A Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "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, portray 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?"

  "What's that got to do with it? Does that make me blind and deaf to fundamental human emotion? I was saying that the crummiest painted plaster crucifix or the cheapest cardboard Christmas Crèche can be sufficient symbol to evoke emotions in the human heart so strong that many have died for them and many more live for them. So the craftsmanship and artistic judgment with which such a symbol is wrought are largely irrelevant. Now here we have another emotional symbol - wrought with exquisite craftsmanship, but we won't go into that, yet. Ben, for almost three thousand years or longer, architects have designed buildings with columns shaped as female figures - it got to be such a habit that they did it as casually as a small boy steps on an ant. After all those centuries it took Rodin to see that this was work too heavy for a girl. But he didn't simply say, 'Look, you jerks, if you must design this way, make it a brawny male figure.' No, he showed it... and generalized the symbol. Here is this poor little caryatid who has tried - and failed, fallen under the load. She's a good girl - look at her face. Serious, unhappy at her failure, but not blaming anyone else, not even the gods... and still trying to shoulder her load, after she's crumpled under it.

  "But she's more than good art denouncing some very bad art; she's a symbol for every woman who has ever tried to shoulder a load that was too heavy for her - over half the female population of this planet, living and dead, I would guess. But not alone women - this symbol is sexless. It means every man and every woman who ever lived who sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude, whose courage wasn't even noticed until they crumpled under their loads. It's courage, Ben, and victory."

  "'Victory?'"

  "Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn't give up, Ben; she's still trying to lift that stone after it has crushed her. She's a father going down to a dull office job while cancer is painfully eating away his insides, so as to bring home one more pay check for the kids. She's a twelve-year old girl trying to mother her baby brothers and sisters because Mama had to go to Heaven. She's a switchboard operator sticking to her job while smoke is choking her and the fire is cutting off her escape. She's all the unsung heroes who couldn't quite cut it but never quit. Come. Just salute as you pass her and come see my Little Mermaid."

  Ben took him precisely at his word; if Jubal was surprised, he made no comment. "Now this one," he said, "is the only one Mike didn't give to me. But there is no need to tell Mike why I got it... aside from the self-evident fact that it's one of the most delightful compositions ever conceived and proudly executed by the eye and hand of man."

  "She's that, all right. This one I don't have to have explained - it's just plain pretty!"

  "Yes. And that is excuse in itself, just as with kittens and butterflies. But there is more to it than that... and she reminded me of Mike. She's not quite a mermaid - see? - and she's not quite human. She sits on land, where she has chosen to stay... and she stares eternally out to sea, homesick and forever lonely for what she left behind. You know the story?"

  "Hans Christian Andersen."

  "Yes. She sits by the harbor of KØbenhavn-Copenhagen was his home town - and she's everybody who ever made a difficult choice. She doesn't regret her choice, but she must pay for it; every choice must be paid for. The cost to her is not only endless homesickness. She can never be quite human; when she uses her dearly bought feet, every step is on sharp knives. Ben, I think that Mike must always walk on knives - but there is no need to tell him I said so. I don't think he knows this story or, at least, I don't think he knows that I connect him with it."

  "I won't tell him." Ben looked at the replica. "I'd rather just look at her and not think about the knives."

  "She's a little darling, isn't she? How would you like to coax her into bed? She would probably be lively, like a seal, and about as slippery."

  "Cripes! You're an evil old man, Jubal."

  "And getting eviler and eviler by the year. Uh... we won't look at any others; three pieces of sculpture in an hour is more than enough - usually I don't let myself look at more than one in a day."

  "Suits. I feel as if I had had three quick drinks on an empty stomach. Jubal, why isn't there stuff like this around where a person can see it?"

  "Because the world has gone nutty and contemporary art always paints the spirit of its times. Rodin did his major work in the tail end of the nineteenth century and Hans Christian Andersen antedated him by only a few years. Rodin died early in the twentieth century, about the time the world started flipping its lid... and art along with it.

  "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 failing 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."

  Caxton looked utterly astounded. Jubal growled, "Oh, I'm not telling tales out of school; they're smug as can be - nothing secret about any of it. They're undoubtedly sore at me right now because I took you up here without giving them time to boast. So be a gent and be surprised when they tell you."

  "Uh, which one is getting married?"

  "Isn't that obvious? The happy man is that smooth-talking refugee from a sand storm, our esteemed water brother Stinky Mahmoud. I've told him flatly that they have to live here whenever they're in this country. Dastard just laughed and said how else? - pointed out that I had invited him to live here, permanently, long ago." Jubal sniffed. "Wouldn't be so bad if he would just do it. I might even get some work out of her. Maybe."

  "You probably would. She likes to work. And the other two are pregnant?"

  "Higher 'n a kite. I'm refreshing myself in O.B. because they both say they're going to have 'em at home. And what a crimp that's going to put into my working habits! Worse than kittens. But why do you assume that neither of the two turgescent tummies belongs to the bride?"

