“Just the same,” said Nora, “I like the Italian primitives. Don’t knock them too hard, Max.”
“Of course, you like them,” said Klebenau graciously. “The precise drawing, the sensuous colors, the naïve images—who can resist them? They are the chamber music of art. Gauguin, however, provided us with symphonies. I am touched by chamber music but I am moved by symphonies. That is the difference.”
“As for this Panama portrait,” Ben said, “how do you know it’s still around?”
“I don’t know. I believe it is.”
“On what grounds? Laval’s letter couldn’t be any help there.”
“No, but what he wrote is sufficient. It was that Paul gave the painting to his model in payment for her favors. Took it out in trade, so to speak. Starting with that, one may make certain highly encouraging deductions.”
“Such as?”
“Well, it’s unlikely that its original owner destroyed it. After all, the girl was a file de joie in a back alley of Colón. That painting was probably one of the few possessions she could rejoice in. Even more important, Laval mentioned that it was a flattering treatment of her and this often insures the long life of a picture. Poor Tom Eakins could have written a textbook about that. He was so pure of soul that he couldn’t help painting the Philadelphia uppercrust the way he saw it, which, unfortunately, wasn’t always the way it saw itself. Many a great Eakins has gone up a Philadelphia chimney in smoke because it told the truth. Luckily, Gauguin wasn’t a portraitist. He was concerned with form and color. The character of his subject would not have interested him too much.”
“Any more than being pure of soul would,” Ben observed. “He wasn’t much a man for purity, was he?”
“If by that you mean rank puritanism, no,” said Klebenau coldly. “In that sense he was as impure as any money-grubbing, psalm-singing paragon of virtue could charge him with being. He abandoned his family, he drank and whored, and he rotted to death on a South Sea island. Yes, and Van Gogh cut off his ear, and Leonardo was a homosexual, and Blake had mad visions. Didn’t it ever strike you, Smith, that when the great creative spirits are regarded in this light, there’s a reason for it?”
“Sure. I’d say it has something to do with that truth you were talking about.”
“Very little. What it has to do with is a lie calculated to make commonplace people happy. People like you and me—yes, I include myself—who can’t possibly comprehend the mysterious process of creativity for all the talking we do about it. It’s a comforting lie, this busines of harping on the titillating idiosyncrasies of great and dedicated artists. It tells us that the game isn’t really worth the candle, is it? Nice people don’t abandon their families or cut off their ears, do they? The freaks who do that sort of thing may be applauded for their strange talents, but when it comes right down to cases, they’re just not as nice as we are. Not as good as we are, in fact. It’s simply one of those curious accidents of nature that those talents are so often delivered to such freaks. And if they happen to be delivered, by chance, to a respectable stock broker like Paul Gauguin, why, he immediately becomes as bad as the worst of them! Luckily for us we’re not afflicted with talent. That is a comforting thought, isn’t it, Smith?”
“Now maybe you can see,” Nora remarked to Ben, “what happened when we got to Panama and Max found the Gauguin might still be around. He’s like that about Gauguin. You can even say some pretty awful things about David and he won’t mind. But you have to watch out for Gauguin.”
“It’s hard not to when I have him shoved down my throat like this,” said Ben. “And I still don’t see how you know the picture wasn’t destroyed by someone who got hold of it along the way. It’s a perishable object. Anything might have happened to it.”
“Pictures, like infants, are not as perishable as they may seem,” said Klebenau. “Yes, their colors will certainly change, they may be damaged in some way, but they have surprising powers of survival. And this Gauguin may have been additionally protected by the ignorance of its owners. Obviously, no one knew its value. Anyone who did would have sold it long ago, and its secret would have been out. That leads me to surmise that the picture is still safely on its stretcher. Why? Because anyone ignorant of its value would probably be ignorant of the fact that a painting on canvas may be readily removed from its stretcher. Once removed it would be in real danger of damage or destruction. This way it is likely to be prettily framed and hanging on some wall along with hand-tinted photographs of the owner’s family.”
“And by some wall,” said Ben, “you mean a wall right here in Santo Stefano.”
“Yes, I’ve traced it this far.”
“But do you know which wall?”
Klebenau shook his head. “That’s what I need a little more time and money to determine. Now that I’m this close to it, I can’t give up the search. And now that you know the situation, I don’t see how you can refuse to help me over this last hurdle. You can forget the original proposition I made you. What I’m offering today is a ten percent partnership in my Gauguin for one thousand dollars. You know what that may amount to in dollars and cents. Doesn’t that kind of money interest you?”
“It does. The trouble is, Klebenau, I don’t seem to be the born optimist you are. What happens if you find the picture? What do you use for money to buy it with?”
“You can leave that to me. As long as no one knows its value I can get it for the price of the frame. But you can see why it would be fatal if you breathed a word about this to anyone. The curator of the national gallery here knows something about art. If he were called in for an appraisal he’d give the whole show away. Then we’d all be out in the cold.”
