Thomas B. Costain - The Silver Chalice

“My dear child!” the old man was saying. “You are getting to be the same kind of tyrant as your grandmother. I must do this, I must not do that. Why must I be blamed so much because I had a good meal this morning?”

“You are no better than a disobedient boy,” protested the girl in a high but pleasant voice. “Why, oh why, did you allow yourself a cucumber? Did not the kind physician who came to see you no more than three days ago tell you to be more careful? He mentioned cucumbers particularly. You will suffer for this! And you will have to take those medicines he left. Young hemlock and syrup of squills——”

“They turn my stomach,” complained the old man. “Such things are unfit for wild dogs!”

“And now you insist on seeing this artist,” went on the girl. “Do you think you have the strength today? There is plenty of time. The artist can wait.”

“He has come all the way from Antioch, my child, on the bidding of my good friend Luke. And there are reasons, of which you do not know, for showing him every courtesy.”

The girl’s voice displayed more interest at once. “What is there about him that I haven’t been told, Grandfather? You must let me know now.” Without waiting for any response, she linked an arm firmly in his. “I shall go with you, then. And I shall see that the talk is a short one. You are getting tired, I can tell, and ready for a nice long nap.”

Joseph of Arimathea shook his snow-white head sadly in agreement. “Yes, a very long nap, my little Deborra.”

Basil had transferred his attention finally to the girl, and he found himself admiring the purity of her white throat and the animation of her eyes. He had little time to study her because Adam ben Asher joined him at the window.

“You like her?” asked the caravan captain in a brusque tone.

Basil answered cautiously. “Yes—if one may judge at this distance.”

“You think her attractive?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I knew you did. I could see it in your eye.” Adam was keeping his gaze fixed on Basil’s face. “And now what will she think of you? I am more concerned about that.” His breathing seemed labored, an indication that his emotions were deeply involved. “I give you a word of warning, young silversmith. You must stick to your hammers and tools. We want no airs here, no posturing and posing.”

Basil turned and looked steadily at him. “I know no reason for accounting to you for my conduct.”

Adam seemed on the point of explosion. “I shall find a reason,” he said.

The girl’s solicitude over her grandfather’s health had prevailed. It was two hours before Basil was summoned to the bedroom of the head of the household. Joseph was sitting up in a huge bed, looking small and thin on its snowy expanse, but refreshed and receptive. On a table beside him there was a half-empty wine cup of silver and a platter with the remains of a light meal. His granddaughter sat close at hand. She gave Basil one glance and seemed surprised to find him so young. Then she studiously lowered her eyes.

“You are a boy,” said the old man in a voice that seemed too deep and full to issue from a frame so frail. He did not appear to be disturbed, however, for he did not labor the point. “You left my friend Luke in good health, I trust?”

“He was fatigued with the journey from Antioch to Aleppo,” answered Basil. “But after one night’s rest he started back alone to join one Paul of Tarsus. They are coming to Jerusalem together.”

Joseph of Arimathea nodded his head gravely. “I wrote to Paul and advised against coming at this time, but I did not expect he would heed my warning. He scents danger and rushes always to meet it.” His eyes, which shone benignly in a forest of wrinkles, turned back to his youthful visitor. “I see you have brought your wax with you. Set to work at once. I am well rested today. When your subject is as old as I am, you must take advantage of every moment.”

Basil heard this suggestion with a feeling of panic. He invariably had difficulty in the first stages and he feared that nervousness would steal from his fingers all power to catch and imprison a likeness in the warm wax. If he failed, this shrewd old man in the enormous bed might decide he would not do for the task. What would happen to him then? He was a free man now, of course. He kept the document attesting his release from bondage in the belt under his tunic, and he could not be returned to slavery. But failure might rob him of his one great chance, and he would find himself condemned to a lifetime of ill-paid labor at a workman’s bench.

He took a seat with open reluctance at the foot of the bed and set his fingers to work. At first his worst fears were justified. He could do nothing with the wax, and the face that emerged from the probing of his nervous hands bore small resemblance to Joseph of Arimathea. “I am going to fail!” he thought in a panic. “I shall be sent away in disgrace. Luke will be blamed and Adam ben Asher will be so pleased that he will laugh at me.”

A second effort was more successful. The noble brow began to show, and under it the weary eyes came into a semblance of life. A deep sense of relief took possession of the boy and communicated itself to the tips of his sensitive fingers. He began to work then in real earnest and with a full share of the concentration of the artist.

He became so absorbed that he paid little attention to the talk carried on between Joseph and the girl. They were discussing Paul and a certain errand of much urgency that was bringing him to Jerusalem. There was mention also of others whose names meant nothing to the youth, James and Philip and Jude. It was clear that Joseph had reservations in his mind as to the attitude these men would take when the unwanted but intrepid Paul arrived. All this seemed of small importance to Basil; of minute concern, in fact, when compared with his feverish desire to transfer the stamp of the merchant’s noble head to the damp material in his hands.

He became aware that a silence had fallen on the room and saw then that the girl had deserted her seat beside the couch, vanishing from the range of his vision. It was not until he heard her voice behind him that he realized she was still in the room.

“It is perfect!” she cried. “Oh, Grandfather, it is exactly like you.”

Basil turned his head and saw that she had stationed herself at his shoulder so she could watch while he worked. Her eyes had widened with pleasure over what he was accomplishing. She was not beautiful, but when her face became lighted up thus she came close, he decided, to real beauty. Her lips were slightly parted with excitement and there was a hint of color in her cheeks. She smiled at him and repeated, “I think it is perfect.”

“It is a beginning,” said Basil. He studied his work with a critical eye and discovered that, although it had many good points, there was still a serious weakness. He turned on his stool to explain to her, “Getting a likeness, that human touch which can be recognized at first glance, depends nearly always on some one detail. It may be the width between the eyes. It may be as small a matter as the angle of the eyelid. Until you stumble on what it is, the face remains lifeless. Now I have one advantage here: I know what it is I need. The key to the likeness is the nose. Your grandfather has a most remarkable nose. It dominates his face. Oh, if I can only get it right! If I do, you will see this lump of wax come quickly to life before your eyes. But so far I have not succeeded.” His fingers had gone back to work as he talked, changing the wax this way and that with the slightest possible pressure of the fingers. Suddenly he stopped. “I think—— Yes, I have it! Here it is, that splendid nose. I did no more than make a slight change in the elevation, the merest fraction of space, and now it is right. At last it is a likeness!”