The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [63]
Dana was Mary Magdalene. The subject was more popular in Renaissance art, with its fondness for the naked body, but Michael had produced a wonderful satire of the stiff Byzantine style, with long, stylized waves of hair that exposed more than they concealed, and the false modesty of the fat little hands.
Ann was another virgin saint. Michael had dealt kindly with her—or at least Jean thought he had until she examined the face more closely. It was a face suited to a saint who died a martyr; there were lines of torment under its seeming placidity. Jean had to find the symbol before she could identify the lady. It was Saint Barbara, carrying the tower in which her wicked father had imprisoned her before turning her over to the torturers as a recalcitrant Christian.
The armor and the lance with its dripping dragon’s head identified Andy as the handsome Saint George. Did Michael really see him as a dragon slayer? Ted made a charming Saint Stephen; he had caught the first rock in his upraised hand, and his look of supercilious superiority would have driven any mob to stone him.
José was harder to identify. He wore a bishop’s robes and miter, but the higher ecclesiastical ranks have produced a good many saints. However, his expression of studious concentration and the book he carried enabled Jean to recognize Saint Augustine—who had once remarked, “Lord, give me chastity—but not yet.” That was really too bad of Michael. The eyes under José’s studious brow held a gleam that belonged to the preconversion part of Augustine’s career.
Bringing up the tail of the procession came Michael’s drawing of himself, and after her first chuckle of laughter Jean’s mouth curved down, and she forgave him his casual digs at the others. Emaciated, hideous, wild-eyed, it was the ugliest representation of John the Baptist Jean had ever seen. The ribs stood out and the ragged hair framed a face only one step removed from madness.
The Seven Sinners made up the procession, but there were two other figures hovering in the background. Jean glanced at Jacqueline. To date, her hostess had demonstrated no particular religious sensitivities, but the figure with Jacqueline’s face might have been considered slightly blasphemous. The flowing hair framed a face which was neither virginal nor motherly—at least not in the sense of that Ideal Motherhood the figure was supposed to exemplify. Jean had seen such a look on her own mother’s face, however, under circumstances she did not care to dwell upon. The figure wore a crown; it was tipped over one ear, and the halo was distinctly ragged.
With trepidation, Jean looked to see what Michael had done with Scoville. Some lingering remnant of piety had kept him from casting that gentleman in either of the obvious roles—or else he did not see Scoville as exemplifying divinity. At first Jean couldn’t decide what the professor was supposed to be, other than a Roman gentleman in a neatly draped toga. Then she saw what was poking out from under the skirt of the toga, and examined the shape of the curls on the figure’s forehead more closely, and again she gasped. That was going too far. Scoville might be a sinner, like all the rest, but to make him the Prince of sinners was an exaggeration.
“The boy is fantastic,” Jacqueline muttered. “I’ve never seen his serious work, but he could win a lot of prizes with this sort of thing.”
“It’s cruel,” Jean said.
“So was Hogarth. So was Daumier.”
“You think he’s that good?”
“Good Lord, yes. It needs more than technical skill. The great caricaturists have a touch of extrasensory perception. They see through people.”
“He does that.