pockets and elbows. His habitual stance is kindly (a Franciscan kindness) and speculative; he is what is known in the world as a good man, possessing all the qualities of a Christian with the exception of faith.
The relationship between Martin and his father is such as might exist between exceedingly fond colleagues. Like brothers they flank Martin’s mother, Lala to us, a small woman who except for an unmanageable nest of sparrow-brown, Gibson-girlish hair is attractive and bright, known to her friends in Montreal as a Doer. Her private and particular species of femininity demands gruff male attendance, and she is sitting now in our family room between ‘her two men,’ although that is a phrase which she herself would consider too cloying to use.
We have had a late breakfast, coffee and an almond ring brought by Lala from her local ethnic bakery in Montreal. The sun is pouring in through the streaky windows making us all feel drowsy and dull. Richard and Meredith, both of them blotchy with sleep, sprawl in front of the television watching the Rose Bowl Parade. There are newspapers everywhere, on the floor and on the chairs, thick holiday editions. And cups and saucers litter the coffee table. Lala leans back on the sofa, lazily puffing a duMaurier.
Grandpa Gill asks Martin how his course load is going and whether he is doing a paper at the moment. Lala leans bird-like towards them, eager to hear what Martin has to say. I too am roused from torpor. We all wait.
Martin tells his father about the paper that has been turned down. ‘I’ll show it to you if you like,’ he says. ‘Apparently it just didn’t measure up in terms of originality. One of the referees, anonymous of course, penciled “derivative” all over it.’
‘That was bad luck,’ Grandpa Gill nods.
‘What a shame, Martin,’ Lala adds.
I marvel for the thousandth time at the constancy and perfect accord with which they underscore their son’s ability.
‘To be honest,’ Martin continues, ‘it was pretty dull. But I’m working on something else now which might be a little different.’
‘Yes?’ his mother sings through her smoke.
‘Well,’ Martin says, addressing his father automatically, ‘I think I can say that I actually got this idea from you.’
‘Really?’ Grandpa Gill smiles.
‘Remember that chart you showed me. In your office last fall? A coloured diagram with the structure of world power charted in different colours?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. The Reynolds Diagram. Very useful.’
‘Well, after I saw that I got to thinking that it might be a good idea to use a diagram approach to themes in epic poetry. To Paradise Lost specifically.’
‘But how would you go about it?’ his mother presses him.
‘I thought it might be possible to make a graphic of it,’ Martin says. ‘Like the Reynolds Diagram, only using wool instead of paint since the themes are so mixed. In places it’s necessary to interweave the colours. Sometimes, as you can appreciate, there are as many as four or five themes woven together.’
His father nods and asks, ‘And how have you gone about it?’
‘I thought about it for a long time,’ Martin says.
Where was I while he thought so long and hard?
‘Finally I decided on a large rectangle of loose burlap for each of the twelve books. That way the final presentation could be hung together. For comparison purposes.’
‘I don’t get it, Martin,’ I say, speaking for the first time.
He looks faintly exasperated. ‘All I did was to take a colour for each theme. For instance, red for God’s omnipotence, blue for man’s disobedience, green for arrogance, and, let’s see, yellow for pride and so on. But you can see,’ he says, turning again to his father, ‘that one theme will predominate for a time. And then subside and merge into one of the others.’
‘And how do you know just where in the text you are?’ Grandpa Gill asks.
‘I wondered about that,’ Martin says.
Where was I, his wife, when he wondered about that?
‘And I decided to mark off the lines along the side. I’ve got them printed in heavy ink. The secretary helped ink them in.’
She did, did she?
‘I think that sounds most innovative,’ his mother says nodding vigorously and butting out her cigarette.
‘Is it nearly finished?’ his father asks.
‘Almost. I hope to present it in March.’
‘Present it where?’ I ask, trying to control the quaver in my voice.
‘The Renaissance Society. It’s meeting in Toronto this year. I’ve already sent in an abstract.’
‘I’m anxious to see it,’ Lala says. ‘Is it here at home?’
‘No. I’ve been putting it together at the university. But next time you come down I’ll show it off to you. It should be all done by then.’
‘But Martin,’ I say, ‘you’ve never mentioned any of this to me.’
‘Didn’t I?’ He gazes at me. ‘I thought I did.’
I give him a very long and level look before replying, ‘You never said a single word about it to me.’
‘Well, now that I have told you, what do you think?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
All three of them turn to me in alarm. ‘Of course,’ Martin says.
Wildly I reach out for the right word – ‘I think it’s, well, I think it’s absurd.’
‘Why?’ Martin asks.
‘Yes, why, Judith?’ his father asks.
I am confused. And unwilling to hurt Martin and certainly not wanting to upset his parents whom I like. But the project seems to me to be spun out of lunacy.
I try to explain. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I can’t exactly put it into words, but it sounds a bit desperate. Do you know what I mean?’
‘No,’ Martin says, more shortly than usual.
‘What I mean is, literature is literature. Poetry is poetry. It’s made out of words. You don’t work poems in wool.’
‘What you’re saying is that it’s disrespectful to the tradition.’
‘No, that’s not really it. I don’t care about the tradition. It’s just that you might look foolish, Martin. And desperate. Don’t you see, it’s gimmicky, and you’ve never been one for gimmicks.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Judith, don’t make too much of it. It’s just a teaching aid.’
The children have turned from the television now and are watching us. Grandpa Gill and Lala, almost imperceptibly, shrink away from us.
‘Martin, you’ve always been so sensible. Can’t you see that this is just, well, just a little undignified. I mean, I just feel it’s beneath you somehow.’
‘I don’t see what’s so undignified about trying something new for a change. Christ, Judith. You’re the one who thinks the seventeenth century is such a bore. Literature can be damn dull. And especially Milton.’
‘I agree. I agree.’
‘What I’m doing is making a pictorial presentation of themes which will give a quick comprehensive vision of the total design. It’s quite simple and straightforward.’
‘Couldn’t you just do a paper on it?’
‘No. No, I could