The Portrait (17 page)

What was that again? I summoned you? How dare I presume? You wrote to me, did you not, proposing the commission for a portrait? Your attempt to begin my reintroduction into the world of English art, the only one that matters to folk like us, poor though it be. To lure me back and help me take up the reins once more. No, no, my dear friend! We are trying to look below the surface now. It was I who summoned you; I who knew you would come, would have to come to see me. I lured you here. I needed to see if you would come.

I have written few letters in the past couple of years; my bank has received most of them, and they have not been so important. My demands on its services are small these days. One was important, though; the short note I wrote to your protegé Duncan a few months back. That I laboured long over, once I knew what I must do, because I knew you would read it. That was the letter which brought you here; to which you had to respond, if all was as I thought.

One sentence only, in fact, made you pack your bags and take the train to Paris, then out to Quiberon, the fishing boat over to the island, and walk across it until you arrived at my door. One short sentence made the difference. “I hope you and William are still friends; many have drowned in his displeasure.”

You read things, words and pictures, with an intensity greater than any man I have known. You seize on the little detail—a colour contrast, the shape of an ear lobe, the crook of a finger, one malformed sentence, a curious use of words, and tease it until it gives up its secrets. But what secret did my letter conceal? It tantalised, that clumsy sentence, but remained mute.

It was no slip of the pen, my friend, not a piece of babbling from someone losing touch with reality, a poor joke made by someone forgetting even the basics of English grammar. I wanted to see if you would come. It was the final test, every word considered and laboured over. Besides, I needed you here, if I was ever to break through the block which has stopped me painting anything truly satisfying.

I THINK it’s time to tell you what made me leave England. You’ll love it; it will appeal to your egotism. You did. It began at half past nine on a Tuesday morning, May 10, 1910. I was sitting having my breakfast, and cursing the weather, as it was dull and cloudy and I wanted brightness for a picture I was working on. At the very least I knew I would be doing nothing at least until lunchtime; maybe not even then. So I decided to read the
Morning Chronicle
and take my time over my scrambled eggs and coffee that my landlady had just brought me. I started, as I always did, with the notices and advertisements, then worked my way through the news, foreign and domestic, then, for a final pleasure, turned to the reviews.

I had been looking forward to it; Evelyn’s show had opened a couple of days before, and I knew there would be something. At worst, only a little mention; at best, something more fulsome. I didn’t know who’d be doing it; the
Chronicle
is always cagey about that, for some reason. It was the sort of show some young lad would be given to review, not important enough to justify paying some figure of influence. She was scarcely known, after all.

The reviews for your show had run the previous week and were dreadful, the letters from outraged colonels and academicians had followed. Your show was a perfect disaster critically, and a fine success in every other respect. In a matter of days, everybody in the country who cared for such things now knew the names of Gauguin, Seurat, Degas, and all the others.

I thought this boded well for Evelyn; she was likely to benefit from not being part of your group. Besides, I thought the critics would have exhausted their stock of vitriol on you, and would find it agreeable to say something nice for once. But no; they were having too good a time hurling abuse at the French, and most journals had passed her by to give over more space to you. Only the
Chronicle
ran a review, an anonymous one as occasionally they did. Better than nothing; any review at all was a good start. And the moment I started reading, I knew that you had written it. You have a style with words as distinct as any artist’s with paint. The way you cluster adjectives, the rhythm of the sentences, the complexity of your subclauses, each one diving into another so that the meaning is almost lost as your thought races on—no-one writes like you. I’m sure I wasn’t the only person who recognised it, although I could see why you didn’t want your authorship generally known. You liked to think of yourself as a gentleman, after all.

We are back to my hobby horse again. The surface and the instant impression. Meet you, and one imagines you to be the perfect gentleman. Meet Evelyn for the first time, run off a sketch of her, rely on the artist’s intuitive judgement and instant assessment and what do you get? A skinny little thing, who looks as though her lip might start trembling at any moment. Those slightly sloped shoulders; the sign of someone turning in on herself and afraid of reality. And sex, and femininity? Forget all that. A professional spinster, who would shudder should any man even think of touching her. A fearful timorous creature, easily broken. Inconsiderable, and not to be taken seriously. Some people stand alone because they are strong and disdain the world; others do so out of fear, desperate to belong and be accepted but not knowing how to do so, afraid of being spurned. One look and it was clear Evelyn was in the second category.

Thus the dubious insight of the modern artist. But look at her as Raphael might, that lover of women. Or Rembrandt, who saw people’s souls with his godlike gaze, or Vermeer, who could paint depths and levels of calm and show the turmoil within total placidity, and you see something different again. Then you see the brittleness, the force of will which impelled her to sacrifice everything for the single goal of being a painter. Not to make a living, not to be a success; those are low things, not worth the candle. But to follow her own instincts until she was content with what she produced. She wanted my biscuit tin, to get to that point which I have approached only once in my life. But her standards were higher than mine; she was one of those souls who can never be content in this life.

