put on his hat and coat and went down to the tavern. All the regulars were there as usual, the barmaid smiling and showing her ring, for she was newly engaged to be married. The axe-murderer, the ex-poet, and the ex-musician were seated together in their usual corner, glaring out at everyone like weasels in a henhouse. Vlemk the box-painter stood pondering with his thumbs in his suspenders, then at last went over to them. As he seated himself he signalled to the barmaid, and said in gestures, when she came to him, ”Wine, my dear-the best in the house! I'm paying myself, since now my boxes are selling well, and I can't accept your charity any longer.” When he was sure she'd understood all this and when he'd dismissed her protests that indeed she must pay, she owed it to him, he added, ”Also, the best wine you have in the house for my three old friends.”

The barmaid said, ”But they already have our best wine-more than they can drink and G.o.d knows far more than they deserve. Look!”

Vlemk turned to look and, sure enough, in front of each of them stood a costly bottle of wine not yet half empty. ”Well, well,” he said to himself, then glanced at the barmaid and shrugged and signalled for wine for just himself. When he turned to his friends again and asked in gestures what accounted for this good fortune, they looked at one another with baneful grins, trembling like leaves in a strong breeze, until at last the poet said, ”You don't fool us, pretending you don't know, you sly old fox! But if you think we're ashamed to say it, you're quite mistaken! We too can debauch our art and make it fill our poor stomachs.”

Vlemk looked from one to another of them, wounded, then opened his hands as a sign that he failed to understand.

”Ah,” said the ex-poet to the ex-violinist, ”how we loves to mock, this ex-box-painter!” His cheek muscles twitched and a vein stood out in his temple. The ex-violinist laughed harshly and, from behind his spectacles, threw a wink at the axe-murderer.

The ex-poet pointed one finger at Vlemk, the finger only inches from Vlemk's nose. ”You,” he said, ”paint foolish pretty pictures, exactly what your idiot customers would paint for themselves, if they had wit enough. You're right, of course. Why should men of genius go hungry while stupid little insects eat potatoes and gravy?” He winked at the ex-violinist, who winked at the murderer. The ex-poet pushed his flaxen-haired face close to Vlemk's, as if daring him to scoff. ”I write verses for a cardboard-container corporation: 'Got troubles? Out-fox 'em! Box 'em!' ”

”I write music,” said the ex-violinist. ”I take themes from famous symphonies. Soon every time you hear the work of a famous composer, you'll think 'Cardboard boxes!' ”

Vlemk looked sadly at the murderer.

The murderer smiled. ”I chop up wooden boxes to make the phosphor sticks people buy in those little cardboard boxes. They're getting to be all the rage, these phosphor sticks. They're easier than a flint. Also, sometimes children burn down hotels with them. Ha ha!”

Vlemk was so depressed at the thought of the murderer's chopping up wooden boxes that when his wine came he could hardly raise his gla.s.s. It was as if an enormous weight of snow lay over him. ”So this is what everything comes down to in the end,” he thought, staring at the dirt in the fingernails of the two fingers closed on his winegla.s.s stem. ”All our early promise, all our grand ideals!”

Though he felt a little cross, or worse than cross, as if his heart had turned to ice-useless to deny it-it was no good berating his fellow artists. Hunger and poverty are powerful persuaders, and so was the policeman who'd taken to sitting in the tavern nights, smoking his pipe and occasionally glancing at the murderer. Nor could Vlemk deny that he himself had unwittingly contributed to their decline. In his cynical period, he had spoken with pleasure and excitement of his work on the ”Reality boxes”-his evil pictures of the Queen. In his mellower period he'd had nothing to say. Indeed, he had nothing to say even now. It was just one more instance, he told himself, of spirit weighed down by matter until it no longer knows itself. He sighed.

”Very well,” thought Vlemk, and leaned forward slowly, bidding his friends good-evening and putting the cork in the bottle, the bottle in his pocket, then walking up the street to his house and up the stairs to his studio, where he opened up his paints.

”What are you doing?” cried the picture as she saw the brush approaching.

He tried to say in gestures, ”I'm hoping to make you even finer than you are,” but the picture on the box was in such a wild panic, her little bosom heaving, her eyes opened wide, that in the end he only smiled as rea.s.suringly as possible, sucked in his lower lip between his teeth, and began to paint. He painted for a week without stopping, and when he finished, the painting looked-to Vlemk, at least-exactly like the Queen except with none of her faults. Nearly everyone who looked at it said it was the most beautiful, most angelic face in the world, so true to life-or at least to some barely imaginable possibility-that you could literally hear it breathing. But the picture no longer talked. Not everyone was persuaded, of course, about the picture's perfection. When he showed it to his apprentices they frowned and looked evasive, and at last the fat one said, ”It looks sort of the same as before.”