The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  Recktall Brown shifted his weight, raised his glass, and his eyes to the balcony. —That suit of armor up there, it’s Italian, it’s not a fake either. That’s my favorite thing here. Italian fifteenth century.

  —I’ve looked at it. Pity it isn’t all there.

  —What do you mean, it’s all there.

  —But not all Italian. The footpieces. German. Clumsy German bear-paw as can be.

  —It’s my favorite thing here, Brown repeated, and put down an empty glass. Then he sat tapping his foot silently on the carpeted floor, and the fingers of one hand on the leather arm of the chair. He filled the air before him with smoke, a shapeless cloud of gray exhaled, through which the untasted smoke rising from the end of his cigar cut a clear blue line.

  —You shouldn’t inhale those things, Basil Valentine said, returning to his chair. —Throat cancer. And Brown laughed again, a single guttural sound which barely reached the surface. A weight seemed to slide back and forth between these two men; and though Basil Valentine will say, sooner or later, —We are, I suppose, basically in agreement . . . , affirming the fact that most argument is no more than agreement reached at different moments, it was these instants of reversal, when the weight was ready to return, that the one who rose to cast it off did so tensely, as though afraid that when it had fallen to him, it had slid for the last time. They talked now in tones which recognized those of the other, and treated with accordingly, desultory tones and cursory remarks which might come close upon but never touch the eventuality which both appeared to await.

  —And what news of the publishing empire?

  —If you mean that book about art you wrote, I’ve already sent out advance copies. Brown threw the half-finished cigar into the fireplace. The dog, on the floor beside his chair, started, at the sudden motion of his arm; and Valentine, as though drawn to it, put a hand forth to the open magazine as Brown, settling back, arrested the shiny pages with splayed fingers. —That’s a nice reproduction, he said.

  —No reproduction is nice. Valentine sat back, and folded his empty hands closely, one seeking the other before him. —Attempts to spread out two square feet of canvas to cover twenty acres of stupidity.

  —All these God-damned little details, Brown muttered.

  —Much more apparent in the Bouts he did, of course. Exquisite control of brilliant colors, the ascetic restraint in the hands and the feet. Valentine extended his legs, and crossed his ankles.

  —They looked like every hair was painted on separately.

  —It was, of course.

  —This part is nice. Recktall Brown made a curve over the picture with the flat of his thumb. —The expression of her face.

  —That. . .

  —You . . .

  —Please, your . . . thumb is rather like a spatula, isn’t it. But here, Valentine went on quickly, before Brown could answer in a way that a shudder of his shoulders suggested, —the flesh tones in this are incredible, even in reproduction. This ashen whiteness, and the other large masses of color, a marvelously subdued canvas. This is the sort of thing he painted late in his life. When his mind was beginning to go.

  —Who?

  —Who do you think I mean, your protégé?

  —I like this face. He ran his thumb over that portion. The diamonds glittered; and Basil Valentine raised a hand toward it, but restrained the hand and returned it empty to the other. Brown repeated the motion with his thumb.

  —It’s insured?

  —For fire and theft.

  —For fraud?

  That brought Recktall Brown’s face up. —Fraud? he repeated. —Fraud? Then he laughed. —They could never prove a thing. Nobody could. After these experts went over it with their magnifying glasses . . .

  —I know, I watched them. I even helped them along, you know, Valentine smiled. —Examining a fragment the size of a pinhead with polarized light under a microscope, to determine whether it’s isotropic or anisotropic, boring through the layers of paint . . .

  —There’s no way anybody could prove a God-damned thing wrong here. There’s no proof anywhere. But the insurance, the only thing they won’t insure against is if something happens to it all by itself. In the paint.

  —Inherent vice.

  —What?

  —They hardly need worry about something this . . . old? The care that goes into these, still . . . the three-legged man of Velasquez? Never mind. As paint ages, it becomes translucent, and work which has been altered occasionally shows through. But of course no one will insure against inherent vice. A lot of our moderns make sudden changes dictated by the total uncertainty of what they’re doing, which they call inspiration, and paint over them. The paint breaks up quite soon, of course.

