* * * * * * * *
That summer, the old artist coming out of retirement caused quite a stir in the University. No one could ever say exactly how word got out that he was painting again, but the hurried whispers in the corridors soon turned to excited babble in the dining hall, and after that, short articles began appearing in the University paper. The old artist was obliged to show his new paintings to the steady stream of inquisitive scholars who knocked at the door. In frustration, he asked the Chancellor for space in the University’s gallery: a request that was eagerly granted. This circumvented the flow of visitors to the studio with the exception of the students who came begging for an apprenticeship. These, Thaddaeus left in the capable hands of Grissle who hung about the door of his apartment like a watchdog. “He’s painting,” she’d growl, “and not to be disturbed.”
His first wave of paintings was hailed by University scholars as “New! Brilliant! The cutting very edge of avant-garde!” Critics described them as ‘The Destructive Landscapes’: cityscapes under the attack of luminous storms, swirling tornadoes, or lucent flash floods, covered his canvases. One large painting depicted a violent volcanic eruption in the foreground, with a bright river of lava swallowing a distant city. The critics called it “Pompeii”, but anyone with half an eye could see that the city was the very shape of their own with the towers of the palace, the clock tower of City Hall, and the University on the hill. Yet somehow, the critics and scholars overlooked this fine point.
Oddly though, his very first painting—the one that had caused him to quit twenty years before—was the last of the landscapes to be publicly displayed. He seemed reluctant to bring it out; it was, perhaps, the strangest of the set. There in the foreground was the dark city, surrounded by a black, almost feathery darkness that spread over the canvas. In complete contrast, a bright golden cloud hung in the upper corner of the black sky. Bolts of lightning shot from the cloud down to the city; a close examination revealed a perfect depiction of City Hall ablaze.
No one knew what to make of this last painting and the artist himself had little to say. On a rare appearance in the dining hall, he was accosted by scholars and a journalist who asked, “What does it mean?” to which the old artist replied simply, “Above,” and went back to his jacket potato and cheese.
After a month of inactivity, everyone thought he must have exhausted himself and come finally to the end of his career. They settled in happily to write retrospectives of his life and work.
But to the delight of the Provost and the glory of the University, he began to work again, producing a fresh batch of paintings. The subject of these was darker: they depicted scenes of human violence and terror. In one picture, a regiment of soldiers slashed themselves with swords; in another, mass hysteria gripped the common folk in the Market Square as they attacked one another with clubs and knives. A third painting showed a lone soldier climbing a dark road; he held a child in his arms whose face was bruised and broken, her body bleeding. The soldier’s face shone with a mysterious light.
There were numerous paintings in this group which critics called ‘Studies in Madness’. Scholarly journals called the artist “the new Rembrandt,” hailing his use of light and the range of human emotion.
“Range of human emotion?” a student in the gallery was heard to say. “I see only madness and terror. What is the old goat trying to say?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said his fellow. “Everyone knows art has no fixed meaning. It’s no use trying to find one.”
And yet, meaning was a question that some found important, especially when the General and the Mayor made an appearance in the gallery. How to explain violent scenes of the city’s destruction displayed as great art? When the two politicians arrived, the old artist himself was present, smiling grimly.
“What do you call these? They have no title,” the Mayor demanded.
The Provost nervously eyed the silent artist, then said, “I think the landscapes are called “Above” and the . . . the . . . others are called . . . .”
“Beneath,” Thaddaeus said.
“They are very . . . interesting,” the General said. He exuded a cold calm that withered the usually sanguine Provost. “Very interesting,” he said again, standing in front of the dark city being destroyed by bolts of lightning.
“I’ve seen this man before,” the Mayor said of the lone soldier who carried the wounded child, “but I can’t think where. Did you use a model?”
Thaddaeus shook his head.
“All soldiers wear a common face,” the General said.
“Have you seen my portrait? Now there’s a real painting,” the Mayor said to the artist.
Thaddaeus merely nodded.
“I wonder what city you have painted,” the General said. It was completely obvious, but he looked to Thaddaeus for an answer.
The old man, his huge frame a head taller than the General, did not reply.
“I’m sure it’s purely representational,” the Provost said.
There really was a hidden power about this artist that the General did not understand and, on a sudden and unusual impulse, decided not to goad. Instead, he politely examined the other paintings, then departed with the portly and befuddled Mayor. He knew exactly what to do. That same afternoon he summoned the city’s prominent journalists and announced to the world that the old artist was insane.
