Set in Stone (7 page)

On my second Sunday at Fourwinds, after attending church and doing justice to Mrs Reynolds’s good roast beef and apple pie, I excused myself and went outside to look at the Wind carvings. I studied them in detail, and made a careful drawing of each, trying to emulate the clean precision of blanched, smooth-grained stone.
Then, turning to a blank page, I walked round to the west side of the house and stood looking up at the space which should have been occupied by the missing piece, the West Wind. I saw it, I fancied, in my mind’s eye.

I was no connoisseur of sculpture, but there was something about these carvings that strongly appealed to me. Each stone figure seemed to have its own living presence, its own personality; and none revealed all its secrets at once. The North Wind seemed wearied of his duties, as if he would fain have changed places with his opposite on the south wall. The East Wind – the beautiful youth, bared to the elements without so much as a conventional fig leaf or wisp of loincloth to conceal his nakedness – looked fearful, hounded by Furies. The South Wind, smug by comparison in the balmy breath of wind that disturbed her tresses, gave a knowing, sidelong glance that was almost sly. Their maker seemed to have taken his inspiration from Roman or Greek figures, infusing them with a pagan mischief that spoke of medievalism. By now I had found other evidence, too, of his presence – of his humour. Beneath one roof quoin, a gargoyle head looked down at passers-by with a jeering expression. On a window ledge, a stone lizard stood poised; on another, a tiny monkey crouched. It was almost as if the sculptor had placed small jokes around the building, to reward the attention of the close observer.

Keenly interested in this Gideon Waring, I had committed his name to memory the instant Charlotte had uttered it. Here, I felt strongly, was a man whose work spoke of authority and sureness; whose identity
was stamped on everything he touched. I had not heard the name before, but wondered if Waring lived locally and if I might see more of his stonework. I envied him his assurance, for in my painting I had yet to find a style I could call my own; I allowed myself to be swayed by one influence after another, as the whim took me. In comparison with the gifted Mr Waring, I felt myself to be a skilled copier, at best.

Looking around me, I saw a wrought-iron seat against the hedge that screened the vegetable garden. I sat, and drew. The afternoon was warm and still; the merest of breezes carried the scent of a rambling rose that sprawled against the house wall; I was content.

Here at Fourwinds, I resolved, I should find myself as an artist. While all my needs were provided for and I had limitless time to devote to my work, I should define and strengthen my style; I should find a painterly expression that was unmistakably my own. Yet, completely at odds with this ambition, I drew now in imitation of Gideon Waring. I was sketching the West Wind as I thought he might have executed it.

‘No, no.’ I imagined his voice in my ear; imagined he had crept up on me and looked over my shoulder, amused and sceptical. ‘No,’ he would say. ‘That is not it at all.’ Disturbingly, when I tried to give a face to the person I had summoned, the features appearing in my mind were those of my father. ‘Painting’s all very well as a leisure interest,’ he admonished me, ‘but you’ll never make a living at it. How d’you think you’ll ever support a wife and family? Keep it as a hobby, boy, that’s my advice to you.’

What would he think of me now, my father? He would disapprove; he would find me a disappointment. When I announced my intention of studying at the Slade, he had all but washed his hands of me, only grudgingly persuaded by my mother to give me a meagre living allowance. My solitude here was allowing thoughts to surface, uncomfortable memories which I preferred to suppress. I had let down my father; but, equally, he had let me down. I found myself recalling an episode in which I had set up my easel in the park, and was absorbed in trying to capture the autumnal light through trees, when my father had approached, walking briskly, with Monty on his lead. Father threw a disparaging glance at my canvas, which I tried to turn away from his view; then he told me, ‘You’re squandering your time, Sam. What can you hope to do that’s not been done a thousand times before? Photography’s the thing now – your paints and canvases will soon belong in museums.’ And he had stumped on across the grass, calling irritably to the dog, who showed me the whites of his eyes in a regretful look before trotting after his master. Monty, I consoled myself, would have preferred to keep me company, lying close by my easel while I painted.

