This first entry is a children's fable I wrote many years ago, and which won the Kay Snow (Willamette Writers) fiction contest (Children's division) in 1983 The prize was a beautiful watercolor painting based on the story, and 50 dollars. (But it cost me $30.00 to go to their damn awards banquet.)
Vido's
Stone
by
Dick Morgan
Once
not so very long ago in a small crossroad village that never seemed to change,
a traveler became enchanted by a statue which adorned the village
fountain. The young man, an art student,
had left the university at the strong suggestion of his mentor. "Giovine," the old professor had
said, "you are known as a painter of beautiful canvasses. But you will never be known as an artist
until you learn to see as the artist sees.
Go, and search for that vision."
Fleeing from such terrible words, Giovine had carried his
bags and his books down the main road to this particular crossing before he
found that he did not know which way he should go. Straight ahead lay the mines and the mills,
but he did not fancy such hard and tedious work. To his left, the road traveled to the monastery;
while he admired the quiet devotion of the monks, he did not wish to renounce
his appetite for old wines and young women.
To his right, the road led to a battlefield upon which men even younger
than he fell bleeding, their lips still mouthing the oaths which brought them
down. That direction was out of the
question.
So, weary from his journey and his indecision, Giovine
stopped beside the village fountain to wet his throat. It was then that he saw the statue at the
center of the fountain, a young woman pouring an endless artesian stream from a
vase balanced upon her hip. The smooth
curves of her nakedness, the muscular grace of her marble limbs, the trace of a
timid smile on her lips left him stunned; he stared as though he himself had
turned to stone.
Giovine had only once before seen a statue of such
captivating beauty-- the huntress in the courtyard of the university. Although similar to that masterpiece, this
was even more breathtaking; the maid of the fountain was the younger sister, a
flower at the moment of blossom. Who
might the maiden be? And who could have
brought forth such loveliness from the cold depths of stone? Now, these were two questions worth
investigating.
He entered the village inn, where for the price of a glass
of wine, he learned as much as he could about the statue. No, the innkeeper said, there was no maiden
around these hills which could have been the model of that work. The innkeeper squared his stout shoulders and
winked at Giovine. Would he not know of
such a beauty? No, the statue was but a
fine example of the imagination of old Vido, the sculptor.
Giovine refilled his wine glass, and one for the innkeeper
as well. "And who is this
Vido?" he asked, but the innkeeper
merely shrugged. He did not know much
about the sculptor, except that he was a genius. Had not Giovine seen for himself the statue
of the huntress, her bow drawn for the kill, that graced the courtyard of the
university? Her fierce gaze, the hair
erect on the back of her neck-- did not that speak unmistakably of the magical
art of Vido? Giovine had often eaten his
lunch below the taut legs of the huntress.
Such a man could surely teach me what it is the artist
sees, Giovine thought. I may yet be
called artist by those pompous old
clerics at the university if I can persuade this Vido to let me watch him
work. And, too, he smiled to himself, I
might glimpse the maiden whose likeness Vido has chiseled into stone.
Giovine purchased more wine; the innkeeper seemed to reply
better after draining a glassful of it.
"Where might I find this Vido that has brought such beauty to the
world?" Giovine asked.
"Vido lives on a hill just outside the village,"
the innkeeper said. "But he does
not often invite the company of other men.
His habits are a mystery to the village folk. No one has ever seen him hold a chisel, nor
heard the crack of stone echo down from that hill. Some say old Vido uses witchcraft on the
stone, that some dark secret holds him apart from God-fearing men. But, there is the hill, just to the right of
the sun, and trees bloom green upon it the same as on other hills. Judge for yourself." No more could Giovine learn from the
innkeeper that day, for the wine had taken its toll on both of them.
The next morning, Giovine left the inn and strode eagerly
to Vido’s hill. Before him rose tall oak
trees, thick maples, and other broad-leafed trees bejeweled with autumn, their
reds and golds and fragile greens dancing in the light wind.
Giovine hiked the gentle slope delighting in the leaves,
the blue-white sky, and the silvery dew underfoot. At the top of the hill, he found a cabin; its
steep gables were covered with hand-hewn shakes, and its sides were of rough
and random shingles. All around the
outside of the cabin lay great numbers of wood chips and shards of stone.
An old man sat in a chair of woven boughs, rocking back and
forth in front of the cabin door.
