— Yes, the money, Otto muttered, — but, damn it…
— It doesn't have to be money, just money, Stanley broke in, — if he… if it's his work, if it's his own, and he wants. .
— His own! Max repeated, and his laugh this time was sharper, more unkind, edged with contempt. — Look, he said to Otto, — that magazine of mine you've got there, open it. Max made no gesture of surrendering Collectors Quarterly, and taking the other magazine himself. -Just open it to… there, here it is, this thing on
Sherlock Holmes, "the first authorized Sherlock Holmes story to appear" since Arthur Conan Doyle died. See? Authorized. It "was written after exhaustive study of Sir Arthur's literary methods. ." he read, as Otto held the magazine before them. — See? these two men who wrote it, "They studied such minutiae as Doyle's sentence rhythms, his use of the comma, the number of words in the average Holmes sentence. . The authors have felt no temptation to vary the pattern which Doyle usually observed. . Special pains have been taken to reproduce certain Doylean literary tricks. ."
— But what do you mean? Otto asked him.
— What's the difference? Max asked in return, bringing Collectors Quarterly up. — Authorized paintings by Dierick Bouts? van der Goes? Who authorizes them? Somebody says, One wishes there were more stories by Conan Doyle, somebody else wishes there were more paintings by Hugo van der Goes. So, after a careful study of the early Flemish painter's technique. . such minutiae as his brush-stroke rhythms, his use of perspective, the number of figures in the average van der Goes canvas. . What's the difference? You fake a Dürer by taking the face from one and turning it around, the beard from another, the hat from another, you've got a Dürer, haven't you?
— But only on the surface, Stanley said.
— On the surface! How much deeper do people go? the people who buy them?
— But this, this isn't a… forgery, Otto said holding out the large picture magazine. — It's no secret, they tell you right here. .
— That's just what I mean, Max said impatiently. — What's the difference now? In our times? He laughed again, and folded Collectors Quarterly under his arm. — As long as it's "authorized." Isn't that right, Stanley?
Stanley answered immediately, — No.
— No? He studied Stanley's face with mock interest and shock. — Is there something diabolic about bringing Sherlock Holmes back to life?
— The devil is the father of false art, Stanley said quietly. He was walking carefully on the pavement along the edge, his face expressing a concentration which Otto's echoed, but a vague echo, as Otto walked staring at the pavement, not listening to them.
— Stanley believes in sin, don't you, Stanley? Max persisted.
— If we believe that love is weakness? Stanley brought out, — and people resent it, because they think it's an admission of weakness, and they draw away from it… and that's why you kill the thing you love, because it's your weakness personified. If you kill it, you kill your weakness before it kills you.
— I said sin, Max cajoled him. — But, was there love? before sin, a sense of sin, made it possible? Stanley said in the same low tone, without looking up. — Before there was sin, to be suffered and forgiven?
— Love! You in love? Max laughed.
— Art is the work of love.
— Art is a work of necessity, Max said.
— Was it a good story? Otto asked finally.
— The Sherlock Holmes thing? It was lousy.
— No I mean, I mean, the one that I… that was sent up to… her.
— It was lousy too, Max answered.
— But isn't there a moment. . Stanley went on, — a moment when love and necessity become the same thing?
They reached an open square where the sky was almost black, looking north, as most people were doing. Shops were lighted, and the lighted windows of the buildings stood out against the sky, holding it off, and themselves to earth.
— Where are we going, anyhow? Otto asked.
— I'm going right up here, Max said, nodding ahead. Then, noticing Stanley's careful walk again, he said, — Step on a crack, Break your mother's back. . and Stanley stopped. — Come on, Max laughed, and when Stanley came on, now obviously avoiding cracks in the pavement, Max said to him, — I can believe you'd really believe that, Stanley. What an unspotted soul for the devil to bid for. What do you think he'd give me, if I sold you to him?
— You couldn't, Stanley said.
— All right, we'll sell Otto. You wouldn't mind, would you Otto?
— Christ no, not at this point.
— You couldn't, Stanley said again.
— Well Faust did, damn it, Otto broke out morosely, — Faust sold his soul to the devil.
— No. That's a fallacy, Stanley said looking round at him soberly. — That evil can take entire possession of the soul like that. Evil is self-limited.
— Damn it, it was his soul, Otto said defiantly, — and he sold it to the devil.
— No. It was not his to dispose of. We belong to our souls, not our souls to us.
— Ontological dialectics, said Max, as they approached a subway entrance.
Otto stood unsteadily, as though afloat, away from them, as Max clapped Stanley jovially on the shoulder and said, — Stanley's fired by a divine spark. The words seemed to come from the great distance of sounds over water before a storm. He turned to Otto without breaking his smile. — But you and me. .?
Otto stood there, his arm shivering in the sling, the wind blowing his hair up from behind. — Yes, he said, raising his eyebrows, — sometimes it's difficult… he curled his lip slightly against its tendency to tremble, — it's difficult to shed our human nature. Then he turned away quickly and stepped back to the curb, where he stood with his back to them, scraping the edge of his shoe. He heard Max laugh, and call to him, — A little always sticks. . And when he turned, Max was disappearing into the pit of the subway. There was only Stanley, frail against the dark sky.
— What's the matter? Stanley asked him as he approached slowly.
— There was something. . Otto said, looking him in the face again, in the eyes, which were dull with the sky beyond. — Something. .
— What?. . Stanley looked at him anxiously.
— I don't know, earlier, that moment. . Otto said, looking more confused. — For a moment, a feeling that you. . that you and I… It was as though you were someone who had been. . He faltered, broke off, and looked up, recovering. — Damn it. He's gone, Max?
— Yes, he's gone, down there, Stanley pointed.
— And this damned thing, he left me this and took Collectors Quarterly, it cost a dollar.
— Do you want it back? Stanley commenced helpfully. — If I see him. .
— That painting, Otto murmured, looking down again. He rubbed his free hand over his face. — The Christ in that painting, I wanted to look at it, I wanted to look at it again, there was something. . familiar… he went on vaguely, mumbling, — and the Virgin. .
After a pause, Stanley said, — But there should be, Christ. .
— Not that, not that, Otto waved him back, and stood gripping his temples in an open hand. Then he dropped his hand and shook his head. — Never mind, he said. Looking at Stanley, he tried a strained smile. — The divine spark… he muttered, at the anxious face being weighed toward him by the uneven mustache. — And what are you going to do with it, anyhow? he brought out in sudden derision.
— But that, Stanley said, coming a step nearer him, — that is what undoes us all. He stood before Otto looking into Otto's eyes, waiting; but saw them narrow.
— I hate him, Otto said, changing again as abruptly.
— Who?
— Him. Max.
— But, why?
— Yes. . because he'll survive.