You can’t understand any of that; don’t even pretend you can. For you art is politics, and Evelyn would not bend to your will. Why is it that you have had so much trouble with women when you find men so easy to control? Do women have to be bullied in different ways? Is another style required, one which is beyond your skill? Your wife. Evelyn. Jacky. You failed with all of them. Did they perceive something we did not? Did they see a weakness known only to yourself?

Let me look at you. Do you know, I think I must have hit on it. You are truly angry at last. Was it the slip in mentioning Jacky, perhaps? After days of provocation, you have finally opened up to me. A new emotional register on your face, which I must take into account.

Come, come! Don’t be cross! I am only doing my job, you know. You have had it always too easy. No portraitist has ever pushed you this far; that’s why all the pictures of you I have seen are so terrible. Oh, fine for public presentation, I have no doubt. They would look good in the dining hall of your Cambridge College, or on the walls of the Athenaeum. But they present the public face, not the inner man. They have the personality and insight of an encomium. What was it Oliver Cromwell said to Walker? “I desire that you paint me warts and all.” Those other portraitists not only left out the warts, they didn’t even notice they were there. Nor did I first time round. But not this time, and I am determined the next will be even better.

No; that’s it for the day. I am tired, and you have been punished enough, I think. It is time we parted; I have my duties to perform.

Which ones? Oh, good heavens, there are so many of them on this island. I must make sure the tide is coming in, that the sun is setting, and that the wind continues to blow. Have you been to see the fort yet? You should; it is a sad enough spectacle to make anyone thoughtful. Built by Vauban, that great military engineer, to fend off the English. I don’t believe it was ever used for that purpose. The English turned up anyway, and the good folk of this place know fine building stone when they see it. Whole walls, escarpments and abutments and whatever they call them, have vanished in the night, turned into docks and houses and shelters. One of the strongest forts in Brittany, falling to pieces because no-one loves it, while the little church, unprotected by the state and far weaker in construction, is in fine shape, sustained only by the affection of the populace. I will leave you to figure out the moral for yourself. That’s where I will end up, I think. The next few days will be important, and I need to prepare myself for what is to come. I find being in that church helps me, for some reason. Father Charles encourages it; he says quiet contemplation is as good as prayer or instruction. Not that he disdains instruction, although he teaches in hints, rather than in injunctions.

I occasionally test him, which is a bit naughty of me, set him a moral conundrum and see how he copes, all in the guise of asking for direction. What would happen, Father, if you knew of a terrible sin, but were the only person to know of it? What if you knew no-one else would believe you even if you told someone? What should you do?

“You should find a way of redeeming that sin,” he replied.

Easier said than done, I replied. A fluffy answer.

“Look into yourself,” he said quietly. “You are a painter. Does the sin make you angry? Then use that anger to paint. Does it make you sad? Use that. Was it a sin against another person? Try to help them. Against yourself? Then try to forgive.”

But what if you can’t forgive?

“Then find a way to do so. True sinners often suffer worse fates than those they hurt. Like the murderer who receives a just punishment. Then forgiveness comes more easily.”

He has taught me much, the good father. I have come to rely on him greatly in the past year or so. He is a comforting presence, and has helped me more than he knows.

Come back early, if you will. There is a chill in the air first thing, and that suggests the weather is breaking up. There will be a storm soon, and that means bad light and slow progress. I need to get this all finished, otherwise the ending will be postponed for a week. You needn’t concern yourself, though: it is already too late to leave. The seas are too rough, and no boat will be able to take you back to the mainland for days.

DO YOU KNOW, I had a sleepless night last night? Nothing unusual about that, I suppose, but this was worse than usual. Much worse; I tossed and turned because I was angry. Not with you particularly, but with myself. I had this sudden horrible feeling that I had made a mistake.

I should have painted you outside. Not simply because the light would have shown up your character the better, but because it would have made you uncomfortable. The inside is your sphere. The drawing room, the gallery, the dining room, the restaurant. You are a creature of the interior. Outside in the fresh air you shrivel a little, become less than yourself, a touch uncertain. Afraid, even. That fear, I realise now, is part of you, always there but hidden deep down under your never-ending movement. What are you afraid of? Not other people, or at least not anyone you have yet met. Some circumstance you know you will one day encounter but which has not yet materialised. A hint, perhaps from that long week in Hampshire when I was painting that first portrait; your son was sitting on your lap—such a good, devoted father you are—and dropped a glass on the table. It shattered and dozens of shards of glass spun across the table, onto the floor. The noise was remarkable, I remember. It didn’t just break, it positively exploded. An expensive glass, too; good crystal, a present from your wife’s family. Some of the fragments scudded across the table towards you. And do you know what I saw?

Let me tell you. You moved your child—both hands round his waist—you moved him very quickly a few inches as you turned your head away. But not to safety; not out of the way of the shining, twinkling fragments. Into their path. You moved your own child’s body so he would serve as a shield. Oh, ’twas but a moment, but I saw it, although I forgot it immediately afterwards. It couldn’t be right, could it?