Giovine was surprised by the figure; the man was frail as a fallen
branch, and the sparse white hair that ran around the sides of his head and
under his chin resembled a dandelion about to go to seed. A round pot belly had fallen out from beneath
his peasant shirt, and his spindly arms seemed almost too weak to hold the pipe
he was smoking. But the eyes that looked
back at him were like an icy brook, and seemed to Giovine to see through his
clothes and his skin and into his soul.
Yes, those eyes at least would belong to Vido the sculptor.
Giovine greeted Vido by name and bowed extravagantly as the
old man sat and smoked his pipe, offering him neither hostility nor
welcome. Giovine felt awkward and
embarrassed, but managed to state his purpose nonetheless. “So you see,” he concluded, “I wish very much
to watch you work. It would help me
become a better artist.”
“Impossible,”
Vido puffed around his pipestem.
“Perhaps,” Giovine said, looking at his feet. “But I have to give it my best effort.”
Vido laughed. “A
noble answer, young man. But I meant to
say that it is impossible to watch me work.”
“I am very persistent.
I have brought food in my bag, and I shall camp on your doorstep until
you agree to it.”
Vido laughed even harder.
“I do not mean that I do not give you my permission. I meant to say…” Vido sat silently for a moment. “Oh, very well. I suppose you may waste your time in whatever
manner you choose. In truth, I was
thinking just now about my model, and how pleasant it would be to bring her
forth once again. You may watch, if you
are so disposed, on one condition. You
must promise me that you will stay until my work is finished.”
Giovine eagerly nodded.
“Swear to it; you may not leave until I put down the chisel
for the last time.”
Giovine swore on his honor that he would stay until then,
even though he had no idea when then
might be.
“Let us begin at once.”
Vido stood slowly, as though he himself were a statue just come to life,
and his limbs were unfamiliar to him.
“We shall need a stone,” he said, stepping into his yard. “Find me a suitable stone about the size of
your head.”
Giovine grinned with anticipation and began a lively search
of the ground all around Vido’s cabin.
Among the cedar shavings and oak twigs lay stones of all shapes and
sizes and colors. Some of these stones
were round and smooth like those found in riverbeds; surely those were too
common to present to a great sculptor.
Others were soft soapstones or brittle lava; Giovine thought it would
not be at all proper to offer Vido a piece of stone that might crumble with the
first blow of the mallet. But among the
round stones and the soft ones lay sharp-cornered shards of marble,
unmistakably the shavings of Vido’s previous work. Giovine raced to and fro in larger and larger
circles around the cabin, examining the scraps of marble, reasoning that a
stone once chosen would again be acceptable to Vido. He prodded and turned stone after stone,
searching for the perfect size and shape and color, while behind him, he could
hear the old sculptor laughing vigorously.
Finally, Giovine came upon a lump of marble which glistened bright in
the noon-day sun. It was the proper
size, and its shape although irregular, was not altogether asymmetrical. He grinned, hoisted the heavy stone to his
waist, and lugged it back to the front door where Vido stood.
“That is a very nice stone you have there,” Vido said,
smiling. “But I have already chosen
one. A piece of granite I found just
near my porch. It will do nicely.”
“Granite!” Giovine
exclaimed. “Granite! Here after much
effort, I have found you a beautiful portion of marble, and you choose such a
common stone…” he sighed.
“Young friend,” Vido said, “a stone is just a stone like
any other, until the artist chooses it.
Your first lesson is not to search too long for the perfect one. You’re lucky the earth had mercy on you, or
you could have followed your noble tastes into the woods and gotten lost.” Vido laughed quietly as he entered the door
of the cabin. “Well, come in now. We mustn’t waste any more time.”
Giovine discarded his marble globe, and it fell back among
the cedar chips and river stones as he strode wearily through the door. Inside, Giovine could see nothing to assure
him this was the home of a great artist.
Vido’s old wood stove was covered with soot the same as any other stove;
Vido’s bed was a linen sack stuffed with straw.
Even the windows did not admit as much light as Giovine would have
judged proper for a sculptor. There was
just enough light for him to watch Vido place the granite chunk upon a
workbench beneath the window nearest the sun.
Then Vido placed his pillow in a high-backed wooden chair across the
room, and settle into it. Vido sat motionless and watched the sun dapple the
stone with shadows as it descended through the trees.
