She was back on Tuesday, a half-hour early and carrying a smock. He
introduced her formally to the others as they arrived: a dozen or so
bored young women who, he suspected, talked a great deal about their
art lessons outside, but in class used any excuse to stop sketching.
He didn't dare show Lucy any particular consideration. There were
fierce little miniature cliques in the class. Halvorsen knew they
laughed at him and his line among themselves, and yet, strangely, were
fiercely jealous of their seniority and right to individual attention.
The lesson was an ordeal, as usual. The model, a muscle-bound young
graduate of the barbell gyms and figure-photography studios, was stupid
and argumentative about ten-minute poses. Two of the girls came near a
hair-pulling brawl over the rights to a preferred sketching location. A
third girl had discovered Picasso's cubist period during the past week
and proudly announced that she didn't _feel_ perspective in art.
But the two interminable hours finally ticked by. He nagged them into
cleaning up--not as bad as the Saturdays with oils--and stood by the
open door. Otherwise they would have stayed all night, cackling about
absent students and snarling sulkily among themselves. His well-laid
plans went sour, though. A large and flashy car drove up as the girls
were leaving.
"That's Austin Malone," said Lucy. "He came to pick me up and look at
your work."
That was all the wedge her fellow-pupils needed.
"_Aus_-tin Ma-_lone_! _Well!_"
"Lucy, darling, I'd love to meet a real _spaceman_."
"Roald, darling, would you mind very much if I stayed a moment?"
"I'm certainly not going to miss this and I don't care if you mind or
not, Roald, darling!"
Malone was an impressive figure. Halvorsen thought: he looks as though
he's been run through an esthetikon set for 'brawny' and 'determined.'
Lucy made a hash of the introductions and the spaceman didn't rise to
conversational bait dangled enticingly by the girls.
In a clear voice, he said to Halvorsen: "I don't want to take up too
much of your time. Lucy tells me you have some things for sale. Is
there any place we can look at them where it's quiet?"
The students made sulky exits.
"Back here," said the artist.
The girl and Malone followed him through the curtains. The spaceman
made a slow circuit of the studio, seeming to repel questions.
He sat down at last and said: "I don't know what to think, Halvorsen.
This place stuns me. Do you _know_ you're in the Dark Ages?"
_People who never have given a thought to Chartres and Mont St. Michel
usually call it the Dark Ages_, Halvorsen thought wryly. He asked,
"Technologically, you mean? No, not at all. My plaster's better, my
colors are better, my metal is better--tool metal, not casting metal,
that is."
"I mean _hand_ work," said the spaceman. "Actually working by _hand_."
The artist shrugged. "There have been crazes for the techniques of the
boiler works and the machine shop," he admitted. "Some interesting
things were done, but they didn't stand up well. Is there anything here
that takes your eye?"
"I like those dolphins," said the spaceman, pointing to a perforated
terra-cotta relief on the wall. They had been commissioned by an
architect, then later refused for reasons of economy when the house
had run way over estimate. "They'd look bully over the fireplace in my
town apartment. Like them, Lucy?"
"I think they're wonderful," said the girl.
Roald saw the spaceman go rigid with the effort not to turn and stare
at her. He loved her and he was jealous.
Roald told the story of the dolphins and said: "The price that the
architect thought was too high was three hundred and sixty dollars."
Malone grunted. "Doesn't seem unreasonable--if you set a high store on
inspiration."
"I don't know about inspiration," the artist said evenly. "But I was
awake for two days and two nights shoveling coal and adjusting drafts
to fire that thing in my kiln."
The spaceman looked contemptuous. "I'll take it," he said. "Be
something to talk about during those awkward pauses. Tell me,
Halvorsen, how's Lucy's work? Do you think she ought to stick with it?"
"Austin," objected the girl, "don't be so blunt. How can he possibly
know after one day?"
"She can't draw yet," the artist said cautiously. "It's all
coordination, you know--thousands of hours of practice, training your
eye and hand to work together until you can put a line on paper where
you want it. Lucy, if you're really interested in it, you'll learn to
draw well. I don't think any of the other students will. They're in it
because of boredom or snobbery, and they'll stop before they have their
eye-hand coordination."
"I _am_ interested," she said firmly.
Malone's determined restraint broke. "Damned right you are. In--" He
recovered himself and demanded of Halvorsen: "I understand your point
about coordination. But thousands of hours when you can buy a camera?
It's absurd."
"I was talking about drawing, not art," replied Halvorsen. "Drawing
is putting a line on paper where you want it, I said." He took a deep
breath and hoped the great distinction wouldn't sound ludicrous and
trivial. "So let's say that art is knowing how to put the line in the
right place."
"Be practical. There isn't any art. Not any more. I get around quite a
bit and I never see anything but photos and S.P.G.s. A few heirlooms,
yes, but nobody's painting or carving any more."
"There's some art, Malone. My students--a couple of them in the
still-life class--are quite good. There are more across the country.
Art for occupational therapy, or a hobby, or something to do with the
hands. There's trade in their work. They sell them to each other, they
give them to their friends, they hang them on their walls. There are
even some sculptors like that. Sculpture is prescribed by doctors. The
occupational therapists say it's even better than drawing and painting,
so some of these people work in plasticene and soft stone, and some of
them get to be good."
"Maybe so. I'm an engineer, Halvorsen. We glory in doing things the
easy way. Doing things the easy way got me to Mars and Venus and it's
going to get me to Ganymede. You're doing things the hard way, and your
inefficiency has no place in this world. Look at you! You've lost a
fingertip--some accident, I suppose."
"I never noticed--" said Lucy, and then let out a faint, "Oh!"
Halvorsen curled the middle finger of his left hand into the palm,
where he usually carried it to hide the missing first joint.
"Yes," he said softly. "An accident."
"Accidents are a sign of inadequate mastery of material and equipment,"
said Malone sententiously. "While you stick to your methods and I stick
to mine, _you can't compete with me_."
His tone made it clear that he was talking about more than engineering.
"Shall we go now, Lucy? Here's my card, Halvorsen. Send those dolphins
along and I'll mail you a check."