The Golden Fleece Page 6

  The blacks were where the actual witches figured, though. In one, they were traditional witches in black conical hats, gathered around a cauldron. It was like a scene from Macbeth, and might well have been exactly that. It was redolent with tradition—tradition that did not seem to have been excessively tarnished by the travesties of Hallowe’en. The other was quite different; in that one there was a black tower, and black cats, and a black-clad witch standing tall and imperious, mistress of all she surveyed. The witches gathered around the cauldron in the other painting were hagwives, but the witch standing in front of the tower and behind the cat was more Morgan le Fay, a custodian of the kind of cold, implacable beauty that Medusa might have had before her hair became snaky and her gaze literally lethal. Her stare was not murderous, in any straightforward sense, but it was omnipotent.

  Again, Adrian wondered if this had been intended as a kind of self-portrait, the dream of some dark doppelgänger—but it was not a calculated attempt to produce something frightening, as the second forest scene clearly was. It was an exercise in the deployment of the subtle shades that the common eye lumped together as “black,” its then almost incidental. For Adrian, it had all the subtleties of artificial photosynthesis and it was easy for him to imagine it soaking up the sun’s energy, in order to generate...what? Perhaps pure magic; raw power of a different sort. He liked it—but on balance, he thought that he liked the picture of the Golden Fleece, from which it was separated by the full length of the library, a little better.

  Adrian studied each of the paintings for some considerable time, mentally placing them in a hypothetical chronological order. All in all, he felt relieved. They were experiments, attempts to do different and varied things within the limitation of different but equally slender margins of coloration. Experiments he understood; he was a scientist. Psychologically, he felt that his feet had touched bottom. He was no longer out of his depth.

  Eventually, he turned to Angelica Jarndyke and said: “Thank you. I appreciate your letting me look at them.”

  “Is that it?” she demanded.

  Adrian gathered his courage. “Am I still on trial?” He asked. “Do you want me to tell you what I see, just to prove that I can?”

  She thought about it for a moment, but then said: “No. I believe that you can see them. That’s not the point. What do you think of them?”

  “I think they’re superb, in their way. Obviously, I’ve never see anything like them. I had no idea that anything like them could be done. They’re magnificent...if a little esoteric.”

  “But you don’t like then?” she said, flatly.

  He hesitated before saying. “They’re too varied for a collective judgment. I like some better than others. Less striking than the Hellfire, but that’s understandable given that the Hellfire had a thematic advantage as well as the shock of first impact. I do like the idea behind them, Mrs. Jarndyke—how could I not, given that they are, in a sense, especially designed for my eyes. If you want me to tell you that they’re great art, though, I can’t. They’re good, but they’re not works of genius. They’re not comparable with Monet or Rothko, or even the Vigeland brothers. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “I’d come to the same conclusion myself. Perhaps I’ve only been hiding them in subtle shades of color so that Jason wouldn’t see them, wouldn’t see my mediocrity.

  “Your husband could never think that you’re mediocre, Mrs. Jarndyke, and neither do I.”

  “But I can’t claim credit for nature’s work, can I?” she said, keeping her tone deliberately light. “I wanted to do something. You understand that, don’t you Mr. Stamford? You’re a genius, after all. You can do more than see.”

  “That remains to be proven,” Adrian murmured—but he raised his voice to say: “But you have done something, Mrs. Jarndyce. Something nobody else has ever done before. Something unique. I’m just a scientist—you can’t trust my judgment, but you can trust my sight. This is amazing work.”

  “In its way,” she added.

  “In its way,” he agreed. “That’s not an insult, Mrs. Jarndyke. Nobody else in the world could have done this. Nobody else in the world could have shown me this, and I’m truly grateful. And we’re not alone, Mrs. Jarndyke. There must be others. We’re not as good as bees, because we don’t have the same selective pressures operating on us, but we’re in the age of genetic engineering now, and we’re beginning to understand the physiological bases of esthetics. In time, if they want to, our descendants will be able to see far better than we can—you and me included, Mrs. Jarndyke.”

  “Bees?” she repeated, incredulously.

  “I assume so,” he said. “There’s a wider range of pigmentation in nature—a wider range of pigment-producing genes—-than the average human eye can discriminate. Natural selection produced them; ergo there must be organisms that can see them—the organisms to which the colors are, so to speak, addressed. Pollinators that the flowers are competing to attract: bees, among others. Hummingbirds too, probably.”

  Angelica nodded, in a particular fashion, to confirm that she could follow the argument, and would think about it.

  “Perhaps, one day,” Adrian went on, “when everyone is able to see as we see, your paintings will be hanging in every gallery on Earth, as the pioneering works of a whole new dimension of artistic endeavor. Maybe others will be better, in time, but you’ll always have been the first. No one can take that away from you.”

