by Mika Waltari
He gestured to the youth who brought a wide roll. Aruns opened it and stared at the well-drawn and colored dancers and wrestlers, musicians and horses. He pretended to show me the traditional designs for the paintings but his eyes and wrinkled forehead betrayed his preoccupation with his unfinished work.
“These are of course helpful,” he said absently, groping for the silver goblet and emptying it without even realizing it. “One knows the right colors without guessing and the apprentice can scratch the outlines of the traditional pictures in advance. But a pattern is helpful only so long as it does not fetter but frees and eases the play of one’s own imagination.”
He thrust the roll of pictures into my lap without even troubling to wind it, rose and stepped to the opposite wall with a metallic graver in his hand. He had under way a picture of a youth holding a race horse by the neck. Most of it was completed, with only the horse’s head and neck and the youth’s hands still missing. When I carefully stepped closer I noticed that their outlines had already been scratched in the soft rock. The master, however, was not pleased with them. Suddenly he began scratching a new outline. The horse’s head rose more expressively, its neck arched more muscularly, it lived. The work took only a moment, then in a frenzy Aruns applied the color to the horse’s head without even following precisely the outline he had just made but improving on the position even as he painted.
Tiring a little, he mixed a light brown paint and effortlessly painted the youth’s hands around the horse’s neck without even troubling to etch the outline. Finally he outlined the arms with black so that the muscles fairly bulged to the blue border of the short-sleeved shirt.
“Well,” he said wearily, “This will have to do for the Velthurus for today. How could an ordinary person understand that I was born, I grew, learned, drew, mixed paints, raged and spent an entire life merely for these few moments? You, stranger, saw that it lasted but a few moments and probably thought, ‘He is very skilled, that Aruns.’ But it is not skill. There are enough and even too many with skill. My horse is eternal and no one has ever painted one precisely like it. Therein lies the difference which the Velthurus don’t understand. It is not merely color and skill but suffering and ecstasy almost to the verge of death that enables me to reveal life’s game and caprice in all its beauty.”
The youth said consolingly, “The Velthurus understand that. There is only one Aruns the painter. Nor are they angry at you. They are only thinking of what is best for you.”
But Aruns was not so easily appeased. “In the name of the veiled gods, take away this dreadful burden! I must swallow an ocean of gall before I can squeeze a drop of joy from it and for a few fleeting moments be content with my work.”
Hastily I filled the silver goblet and extended it to him. He began to laugh. “You are right. A few vatfuls of wine have of course gone down with the gall. But how else could I free myself? My work is not so easy as people believe. This sober youth will understand it when he has reached my age if he develops as I expect.”
He placed his hand on the youth’s shoulder. I suggested that we return to the city and eat together, but Aruns shook his head.
“No, I must remain here until sunset. Sometimes I remain even longer, for here in the bowels of the mountain there is neither night nor day. I have much to think about, stranger.”
He indicated the blank rear wall and I saw how the pictures alternately leaped alive and faded to a mist before his eyes. Forgetting my presence he mumbled to himself, “After all, I was at Volsinii when the new nail was struck into the pillar of the temple. The Lucumones permitted me to see that which an ordinary man does not see until the curtains fall. They believed in me and I must not betray their confidence.”
Once more he remembered me and my silver goblet. “Forgive me, stranger. Your face is still smooth although you are probably my age. I myself can see this swollen mouth, these tired eyes, the wrinkles on my forehead and the lines of discontent at the corners of my mouth. But I am discontented only with myself. Everything else goes well. I am gnawing at myself only to create that which has never before been created. May the gods be with me and with you also, stranger, for you brought me good luck and I was able to solve the problem of the horse to my own satisfaction.”
I understood his words as a farewell and did not wish to disturb his thoughts further, for he was staring at the blank wall and making impatient gestures in the air.
He was probably ashamed of having banished me so abruptly, for he suddenly said, “Well, stranger, those who do not understand are content with everything if it has the traditional lines and colors. That is why the world is full of skilled people and they are successful and life is easy for them. A real artist can compete only with himself. No, I have no competitor in this world. I, Aruns of Tarquinia, compete only with myself. If you wish me well, my friend, leave your clay bottle here as a memento of your visit. I feel that it is still half full and you will tire your fair shoulder if you carry it back to the city in the heat of the day.”
Gladly I left the bottle for that remarkable man since he needed it more than I.
“We shall meet again,” he said.
Not in vain had I noticed the goddess’s sign on the stone wall when I descended into the tomb. It was intended that I should meet that man and see the completion of the painting that he then planned. But I met him also for his own sake, to enable good luck to help him in his work and to rescue him from a human’s greatest despair. That he deserved. Already then I recognized him from his face and eyes. He, Aruns, was one of those who return.
5.
For several weeks I did not meet Aruns nor did I wish to descend again into the tomb for fear of disturbing him at his work. But at vintage time one moonlit night he came toward me with his drinking companions, so fearfully intoxicated that I had never before seen anyone in such a condition because of wine. Nevertheless he recognized me, stopped to embrace me and kissed my cheek with his wet mouth.
