“Rodin’s successors noted the amazing things he had done with light and shadow and mass and composition—whether you see it or not—and they copied that much. Oh, how they copied it! And extended it. What they failed to see was that every major work of the master told a story and laid bare the human heart. Instead, they got involved with ‘design’ and became contemptuous of any painting or sculpture that told a story—sneering, they dubbed such work ‘literary’—a dirty word. They went all out for abstractions, not deigning to paint or carve anything that resembled the human world.”

Jubal shrugged. “Abstract design is all right—for wall paper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity and terror, which is not abstract at all but very human. What the self-styled modern artists are doing is a sort of unemotional pseudo-intellectual masturbation . . . whereas creative art is more like intercourse, in which the artist must seduce—render emotional-his audience, each time. These laddies who won’t deign to do that—and perhaps can’t—of course lost the public. If they hadn’t lobbied for endless subsidies, they would have starved or been forced to go to work long ago. Because the ordinary bloke will not voluntarily pay for ‘art’ that leaves him unmoved—if he does pay for it, the money has to be conned out of him, by taxes or such.”

“You know, Jubal, I’ve always wondered why I didn’t give a hoot for paintings or statues—but I thought it was something missing in me, like color blindness.”

“Mmm, one does have to learn to look at art, just as you must know French to read a story printed in French. But in general it’s up to the artist to use language that can be understood, not hide it in some private code like Pepys and his diary. Most of these jokers don’t even want to use language you and I know or can learn . . . they would rather sneer at us and be smug, because we ‘fail’ to see what they are driving at. If indeed they are driving at anything—obscurity is usually the refuge of incompetence. Ben, would you call me an artist?”

“Huh? Well, I’ve never thought about it. You write a pretty good stick.”

“Thank you. ‘Artist’ is a word I avoid for the same reasons I hate to be called ‘Doctor.’ But I am an artist, albeit a minor one. Admittedly most of my stuff is fit to read only once . . . and not even once for a busy person who already knows the little I have to say. But I am an honest artist, because what I write is consciously intended to reach the customer . . . reach him and affect him, if possible with pity and terror . . . or, if not, at least to divert the tedium of his hours with a chuckle or an odd idea. But I am never trying to hide it from him in a private language, nor am I seeking the praise of other writers for ‘technique’ or other balderdash. I want the praise of the cash customer, given in cash because I’ve reached him—or I don’t want anything. Support for the arts—merde! A government-supported artist is an incompetent whore! Damn it, you punched one of my buttons. Let me fill your glass and you tell me what is on your mind.”

“Uh, Jubal, I’m unhappy.”

“This is news?”

“No. But I’ve got a fresh set of troubles.” Ben frowned. “I shouldn’t have come here, I guess. No need to burden you with them. I’m not even sure I want to talk about them.”

“Okay. But as long as you’re here, you can listen to my troubles.”

“You have troubles? Jubal, I’ve always thought of you as the one man who had managed to beat the game, six ways from zero.”

“Hmm, sometime I must tell you about my married life. But—yes, I’ve got troubles now. Some of them are evident. Duke has left me, you know—or did you?”

“Yeah. I knew.”

“Larry is a good gardener—but half the gadgets that keep this log cabin running are falling to pieces. I don’t know how I can replace Duke. Good all-around mechanics are scarce . . . and ones that will fit into this household, be a member of the family in all ways, are almost non-existent. I’m limping along on repairmen called in from town—every visit a disturbance, all of them with larceny in their hearts, and most of them incompetent to use a screw driver without cutting themselves. Which I am incapable of doing, too, so I have to hire help. Or move back into town, God forbid.”

“My heart aches for you, Jubal.”

“Never mind the sarcasm, that’s just the start. Mechanics and gardeners are convenient, but for me secretaries are essential. Two of mine are pregnant, one is getting married.”