Giovine sat in silence on the bed of straw while Vido gazed
at his stone. When the last rays faded
and only twilight filled the windows, Vido stood and stretched his back.
“Now are you going to begin?” Giovine asked sleepily.
“Now I am going to make some tea,” Vido answered. “Would you like some?”
Giovine nodded with obvious disappointment, but Vido did
not seem to notice. “You will begin to
work on the stone tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow I shall continue what I have already done,” Vido
answered.
Giovine scratched his head.
Had the old man hidden some movement upon the stone that he had failed
to notice? How would he learn what it is
that the artist sees if the artist does not reveal that he sees anything? Tired and confused, he unrolled his blanket
in a corner and went to sleep.
The next morning, Giovine was awakened by the bang of pans
as Vido prepared his breakfast of cooked grains and herbs. When he was finished, he filled a bowl for
each of them, and they ate quickly, while it was hot. Then Vido sighed, “Well, it’s time for work. I must attend to my tasks, and you must do
yours.” He smiled and pointed at the
dirty bowls.
Giovine quickly washed the dishes so that he would be able
to watch Vido at work, but again Vido sat on his pillow in the chair and
silently gazed at the stone. Giovine did
not disturb him, though; he remembered the fierce handsomeness of the huntress,
and the breathtaking beauty of the maiden at the well. He was determined to stay until Vido had
finished what he had promised. So he
watched the old man, and sometimes napped, or read a page or two from one of
his books. But Vido only moved once the
whole day, about noon; he walked to the bench, took hold of the stone and
slowly turned it a quarter-turn, then sank back into his chair.
At dusk, Vido again asked Giovine to join him for tea. They sat in silence and sipped from their
cups until dark.
The next day went the same.
Old Vido rose from his chair only once, about noon, when he again
rotated the stone exactly a quarter-turn.
But Giovine did not interrupt him, remembering the two maidens in
stone. The fourth day passed in the same
manner as the third, and Vido’s only movement, except for an occasional cough,
was to rotate the stone to expose its last face toward his chair.
By this time, however, Giovine had become exceedingly
bored. He slept until slumber numbed his
senses; he read until the words on the pages ran together. He bathed and swept the floor, and even
trimmed his fingernails, of which he was very proud. But there was no more to occupy his
time. How fruitless it seemed, for Vido
had not moved from his spot even to eat, and the stone still sat among the
dappled shadows on the bench.
When Vido coughed and rose from his chair for his evening
tea, Giovine could restrain himself no longer.
“When will you begin to work on the stone?” he cried.
Vido sighed. “Much
of the work is done. It is a shame you
cannot see it.”
“But you have not touched the stone!”
The old man turned his gaze toward him, and Giovine felt
the piercing cold of Vido’s eyes. They
probed beneath the lines of his face, beneath sinew and bone, into the
nakedness of his brain, and words fell unspoken from his tongue.
“Yes, I have,” Vido answered. “Patience, my young, restless friend. You must learn to view yourself as always on
a path between what has been done and what yet remains to be imagined. That is your second lesson. Tomorrow I begin my hardest work, but you
will not see it without such patience.
Now, help me with my tea; my bones ache.”
Giovine prepared the tea as he had seen Vido brew it,
steeping the herbs in hot water just so.
The tea was bitter, but Vido made no sign that he noticed. He seemed lost in his thoughts, as though
remembering something beautiful, but troubling at the same time. Giovine thought the old man might be addled
by his long days of stillness, off indeed on some mental path that circled but
never ended. Well, he would stay as he
had promised, but he would have to find a way to occupy his time somehow, until
Vido released him from his vow.
The next morning, as the sun rose through the oak trees, a
shaft of light fell upon Giovine’s face and awakened him. Drowsily, he looked about and saw that Vido
was already in his chair, holding the stone in his lap. The old sculptor sat motionless, his eyes
closed, grasping the stone roughly between his palms, as though he held just a
piece of stone.
Giovine arose and washed, and vowed not to waste any more
time watching Vido. He would gather
fresh herbs for Vido’s tea, and he would take his sketchbook and palette. Was he not an artist too? He had studied at the university, after
all. Vido’s hill might inspire more than
one talent.
Outside, Giovine was invigorated by the chill air of the
thicket shadows, the soft crunch of the dew-covered leaves. His breath came quickly, leaving tiny
clouds. The cares of the university
seemed so unimportant, the crossroads so distant. Giovine sighed, and removed his sketchbook
from his pack.
