“Father?” Janet addressed Augustine.
“Not tonight. I’m sort of sleepy.”
“Rabbi?”
“I want to go over my notes for tomorrow’s classes. I’d better do that before I get too tired.”
“Marie?” Janet had hoped that she could get at least a few to join her. She knew the students would be pleased if the faculty were to join in some of the extracurricular events.
“I’ve got some correspondence I’ve got to catch up on, Jan. Sorry.”
“Father?” With Koesler, Janet was down to her last chance.
“Matter of fact I’d like that. It’s almost time, isn’t it?” Koesler glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you and Mrs. Benbow go ahead? I’d like to finish my coffee. Would that be all right?”
“Certainly, Father.” Janet was grateful for some company no matter the delay. “Martha, why don’t we go now? Father Koesler can join us in a few minutes.”
With that the group went its separate ways. Left seated at the table, while the waitresses cleared dishes, were Koesler and Krieg. Each had about half a cup of coffee left.
Koesler went to the hot plate where the pot of coffee was kept. He brought the pot to the table, filled his cup, and gestured toward Krieg, who nodded; Koesler filled the other cup as well.
“That was a bit of a surprise,” Koesler said.
“Father Benbow? I’m sure he spoke only in the heat of the moment. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said literally.”
“I’m glad you’re taking it that way,” Koesler said. “I agree: He didn’t mean it.”
“I must confess he surprised me though … I mean, an Episcopal priest!”
“Violence!” Koesler said.
“Hmmm?” Krieg missed the point.
“Religion, violence, sex.” Koesler could not suppress a grin.
Krieg smiled in return. It was the first time Koesler had seen a genuine, as opposed to a plastic, smile from Krieg.
“Ah, yes,” Krieg said. “Religion, violence, sex. Seems there been a lot of talk about that lately.”
“For some reason, I hate to say this, but I kind of anticipated that would be a prominent topic of conversation. Having read one of the books you published and then reading up on stories about you and your philosophy of publishing, I just guessed, what with the writers who were invited, I guessed we’d be talking a bit about the subject.”
“Perceptive,” Krieg commented.
Koesler removed from a jacket pocket a newspaper clipping much the worse for wear. “Since I thought the subject would inevitably come up sometime during this week, I brought this along with me.”
Krieg seemed amused. “Does that clipping go back to the invention of the printing press?”
“Only to March 1989, from The New York Times,” Koesler said.
“It’s not holding its age very well. Looks like it’s about to give up the ghost, as it were.”
“That’s because I’ve used it in some homilies and talks. I think it’s going to be very relevant during this workshop. I didn’t want to spring it on you with no warning. Mind if I read part of it to you now?”
Krieg shrugged, took a sip of coffee, and waited. Clearly, permission had been granted.
“The occasion,” Koesler began, “was the American Film Institute’s seventeenth annual Life Achievement Award presentation to Gregory Peck. What I’m going to quote is one of the remarks he made. All right with you?”
Krieg’s smile reverted to plastic.
“Well,” Koesler said, “the article noted that the actor, in his acceptance speech, went beyond the usual gratitude and platitudes. It quotes him as saying”-here Koesler read from the clipping-“‘There has been a lot of glamorous financial news in the papers lately. Multimedia conglomerates. .
“‘If these Mount Everests of the financial world are going to labor and bring forth still more pictures with people being blown to bits with bazookas and automatic assault rifles, with no gory detail left unexploited; if they are going to encourage anxious, ambitious actors, directors, writers and producers to continue their assault on the English language by reducing the vocabularies of their characters to half a dozen words, with one colorful but overused Anglo-Saxon verb and one unbeautiful Anglo-Saxon noun covering just about every situation, then I would like to suggest that they stop and think about this: Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Artistry is worth more.’”
Koesler carefully refolded the relic and returned it to his pocket.
“That’s it?” Krieg said.
“Didn’t you find that a rather impressive statement?”
“Gregory Peck is a great actor. He is a larger-than-life presence.”
Koesler seemed puzzled. “I agree. So, don’t you consider that an impressive statement? And, more to the point, isn’t that a refutation of your stand?”
“I think not, good Father. As time goes on, it seems we are never going to see eye to eye, which is all right. As someone said earlier this evening, it’s a free country.”
Koesler was bewildered. “But, how. . how do you respond to the challenge in Gregory Peck’s concluding words?” Koesler did not need to refer to the clipping again; from repeated readings he knew the words by heart. “‘. . stop and think about this: Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Artistry is worth more.’”
Krieg finished his coffee and returned the cup to the saucer in a gesture of finality. “Father, good Father, did you ever notice how frequently it happens that the one who tells you that money isn’t important, has already made his?” Krieg paused to make certain his point was taken. “Now, I wouldn’t argue that artistry and pride aren’t desirable. But tell that to Mozart. One of the greatest artists of all time. Who starved, was penniless, and whose bones lie-God knows where-in a pauper’s grave.”
“Yes, but-”
“Excuse me, good Father. By and large, the writers under contract to P.G. Press are not Hemingways or Fitzgeralds. They’d like to be but they never will be. And, truth be known, I’m getting a bit tired of being cast as the heavy in this scenario. Granted, the writers at this conference are a cut above the majority we have under contract. What’s more, they carry the ring of authenticity. And that is not unimportant baggage. But were they to sign with us, with our promotional machinery, they would increase-double-their sales.”
“But they would have to conform to your. . style-no?”
Krieg spread his hands. “We would deliver sales such as they’ve only dreamed about.”
Koesler tried his coffee. It was lukewarm. He nudged cup and saucer toward a waitress. This was the last of the waitresses and these were the last of the dishes to be removed.
“Then,” Koesler said, “I take it nothing would dissuade you from continuing to leave no gory detail unexploited, no unhappy Anglo-Saxonism unused, no intimate erotic detail undescribed?”
Krieg shrugged. “As I have said, it sells.”
“Well,” Koesler rose, “I guess we agree on one point anyway.”
“Uh?”
“We’re not going to see eye to eye.”
As Koesler left the dining room, Krieg gave him the benefit of one last large plastic smile.
A classic, Koesler reminded himself, was enduring. Of course there were other qualifications, but, among other things, classics lasted.
Certainly Chesterton’s writings endured. And, although he considered it an avocation, his “Father Brown” series certainly proved to be his most popular work. As far as Koesler was concerned, the “Father Brown” movie he’d just seen pretty well captured the spirit of the original. A tribute to the artistry of Alec Guinness.
It brought to mind anew Gregory Peck’s words: “Artistry is worth more. Pride of workmanship is worth more. Millions is not the whole ball game, fellows.”
The more he thought about it, the more Koesler admired the resolution of the four writers at this conference. The bottom line, rationale for just about everything in today’s world, was that both the writers and Krieg were on the mark.
Krieg was right, in that there was a market for sleaze in America. Try as they might, authorities would never totally eliminate a travesty such as pornography. There was a market for it. Trash remains popular on television and in the movies. There was a market for it.