“You can trust me to keep mum. But, saddest thought of all, what if there is no picture?”
“Then you’ll get your thousand back at interest.”
“But in either case you’ll have to wait for it,” said Nora. “It’s only fair for you to know that. If Max finds the picture, he’ll make the deal for it in Europe and stay there for a legal period so he won’t have to pay taxes in the United States. And if he doesn’t find it, you’ll still have to wait for the thousand because there’s some other people must be paid back first. But I can promise you’ll get it sooner or later.”
She was remarkably astute in her own way, Ben saw. She must have sensed that Klebenau’s appeal was too impassioned, too much a display of fireworks, to be convincing. So in a few words she dimmed the fireworks and almost succeeded in making a wild speculation look like sound investment. More than that no salesman could do. Klebenau, who undoubtedly prided himself on being a shrewd businessman, could learn a lot from her.
“If I lend you the money,” Ben said, and as soon as the words were out he knew that he was lost, “I’d be down on Bambas-Quincy’s list as one more undesirable. Do you know what that means?”
“Nobody will find out,” said Nora. “You can cash your own check and give us the cash. Max and I will sign a note for it. That way you’ll be perfectly safe.”
“How safe? This whole country put together is like a small town. Everybody here makes a point of knowing everybody else’s business. If someone like Alden-Aragone ever—”
“He doesn’t have to know,” said Klebenau. He wore the fat smile of the sure winner now. “After all, does anyone aside from you know my business here? You see? There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing at all,” said Nora.
Ben had cause to wonder about that when, after they had all shaken hands on the deal, they reëntered the dining room and he saw her idea of good companions around the table. Here, he knew, was the heart of the problem. There was nothing wrong about buying a share in a valuable painting. Not even a Bambas-Quincy or a James O’Harragh could object to his having done that. But what made the arrangement dangerous was the attachment of this lunatic fringe to the Chapins. There seemed to be no end to the ramifications of guilt by association. Like a contagious disease the taint of guilt could be passed o
n by mere contact from one to another until it was far removed from its source, and still it remained potent.
Ben had been on the point of departure. The hell with it, he thought, and pulled up a chair beside Klebenau at the table.
Klebenau helped himself to a spoonful of the confection on his plate. “I shouldn’t be eating this stuff,” he said cheerfully, “but as long as I’ve got something to celebrate, I might as well do it up brown. It’s flan. Sweet enough to melt your fillings. Try it.”
“I already have,” Ben said with distaste. He leaned closer to Klebenau to make himself heard over the din of argument around them. “Look, Klebenau, is there any reason why Chapin and Nora can’t go back to the States immediately? You know he’s the one who’s complicating things for you here.”
“Complicating them how?”
“In every way. He’s the one they’re out to nail, isn’t he? All right, if they’re so anxious to pay his passage home, let them. With him out of the way you might find things easier for yourself. It can’t hurt you to try it.”
“It can hurt him. Do you know what he’ll do with himself back in New York? Get drunk, get into brawls, try to wrap his car around a tree. The year before we left the city he went through two cars that way. When I’m around I can handle him. Nora can’t.”
“Or won’t.”
“What’s the difference? She’s no fool. Didn’t I tell you that if she’s got a good marriage, it’s only because everything he does is all right with her?”
“Even to getting her involved in the local class struggle? And you, too, so that you might never get a chance to find that picture?”
Klebenau’s spoon froze motionless midway to his mouth. He laid the spoon down and regarded Ben curiously. “Class struggle? That’s strong language where we come from, Smith.”
“It’s even stronger right here. You weren’t handed that deportation order because the authorities don’t like Chapin’s painting. It’s the company he keeps that bothers them.”
“Naturally. But class struggle?” Klebenau hooted with laughter. “My God, if there is an unpolitical animal on this earth it is David Chapin. Look at him, Smith. Take a good look. I’ve been traveling through this part of the world with him for two years now. Every country we’ve been in is like a volcano steaming with revolution, ready to erupt tomorrow. It’s everywhere you go, it’s in the air you breathe. And he still hasn’t got the least idea of that.”
Across the table Juliana Aguilar was straining to hear this. “What about the class struggle?” she asked.
Other ears pricked up at the question. When Klebenau repeated his words he had the attention of everyone at the table, including Chapin.
Chapin shrugged. “I knew Orozco,” he said. “I knew Rivera. I saw what political involvement did to them. It’s something the artist should leave to other people. I paint and you can make the revolution. When it’s over, tell me about it.”
“And,” said Tito Aguilar, “the doctrinaire theory of class struggle oversimplifies. Either you belong to the bourgeoisie or to the proletariat, either you exploit or you are exploited. But where does that leave the artist and the poet?”
“Being exploited, my dear poet,” said Juliana.
“Well, it’s different with artists back home,” Nora declared. “Any one of them with talent can make a good living in the United States. He can do it even if he has practically no talent at all.”
