We arrived to find every one wide awake and chatting amiably. Mona and Stasia were sipping coffee. They had probably asked for it; my mother would never dream of serving coffee between meals. Coffee was only for breakfast, card parties and kaffee-klatches. However…
Did you have a good walk?
Yes, mother. We strolled through the cemetery.
That’s nice. Were the graves in good condition?
She was referring to the family burial place. More particularly her father’s grave.
There’s a place for you too, she said. And for Lorette.
I stole a glance at Stasia to see if she were keeping a straight face. Mona now spoke up. A most inopportune remark it was too.
He’ll never die, were her words.
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
