condition, but not commonplace, so far as I can tell. I do keep the door locked, mind—for now, it’s hidden away. I’ve no intention of putting it on exhibition any time soon. For now, it’s just for my amusement...and yours.” The correction was telling, as was the use of such phrases as “any time soon.”
“It’s unsettling,” Adrian said, “but it’s only metaphorical magic. Even the people who’ll only be affected subliminally will only get a frisson.”
“Don’t be disingenuous, Mr. Stamford,” she said. “You know that’s not the point.”
Adrian knew what she meant. The point was not to scare people who might look at the work of art, or mock them with subtle memento mori. She had not painted this with any present or future audience in mind. She had painted it for herself, as an attempt to see herself and understand herself. It was an attempted analysis of her own unhappiness—but on that level, it was just pantomime. It had no real depth or accuracy. She was too sane for that. Perhaps, too, she was too good an artist not to let contrivance overwhelm truth. He couldn’t say any of that to her, however. It wasn’t for him to play the psychoanalyst. At best, he could only sympathize. That was what she wanted. That was what Jason Jarndyke wanted.
“It’s brilliant, Mrs. Jarndyke,” he told her. “It’s unique, and it’s exceedingly well done. It’s beyond apprentice work—it’s a masterpiece. Not your last, I dare say. Just a beginning.”
“You’re a scientist,” she said, seemingly ignoring the flattery. “You’re in the business of cutting through illusions—of making people see the truth, however unpalatable. That’s what I’m trying to do...or, at least, to create the possibility of doing. I’m trying to see, and to reproduce what I see....”
She was fishing for some response to what she’d done to herself, or tried to do to herself, but she didn’t want to be told that she was beautiful, or even that she was a witch. That would just have been flattery.
“I’m sorry that you’re unhappy, Mrs. Jarndyke,” Adrian said, colorlessly, “but I can’t tell you how to be happy. I’m the last person in the world who can do that. But for what it’s worth, when I look at you, that ’s not what I see. And the fact that it’s not what your husband sees isn’t because he’s blind to the subtleties of the color that you and I can see—it’s because he’s looking from a different standpoint.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?” she asked, bluntly.
“No,” he said, “you’re not. I’m not. We’re not. We just have a sensitivity that’s normally the prerogative of bees and hummingbirds—something that enables us to make clothes worthy of emperors, which mere street-urchins can’t comprehend...but which we might be able to turn to our advantage anyway.”
“I have the option of painting over it,” she said. “I could do something pretty instead. Is that what you think I should do?” Adrian knew that she wanted him to tell her that it was far too brilliant to be destroyed—that it was a precious work of art, and justified itself on those grounds alone.
“Maybe you were wrong about science, just now” he said, reflectively—because, after all, he was entitled to take his time coming to terms with what she’d shown him, and because Rome hadn’t been built in a day. “If it strips away illusions and casts down idols, perhaps that’s a means, not an end. The aim, ultimately is to enhance life, not corrode it. Religious people have never been able to see that, because they have an artificial view of what life is, and ought to be, but it isn’t the case that once you lose faith, you have nothing. The truth is that, once you lose faith, there’s a chance of having anything...and maybe, in the fullness of time, everything. It’s not the case, Mrs. Jarndyke, that everything leads to death and to hell. It doesn’t
“It’s unsettling,” Adrian said, “but it’s only metaphorical magic. Even the people who’ll only be affected subliminally will only get a frisson.”
“Don’t be disingenuous, Mr. Stamford,” she said. “You know that’s not the point.”
Adrian knew what she meant. The point was not to scare people who might look at the work of art, or mock them with subtle memento mori. She had not painted this with any present or future audience in mind. She had painted it for herself, as an attempt to see herself and understand herself. It was an attempted analysis of her own unhappiness—but on that level, it was just pantomime. It had no real depth or accuracy. She was too sane for that. Perhaps, too, she was too good an artist not to let contrivance overwhelm truth. He couldn’t say any of that to her, however. It wasn’t for him to play the psychoanalyst. At best, he could only sympathize. That was what she wanted. That was what Jason Jarndyke wanted.
“It’s brilliant, Mrs. Jarndyke,” he told her. “It’s unique, and it’s exceedingly well done. It’s beyond apprentice work—it’s a masterpiece. Not your last, I dare say. Just a beginning.”
“You’re a scientist,” she said, seemingly ignoring the flattery. “You’re in the business of cutting through illusions—of making people see the truth, however unpalatable. That’s what I’m trying to do...or, at least, to create the possibility of doing. I’m trying to see, and to reproduce what I see....”
She was fishing for some response to what she’d done to herself, or tried to do to herself, but she didn’t want to be told that she was beautiful, or even that she was a witch. That would just have been flattery.
“I’m sorry that you’re unhappy, Mrs. Jarndyke,” Adrian said, colorlessly, “but I can’t tell you how to be happy. I’m the last person in the world who can do that. But for what it’s worth, when I look at you, that ’s not what I see. And the fact that it’s not what your husband sees isn’t because he’s blind to the subtleties of the color that you and I can see—it’s because he’s looking from a different standpoint.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?” she asked, bluntly.
“No,” he said, “you’re not. I’m not. We’re not. We just have a sensitivity that’s normally the prerogative of bees and hummingbirds—something that enables us to make clothes worthy of emperors, which mere street-urchins can’t comprehend...but which we might be able to turn to our advantage anyway.”
“I have the option of painting over it,” she said. “I could do something pretty instead. Is that what you think I should do?” Adrian knew that she wanted him to tell her that it was far too brilliant to be destroyed—that it was a precious work of art, and justified itself on those grounds alone.
“Maybe you were wrong about science, just now” he said, reflectively—because, after all, he was entitled to take his time coming to terms with what she’d shown him, and because Rome hadn’t been built in a day. “If it strips away illusions and casts down idols, perhaps that’s a means, not an end. The aim, ultimately is to enhance life, not corrode it. Religious people have never been able to see that, because they have an artificial view of what life is, and ought to be, but it isn’t the case that once you lose faith, you have nothing. The truth is that, once you lose faith, there’s a chance of having anything...and maybe, in the fullness of time, everything. It’s not the case, Mrs. Jarndyke, that everything leads to death and to hell. It doesn’t
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