Later, when he returned to the cabin, he thought he could see
the old man through the window, fast asleep in his chair. But when he opened the door, Vido was already
on his feet, walking stiff-legged toward the workbench with the stone.
Giovine stopped still.
“Oh, Vido,” he said. “I was
painting, and I forgot to gather any herbs.
But look! See what I have
painted!”
Vido smiled. “I will
gladly forgive your forgetfulness if you have been painting. Eh, what is this?”
Giovine beamed. “It
is my impression of the forest dawn.”
Vido squinted. “Ah,
my eyes are failing along with my joints.
I cannot see the forest nor the dawn.”
“It is a painting of my feelings about them, not of the
things themselves.”
“Oh,” Vido nodded.
“That is different! Well, you
certainly have a rich swirl of feelings.
I rather like it, I think. But
tell me, what is this large line here?”
Giovine shrugged. “I
just felt it should go there. It was
sort of a divine inspiration, you might say.”
Giovine felt Vido watching him, but the old man said nothing. They both drank their bitter evening tea in
silence.
The next morning, Giovine
again awoke to find Vido already up, seated in his chair with the stone
in his lap. The old sculptor sat more
stiffly now, with his eyes shut tight, as though his back hurt from bending
over the stone with a mallet and chisel.
Vido held the stone more gently now, as though it were a ceramic
bowl. But when Giovine examined the
stone, he could not see even the slightest trace of chisel marks. He shook his head and left the cabin to
gather herbs.
It was long past noon when he returned with his satchel
full of three kinds of fresh green leaves.
He had searched long and diligently until he found just the ones he
wanted—comfrey, fennel, and mint. He
thought these might help poor Vido’s worsening health. But when he entered the cabin, Vido was moving
about, stirring his own herbs in a pot on the stove.
“I did not know how long you would be,” Vido said
apologetically. “Who knows where your
visions might lead you when I am in need of my tea? But, I did make enough for two. Would you like some?”
Giovine nodded and set down his satchel. Vido served him a steaming cup, but when he
took his first sip, his face wrinkled, and his eyes began to water. He had to spit it out. “What is this?” he shouted.
Old Vido shrugged.
“Wild onion, nettles, and bracken.
And a touch of skunk cabbage. I
just felt it should go in there. It was
sort of a divine inspiration, you might say.”
“Bleah,” Giovine
said.
“Fortunately, I have in mind just the sort of tea I want
for myself before I brew it, and hardly ever have to rely on divine
inspiration,” Vido added.
Giovine went to his bedroll in the corner and lay down
without speaking a word.
The next morning, Giovine arose with the very first light,
but yet again Vido had beaten him and was seated in his chair with the
stone. He watched the old man closely;
Vido’s pallor was a grey as a corpse in the pre-dawn light, and his breathing
uneven and noisy. Vido sat slack-mouthed and unseeing, as though in a
trance. But he held the stone gently
now, as though it were a fine crystal chalice, moving only a finger now and
then.
Giovine wearied of watching the old man make so much out of
a common rock. He almost wished Vido
would accidentally drop it and break it into a thousand pieces, for then he
would be released from his vow. Maybe he
could awake at midnight and pretend to hear a prowler, take up a hammer,
and—well, he would need some fresh morning air to think about that.
As Giovine reached the door, he heard a feeble voice. “Yes, yes, I see you clearly now, dear
one.” The voice cracked and began
coughing.
Giovine stood still.
“Who? Who do you see?”
Vido caught his breath.
“Stop interrupting! I am almost
finished.”
Giovine eyed the stone, and even from across the room in
the dim light he could see there was no mark at all upon the stone. He closed the door softly so that he would
not disturb Vido’s dream.
Giovine wandered across the hill, down the other side, then
up the slope of the next one. As the sun
rose higher and his muscles warmed to his efforts, his thoughts also seemed to
clear. He was obviously never going to
see Vido chip that stone into the image of anything. Yet he had vowed to stay until Vido did. What madness was this? Yes, either Vido was playing an elaborate
joke on him, or the old man was hopelessly mad and believed the stone was
chipping itself away into some form he carried in his mind. Giovine was angry at himself for becoming
involved with such a man. He would go
back and demand a release from his silly vow at once.