  “No one we know of,” she said. “But somewhere, lying neglected in some dusty attic or the storerooms of some lunatic asylum....”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jarndyke,” Adrian said, not interrupting because she had deliberately trailed off. “Your husband believed that you’d be happy to find someone who could see your work— and pleased with him for having found that someone. He wanted you to be pleased. I think I can understand why you’re not, but I’m not sure that he can.”

  “You want me to pretend? For your sake?”

  “It’s not for me to ask you to do anything—but if I did want you to pretend, it would be for his sake, not mine. He’s not at fault, Mr. Jarndyke. He might not give a damn about Rothko or Emanuel Vigeland, but he really would like to be able to appreciate your painting. It worries him that he can’t—but it isn’t his fault.”

  Adrian almost continued, but decided that he might already have said too much. Jason Jarndyke was his employer, and he had to make every possible effort not to cause any difficulty. He took a step toward the door, hoping that they could simply go back to the dining room, where he could tell Jason Jarndyke once again what a magnificent artist his wife was, and how grateful he was to have seen her work.

  Medea wouldn’t let him. She didn’t do anything as crude as blocking his way, but she stopped him in his tracks with a glance. Beautiful women could do that Adrian knew, but he couldn’t help a slight superstitious shudder.

  “Why?” she said. “You think you understand—so why?”

  “I thought the trial was over,” Adrian countered.

  “I believe that you see it. You’ve yet to convince me that you understand it.”

  Adrian thought about it, and then said: “I can’t, Mrs. Jarndyke. I know that there’s been a misunderstanding here—that your reaction to discovering that I can see your paintings wasn’t at all what your husband expected, and still isn’t. I know that, in a sense, I’ve let him down. He wanted to make you a gift of my eyes, of my special sight, because he thinks that you’ve been yearning for an audience for all the fifteen years that you’ve been married, and maybe longer. I think I do understand why you’re disappointed...but I couldn’t even attempt to convince you of it without stirring up trouble, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Please let me go, Mrs. Jarndyke. You have no use for me; it was very kind of you to let me see your paintings, and I’m truly grateful, but I’d like to return to my own work now.”

  He had been trying to smooth things over, to worm his way out of his predicament, but he could s
ee in Angelica Jarndyke’s marvelously beautiful face that he’d only made things worse. He cursed himself for having been a fool, for not having known what to say and not having the sense simply to keep quiet.

  “What would you have done?” she asked, in a deadly whisper.

  That, Adrian realized, was what she really wanted to know. She was only a Yorkshirewoman by marriage, he knew, but he didn’t think she’d have much patience for beating around the bush, so he stopped trying.

  “I’ve asked myself that, once or twice, since I saw your Inferno,” he admitted. “What would I have done if, as well as being able to see the full color spectrum, and teach myself to identify and analyze a significant fraction of its psychological effects, I’d also been able to paint? For a little while, it seemed like a conundrum, but then I realized that I already had the answer. I’d have done what I am doing, with my own particular talent. Instead of studying genetics, in order to generate as many of the spectrum’s gradations of color in different organic pigments, I’d have done what you initially did, and gone to art school to learn technique. And when I’d learned the tricks of the trade, I’d have looked for an opportunity to apply them—but I’d have looked for a way to apply them in such a way that people could see what I was doing, perhaps not entirely consciously, but nevertheless visibly.

  “I’d have done what other painters with our particular talent have done in the past, using all the colors of the palette in individual paintings. I’d have painted images that even people like Mr. Jarndyce could see without effort: portraits, flowers, foliage...maybe even sirens, fauns and witches. I’d have used my additional powers of discrimination to build in extra levels of suggestion, tantalizingly beyond the easy reach of commonplace consciousness, but I wouldn’t have tried to hide what I was representing; I wouldn’t have created an entire occult art that, so far as I knew, nobody else would ever be able to see...something for myself alone. Maybe that makes me less than a true artist. Maybe it makes me into a commercial hack, just looking for a way to market my talent. But that’s what I do—and that’s what I would have done, if I’d been able to paint but had no aptitude for science. I suppose I’d have gone into advertising.”

  Adrian was afraid that Angelica Jarndyke might take offense at the implicit criticism, and that she might be fully entitled to do so—but if her sentiments inclined her in that direction, she controlled them. She didn’t go so far as to nod her head to concede the justice of his case, but she didn’t oppose it.

  “Would you like to see the barn?” she asked, mildly. It was a hypothetical question, Adrian assumed, not an offer.

  “Thank you,” he said, “but no.”

  He knew that it was a mistake as soon as he had said it. He realized immediately that he should have said “Yes please!” as eagerly as possible. That way, she could have asserted herself by refusing. As things stood now, he’d issued a tacit challenge, which she might just feel compelled to meet.

  “Liar,” she said.

