Jubal ignored him and spoke quietly to the replica of La Belle Heaulmière. “Do not listen to him, ma petite chère—he is a barbarian and knows no better.” He put his hand to her beautiful ravaged cheek, then gently touched one empty, shrunken dug. “I know just how you feel . . . but it can’t be very much longer. Patience, my lovely.”

He turned back to Caxton and said briskly, “Ben, I don’t know what you have on your mind but it will have to wait while I give you a lesson in how to look at sculpture—though it’s probably as useless as trying to teach a dog to appreciate the violin. But you’ve just been rude to a lady . . . and I don’t tolerate that.”

“Huh? Don’t be silly, Jubal; you’re rude to ladies—live ones—a dozen times a day. And you know which ones I mean.”

Jubal shouted, “Anne! Upstairs! Wear your cloak!”

“You know I wouldn’t be rude to the old woman who posed for that. Never. What I can’t understand is a so-called artist having the gall to pose somebody’s great grandmother in her skin . . . and you having the bad taste to want it around.”

Anne came in, cloaked, said nothing. Jubal said to her, “Anne have I ever been rude to you? Or to any of the girls?”

“That calls for an opinion.”

“That’s what I’m asking for. Your opinion. You’re not in court.”

“You have never at any time been rude to any of us, Jubal.”

“Have you ever known me to be rude to a lady?”

“I have seen you be intentionally rude to a woman. I have never seen you be rude to a lady.”

“That’s all. No, one more opinion. What do you think of this bronze?”

Anne looked carefully at Rodin’s masterpiece, then said slowly, “When I first saw it, I thought it was horrible. But I have come to the conclusion that it may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Thanks. That’s all.” She left. “Do you want to argue it, Ben?”

“Huh? When I argue with Anne, that’s the day I turn in my suit.” Ben looked at it. “But I don’t get it.”

“All right, Ben. Attend me. Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist—a master—and that is what Auguste Rodin was—can look at an old woman, protray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn’t matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired—but it does to them. Look at her!”

Ben looked at her. Presently Jubal said gruffly, “All right, blow your nose and wipe your eyes—she accepts your apology. Come on and sit down. That’s enough for one lesson.”

“No,” Caxton answered, “I want to know about these others. How about this one? It doesn’t bother me as much . . . I can see it’s a young girl, right off. But why tie her up like a pretzel?”

Jubal looked at the replica “Caryatid Who has Fallen under the Weight of her Stone” and smiled. “Call it a tour de force in empathy, Ben. I won’t expect you to appreciate the shapes and masses which make that figure much more than a ‘pretzel’—but you can appreciate what Rodin was saying. Ben, what do people get out of looking at a crucifix?”

“You know how much I go to church.”

“‘How little’ you mean. Still, you must know that, as craftsmanship, paintings and sculpture of the Crucifixion are usually atrocious—and the painted, realistic ones often used in churches are the worst of all . . . the blood looks like catsup and that ex-carpenter is usually portrayed as if he were a pansy . . . which He certainly was not if there is any truth in the four Gospels at all. He was a hearty man, probably muscular and of rugged health. But despite the almost uniformly poor portrayal in representations of the Crucifixion, a poor one is about as effective as a good one for most people. They don’t see the defects; what they see is a symbol which inspires their deepest emotions; it recalls to them the Agony and Sacrifice of God.”

“Jubal, I thought you weren’t a Christian?”