“True,” said Klebenau. “And if that’s exploitation, Juliana, it’s a happy condition indeed. No, I’m afraid that your doctrine does oversimplify the case. It is based on economic determinism, and it overlooks the fact that economics is merely one strand in the tangled skein that is humanity. If we must identify ourselves with some neatly defined class, I’d say we have to be offered at least three classes to choose from, not two.”
“At least,” said Juliana scornfully.
“Why take that tone?” said Klebenau. “Because I can’t quote chapter and verse from some ponderous text to substantiate my theory? Believe me, I could write the text; I hardly need to read it. I’ve seen enough of the world in my sixty years, Juliana. I was born in a Hamburg slum which was no more appetizing than the Calle Indios, I was raised in a New York slum which was little better, and I have met every variety of mankind. I have slept in gutters with derelicts, and I have been the intimate of men so wealthy that they could, if they had the whim, buy the entire country of Santo Stefano as a plaything.”
“If we chose to sell,” said Juliana.
“I wasn’t trying to insult you or your country. I find much to admire in both of you. My point was that I have lived a long enough and full enough life to draw conclusions of my own about the class structure of humanity.”
Ben had been listening to this with interest. “But how do you make out three classes? What three?”
“These.” Klebenau held up three fingers and ticked off his accounting on them. “We have brutes, elegant brutes, and saints. The brute is poor, his existence is meager. He struggles day by day for the bare necessities of life. The elegant brute is above that. He may be only a well-paid mechanic or he may be a powerful industrialist, but by the standards of the ordinary brute he is prosperous. Yet, like his poorer brother, he is a materialist. Even if he uses his wealth or power to uphold the most noble ideals he remains a materialist. That is not his fault. At his best he still lacks the one element that raises the saint above him.
“And what about the saint? Well, whatever his poverty or affluence, whatever his status in the materialist sense, he has been born to enrich humanity. He is the creative being, the artist, the poet, the composer who shares with God the power of creativity. Not that this makes him any less human. He may pity the poor and envy the prosperous, because it takes God to be above pity and envy. But the creative man who makes something beautiful exist where nothing existed before is not far below God when you come to think of it. For all we know, this saint may be the sole purpose and meaning of humanity itself. Does that sound unpleasant? Does it sound too poetic? Well, what is truth, after all, but unpleasant poetry?”
“If it sounds unpleasant,” said Ben, “it’s only because of your peculiar choice of language. Why brutes? Isn’t there another word for it?”
“None. Consider the brutes that perish. Consider me. When I die I will leave only decaying flesh and a great deal of it. But a saint is immortal. Long after his flesh is dust, his spirit survives. There is no more corruption in him after death than there was in life. Not that this should dishearten elegant brutes like you and me, Smith. The greatest elegance we can display is to pay homage to the saints, and this opportunity is open to all. Look at Cosimo, the worthiest of the de’ Medicis, who lived only for the pleasure of supporting the creative talents of his era. Look at Pope Leo the Tenth. Faced with the Reformation, he used the wealth of the church not to fight it, but to reward the great artists who decorated his palaces. He knew where true saintliness lay and worshipped it devoutly. Elegant brutes these, but none the less admirable.”
“Then we are in the presence of saints right here,” said little Prima shyly.
“We are,” said Klebenau. He inclined his head at Chapin and Tito Aguilar. “They may not look like much, their halos are badly dented, but by their works we know them.”
“And what about Bolívar?” demanded Juliana. “What about your own Abraham Lincoln?”
“Noble men, elegant brutes.”
“And I say they were saints on earth!”
“Ah, then you accept my premise,” said Klebenau wickedly. “Welcome aboard, Juliana. I’m glad to have a convert of your caliber.”
“I accept nothing, dear Max. Your theory is willful nonsense. All it does is deify anyone with artistic talent. There are other forms of talent. More important ones. To raise the masses out of poverty and ignorance is certainly as important as painting a picture.”
“Is it?” said Klebenau. “To raise them from poverty and ignorance to prosperity and ignorance—it so
metimes saddens me that noble men should give their lives to this cause. Because that is the cause. The most idealistic dream the elegant brute can have is one where all mankind is raised to his own level of animal content. How admirable of him. How virtuous. And if he devotes his life to the fulfillment of that dream, why, he is no less than a hero. A hero, Juliana. Not a saint. The act of creation is still beyond him, and so, inevitably, is the meaning of life itself. The benefits he brings are soon corrupted and lost; the strokes of color on canvas remain through the ages.”
“What cynicism,” said Juliana. “You can cloak it in all the mystical verbiage you want, Max, but it’s absolute cynicism. It’s a sickness.”
“Not at all. It is a precise statement of the human condition delivered without cant. The human being, with rare exceptions, is still a brute animal. When his so-called ideals take fire in him he slaughters like a hungry animal. Name your heroes for me, Juliana, and see if around each of them there isn’t a smell of blood and death and destruction. But my saints, those rare exceptions to the rule, spell creation and life and beauty.”
“In the midst of suffering! When my heroes fight, it is to relieve that suffering.”
The Panama Portrait Page 15