  Brown was looking down at the well-manicured fingertips which rested on the corner of the magazine as Valentine, his feet uncrossed and drawn together, twisted to look again at the reproduction. —What did you call it?

  —Inherent vice, said Basil Valentine, looking up. His eyes were seized instantly by those which offered no centers to evade. —No one insures against inherent vice, he repeated evenly. Collectors Quarterly was abruptly shoved toward him. Recktall Brown sat back; one hand was closed like a fist round an unlit cigar.

  —Sorry, Valentine said to him offering, with a gesture, to return the magazine, —if you’re not finished? . . .

  Recktall Brown looked at him, and asked suddenly, —That ring, what is it? Where’d you get it?

  —This? My dear fellow, you’ve seen it a thousand times. A seal ring. It might be the seal of a very old family.

  —Very old family! Brown muttered, looking away.

  —With a motto, Valentine persisted, —like the one you’re looking at now. Dominus providebit? He glanced at the chimney piece. —Yes . . . , sat back and lit a cigarette. He blew its light smoke out over the table, and extended his left hand on the arm of the chair. Golden hairs glistened faintly on the flesh there. —Gold rings were the peculiar ornament of Roman knights, you know. It was the way they distinguished themselves from the plebs.

  Recktall Brown stood up. He was silent until he’d poured himself another drink. Then he demanded, —Why do you have to talk to him about this idea you’ve got? You didn’t even talk to me about it yet.

  —It’s nothing to excite yourself about, yet. Simply an idea for another piece of work he might try, if he thinks he’s up to it. Little good our talking about it until we know how he feels. You and he must be quite thick after all this time, he added as Brown returned across the room.

  —I don’t think he probably sees anybody but me any more.

  —Scintillating social life. Do you talk?

  —I can sit with him and not talk. Recktall Brown sat down, and stared at the low table before him. —I never knew anybody like that before. But we talk, he recovered. —When there’s business, we talk.

  Basil Valentine smoothed the hair-ends at the back of his head with his fingertips. —You must drive him mad, don’t you? Insisting on business, business, business.

  —Somebody has to nail him down to it. What the hell’s wrong with that? When he looks like he forgets what he’s doing. What the hell, when you’re doing work like he is, you can lose contact with things, finally you don’t have a real sense of reality.

  —If he ever did, of course. You know, Brown, if by any stretch of imagination I could accuse you of being literary, I might accuse you of sponsoring this illusion that one comes to grips with reality only through the commission of evil. It’s all the rage. Basil Valentine sat running his thumb over the worn inscription on his gold cigarette case, and looking at Recktall Brown, who had returned his gaze to his ankles, thick under black silk, with white clocks, before him. —How is it I haven’t met him, in all this time? he asked finally.

  —A lot of reasons.

  —A lot of reasons?

  —I don’t want you to interfere with him, Recktall Brown said.

  —Interfere?

  —I just don’t want you to get h
im mixed up, Brown said speaking rapidly. He strained forward to reach his glass.

  —You know, Valentine said hunching behind his cigarette, —you speak as though he were a possession of some sort. Like Fuller . . . or this creature. He motioned at the dog, which had raised a leg and commenced to lick herself again. —The one really unbearable thing about females, isn’t it. All of them, always so wet.

  —I just don’t want him upset from his work.

  Basil Valentine stood up. —You do have some odd notions about me, don’t you.

  —I don’t have any notions about anybody. This is work.

  —You know, Brown, you seem to be under the same misapprehension that most people spend their lives under. That things stay as they are. I’m surprised at you, I am really. He sat back against the arm of his chair. —Tell me, he went on concisely, —just how would you expect me to interfere with him?

  —I don’t expect you to, so don’t. Just don’t get him started with your smart remarks, and these smart-aleck sayings in foreign languages the Jesuits taught you, that nobody understands but you, and . . . you know God damn well what I mean now. He has to stick to business. Recktall Brown drank, and sat holding his glass and looking straight ahead.