Because news of this nature was not important to the populace, who were more concerned about rising taxes and waning food sources, the article about the insane artist was placed on page eight in the “Art About Town” section the next day. It was a short piece read by few, even at the University. The Provost, however, was disturbed by the article’s insinuations about the college and ordered the paintings removed from the gallery.
“Of course, I don’t believe you’re insane,” he said to Thaddaeus, “but the General . . . .”
“Yes. The General,” Thaddaeus replied.
“A man like that is already suspicious of . . . let us say, circles of higher learning.”
“Yes. A man like that.”
“Surely you understand, Master Thaddaeus. We do not want trouble.”
“Yet trouble will come, sweeping down like a fire bolt.”
“Well, the General is a powerful man, but if we keep a low profile . . . appear to fall in line with his views . . . .”
“There is still time,” Thaddaeus said, “there is still time.”
“Well of course,” the Provost said, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, Master Thaddaeus. As much as the University has benefited from your, er, long association. I regret to say that, in the current political climate, it’s best if you . . .
The old artist had taken up his tools and begun stretching a new canvas over a frame. He worked in silence, as if he’d forgotten the Provost was in the room.
“Master Thaddaeus, are you . . . are you beginning another painting? But surely you understand that, for the good of the University, I cannot endorse . . . .”
“It does not matter. Those meant to see, will see.”
“Of course,” the Provost said weakly, and left the studio, shaking his head as the old artist began muttering under his breath: “beneath, above, behind, before . . . .”
The next morning, Grissle told Thaddaeus that he’d be moving to The Tower Inn. “The owner’s a friend of mine,” she said.
“Moving?” Thaddaeus stopped in the middle of a brush stroke. “Are you mad, Grissle?”
“No, sir, but there’s some think you are. Here at the college you’re in the General’s eye. You can’t paint what you’re paintin’ and not be.”
“But I’ve lived here fifty years!”
“And you’ll be clearing out today. I’ve hired some men.”
“Argh!” Thaddaeus growled and turned back to his canvas.
And so, as Grissle directed the packing and moving. Thaddaeus continued to paint, paying no heed to the bustle that moved about him that day. In the world’s e
yes he had come out of retirement and begun to paint again; in actuality, he had withdrawn further into himself. His paintings were merely a manifestation of his need to make sense of the words that beat about his brain: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. He was not a musical man, but he walked and breathed to the rhythm of these words. Almost he could feel them, like a gentle pulse swelling up from the earth; like the metrical beating of wings stirring the air. His interior self was ablaze with light and he sought to translate his inner visions with the always inadequate strokes of a brush.
“I see you have heard the voice behind you.” It was the University’s oldest scholar, the white-haired man whose name Thaddaeus could not remember. He had not seen him since they’d met in the dining hall a year ago.
“Before you called out, you were answered.”
Thaddaeus looked up from his painting. He was surprised to see the room empty of all furnishings save his easel and the small table that held his paints. The grey evening light, hardly distinguishable from the grey light of morning, shone through the bare window. The old scholar stood surveying the painting’s progress. “Yes,” he said, “you were heard even before you finished speaking.”
Grissle moved about the edges of the room with a duster, ferreting out cobwebs. Three men stood at the door waiting to remove the easel and escort the artist to his new home. Thaddaeus wondered how much time had passed since beginning the painting. Was it one day? Or ten?
“That woman with the strangely carved staff: I’ve seen her before, but not in the place you’ve painted her,” the old scholar said.
Woman? Thaddaeus thought. He looked closely at the painting. There she was, striding across an open field, holding a twisted walking stick. Had he painted her? He only remembered trying to capture the colours of a blazing star. The woman was followed by a flock of sheep on her right and a flock of goats on her left. Where had they come from? The sheep were varying shades of brown and black; the goats were snow white with blood red eyes. The field of yellow grass was bent by a breath of wind, and overhead the sun blazed yellow in a brilliant sky.
“Is it finished?” Grissle asked, her harsh voice splintering the artist’s thoughts.
Without knowing why, he reached out and placed a thin stroke of umber across the woman’s forehead.
“Ah yes,” the old scholar breathed, “her unusual crown. Now it’s finished.”
Yes, Thaddaeus thought. I suppose it is. He relinquished his palette and brushes to Grissle. The three workmen came forward: one took the table, one gingerly took the painting, and one took the easel. Thaddaeus watched their removal with mild bewilderment.
“I’ll see you again,” the old scholar said, then he too left the studio.
