William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— The green, the green forming here.

— It is beautiful green. Beautiful green from a long time ago, before us. And before my mother, but it is not the blue. How quiet it is for now, she went on. — What was her name? She watched him take the pan from the hot coil to the table beside the empty easel, off near another wall where canvases were stacked, some unprepared, and some begun; behind them, two panels of thin aging oak; and then the mirrors. — And everything she touched held the delicious odor of sanctity days after she had touched it. What was her name? Esme sat on a stool in front of the fireplace, her chin in her hand, watching him. He seldom talked to her; she sat now where she had sat silent times she could not number while he studied her in the strong artificial light, not (he once explained) to find what was there, but to find what he could put there, and take away: for at first, wanting to hide her face, fearing close scrutiny, she had behaved as though someone from outside might discover something in her she did not know about herself, so unprepared was she to conceal or defend it. But the paintings done of her not to be of her at all, she found; and sat now, watching his lips move silently, and hers moved silently. Not to be of her at all, — but my bones and my shadows those of someone so long since dead, dead if she ever lived at all. Esme abandoned this exhibit of herself entirely, permitting what she showed to be indeed a counterfeit creature: the things she wore were nothing Esme would ever have worn: here half in profile, the blue cloth of velvet broken over her shoulder and across her breasts, and her hair drawn straightly down, she was safe away, her uninhabited face left in austere perfection, for him to search with clinical coldness, — but not to discover me here; rather academic disinterest, technical intensity, — not the eyes of a lover.

— Saint Catherine de Ricci, he said aloud, speaking the words of the pattern his lips had rehearsed. — A Dominicaness. She was a stig-matist, he added in a murmur.

— A stig-ma-tist? Saint Catherine'de Ricci, a stig-matist.

Littered about the room were details of paintings, magnified reproductions of details from Bouts, van der Weyden, van der Goes; and some photographs of such high magnification that few experts could have told whose work they represented, details of brushwork.

— You did not tell me where those old flowers came from. You cannot paint them. They are almost dead. But I like the vase you brought. It is a very lovely vase.

— You. you may have it, he said quickly. — Yes, when I'm done with it, you may have it if you like. He stood beside the end-table whose top served as a palette.

— And the flowers too. Yes, and the flowers, too?

— Then they will be dead.

— Yes, they will. Where did you find them? How?

— A man sold them. A man in a hurry to be given a dollar. A policeman's coming, he says to me. A cop's coming.

— Is it against the law, then, to sell lilies? She waited. She looked up from them to him. He had only murmured, answering, busy over the table. She looked back down at them. — They are the flower of pur-i-ty, she said.

He stopped and looked up. — Lilies in India, he said clearly. — Great heart-shaped leaves on a fourteen-foot stem, and a dozen white flowers stained with purple. He broke off, and returned to what he was doing.

— Why did you go to In-dia?

— No. No, I didn't.

— And the lilies there?

— I remember them, he said, not looking up.

— I know, like I remember Baby and I were baked in a pie. And sometimes I try to write a poem and I cannot; and so I write down something I remember. It is the same feeling. I wrote down the poem about Baby and I were baked in a pie and some silly boy thought it was my po-em! Then she said, — I dreamt about you. She paused. — I dreamt you came to visit me. But when you knocked on the door, I opened the door and there was no one there. No one was there.

He was grinding something in a mortar. He did not stop.

— But I dreamt about you again. That was a terrible dream and I will tell you about it now because the mirrors are put away. Do not put them up again.

— Why not? He glanced up, because even across the room her shudder came, and the braying pestle stopped. — Because they have terrible memories. There you were, as you are when you paint. With a long piece of rough brown cloth draped round your shoulders like you were, holding a stick that was the long handle of a spade, and unshaved too on your face, leaping from one mirror to another which held you whenever you stopped to fix it in the paint, flesh drawn over the hard bones, fixing only something lost and curious to be found again, staring out four times from the paint, reflecting itself in age and emptiness, so curious to be rescued each time you stopped. That big mirror was almost behind you, you kept looking over your shoulder like you do, pursuing yourself there, and then it caught you, you were caught in the mirror. And I could not help you out. Could that happen? Could that happen? I could not help you out.

He put down the mortar, and the pestle into it, and raised his hand to his eye, and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

— Could that happen? she whispered.

The easel, erect between them, was empty. He looked beyond it to her and said, — Why have you put that. that blue thing on you now?

— So you may work, she said. — So that I am the lady in the picture.

— But I… I'm not working now, not on that. No, isn't it finished? Isn't it finished? he said suddenly, loudly. He went to the wall, and moved two books on the floor with his foot, to turn the large surface of the painting out. — Yes, yes. Yes it is, I thought it was. Good God, I thought it was. He brought it out and leaned it on the floor against the easel. — Now I… I have to work on it now. But it's finished. He looked up to her. — I… I didn't notice that you'd. that you thought you were going to sit tonight. Yes, yes, that's why 1 was surprised when you came. When you came I thought, maybe it wasn't finished.

— Then I am not to be the lady in the painting any more? The blue cloth slipped from her shoulder, taking the strap of her slip with it. She drew it back slowly. — And then I must. dress like they are now.

— You. you. what you like, he said turning away, to look for a knife on the table.

— To play you the lute, she said, getting down all of a sudden, — like you said they did for him. In the convent where he came, they tried to soothe and comfort him, playing the lute, she said gently, standing near to him. He looked up. — You told me, she said, gently, as though defending herself against the eyes he turned upon her.

— And did it help, their damned lute? And did it help?

— You told me, it did not, she said. She took three steps past him. — You don't need me then?

— I don't need you.

— Shall I go away?

He did not answer.

— Shall I go away?

Then he said, — Is there someone there, waiting?

— If there is no one there, and there is no one here?

He said nothing; but stood before the painting with a sketch of it in one hand, a sketch on which large blemishes were indicated.

She picked a book up from the floor. — I could read to you, she said. His lips parted, but he did not speak. He tapped his thumb on the knife blade. She sat on the edge of the low bed, running her fingertips over the print on the page. Then she commenced, — In den alien Zeiten, wo das Wünschen noch geholfen hat, lebte ein König, dessen Töchter waren alle schön, aber die jüngste war so schön, dass die Sonne selber, die doch so vieles gesehen hat, sich verwunderte, so oft sie ihr ins Gesicht schien. She looked up, smiling.