“There you are, stranger! I have missed you. Come, my head needs a cleansing from within before I begin working, so let us drink deep so that I may empty my head of all useless thoughts and thereafter vomit my body clean of all earthly filth before undertaking divine matters.
But why are you wandering through the streets at night with a clear head, stranger?”
“I am Turnus from Rome and an Ionian refugee,” I thought it best to explain to his noisy companions. To Aruns I said, “The goddess troubles me at the time of the full moon and drives me from my bed.”
“Join us,” he suggested. “I’ll show you living goddesses, as many as you please.”
He linked his arm with mine and pressed onto my head the vineleaf wreath that drooped from his ear. I accompanied him and his friends to the house that the Velthurus had provided for him. His wife, awakened from her sleep, met us with a yawn, but she did not drive us away as I expected. Instead, she opened the doors, lighted the lamps, brought out fruit, barley bread and a jar of salted fish, and even tried to comb Aruns’ tangled and wine-dampened hair.
As a sober man and a stranger in the city I was ashamed of forcing my way into the house of a casual acquaintance in the middle of the night. And so I mentioned my name and apologized to Aruns’ wife.
“Never before have I seen such a wife as you,” I said courteously. “Any other woman would have boxed her husband’s ears, poured a tubful of water over him and driven away his friends with oaths even though it is vintage time.”
She sighed and explained, “You don’t know my husband, Turnus. I do, having lived with him more than twenty years. It has not been an easy time, I assure you. But year by year I have come to know him better, although some weaker woman would long ago have packed her things and left. He needs me. I have worried about him, for he has not tasted a drop in weeks, merely pondered and sighed, walked to and fro, broken wax tablets and torn expensive paper onto which he had drawn pictures. Now I feel better. This always happens when the pictures begin to take shape in his mind
. It may last a few days or a week, but when his head has cleared he will don his work robe and hasten to the tomb even before dawn lest he lose precious moments.”
While we talked Aruns had tottered to the yard and fetched a large wine crock which he had concealed under a heap of straw. He tore open the seal but was unable to remove the stopper. Finally his wife dexterously opened the crock, removed the wax and poured the contents into a large mixing vessel. She did not, however, insult Aruns and his friends by adding water to the wine. Instead, she brought out her best dishes and even filled a cup for herself.
“It is best so,” she said to me with the experienced smile of a knowing woman. “The years have taught me that everything is easier if I also become intoxicated. Then I no longer worry about broken objects, ruined floors and gate posts which guests carry away with them.”
She extended a cup to me. When I had emptied it I noticed that it was of the newest Attic ceramic ware with a picture of a cloven-hoofed satyr and a struggling nymph at the bottom. The picture remained in my memory as a symbol of that night, for soon two dancers appeared and we went into the garden where there was more room.
In Rome I had been told that even at their wildest the Etruscan dances are sacred dances, danced traditionally for the pleasure of the gods. That was not true, however, for when the women had danced awhile with fluttering garments they began to disrobe and with upper bodies bare danced joyously to permit us to enjoy their beauty. One of the guests proved to be a master at the flute and never in east or west have I heard such exciting melodies. They quickened my blood more than did the wine.
Finally those beautiful and ardent women danced on the grass in the moonlight with no clothing whatsoever save beads of pearls which one of the guests had indifferently tossed around their necks as gifts. I was told that he was the young Velthuru although he was dressed as modestly as his companions.
He spoke to me also, drank with me and said, “Don’t despise these drunkards, Turnus. Each of them is a master in his own field and among them I am the youngest and the most insignificant. True, I ride fairly well and can use a sword, but am a master at nothing.”
Carelessly he indicated the dancers, who were mature women. “I presume you have noticed that they also are masters in their own field. Ten and even twenty years of practice every day are required to enable a person to portray gods with his body.”
“I fully appreciate both the sights and the company, you noble,” I said.
Nor was he offended by the fact that I recognized him, for he was still young and vain even though he was of the house of Velthuru and no Velthuru need be vain because he already is what he is. He was of such an old family that he presumably instinctively knew me and hence did not inquire how I had joined the company. But that I realized only much later.
Since Aruns was so overflowingly at peace with the world and himself, I took advantage of the situation to inquire, “Why did you paint the horse blue, master?”
He stared at me with dull eyes. “Because I saw it blue.”
“But,” I insisted, “I have never seen a blue horse.”
Aruns was not hurt. Shaking his head in sorrow he replied, “In that case I pity you, my friend.”
We spoke no more of that matter but his words were a lesson to me. After that I often saw a horse as blue, regardless of its other color.
Hardly a week had elapsed when Aruns’ apprentice breathlessly came to me at my lodgings and shouted with flushed face, “Turnus, Turnus, the work is completed! The master sent me for you so that you might be the first to see it as a reward for having brought him good luck.”
I was so curious that I borrowed a horse and galloped down the valley and up the slope to the necropolis while the apprentice sat behind me clinging to my waist.