  "Oh- Why, I suppose I assumed that Stinky was more conventional than that... or maybe more cautious."

  "Stinky wouldn't be given a ballot. Ben, in the eighty or ninety years I have given to this subject, trying to trace out the meanderings of their twisty little minds, the only thing that I have learned for certain about women is that when a gal is gonna, she's gonna. All a man can do is cooperate with the inevitable."

  Ben thought ruefully about times when he had resorted to fast footwork - and other times when he hadn't been fast enough. "Yeah, you're right. Well, which one isn't getting married or anything? Miriam? Or Anne?"

  "Hold it, I didn't say the bride was pregnant... and anyhow, you seem to be assuming that Dorcas is the prospective bride. You haven't kept your eyes open. It's Miriam who is studying Arabic like mad, so she can do it right."

  "Huh? Well, I'll be a cross-eyed baboon!"

  "You obviously are."

  "But Miriam was always snapping at Stinky-"

  "And to think that they trust you with a newspaper column. Ever watch a bunch of sixth-graders?"

  "Yes, but - Dorcas did everything but a nautch dance."

  "That is just Dorcas's natural, normal behavior with all men. She used it toward you, too - although I suppose you were too preoccupied elsewhere to realize it. Never mind. Just be sure that when Miriam shows you her ring - the size of a roe's egg and about as scarce - be sure to be surprised. And I'm damned if I'll sort out which two are spawning, so that you'll be certain to be surprised. Just remember that they are pleased about it... which is why I tipped you off ahead of time, so that you wouldn't make the mistake of thinking that they thought they were 'caught.' They don't. They weren't. They're smug." Jubal sighed. "But I'm not. I'm getting too old to enjoy the patter of little feet when I'm busy... and contrariwise, I won it lose perfect secretaries - and kids that I love, as you know - for any reason if I can possibly induce them to stay. But I must say that this household has become steadily more disorganized ever since the night Jill kicked Mike's feet out from under him. Not that I blame her and I don't think you do, either."

  "No, I don't, but - Jubal, let me get this straight. Are you under the impression that Jill started Mike on his merry rounds?"

  "Huh?" Jubal looked startled, then thought back - and admitted to himself that he had never known... he had simply assumed it from the fact that when it came to a decision, Jill had been the one who had gone away with Mike. "Who was it?"

  "'Don't be nosy, bub,' as you would put it. If she wants to tell you, she will. However, Jill told me - straightened me out when I made the same jumping-to-conclusions that you did. Mmm-" Ben thought. "As I understand it, which one of the four happened to score the first run was more or less chance."

  "Mmm... yes. I believe you're right."

  "Jill thinks so. Except that she thinks Mike was exceedingly lucky in happening to seduce, or be seduced by (if I have the proper verb) - by the one best fitted to start him off right. Which may give you some hint if you know anything about how Jill's mind works."

  "Hell, I don't even know how mine works... and as for Jill, I would never have expected her to take up preaching no matter how lovestruck she was - so I certainly don't kn
ow how her mind works."

  "She doesn't do much preaching - we'll get to that. Jubal, what do you read from the calendar?"

  "Huh?"

  "You know what I mean. You think Mike did it - in both cases. Or you think so if his visits home match up in either or both cases."

  Jubal said guardedly, "Why do you say that, Ben? I've said nothing to lead you to think so."

  "The hell you haven't. You said that they were smug, both of them. I know all too well the effect that goddam superman has on women."

  "Hold it, son - he's your water brother."

  Ben said levelly, "I know it - and I love him, too. If I ever decided to go gay, Mike would be my only choice. But that's all the more reason why I understand why they are smug."

  Jubal stared at his glass. "Maybe they just hope. Ben, seems to me your name could be on the list, even easier than Mike's. Yes?"

  "Jubal, you're out of your mind!"

  "Take it easy. Nobody is trying to make you get married, I promise you - why, I haven't even painted my shotgun white. While I am not snoopy and I never hold a bed check around here and I really do, so help me by all the Billion Names of God, believe in not poking my nose into other people's business, nevertheless while I may be out of my mind - a 'least hypothesis' more than once, the last couple of years - I do have normal eyesight and hearing... and if a brass band parades through my home, fortissimo, I'll notice it eventually. Question: You've slept under this roof dozens of times. Did you, on at least one of those nights, sleep alone?"

  "Why, you scoundrel! Uh, I slept alone the very first night I was ever here."

  "Dorcas must have been off her feed. No, I remember, you were under sedative that night. You were my patient - doesn't count. Some other night? Just one?"

  "Your question is irrelevant, immaterial, and beneath my notice."

  "That's an adequate answer, I think. But please note that the added bedrooms are as far from my bedroom as possible. Soundproofing is never perfect."

  "Jubal, it seems to me that your name is much higher up that list than mine can possibly be."