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.
I don’t care. I’d like to know more about my ancestors. Maybe they weren’t all German.
Yes, said Mona, maybe there’s some Slavic blood in the family.
Sometimes he looks very Mongolian, said Stasia innocently.
This struck my mother as utterly ridiculous. To her a Mongolian was an idiot.
He’s an American, she said. We’re all Americans now.
Yes, Lorette piped up.
Yes, what? said my father.
He’s an American too, said Lorette. Adding: But he reads too much.
We all burst out laughing.
And he doesn’t go to church any more.
That’s enough, said my father. We don’t go to church either, but we’re Christians just the same.
He has too many Jewish friends.
Again a laugh all around.
Let’s have something to eat, said my father. I’m sure they’ll want to be getting home soon. To-morrow’s another day.
Once again the table was spread. A cold snack, this time, with tea and more plum pudding. Lorette sniffled throughout.
An hour later we were bidding them good-bye.
Don’t catch cold, said my mother, wit’s three blocks to the L station. She knew we would take a taxi, but it was a word, like art, which she hated to mention.
Will we see you soon? asked Lorette at the gate.
I think so, said I.
For New Year’s?
Maybe.
Don’t make it too long, said my father gently. And good luck with the writing!
At the corner we hailed a taxi.
Whew! said Stasia, as we piled in.
Not too bad, was it? said I.
No-o-o-. Thank God, I have no relatives to visit.
We settled back in our seats. Stasia kicked off her shoes.
That album! said Stasia. I’ve never seen such a collection of half-wits. It’s a miracle you’re sane, do you realize that?
Most families are like that, I replied. The tree of man is nothing but a huge Tannenbaum glistening with ripe, polished maniacs. Adam himself must have been a lop-sided, one-eyed monster … What we need is a drink. I wonder if there’s any Kummel left?
I like your father, said Mona. There’s a lot of him in you, Val.
But his mother! said Stasia.
What about her? said I.
I’d have strangled her years ago, said Stasia.
Mona thought this funny. A strange woman, she said. Reminds me a little of my own mother. Hypocrites. And stubborn as mules. Tyrannical too, and narrow-minded. No love in them, not an ounce.
I’ll never be a mother, said Stasia. We all laughed, I’ll never be a wife either. Jesus, it’s hard enough to be a woman. I hate women! They’re all nasty bitches, even the best of them. I’ll be what I am—a female impersonator. And don’t ever make me dress like this again, please. I feel like an utter fool—and a fraud.
Back in the basement, we got out the bottles. There was Kummel all right, and brandy, rum, Benedictine, Cointreau. We brewed some strong black coffee, sat down at
