Református ujság - Fraternity-Testvériség, 1940 (18. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1940-04-01 / 4. szám
TESTVÉRISÉG 15 THE STATUE By Andor P. Békési Translation by Ferdinand Kertes I visited my friend in his studio. He was a sculptor. He lived in Greenwich Village, the art center of New York. “Look about you, these are a few of my creations,” said he, and sat down in a corner. After this remark he remained silent for a long time. He was right. Only crude artists praise and expound their works. The creations of a true artist speak for themselves. I am not an expert art critic. I need a guide in studios. Now, however, I went around the studio alone. I gazed at the Hungarian Cowboy. I could feel the interesting thoughts of the Pensive Shepherd. I wondered at the fighting bull, at the miniature copy of the statue “Strength” and at the plaster likeness of Kossuth. Perhaps I could appraise their artistic value, but for me it was sufficient that my friend’s statues — these thoughts expressed in bodily form — spoke to me and I understood their language. They spoke, revealing immediately that their creator was a Hungarian living in a foreign country. He dwells here but lives in the “Old Country.” He is here physically, but spiritually he is always on the other side of the ocean. I felt that even now he was traveling in the “Old Country.” I viewed his gigantic stature, his powerful hands, his great head, and his tousled hair. This was the first time I visited his studio, but this was not the first time we met; we had known each other a long time. He had been accustomed to attend the “Hungarian Church.” We met there. I had several opportunities to become convinced that the soul of a child lives in the gigantic body. I know that he always prays during his work. At one of our meetings he confirmed this impression as follows: “When in Brazil, I was creating the gigantic statue of 'Strength.’ A gentleman daily visited the square where we were carving the statue and stood for hours watching the mighty hammer blows and sure movements with which I formed the statue’s features: his nose, his eyes, his ears. He found it all very exciting.” “Why does not this artist use smaller impliments when he forms the fine features of the face?” questioned he. He could no longer refrain from speaking. He asked: “Are you not afraid, that a misdirected blow will ruin the entire face and make it necessary to discard expensive materials?” “I am not afraid,” he replied. “I cannot miss, for I am continually praying.” I recalled this testimony while I set there opposite my friend. I recalled that I had seen an extraordinary creation in the room. In viewing it I felt that it, too, gave secret testimony to the prayerful soul of the artist Perhaps it conceals his very spiritual life. I felt a restlessness until I should come to know the answer to the secret. It was the figure of a seated woman with a kerchief about her head. In her lap there was an open book. I gazed at her eyes. It seemed as if she were blind. Strangely enough, she seemed to be reading. Nevertheless, and stranger still, the expression on her features, her whole being, indicated that she understood what she was reading. The statue had been carved out of wood. Its surface had not been polished. It showed traces of every blow, every cut, and every scratch. It appeared as if the artist — lacking necessary implements — had fallen upon the lifeless wood with his ten fingers and had mangled, torn, and scratched it until this form appeared. I attempted to address my friend, directing his attention to the statue. “This statue conceals a deep personal secret. What did you use in creating it, my friend?” “What did I use in creating it? What does it matter?” he shouted, startled. “How can I tell?” “When a man reaches a long sought for goal, something he dreamed about, something he prayed foi, something he pictured and envisioned in his mind’s eye, is he able to recollect clearly the paths which lead him there? _ Can the mother tell how she bore her child? How did I create it? What implements did I use in creating it? Perhaps a saw', a hatchet, a chisel, a pocketknife, or my ten fingernails — that is neither important nor pertinent. The result, the creation, is the important thing. I saw my mother’s form in a cherry tree on a farm, I was not able to rest until I could make it visible to others. Here it is. You see it. You and others.” “I understand. Your mother, with a book in hei hand.” “Yes, my mother, with a Bible in her hand.” The artist became silent. He w'as struggling with images, with tear-stained memories. A brilliant teardrop appeared in a corner of his eye. He sank into his memories and appeared to have completely forgotten my presence. After a pause he spoke again: “There were seven children in our family, six boys and a girl. When the war broke out we were called in for service. Father and his six sons. I became the commander of the shock troop, was wounded eighteen times. Perhaps this is not relevant. Two brothers feil in battle, but it is not of this we speak. I wish to relate rather, that our mother remained at home alone. My mother, who raised seven children, remained alone. “On one occasion I was on a leave of absence. I arrived suddenly and came unannounced to our home. It was late in the afternoon. My mother sat in the veranda. I stood at the side of the veranda for a few moments, viewing my mother. I wondered what she did in her great loneliness. She could not see me because a grapevine concealed my form. She set motionless on a little chair. In her lap she held the great family Bible — open. She was reading. She read thus with her eyes half closed. Her features, the bend in the upper part of her body, her outstretched arms, revealed that she understood what she read. I was astonished at the vision. I was transfixed, for I knew my mother had never attended school and could not read a word.. Yet now she was reading the Bible. I was so astonished and moved, that I appeared suddenly before her without greeting and asked: “Mother, did you learn to read?” Mother first embraced and kissed me, then she replied to my question. “No, I did not learn, my son. During my childhood it was not fashionable on the prairie to learn the alphabet. Now I am too old to learn.” “But I saw, mother, that just a moment ago you wrere reading the Bible.” “Say that I held it, my son, rather than read it.