Thaddaeus stood still listening to the old man’s footsteps on the stairs, and Grissle stood quietly waiting. Finally, he turned to her and seemed about to speak, but she said, “It’s time to go. Your work here is done. And so is mine.”
Subdued by confusion, he followed her out the door and into the quiet twilight. He’d always loved the college in the evening light, but now, a year after his fateful journey to see the Mayor’s portrait it all looked different to him. The sky was polluted and the grey stone walls were blackened in many places and the ancient buildings around the courtyard were crumbling and neglected. The gates were smeared with filth. Once out on the street, he looked back to see that vandals had defaced the University emblem. He shuddered and quickened his pace to catch up with Grissle.
Halfway down the hill, in the street outside The Tower Inn, he stopped and looked around. He sensed they were very near the neighbourhood of his childhood. Long ago, on midsummer evenings like this, it had rung with the shouts of playing children. Now it was silent, the tall houses mostly boarded up and abandoned. Dark figures slunk along the pavement in the gathering dusk. Thaddaeus sighed and followed Grissle into The Tower.
The Tower Inn was, in fact, a tower built along Anglo Saxon lines, though refurbished in a modern fashion and attached to a rambling set of buildings that fronted the street. The old artist’s rooms were at the top of the tower. Grissle and the workmen had positioned the studio furnishings almost exactly as they had been in the old college rooms so that when Thaddaeus walked in, he was mainly aware of the difference in light. There were many more windows here than in the old place. He sat down in his chair and looked around at the bright fire in the grate and the paintings stacked against the wall. He knew his life had shifted in some major way, yet it had little to do with moving house. Grissle stood by the door, polishing the knob and watching him out of the corner of her eye. He took up a sketchpad that lay on the table and began to draw.
There was a knock at the door. The proprietor entered. When he saw Thaddaeus he said, “Why, I remember you! You came into the pub last year. Didn’t know you was a famous artist. Though now I think of it, you did say you painted the portraits of . . . well you said you painted.”
“The royal family,” Grissle said. “He painted them all.”
The proprietor sent Grissle a warning look, but her face was unreadable. “Do you like the rooms?” he asked the artist.
“Yes,” Thaddaeus replied, though so far he’d only seen the studio. There must be rooms beyond—perhaps a bedroom, but at the moment he wasn’t interested. “Thank you,” he added, and went back to sketching.
“Grissle tells me the University don’t want your paintings no more. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind puttin’ ‘em up around the inn? My wife’s especially keen. She’s got some education and went up to see your paintings at the gallery.” He looked at Thaddaeus hopefully.
It hadn’t occurred to Thaddaeus that anyone outside the University would be interested in his work. Actually, he didn’t care whether or not anyone was interested; it had nothing to do with why he painted now. In his early days he had craved encouragement and praise. Now it didn’t matter. Each painting, each sketch, was one step toward the source of the words, that elusive rhythm toward which his ears strained.
He looked up from his sketch and, waving a hand toward the stack of paintings, said, “Take whatever you like . . . Grissle, perhaps you would . . . ?” He looked hopefully at Grissle. She nodded and he went back to sketching.
“We’ll want to show them all,” she said briskly. “The workmen are still here having a pint. Send them up and we’ll move the whole lot downstairs.”
So it was that the ‘Destructive Landscapes’ and ‘Studies in Madness’ were prominently hung in the Great Room of The Tower. The proprietor’s wife, who did indeed have some education—more than any of her customers knew—supervised the display and lighting. Though the subject of the paintings may have put some people off their food, they did bring many more customers into The Tower. The news about the mad painter moving to the inn had spread among the common folk and they were eager to view the paintings that the University had rejected. The tables were crowded each evening as folks sat over a pint to argue about what the paintings might mean. For the common folk were sure they meant something.
“Obvious, ain’t it,” said a farmer staying over after market, “this city’s for it. Glad I don’t live here.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘for it’,” said his companion.
“Well it’s already going to the dogs, ain’t it.”
“Whaddaya mean by that?” his companion was a long time city dweller.
“He means the Mayor!” a woman barked. “Talk about dogs!”
“Watch yer mouth,” someone said. “Don’t be getting’ us all in the lockup, Winnie.”
“But it’s true, ain’t it,” said a youngish man in a grey cap. “I mean, lookit the wars.”
“Yeah. And food’s gettin’ hard to come by. I heard tell the farmland don’t produce like it did.”
“That’s true enough,” said the farmer. “Even the cows seem to be givin’ less milk each year. It’s like the world’s givin’ up.”
“See? And then kaput!” said the grey cap. “Just li
ke them paintings.”