“The gods are looking at us,” whispered the bright-eyed youth behind me and his hands tightened around my waist. I was overcome by a strange certainty that he was a herald of the gods.
When I descended into the tomb I saw that the entire rear wall had been covered with bright colors that breathed harmony, beauty and wistful joy. Aruns did not turn to greet me but remained staring at his own work.
The draped curtains of an open summerhouse circled the ceiling. In the center, incomparably above everything earthly, stood the convivial couch of the gods with its numerous cushions. Both white cones in their festive wreaths rose from their double cushions, while both robes hung at the foot of the bed, side by side. To the right of the gods’ couch and far below on the humans’ couch lay the festive couple behind whom stood youths extending their hands in greeting to the gods. To the left was a mixing vessel and a woman with upraised arms. Looking at the picture closely, I noticed that the artist had extended the folds of the tent to both side walls so that the scenes which Aruns had painted earlier formed a part of the whole lofty picture which was dominated by the couch of the gods.
“The feast of the gods,” I whispered in the grip of a holy tremor, for my heart understood the painting even though my earthly mind could not explain it.
“Or the death of a Lucumo,” replied Aruns, and for a fleeting moment I realized with dazzling clarity what he meant and why it had been ordained that I witness the birth of the painting. But my moment of perception passed and I returned to earth.
“You are right, Aruns,” I said. “Probably no one has dared paint anything like this. The gods themselves must have guided your brush and chosen the colors for you, for you have attained the unattainable.”
I embraced him, and he buried his bearded, paint-smeared face in my shoulder and began to weep. Sobs of relief shook his strong body until he finally collected himself and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, thus smearing his face still more.
“Forgive my tears, Turnus,” he pleaded, “but I have been working night and day and have slept only the necessary moments on the stone bench until I have again awakened to the cold of the tomb. I have not eaten much. Colors have been my bread. I have not drunk much. Lines have been my drink. Nor do I know how I have been able to succeed or if I have succeeded at all. But something within me assures me that an entire era is concluded with this painting even though it may go on for another ten or twenty years. That is why I am weeping.”
At that moment I saw with his eyes and felt with his heart the death of the Lucumo and knew that a new age was indeed coming, uglier, more bloated and more mundane than this age which was still illumined by the radiance of the veiled gods. Instead of guardian spirits and beautiful earthly gods, monsters and cruel spirits would well up from the underworld pits, just as a bloated person sees nightmares after he has eaten his belly too full.
I need say no more about Aruns and his painting. Before departing I sent his good wife an expensive gift but to him I sent nothing, since no gift could have repaid him for what he had shown me.
How was I, who had left Rome as a shepherd, able to give expensive gifts? One day I happened to be walking outside the city and passed a colorful canopy under which a group of noble youths were playing dice. Among them was Lars Arnth Velthuru who extended a white hand and called to me.
“Will you join us, Turnus? Choose your place, have a drink and pick up the dice.”
His companions looked at me in surprise, for I was wearing my cheap traveler’s clothes and on my feet were the heavy-soled shoes. I saw the ridicule in their eyes but no one dared oppose a Velthuru. I saw their beautiful horses tied to the trees and guessed that they, like Lars Arnth, were high-born cavalry officers.
I seated myself opposite Lars Arnth, wrapped my robe around my knees and said, “I have not played much but I am always ready to try with you.”
The others exclaimed in surprise but Lars Arnth silenced them, dropped the dice in a beaker and extended it to me. “Shall we play for a whole?” he asked casually, “As you will,” I said, thinking that he was referring to a gold coin or perhaps, since such noble youths were playing, a whole mina of silver.
“Well!” cried the youths. A
few of them struck their palms together and demanded, “Will you answer for that?”
“Silence!” snapped Lars Arnth. “He will. I guarantee it if no one else does.”
I tossed the dice, then he took them in turn, tossed and won. In that manner I lost three times successively faster than I could swallow my wine.
“Three whole,” observed Arnth Velthuru and indifferently tossed to the side three beautifully lettered ivory chips. “Would you like to draw breath for a while, friend Turnus, or shall we continue?”
I glanced at the sky and thought that three minas was a lot of money. Silently I called to Hecate, reminding her of her promise. As I turned my head I saw that a lizard had slipped onto a nearby stone to sun itself. The goddess was with me as Hecate.
“Let us continue,” I suggested, finished my wine and tossed the dice once more, gloriously confident of victory. I leaned over to read my throw, for the Etruscans did not mark the sides of the dice with dots but with letters, and saw that I had made the best possible throw. Lars Arnth should not even have tried, but he did and lost. In that manner I won three times in succession.
The noble youths had forgotten their mockery and with bated breath were following the roll of the dice. One of them said, “I have never seen such playing! His hands do not even tremble and his breath is not quick.”
That was true, for I watched the fluttering sparrows and rejoiced in the blue of the autumn sky fully as much as I participated in the game. A thin red had touched the slender cheeks of Arnth Velthuru and his eyes shone brightly although he cared little whether he won or lost, but merely enjoyed the excitement of the game.
“Shall we breathe?” he asked when we were even and he took back the third chip.