This memory infected my idyll, wrenching me like the pain of colic. I groaned, and tore the page from my sketchbook, crumpling it in my hand.

As I rose to my feet, Marianne walked towards me from the southern side of the house, carrying a tapestry bag. She did not notice me at first; when she did, she quickened her steps and approached me, her face alert.

‘You were drawing him!’ she cried. ‘I know you were, and now I have spoiled it.’

Him? The figure I had drawn was female.

‘No, you have spoiled nothing,’ I assured her, revealing the torn page clenched in my hand.

‘Let me see!’

She attempted to wrest it from me, but I resisted. ‘It is not worthy of your attention, believe me.’

‘You are trying to put things right!’ She looked at me keenly. ‘You know how important it is – and I am grateful. But you cannot know the West Wind, Samuel. Be glad that you cannot.’

I was newly struck by her strange zealousness. ‘Why do
you
not attempt its likeness?’ I suggested, on an impulse. ‘I should be most interested.’

‘Maybe.’ She spoke off-handedly, her interest quenched as suddenly as it had been aroused. Giving me a vague smile, she moved across the grass to sit on the bench I had just been occupying. I stood and watched, but she paid me no further attention; she sat quite still, gazing up at the empty space on the house wall. After a few moments I walked on, wondering where I might find Charlotte, and left Marianne to her meditation. When I turned to look, I saw that she too had brought sketchbook and pencil, and was drawing almost feverishly, with quick upward glances at the blank space, as if drawing something that was not there. She had only been waiting for me to be gone.

My days had settled into an agreeable pattern. After breakfast with Charlotte, and sometimes with one or both of the girls, I worked alone for most of the morning. I wanted to produce a set of detailed preparatory drawings, which I would show Mr Farrow before beginning to paint. Inexpressibly proud, and more than a little anxious, at being entrusted with this commission, I was determined to fulfil it in a manner which exceeded all expectations. I roamed around the house, inside and out, with a speculative eye, considering the angles and approaches I might choose.

The early part of each afternoon was devoted to my drawing lessons with Juliana and Marianne. Charlotte accompanied us, taking, I supposed, the role of chaperone; she sewed, or prepared Marianne’s French lessons. I could scarcely describe my routine as arduous; when my pupils tired, I had free time for walks on the Downs, from whence I could look down on Fourwinds amidst its trees and lawns, or in a southerly direction to the distant sea. Often, Juliana went out on horseback; she had a white mare, called Queen Bess. Marianne, it seemed, was not fond of riding, had no horse of her own, and preferred to spend her afternoons reading, or sketching by the lake shore.

Although there were only five of us at Fourwinds, dinner was served each evening in formal style. Mr Farrow sat at the head of the table, Marianne to his left, Juliana to his right, with me beside her. Charlotte’s place was at the far end, facing Mr Farrow, in the position his wife would have occupied; indeed, he looked
to her to preside over meals, to give instructions to the cook and housekeeper, and in fact to take on several of the tasks a wife would have performed. Did she, I began to suspect, have designs on becoming the next Mrs Farrow? Many a young woman in her position, employed by a wealthy and presentable widower, would have nurtured such a hope. I looked at her keenly for evidence of scheming, but what I saw instead was single-minded devotion – to her employer as much as to her two charges. Whenever Mr Farrow spoke, her eyes rested on him with a fond, attentive expression; yes, I thought, she wishes to become a part of this family, and must surely wish without hope of fulfilment, for I cannot see Mr Farrow choosing to pair himself with Miss Charlotte Agnew. She was less plain than I had thought her at first glance – her quick eyes gave her an appealing liveliness – but was always simply dressed, even for dinner, without adornment. In our conversations so far, she had revealed little of herself – she plied me with questions about my family, my upbringing, my ambitions, but gave only vague answers to those I asked her in return. Although our routines brought us into contact several times each day, I scarcely knew more about her than I had at first meeting.