“But hey! What about them killin’ pictures, the ones called ‘Madness’. Lookit that one there,” the woman called Winnie pointed at the opposite wall. “There’s our Market Square and all of us killin’ each other!”
“Seen yer face in that crowd, didja?” a portly man guffawed.
“I ain’t saying I recognize no one, but what do it mean? Does he think we’re gonna end up like that?”
“Rubbish!” said a woman in a tight dress. “You lot talk as if these paintings are going to come true, like you think that artist looked into a crystal ball or something. You read what the General said. A diseased imagination painted these.”
“I dunno ‘bout that,” said the farmer. “Else why would the owners put the paintings up for all to see? Tom and Hyla has always been honest folk. Ain’t nothin’ diseased ‘bout their ‘maginations, I don’t think. And I hear the old artist lives up at the top of The Tower. Seems the University gave him the toss.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a prophet,” said the tight dress.
“Just ‘cause you say so,” the grey cap retorted.
“Rubbish,” she snorted, and walked out.
At that moment the proprietors, Tom and Hyla, came through a side door carrying another painting between them. They took it across the room and leaned it against the wall, then quickly left by the same door. Immediately, a crowd gathered around the new painting, but before anyone had a chance to comment, Tom and Hyla returned with two more paintings.
“Gosh, he’s busy, ain’t he?” Winnie said.
“Who?” said the farmer.
“The painter! You reckon he paints all night and all day?”
“Don’t be a fool. He’s human, ain’t he?”
These paintings were very different from those already hanging on the walls. They were filled with light and colour. The first was the one Thaddaeus had finished on his moving day: the woman with the sheep and goats. If the scholars and critics had been there, they would, no doubt, have said these paintings were the beginning of a new group and given them a label. But it was the common folk and one very old white-haired scholar who talked over these new compositions.
“Blimey. That woman there, with the funny walking stick, she looks like she could walk right outa that picture,” someone said.
“I think I seen her before,” Winnie added.
“And that picture there. Lookit the way the lightning flashes across the sky . . . .”
“Lighting it up from one end to the other,” the old scholar finished.
“And lookit the man and the little girl there. What are they standin’ on?”
“Why it’s the top of this here Tower,” someone cried.
“Do you think these pictures got names?” someone in the crowd asked.
“I believe the artist will call them ‘Behind’,” said the white-haired scholar.
“Well I think that’s just what he said,” the proprietor exclaimed. He was standing on a ladder with a hammer in one hand. “Isn’t that right, Hyla? Didn’t he say to call these pictures ‘Behind’?”
“Yes,” Hyla replied, looking at the scholar keenly. “How did you know?”
“Let us say that Master Thaddaeus and I are acquainted with the same fountainhead of knowledge. But perhaps,” the scholar continued, appealing to the crowd, “you also are familiar with the old saying: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore.”
“Can’t say as I’ve heard that one before, though it do ring a bell,” the farmer began.
“Course it do!” Winnie cried. “It’s that old dancing song, remember? Hey Ian,” she shouted across the room, “you got your fiddle handy?”
A man in a battered hat nodded vigorously.
“Then what are you waitin’ for?” Winnie cried. “Here you!” she said, pointing to a couple of burly workmen, “clear the floor!”
In seconds, half the room was cleared and the fiddler struck up a spirited tune. He was joined by a boy with a drum and a woman with a pipe. Winnie stood on a chair and began to sing:
Beneath, above, behind, before
Within, beside, to win, restore.
Several people joined this chorus, adding layer upon layer of harmony. Soon the floor was filled with circles of young and old, stepping in time to the music. Tom stood with his arm around Hyla, both of them smiling. The old scholar sat on a table in a most undignified position, his legs dangling; he was humming, his head bobbing to the rhythm; now and then he could be heard to say, “Yes! Oh yes!”
A large shadow appeared at the bottom of the stairs. The music faltered and all eyes turned to the tall figure of the artist who stood in the doorway. He wore a stained painting smock and carried a brush in one hand that looked as if he’d just dipped it into green paint. He stared at them all with wide eyes.
“Don’t stop,” he said, “Don’t stop. Please. I beg you.”
With a glad cry, musicians and dancers picked up where they’d left off, louder and more vigorous than before, if possible. The old scholar jumped off his seat, grabbed Thaddaeus by the elbow and pulled him over to an empty chair. “Listen closely,” he said into the painter’s ear. “These folks know a verse you’ll not have heard before.” Then he slipped away into the crowd, clapping in time as he went.
