him? Maybe he could have been something else, something you like better, though it's hard to see what once you know him ... at least, as I know him. And what good would it do for him to prove to you or me or any one that he can be like any one else? You wonder if he's a good husband, a good father, and so on. He is, I can tell you that. But he's so much more! What he has to give belongs to the whole world, not merely to his family, his children, his mother or his father. Perhaps this sounds strange to you. Or cruel?
Fantastic! said my mother, and it cut like a whip.
All right, fantastic then. But that's how it is. One day you may read what he's written and be proud of having him for a son.
Not I! said my mother. I'd rather see him digging ditches.
He may have to do that too—some day, said Mona. Some artists commit suicide before they're recognized. Rembrandt finished his life in the streets, as a beggar. And he was one of the greatest...
And what about Van Gogh? chirped Stasia.
Who's that? said my mother. Another scribbler?
No, a painter. A mad painter too. Stasia's ruff was rising.
They all sound like crackpots to me, said my mother.
Stasia burst out laughing. Harder and harder she laughed. And what about me? she cried. Don't you know that I'm also a crackpot?
But an adorable one, said Mona.
I'm plumb crazy, that's what! said Stasia, chortling some more. Every one knows it.
I could see that my mother was frightened. It was all right to banter the word crackpot about, but to confess to being mad, that was another matter.
It was my father who saved the situation. One's a clown, said he, the other's a crackpot, and what are you? He was addressing himself to Mona. Isn't there anything wrong with you.?
She smiled and answered blithely: I'm perfectly normal. That's what's the trouble with me.
He now turned to my mother. Artists are all alike.
They have to be a little mad to paint—or to write. What about our old friend John Imhof?
What about him? said my mother, glaring at him uncomprehendingly. Did he have to run away with another woman, did he have to desert his wife and children to prove that he was an artist?
That's not what I mean at all. He was getting more and more irritated with her, knowing only too well how stubborn and obtuse she could be. Don't you remember the look on his face when we would surprise him at his work? There he was, in that little room, painting water colors after every one had gone to bed. He turned to Lorette. Go upstairs and fetch that painting that hangs in the parlor, will you? You know, the one with the man and woman in the rowboat ... the man has a bundle of hay on his back.
Yes, said my mother pensively, he was a good man, John Imhof, until his wife took to drink. Though I must say he never showed much interest in his children. He thought of nothing but his art.
He was a good artist, said my father. Beautiful work. Do you remember the stained glass windows he made for the little church around the corner? And what did he get for his labor? Hardly anything. No, I'll always remember John Imhof, no matter what he did. I only wish we had more of his work.
Lorette now appeared with the painting. Stasia took it from her and examined it, apparently with keen interest. I was fearful lest she say something about it being too academic but no, she was all tact and discretion. She remarked that it was beautifully executed ... very skillful.
It's not an easy medium, she said. Did he ever do oils? I'm not a very good judge of water colors. But I can see that he knew what he was about. She paused. Then, as if she had divined the right tack, she said: There's one water colorist I really admire. That's—
John Singer Sargent! exclaimed my father.
Right! said Stasia. How did you know that? I mean, how did you know I had him in mind?
There's only one Sargent, said my father. It was a pronouncement he had heard many times from the lips of his predecessor, Isaac Walker. There's only one Sargent, just as there's only one Beethoven, one Mozart, one da Vinci ... Right?
Stasia beamed. She felt emboldened to speak her mind now. She gave me a look, as she opened her mouth, which said—Why didn't you tell me these things about your father?
I've studied them all, she said, and now I'm trying to find myself. I'm not quite as mad as I pretended a moment ago. I know more than I can ever digest, that's all. I have talent but not genius. Without genius, nothing matters. And I want to be a Picasso ... a female Picasso. Not a Marie Laurencin. You see what I mean?
Certainly! said my father. My mother, incidentally, had left the room. I could hear her fiddling around with the pots and pans. She had suffered a defeat.
He copied that from a famous painting, said my father, indicating John Imhof's water color.
It doesn't matter, said Stasia. Many artists have copied the works of the men they loved ... But what did you say happened to him ... this John In—?
He ran away with another woman. Took her to Germany, where he had known her as a boy. Then the war came and we heard no more from him. Killed probably.
How about Raphael, do you like his work?
No greater draughtsman ever, said my father promptly. And Correggio—there was another grand painter. And Corot! You can't beat a good Corot, can you? Gainsborough I never cared much for. But Sisley...
You seem to know them all, said Stasia, ready now to play the game all night. How about the moderns ... do