Always, there were four courses, and wine; the food was excellent, and the company congenial. Afterwards, in the drawing room, Juliana played the piano, with Marianne – who declined to play, on the grounds that she never practised adequately – turning the pages for her. As I sat at ease, or strolled on the lawn in the
rose-scented dusk, or contemplated what the morrow might bring, I considered myself to be luckier than I deserved.

I had only one cause for regret. I missed my Slade friends, Chas, John and others; missed the laughter, the uproariousness, the high spirits of student life. I missed the classes, the silent hum of concentration, the smell of turpentine and pencil shavings; the noisy meals in the refectory; the squares of clipped grass where we sprawled to talk and argue, and, outside, the London streets, and the public house where we spent many an evening, each of us making a pint of beer last as long as possible, teasing Johnny for his hopeless adoration of the girl who worked in the furniture shop. Twice, I began to write to Chas and John; twice I put my letter aside, unable to employ the jocular tone we used among ourselves, and unwilling to give a serious account of my new surroundings and acquaintances. London, home and the Slade seemed fixed in the past, like moths on a collector’s board, already withered and fading to dust.

Late on the evening of my encounter with Marianne in the garden, I sat by the open window of my room, my sketchbook before me. Over the last few evenings I had been amusing myself by drawing portraits. I had decided that I would reward Mr Farrow’s patronage by surprising him with a portrait of his daughters. Experimenting with this first sketch, and finding that I did have some ability to capture the likeness of my subjects, I had added –
on a whim – Charlotte, standing behind the two sisters.

Looking afresh at the three images that gazed back at me, I was struck by what each face revealed of the personality behind it. In Juliana’s – mild, composed, tranquil – I read sadness. Marianne’s expression, though I could not do justice to her extraordinary, vibrant beauty, held boldness, a spirit of defiance. And Charlotte? Charlotte had been the hardest of all three to capture, her features unremarkable, her expression hard to define; but what I saw, now that she was committed to paper, was her sharp mind, her cleverness. She was, I realized, someone I should not underestimate.

I was more tired than I had thought. Abandoning paper and pencil, I moved to the open window, gazing out at the midsummer dusk. A dog barked somewhere, far off; I heard the lowing of cattle; the trees were lush with leaf. The quietness of the evening soothed me; I made ready for bed.

At first I must have slept heavily. Much later, something woke me – the screech of a bird from outside, maybe – and I lay for a few seconds in the silvery darkness, unable to remember where I was. When I realized that I was not, after all, in my bedroom in Sydenham, with Mama and Isobel in adjoining rooms, everything downstairs just as I knew it, and Monty snoring gently on the front doormat, which was his preferred sleeping place, I felt a renewed longing for home. I should have given much at that moment to walk down our own familiar stairs and to find everything just as I knew it.

No hint of dawn light yet penetrated the curtains. I turned, pushed back my sheets – for the night was warm – and composed myself for sleep. But in vain. From time to time, at troubled periods in my life, I have experienced the impossibility of falling asleep; my brain seems intent on resistance, and every determined effort, every shift of position or deliberate banishing of troublesome thoughts, results only in more emphatic wakefulness. My mind was racing with accumulated impressions, at such speed that I was almost dizzied by my mental workings.

Marianne! As so often, my circling thoughts settled on her. A small sigh escaped my lips as I conjured her – her glances, her long-limbed movement, the swirl of her hair. My bedding seemed unbearably hot and restricting; I flung back the covers altogether, and lay on my back, gazing at the ceiling. I struggled between a yearning for sensuous fantasies, and the knowledge that such thoughts must be curbed in their infancy. Marianne, I admonished myself, was barely a year older than my sister Isobel; she was my pupil, and I her teacher. My role, I began to feel, would be far easier if she had turned out to be plain of feature and dull of brain. I must control myself, must stop indulging my wanton desires; yet the heat of my blood and the prickling of my skin allowed no restraint.