Away up in his rooms, Thaddaeus had felt, rather that heard the musical pulsation begin. It matched the rhythm of the words in his mind and, at first he’d thought the vibrating air part of his imagination. Then, as he painted, he’d realized the rhythm came from outside himself. He’d been drawn down the stairs, like a moth to a lamp, hearing the music and the drum more clearly with each step. When he’d entered the Great Room and the music stopped, the silence had been like a sharp, sudden pain. Now, he sat in rapt attention, his mouth hanging open slightly, as the music swept over and around him. A young child crawled onto his lap and examined his abstracted face. She grabbed the long paintbrush and, absently, Thaddaeus let it go. The child wandered away, spreading vermillion along the walls until the bright colour gave out.
Thaddaeus found it difficult to make sense of all the sounds, but as he listened, the music took shape before him and he heard the familiar words sung round and round in an ever circling reel. The piper took the melody ‘round a bend and the singers spun off the one and only verse they knew:
I bind unto myself today
The power in the starlit space
The sun’s life-giving lucid rays
The whiteness of the evening moon,
The flashing of the lightning free
The whirling wind’s tumultuous shocks
The steadfast earth
The deep salt sea
Swirling ‘round the ancient rocks.
The verse ended and the singers swung off into the orbiting chorus,
Beneath, above, behind, before
Within, beside, to win, restore.
Thaddaeus jumped to his feet. The verse! The verse! I must hear it again! I must have those words for my own, he thought. As if in answer to his silent plea, the singers picked up the verse again and set the words spinning ‘round the room. He gaped like a landed fish gasping for air as the music wove its way into his mind.
Winnie nudged the man singing tenor and nodded toward Thaddaeus; the tenor smiled and by tacit agreement, the singers repeated the verse again and again until the artist was mouthing the words with them. Only then did they let go the verse and pick up the revolving chorus for the umpteenth time. The musicians may have known many more songs, but the crowd seemed content with this one. Those who weren’t dancing sat around tables at the edge of the room, drinking and tapping their toes while Tom and Hyla brought out platters of bread and cheese.
A lone soldier walked into The Tower and asked for a room. Tom was relieved to see that he was a quiet fellow, just near the end of his leave. The only thing unusual about him was the loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He paid for two nights lodging, then joined the crowd in the Great Room
.
Thaddaeus, meanwhile, subsided into a chair and began to sing in his tuneless way. He saw bright figures singing and dancing; the words and music cast coloured lights swirling into the air. Flames leapt from the fiddler’s bow and whirled around the drum and pipe. He felt something like sparkling fireworks building in his chest and he thought he might explode. For relief, he glanced aside and saw a quiet-faced soldier sitting beside him, holding a loaf of bread. The boy’s face shone with a strange light. Thaddaeus thought he had painted that face before. The soldier turned and, finding the old man looking at him, leaned close and said, “Why don’t they sing the other verse?”
For a moment, the painter’s mouth opened and shut like a fish before he finally said, “Other . . . other verse? You know another verse?”
“My grandmother taught me,” the soldier said.
Thaddaeus jumped to his feet with a shout. For the second time that evening, the music faltered and all eyes turned to the painter who said, “Another verse! He knows another verse!” And he pulled the soldier to his feet.
“Thank heaven for that!” someone responded, and the crowd laughed.
In no time, the other verse was learned and the musicians swept the new words into the air and set them whirling with the rest.
I bind unto myself today
A refuge under mighty wings
A fortress in the time of storm
A shield from terror in the night
A clashing sword of victory
A strong right arm to rescue all
An eye that sees
An ear that hears
Bestowing strength to those who call.
The new verse had a curious effect on the people in The Tower: they seemed infused with new energy. Any who had set down to rest, and those who had thought it time to go home to bed, now stepped back onto the dance floor with renewed vigour. Thaddaeus stood swaying to the rhythm like a supple reed, as if all his joints had been suddenly loosened and oiled. The child with sticky vermillion fingers came and stood before him. She grabbed his hands and pulled; together they tottered out onto the dance floor. Old Grissle stood in a corner watching. Her sagging wrinkles shrouded her expression, but her eyes were bright. She picked up her broom and shuffled up the tower stairs.
Only the young soldier stood still among the swaying crowd, his eyes gazing inward. His name was Michael Lennox and he was wrapped in some fair memory that took him far away to a starlit night. Instead of the loud music, he heard the voice of a girl saying, “It seems like I’ve known you for some time,” and he saw the faces of tall gods who walked beside the sea.