  —You never have music here, do you.

  —It makes me nervous.

  —Yes. Yes, I think I understand. Tell me . . . Basil Valentine paused. —Do you think . . . Is he happy, do you think, doing this work?

  —Happy? Brown asked, looking up for the first time in some minutes. —He has enough money to fly to the moon if he wants to.

  Basil Valentine smiled, and nodded. —Carmina vel caelo, he commenced in precise syllables, as the doorbell rang, and Recktall Brown spilled his drink on Invidia, putting the glass down on the table of the Seven Deadly Sins.

  —Charms can even bring the moon down from heaven. Sometimes, my dear fellow, he went on speaking to Recktall Brown’s back as it receded across the room, —I cannot believe that you have ever really studied your Vergil. Then as he sat staring, his eyes again lost their liquid quality of agreeable indifference. He drew his hands up under his chin, so that the gold seal ring on the little finger of his left hand almost touched his lips. He did not move until he heard a voice in the outside hall. —What did you . . . why did you want me to get out, and come all the way up here?

  —Business, my boy. Business.

  By the time they entered, Basil Valentine had got to a downstairs bathroom, where he washed his hands. He dried them slowly, looking at himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he smoothed the hair at the back of his head with his fingertips, paused to pull downwards at the sides of his trousers (as a woman does before entering a room, straightening her girdle), and came out to them with his well-manicured hand extended in introduction.

  For Basil Valentine, who was conscious of the disposition of every lineament of his face, and whose expressions were controlled to betray no more than he wished, a face to which surprise came with cultivated precaution, this face before him was a shock. Though still as his own, it seemed to be in constant movement, neither wonder nor bewilderment but the instant of surprise sustained, surprise perhaps not for the things and occurrences before it, but at its own constant exposure. The hand Valentine clasped was quickly withdrawn, recovered like a creature which its master dared not leave at large. —How do you do, I . . . I thought you were Fuller when I . . . just now. Recktall Brown stood with a hand on his shoulder. —I’m just . . . used to seeing Fuller here.

  —I’m awfully sorry, I fear there’s nothing I can do about that. Even Fuller’s command of the language is quite beyond me, Basil Valentine said, and then the smile left his face, for he realized that the man had turned his back and was walking toward one of the chairs before the fireplace, where he stood looking down at the table, and placed there the book he carried before he sat down.

  —Where is Fuller? he asked. He looked up at them, and Basil Valentine stopped, looking into the sunken green eyes staring from among the lines of the face which turned immediately from him to Recktall Brown, who said, —Fuller’s busy.

  —What are you . . . are you punishing him again?

  —He’s working on some crucifixes, Recktall Brown said to both of them. —He’s got twenty ivory ones up there, perfect thirteenth century, softened in vinegar to be cut, and hardened up in water. I told him if he wants his prayers to come true all he has to do is rub them with a sweaty hand. I guess a nigger’s sweat will yellow them up as good as any.

  —You’re not concerned about Fuller’s . . . trustworthiness? Valentine said.

  —He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I gave him a big frame and told him to rub bird crap into the wormholes and hang it up in this chimney, you should have seen him. Christ only knows where he gets the bird crap. He brings it in in little white packages. Recktall Brown stood, unwrapping a cigar as he spoke.

  Basil Valentine offered a cigarette across the table, took one himself and laid the case there between them. Then he held a light, waiting.

  —The eggs. He did get me the eggs, did he?

  —Your fresh country eggs, laid yesterday. They’re in the hall, but why the hell they have to be just laid within a matter of hours . . .

  —Yes, yes, they do. They do. They have to be fresh.

  —Egg tempera? Basil Valentine asked, holding the light.

  —Why . . . why yes, how did you know? He looked at Valentine only long enough to get the light, and then turned to Recktall Brown with an expression which asked the same question. Brown was, for the moment, obscured by smoke himself. Basil Valentine took the opportunity to study the man seated across from him. His hair, closely cut, showed the lines of his skull clearly, a skull of squarish proportions. The dark unpadded jacket hung from shoulders which looked barely able to support it. The fingertips, too, were squared, tapping together in the smoke from the cigarette, the narrow tightly packed Virginia tobacco which Valentine preferred, lying in the ashtray between them.

