The Automaton

Recommendations

Info

The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011 humanity, the warmth of her gaze. I loved her. She knew it. And so we quietly played. She was making allowances, but, of course, she quietly won, as she always did. Then she had replaced the pieces and now sat with her hand on her sand-glass. Suddenly she wore an air of extraordinary vigilance: her gaze was so keen I was afraid. She suddenly raised her right hand, and, with a loud sigh, she pointed to the curtain of a dressing-room. Her gesture was both urgent and authoritative: I would not have argued with it. Then I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Without any thought of my own I obeyed the Automaton, turned down the gas and softly made my way to the darkened dressing room. I looked out from the crack between the curtains. The door was unlocked: A figure entered and turned up the gas. It was the Automaton’s impresario. He stood before her, his hands in the pockets of his dress trousers, which, I have to say, were a little threadbare and formless; one of the satin stripes had become unstitched. ‘So, Madame, we have to change things. The trouble is that you always win. After a time there’s no money to be made from that. I’m sure you see the argument.’ He paused, and looked at her, almost as if he expected her to make a reply. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I made you, and I can do as I wish with you. You don’t have delusions of being animate and sentient, do you? Perhaps you do. I have wondered. Well, there’s not much I can do about that. But I did make you a very superior chessplayer — you play a far greater game than ever I could — but now I shall change you. You’ll become a moderately good chess-player. Tomorrow. You must become used to it. You will understand what it is to lose. A new experience for you, eh? It will not be a pleasant one, I suspect. Understand. We shall have a close confederacy. You can’t win all the time and rake in the gold. And gold is what I’m short of.’ Again he appeared to be awaiting a reply. He sighed. ‘We are no longer in Paris, Madame. Nor Saint Petersburg. Nor Vienna. We are not entertaining the crowned heads of Europe now. The King of Bavaria no longer chooses to take his chances against you. Neither do the statesmen of the New World. Nor, Madame, the Sultan of Nishapur, with his mathematical advisors at his elbow, quietly counselling his moves. You allowed him time: you abided by the turn of your sand-glass, but you allowed him weeks between his moves. You allowed him everything a mind could offer, and, of course, he lost to you.’ The impresario sighed. He looked across the room. ‘Madame, what did I hope from you?’ He looked out of the window. ‘Regard, Madame, the one-eyed town we entertain today. Well. We have to live. It’s difficult.’ His voice became more active, as if he were speaking to the Automaton as though she possessed sentience and understanding. ‘Remember mediaeval Rochus, the carver and image maker. I forget the city: he’s mentioned in Foxe’s treatise. Rochus had his own workshop. Valladolid? I don’t remember. He had carved a statue of Our Lady. She was of great beauty, her eyes compassionate, her arms ready to receive the imploring prayers of the weary. Her head was bent so slightly in an expression of Agapé: caring love — unconditional compassion: an acknowledgement of the love of the divine for the dirty. Rochus placed this statue in a niche outside his workshop to advertise his trade. At night he would bring the image in. One day two priests entered his workshop. They had seen the statue and they wished to purchase it for the cathedral. But Rochus would not sell. “I made it,” he said. “It testifies to my ability as a sculptor. It brings me trade. I shall never sell.” “But you must. So beautiful a statue 8
The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011 belongs in a holy place, not a place of trade, a workshop. She should communicate prayers, not advertise the services of an artisan. She should adorn the Lady Chapel. She should be carried in formal procession as a witness to the faith. She should remind the old, the weak, the sick of their heavenly intercessor.” “No; I shall not sell. It is my masterpiece: in fact it is the only piece of work of which I’m honestly proud. All artists, all craftsmen, discern flaws in their work which no other eye can see. These flaws damn them in their eyes. I would sell everything I create, save this. The flawless I would never sell. But I see no flaws in her, and I’m a severe judge. And she is the likeness of Our Lady as I perceive her in my inner eye: she has the face of a real woman: her likeness is that of one who has lived and who commiserates with those who suffer because she has known suffering herself. As you yourselves believe, consider the words of the Stabat Mater: Cuius animam gementem ~ contristatam et dolentem ~ pertransivit gladius: through her tearful spirit, sorrowful and sad — a sword has passed. She weeps for her son: she weeps for us.” Rochus fell silent. One of the priests (unmoved by this oratory) said: “if that statue were in the cathedral it would be seen by many, many more people than happen to come down this alley with its low taverns and wine-shops of ill-repute. Were she in the cathedral’s Lady Chapel we would tell all enquirers the name of the sculptor: we would direct them to your workshop: you would be inundated with requests and commissions from all over Christendom. Why, papal emissaries would seek you out, and your work would be taken to Rome. Why: Saint Peter’s is worthy of an image such as this. You could employ apprentices, take on labourers, move to new and better premises. You could start a new order of artistic thinking: the Spanish School of Rochus.” Rochus looked at him. “I shall not sell, and that is my final word.” Still they pleaded with him until his patience was exhausted. Then he sighed. He fetched his ladder and, climbing it, brought down his statue. He placed it on his workbench. The priests smiled. They plainly thought that their will had at last prevailed. “How much do you ask for her now you have decided to sell?” asked one of the priests. “Be bold. The treasury isn’t bare by any means: My Lady Isabella’s legacy was for the beautification of the city’s churches.” “Her price?” Rochus laid his hands on a mallet and chisel. He placed the chisel’s edge against the image’s nose. With one smart blow he removed it. The blow’s echo sounded throughout the workshop. “There: how’s that for boldness? The flaw is made in the flawless.” he said. “You want her now? No? She is still the same wood. You may have her, flawed by my own hand, for nothing.” Indeed, her graceful face was now pitiable to see: the beautiful gaze of her eyes, the curves of her mouth, halfopen in prayer and intercession were poignant in their state of being bereft. “You see,” said Rochus. “You never thought anything of her nose — it was actually a little snub — when it was in place. But now it’s gone and she is worthless. And you don’t know her history. I might have knocked it off before, and afterwards replaced it with a nose more aquiline. With glue. Once painted, you’d never know it had been anything different. You never know what either priests or craftsmen get up to in their workplaces.” When the priests had gone, Rochus glued the nose back on, and, with a little stopping and paint, she was as good as new. Actually, that last is my invention: it is not recorded in Foxe’s treatise. Well, Madame, that’s you finished. You’ll now play chess, oh, reasonably well.’ He slapped her on the shoulders; a curiously realistic sound. He put his hands on his hips. ‘So, Madame. You exist to make money. Just the same as that image. You may think otherwise. But my say-so goes, as far as you are concerned. And the end of that story of Rochus? The priests returned the next day. 9
Page 1 and 2: The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/1
Page 7: The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/1

The Automaton

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?