Hyde Challenges the Artists of Durgien #2
They said Durgien had an organization called the Artists' Association.
Just as the name suggested, it was a society founded by artists.
"A gathering of artists with no shortage of aesthetic refinement, and the nobles who patronize them. Their influence in Durgien is considerable. Their sales figures are high, you see."
The artists of Durgien were famous even within the kingdom. People seriously argued that the artworks they sold were the region's signature specialty product.
"Then why would such people oppose abolishing the Grand Cathedral's entrance fee?"
Artists and the Grand Cathedral. Was there some connection?
At my question, Archbishop Archibold — who had been sipping a cup of tea for breakfast — turned his gaze on me. That look was rather sharp.
"Why do you think that is? Tell me your thoughts."
Is this some kind of test?
He might genuinely have assumed I wouldn't know the reason. They really did look down on me that much.
"Yesterday the guards not only demanded an entrance fee from me, but also lectured me on proper attire. It means that entering the Grand Cathedral requires a certain formality."
People loved climbing into the top-dog seat where they could look impressive. And if the lower ranks tried to climb the ladder after them? Humans were the sort who kicked them down without mercy.
In my estimation, the Grand Cathedral was less a house of worship and more a clubhouse for people who could afford expensive admission and refined hobbies. A place where everyone dressed elegantly and chatted about things like, "The paper published this time—" or "The artwork painted recently—."
Abolish the fee, and beggars and vagrants would pour in. Naturally the artists, who'd been enjoying their intellectual diversions, would not be pleased.
"Am I wrong?"
Archbishop Archibold nodded.
"Correct. You've grasped a great deal in a single day. Artists are difficult creatures. We received considerable help from them in the cathedral's construction as well. Even I cannot simply override their opinions."
I thought it was absurd. The Church was not a playground for amusement.
"I'll handle it. But this time, I want to attach a condition of my own. If I resolve this matter, appoint me as the priest of the Agarpe territory. Dispatch the Holy Crusade to the Agarpe lands, and send one of the Six Knights as well."
The reason I had come to meet Medici Archibold was to secure military support. Archbishop Archibold stroked his short-trimmed beard with a soft scritch-scritch, then nodded.
"Well, that much should be within my authority. Even that fiery Count Doban won't object if the newly appointed priest is you. But the Artists' Association will not be easy opponents. They are not the sort who particularly obey the words of Scripture."
Archbishop Archibold asked as though he were genuinely curious. How was a Wood Badge monk like me supposed to deal with artists who wouldn't even listen to biblical argument?
It was almost funny.
"The truth is, I'm an artist myself. As a snake knows the ways of snakes, who better than me to know how to persuade artists?"
I was the man who had written the masterpiece Backstreet Nymph's Village. I hadn't begun selling it in earnest yet, but the moment I released it to the world, it would crush Rust's Gwichukdo flat. Everyone would come flocking for my autograph. People would say that Durgien's specialty product was none other than Hyde's books. The artists would revere my words and my will. A trendsetter, you might call me.
"Leave an artist's work to an artist."
"Hooh—."
I left the Archibold residence at once. Stepping out of that unusually large and lavish mansion, I felt as though I could finally breathe a little.
Milione Archibold followed me out.
"Why are you following me?"
"I don't like being in the mansion."
Is that so.
She said that, but she was clearly dying to watch the scene where I, Hyde, moved the artists with my masterpiece Backstreet Nymph's Village.
"Pay the entrance fee."
Today, as always, the Grand Cathedral collected its admission charge. A truly infuriating moment.
I handed over two silver coins — precious as blood — and entered the cathedral. Milione Archibold trailed behind me with surprising docility.
This girl is perfect as long as she keeps her mouth shut.
Once inside, I surveyed the surroundings. Compared to the building's splendid exterior, the interior was no less magnificent. The marble floors gleamed, the windows were beautiful mosaics, and statues of every kind adorned the space with elegance.
"This is—."
"The Pietà. The artist Michelangelo carved it at about your age. He was twenty-four when he made it."
Indeed—.
The sculpture of the Savior, taken down from the cross and cradled in His mother's arms, was beautiful. Made at twenty-four?
Nothing particularly surprising. I had completed a world-class masterpiece called Backstreet Nymph's Village in my early twenties, after all. With that thought, I looked over the murals and sculptures displayed throughout the cathedral.
"I suppose charging admission is somewhat justified."
If this place had been an art gallery or a hall of the arts rather than a church, two silver coins would not have seemed expensive. I even thought it might be nice to display the manuscript of my masterpiece, Backstreet Nymph's Village, here.
But this was a church.
"Even so, charging an entrance fee is unacceptable."
As I stood there, kindling the flame of the Holy Spirit with the sense of justice in my heart, someone cried out in great alarm.
"Look over there! That little hellion Lady Milione has returned to Fierenzo!"
"Good heavens. I thought we'd have at least a month of peace, but it's about to get noisy again."
"Her face is so pretty you couldn't even capture it in a painting, and yet."
Someone was badmouthing Lady Milione. I turned my head and saw men in feathered brimmed hats clustered in small groups. Judging by the paint on their hands and their antique cloaks, they were almost certainly members of the Artists' Association.
"Are you gentlemen members of the Artists' Association?"
"We are. I am Michelangelo, president of the Artists' Association. And who might you be?"
The artist Michelangelo? The genius who had painted the Creation on that ceiling and carved this Pietà? Indeed — a gaunt man with a long beard. He looked the part of an artist. His features somewhat resembled Vincent van Gogh's self-portrait.