  Brown emerged from the cigar smoke and sat down unsteadily. —You look like hell, he said to him.

  Basil Valentine watched him closely. He was staring down at the table, and his lips barely moved, shaping Soberbia, Ira, Lujuria, Pereza . . . —That’s because I’m . . . I’ve been working like hell, he said looking at Basil Valentine, a quick anxious look cast up like his words which were separate immediate sounds. When neither of them spoke he said, —You keep it too hot in here, and looked up at Brown as though to provoke him to explain everything which this observation did not include. Brown grinned. —For the art? he demanded.

  —It’s just too hot. This dead steam heat. He looked down again.

  —Now that you finally got here, Brown said, —we can get started.

  —Yes, I was late. I was asleep.

  —Sleeping now? Brown demanded.

  —Yes, I . . . I work at night, you know that, and I . . . You can’t imagine how hungry I get for the night to come sometimes, he said suddenly, looking up at them both. —Sometimes it seems like it . . . won’t come at all, so I try to sleep. Waiting for it. When I was in school, a schoolboy, he went on rapidly, —we had this written on our report cards, “Here hath been dawning another blue day. Think! Wilt thou let it slip useless away?” Do you understand? That’s . . . it’s quite upsetting, that “another blue day” . . . Do you understand? he said, looking at Valentine. Then he looked down at the magazine opened in Valentine’s lap. —That . . . I didn’t know . . . I hadn’t seen that reproduction.

  —Sit down, my boy, relax, we . . .

  —I . . . excuse me just a minute. He left them sitting there, and hurried toward the door where Basil Valentine had gone a few minutes before.

  —You know, Valentine murmured, holding the color reproduction up before him, —it’s not at all difficult to understand now, why he never comes to these showings.

  —What do you mean?

  —Look at this. He’s stepped right out of the canvas.

  —O.K., just
don’t get him started on it. You see what I mean about this, this “another blue day” stuff? You have to be careful, or he’ll end up like this van . . . van . . . Recktall Brown motioned at the opened pages with the diamond-laden hand.

  —It’s all right, my dear fellow. You may say van Gogh. Van Gogh went mad too. Quite, quite mad. Valentine leaned forward and laid the magazine on the table.

  They both glanced up when he returned, by way of the pulpit across the room where he stopped to get a bottle of brandy and a glass. These he placed on the table beside the book he had brought in, and picked up the Collectors Quarterly. He read the caption half aloud, —“. . . that most characteristic expression of the genius of Flemish art, which seems to enliven us with increased powers of eyesight, in this recently discovered painting, The Descent from the Cross, by the late fifteenth-century master Hugo van der Goes . . .” That’s . . . well you can’t really say “most characteristic,” whoever . . .

  —Valentine here wants to . . .

  —But “increased powers of eyesight,” I’ve seen that somewhere. Yes, it gives that sense of projecting illumination, instead of receiving it from outside, do you . . . don’t you read it that way?

  —Yes. I wrote it, said Basil Valentine, looking him in the eyes.

  —You wrote it? he repeated.

  —I meant it, too. I congratulate you.

  —Then you know it’s mine? That this is mine? He flattened his hand against the page on the table.

  —My dear fellow, “If the public believes that a picture is by Raphael, and will pay the price of a Raphael,” Valentine said, offering a cigarette, —“then it is a Raphael.”

  The cigarette was accepted heedlessly. —Yes, I . . . but the reproductions, they don’t . . . I haven’t seen this one, but they’re a bad thing all round, they . . . here, you can see, this space right here, it loses almost all its value, because the blue, it doesn’t quite . . . it isn’t . . .

  —Not bad, for a reproduction, Valentine said, watching him pour brandy into his glass. —But I’ve looked at the thing itself, and it is magnificent. It is, almost perfect. Perfect van der Goes.