Giovine reached Vido’s cabin after the sun had set. When he entered, the old man was still in his
chair, fast asleep in the darkness, his breath shallow and labored. Giovine shook Vido awake. When his eyes opened, they seemed to drift
down from the top of his head and finally focused, as though he had been
dreaming of a far-off land. Giovine lit
an oil lamp.
“Oh, it’s you,” Vido said, coughing.
“Yes, and for the last time,” Giovine said.
Vido coughed and coughed, his face paling in the
lamplight. “Tea,” he managed to gasp
between breaths.
“I’m leaving,” Giovine said. “I’m tired of your tricks. I think you just wanted someone to make your
tea and wash up after you, and I believe you never intended to work on that
stone.”
“It is finished,” Vido whispered.
“Finished, you say?” Giovine shouted. “Finished, is it?” He looked over at the
stone which sat upon the workbench without a mark anywhere on its surface. “Well, look at this, will you? Here is the famous Vido, sculptor of the
magical huntress that adorns the courtyard of the university, the sculpted form
which has inspired thousands of young men to study harder, to hunt deeper for
the hidden truths of the ages. Here sits
the master sculptor Vido, who fashioned the beauty of the maiden at the well, a
heavenly vision which stole my breath away the moment I saw her. And what has Vido accomplished in seven hard
days of labor? He has made a lump of
granite into a lump of granite. Well, I
am very impressed.” Giovine glared, his
hands on his hips. “Well,” he said
again.
Vido ceased his coughing and cleared his throat with great
effort. “Please, my young dissatisfied
friend, stay for one more cup of tea.
Then I will release you from your vow, and you can be on your way.”
Giovine took pity on the gaunt, poke-boned figure before
him, and fixed them both a hot comfrey tea with a touch a mint that he had
gathered the day before.
“This is good,” Vido said when the tea had begun to warm
him. “It was well gathered and well
brewed. It will help me to recover from
my labor.” Giovine sipped his tea and
pretended not to hear, for he was eager to be on his way. “And just as you have planned what tea would
nourish me most, and here it is, just so, I am done with my work. And there it is.”
Giovine glanced at the rough stone, then back at Vido, who
was smiling.
“Yes,” Vido continued, “I am the sculptor of the maiden at
the well. She was the daughter I never
had, because I was too busy with my art to love any other mistress. But still I carried her in my heart. I watched her grow as I grew, and lo, she
became the huntress who leaped forth from her marble robe into eternal
vigilance. I have lived half a century
with her face in my mind, and still she ravages and tears at me when I bring
her forth into the light. Now that I am
old and frail, I see that she too has weathered the passing of so much
time. How could it be otherwise?” Vido slowly shook his head.
“To see her age was the most difficult of all. You have assisted me during my greatest work,
and you have stayed until the last chisel mark.
I am grateful.”
Giovine scratched his head with both hands. “But how can I have stayed until you put down
the chisel for the last time if you do not pick it up for the first time?”
Vido laughed. “I
suppose I shall have to explain this lesson to you too. Very well.”
He rose unsteadily from his chair and limped to the workbench, where he
touched the stone with his forefinger.
“I have forced my thoughts deep within the center of this stone, and
again I see her smile, yes. Of course,
there are a few wrinkles around those soft lips…”
“I don’t see anything,” Giovine said.
“How could you not see her if you have seen me? I and my vision are the same. Even now my thoughts rest within this stone,
and this stone within me. My very joints
ache of it.” He sighed. “But I suppose I
must take up the chisel as I promised.”
Vido picked up his thinnest chisel and his smallest mallet
as he bent over the stone. He placed the
point slowly, ever so carefully, into a niche just to one side of the center of
the top. “Now, dear one, bring forth
your smile,” he said, and smacked the chisel with a single sharp blow of the
mallet. The granite split and shattered
into several large pieces, each sliding away from the perfect face of a woman full
in her years, her eyes closed, her wrinkled cheeks drawn up into a smile.
“Ah, there you are,” Vido said, as if surprised. Being surprised was his little joke on
Giovine, who stood speechless, his mouth agape.
“You see, young friend, it is not what
the artist see that is important, but how
clearly.” Vido smiled. “Well, on your way now. Were you not in the middle of some sort of
journey?”
“No, not until now,” Giovine answered quietly.
* *
* * *