Is this what an artist's physiognomy looks like?
Thrilled to have met an artist as fine as myself, I extended my hand.
"I am Hyde, a Wood Badge monk from the Agarpe territory."
"A Wood Badge monk?"
The men looked me up and down with blatant scrutiny. Michelangelo, too, refused to take my hand and scanned me from head to toe, even warning, "I don't give out autographs carelessly, so know that."
What a snob. He's got the artistic temperament, all right.
"I am also the son-in-law of House Agarpe, and the husband of Psyche Agarpe."
The moment I added that, the artists' expressions toward me shifted completely. Michelangelo's mouth rounded into an "Oh—" of admiration.
"That Psyche? The one they say is as kind and beautiful as an angel? Good heavens, I've heard the rumors. So Hyde is a man like this! A pleasure to meet you!"
Michelangelo seized my hand and shook it vigorously. It felt as though conversation would flow well.
Painting, sculpture, and writing. Different genres, but artists shared a common language. Sensing a promising start, I addressed them.
"The reason I've come is none other than this cathedral's entrance fee. A church that ought to be open to all is charging admission. Doesn't that seem strange?"
"You think so? I, Michelangelo, do not. This church is a work of art before it is a church. And the revenue is excellent, is it not? What would vagrants understand even if they came in and looked at our art?"
"Right! We'll be lucky if they don't steal things or tear the paintings!"
"We're protecting the Grand Chapel. It'll turn into pure chaos for certain!"
Listening to the artists' arguments, I found they had a certain logic. But there still seemed room for persuasion. They were all intellectuals — if I spoke, they would understand.
"As an artist myself, I fully understand your feelings. However—."
"Hyde of Agarpe, you claim to be an artist as well?"
Michelangelo cut me off. I could feel his interest piqued.
"I do. I write books."
"Books! Indeed. Have you read the recently published Gwichukdo? In all my life I have never seen so fine a work. Centimeters, meters — if we introduce these into architecture—."
"And The Unvirgin, newly released yesterday, was incredible too! Following the heroine Cathy's exploits got me all fired up. I might even be having a second child soon!"
"The author is clearly a genius."
The artists were praising Gwichukdo.
In my opinion, their eye for masterpieces is rather poor. Well, what level of artistry can you expect from so-called artists in a barbaric medieval age?
I decided I would have to teach and enlighten them. That was my role.
"Something like Gwichukdo isn't even fit to be called a book — it's garbage. True art is written right here, in Backstreet Nymph's Village. And for the record, I am the author."
"Oh, is that so? Why don't you read it for everyone! A book written by the very man who married Lady Psyche — how utterly fascinating!"
Michelangelo called out as though whipping up the crowd, and voices rose around us: "Read it!" and "I'm curious now."
Before long, people began gathering one by one. Anticipating just such an occasion, I drew from my robes the volumes of Backstreet Nymph's Village I had brought. Books Psyche herself had printed for me.
"Very well, I shall read. The title is Backstreet Nymph's Village. Originally I envisioned the primary readership as children around the age of ten, but—."
The interior of the Grand Cathedral fell deathly silent, as if by magic. I began reading from the beginning.
The opening—.
The nymph Oinoe is suddenly cast into a strange world and suffers, yet struggles desperately not to lose her purity. The part I had poured the most care into. Five minutes of this opening alone, and people would already be moved to tears by my artistic sensibility.
"Leonardo, didn't you say you had a lunch appointment today?"
"Right. I'm starting to get hungry."
"I'm getting sleepy."
But as I watched people begin drifting away one by one, a puzzled feeling settled over me.
What on earth is going on?
"Where is everyone going?"
I asked. Then Michelangelo — who had introduced himself as the association president — looked at me, his face twisted with disgust, and spat on my book.
"You write that kind of low-grade personal trivia and dare call yourself an artist? Frauds like you are a disgrace to true artists like us. Never claim to be an artist again, wherever you go!"
"Yeah! You're no artist! No — this is no time for talk! Everyone, let's beat this guy! So he can never write such horrific prose again!"
"You bastard! Status window? Status windo-o-ow!? I don't know what that is, but something that weird showing up can't be literature! Literature is refined!"
"This desecrator of art!"
People surged toward me in a noisy throng. Their expressions were deadly serious, and they seemed genuinely enraged.
I desecrated art? Impossible! I am a true artist!
These lowly medieval barbarians simply can't comprehend my elevated level! Yes — my novel was clearly far too sophisticated for ordinary people to understand!
"Seize the books! Burn them! Use them for kindling!"
"H-he's running! Chase him! Beat him senseless!"
But for now, I had to flee from the enraged barbarians. Watching me, Milione burst into laughter — "That's hilarious! Kya-ha-ha!" — and her laughter spread. Soon everyone was laughing, shouting things like "Yes! Get lost! Scram!" and "Look at him run! He must be lying about being Psyche's husband too!"
Everyone was mocking me.
Only after I hid in the cathedral's lavatory did their laughter finally fade from hearing.
"These ignorant bastards. Medieval savages who don't even know what gravity is or what a computer is, lecturing me on art — what could they possibly have to say? What do any of you know!"
Then what the hell is art supposed to be?
You chip some stone into a human shape and call that art? You slap some paint around until it looks roughly like your own face and call that art?
"Art is the shock that changes the world."
I'll show you what real art is.