  “Honesty doesn’t come into it,” he lied, clumsily. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to look at your recent work, given that this isn’t working out the way that Mr. Jarndyke hoped it would. There’s nothing I can do for him here. I don’t say that it wouldn’t be interesting to see your work, for myself...but I will confess that I’m a little afraid of the effect it might have.”

  “Coward, then,” she amended.

  “Very much so,” Adrian admitted. “May I please go back to Mr. Jarndyke now?”

  It was her turn to lie. “Nobody’s stopping you,” she said, and raised her arm as if to show him the way, in case he’d forgotten where the door was.

  They both went back to the dining room, and Adrian spent a dutiful twenty minute telling Jason Jarndyke what a magnificent painter his wife was, and what it privilege it had been to see her works.

  Angelica Jarndyke made no attempt to challenge him, having reverted to her policy of not looking at anyone, and only making the most blatantly tokenistic efforts to take part in the conversation. Her husband didn’t seem offended by that, or even disappointed. His optimism was still intact. He still imagined that she was “coming round,” and that she would one day be grateful to him for discovering Adrian, and making her a gift of his miraculous sight.

  He had no idea what was really going on, Adrian thought. How could he, given that he was more than averagely unsighted, even though he was convinced that he could see with perfectly clarity, and was honest enough to call a splodge a splodge?

  ~ * ~

  There was no question, this time, of simply waiting for Jayjay to drop by his desk or his lab with another invitation to the Old Manse. The game had gone beyond that. Adrian was expecting a direct approach, and it was almost a relief when he didn’t have to remain in suspense for weeks on end.

  Three days later, when the doorbell of his flat rang during his scheduled relaxation time, at eight o’clock in the evening, he knew who it would be, but feigned astonishment anyway. He invited Angelica Jarndyke in, and offered her a cup of coffee, which she accepted once he had confirmed that he had no alcohol to hand.

  She didn’t beat around the bush. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No,” she said. “I challenged you to prove that you understood, because I still didn’t believe that you did. I asked for it.”

  He didn’t try to deny it. He watched her toy with her coffee cup for a few moments, shifting uneasily in her armchair.

  “It was a shock,” she said. “Much less so for you, it seems. Have you met others?”

  “No,” he said. “No one as adept as me, at any rate—or you. But because I had a scientific explanation, I was always aware of the theoretical possibility. I was surprised, but I couldn’t be shocked. Perhaps I should have been more pleased than I was, because your existence proved me right...but the situation wasn’t conducive to that.”

  “Do you always talk like that?” she asked, with a hint of asperity. “Analytical...pernickety...pedantic.”

  “Yes,” Adrian told her. “I try not to, but the scientific turn of mind keeps coming through. People call it pedantic, but it’s not.” Only a pedant, he knew, would pull people up on the propriety of their use of the term “pedantic,” but he didn’t voice the joke. It was hardly the time.

  “I’m the one that’s at fault,” she told him, with a sigh. “If I’d had a more scientific turn of mind...I’d have understood too. If I’d thought like you, I’d probably have gone into advertising as well. What a marriage I’d have had then eh? Jason and I would be partners instead of...not that it would be any guarantee of happiness. Are you happy, Adrian?”

  “No,” he relied, bluntly.

  She looked at him carefully: not hard, the way she had looked at him up at the Manse, but curiously, inquisitively. He was not the only one, he realized, who had been led by their encounter to re-examine all the decisions he had made, and wonder what might have happened if the flip of the coin had gone the other way.

  “Jason says you’re not gay,” she told him, brutally, “just socially retarded. He had to find out—even in this day and age, closeted gays can be vulnerable to blackmail.”

  “I don’t mind,” Adrian said. “My sexuality isn’t an issue.”

  “Which is exactly what’s puzzling. Has it anything to do with your supersight?”

  Adrian thought long and hard about dropping out of the conversation altogether, but he felt that he had an obligation to help Jason Jarndyke’s wife, if he could—to help her to understand, that is.

  “Indirectly,” he said. “Although it was nothing visible, it still marked me out as different—slightly alien. You must have experienced that too. It’s not an insuperable obstacle in itself, even when coupled with the social awkwardness that often comes with a scientific mind, but I had my looks to contend with too.”

  “You’re quite pretty, in a w
ay,” she said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “I’ve always looked five years younger than I am—not such a handicap now that I’m in my late twenties, and I’ll probably be grateful when I’m forty, but as an adolescent... what teenage girl wants to become involved with someone who looks five years younger than she is? It didn’t take long to figure out that I wasn’t cut out for that side of life, so I decided to concentrate on the other. A little obsession can be a good thing, in science. So can a measure of oblivion to potential distractions.”

  She didn’t sympathize, but she did nod her head to show that she could follow the argument. “It’s different for girls,” she observed, stating the obvious. “Same problem, in a way— totally different consequences.”