Kitabı oku: «Mrs Whistler», sayfa 6

The boy would say no more. He turned away and went after his mother – standing guard over her effectively, until she was in that landau with his sisters, the horses had been brought back up and they were departing the cricket ground. Despite all that had transpired – the pails of Prussian blue and the duelling peacocks, the roadside confrontations, the assorted barbs and slights – it was only now, as he watched the Leyland women being driven off into the dusty city, and Freddie cast one last look over at him before rejoining his fellows, that Jim fully understood the irreversible nature of this situation. He was shut out forever. An enemy.

Lindsey Row felt cool and dark after the sun-blasted cricket ground, and the sweltering box of the cab. Maud was suffering still from the dinner with Owl and Miss Corder. The aim had been to lift the girl out of the dumps in which she’d been mired since her return, and in this it had appeared to succeed – until her disintegration in the later stages, at any rate. Jim had all but carried her back to their bed; and the mumbled, accusatory questions she’d slung his way had indicated plainly enough that this particular difficulty was far from finished with.

Now her brown eyes followed him from a parlour armchair. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Jim sat opposite, dropping his boater to the floor. His clothes were stiff with dust and dried sweat. He had an overbearing sense of mental obstruction – of a great many things trying to fit through the same small aperture at the exact same instant.

‘Cricket,’ he said. ‘A match at Lord’s.’

‘You don’t care about cricket, Jimmy.’ Maud’s face was pale but attentive. She was a clever soul, his Madame. She knew that something was up.

‘There was a plan,’ Jim told her, ‘for the betterment of our position. But it came to naught. It may have been – well, it may have been something of a misstep.’

This wasn’t enough. ‘Rosa Corder,’ she said, ‘talks of conflict.’

‘Yes, well, conflict may be coming.’ Jim tried to rally. ‘But we’ll prevail, my girl. Things will improve. There are several other strategies under consideration. The Owl, you know, is a most resourceful and well-connected fellow.’

And then for some reason he began to tell her about lithography, and the Portuguese’s proposal that he make a series of lithographic Nocturnes – coloured prints of the river and its bridges, made ingeniously by sketching with crayon upon tablets of damp stone – which would surely amount to a stream of gold so steady and plentiful it might as well be coming in through a pipe. As he went on, he got a disconcerting sense of how he must appear to her. There will be a taxing period, certain friends had warned him, after a woman surrenders a child. It cannot be avoided. No matter what she has promised, no matter the arrangements that have been reached, no matter how unified and durable the two of you were before, there will be distress. Lingering distress. Resentment.

Maud rose while he was talking and went to leave the room. He reached for her as she passed but she was walking too quickly, brushing against his outstretched fingers.

‘Why will nobody,’ she said, ‘ever tell me what’s bloody happening?’

July 1877

Maud was turning at the end of the banister, on her way to the dining room for breakfast, when she met John coming back from the front door. He presented her with a small bundle of letters, along with July’s Art Journal. It amused him, when Jimmy was out of earshot, to act as if there was a kind of collusion between them, as if they were on the same level, Whistler servants together. She did her best to ignore it.

‘There you go, Miss,’ he said with a wink. ‘Bumper crop today. Pass it on, would you?’

Jimmy was dressed, smoking, the eyeglass in, his plate and cutlery pushed aside to make room for a sketchbook – in which he was setting out a pattern, similar to the overlapping feathers of the Peacock Room, but with butterflies woven into it as well. He stopped at once and without a word or glance applied himself to the post, sorting through the sheaf deftly and slightly secretively, like a card sharp assessing a hand. Maud sat across from him and reached for the blue-and-white coffee pot. As she poured, past the steaming arc of coffee, she noticed that he’d opened up one of the letters and was reading it with absolute attention; the colour of his face was changing, growing deeper, and his posture altering also, as if to accommodate a physical discomfort.

The cup was overflowing, the surface of the coffee level with the brim, a sheen of dark liquid spilling across the pagodas and cranes that decorated its side. Maud put down the pot and looked at the letter more closely. It was one sheet only. There was no black border, at least – no one had died – although Jimmy’s manner as he read on suggested that the news was equally terrible. She wanted to ask what it contained, what was so very wrong, but knew that it was always best to wait. Gingerly picking up her cup, she was about to sip away the surplus when he leapt to his feet with such abrupt force that he knocked over his chair. She started, splashing hot coffee over her wrist and onto the tablecloth. He was out of the room already, collecting his hat and cane from the hall stand. The front door opened and closed, then opened and closed again. She heard his boots running back; he rushed to the dining table, to the letter, which he’d left on his sketchbook. Grabbing a pencil, he scrawled something upon it, in the top corner.

‘Jimmy,’ she said, rising from her chair.

‘I’m going into town,’ he told her. ‘I have to talk to Anderson Reeve. Take this downstairs, would you? To the studio. Put it with the others.’

‘The others? Jimmy, what in blazes—?’

‘There’s a box on the sill of the garden window.’ He was heading back to the hall. ‘I’ve been too supine again, my girl. Too goddamned supine!’

The door slammed, with finality this time. Maud saw him through the window, surging down the path and out along the pavement. She stood for a few seconds, coffee dripping from her fingertips, allowing the atmosphere to settle; then she reached over for the letter.

It was from Frederick Leyland, from his house in Liverpool, and a colder, more savage letter would be difficult to imagine. Jimmy had been seen walking with Mrs Leyland, apparently, at Lord’s Cricket Ground – where he told Maud he’d been the week before. This was a final straw for her husband. He stated that Jimmy was incapable of gentlemanly conduct, and that if he found him in Mrs Leyland’s company again he would give him a public horsewhipping. Maud covered her mouth; she almost laughed aloud. A horsewhipping. It was like a scene from a play, a melodrama, or a novel set long in the past. That someone would actually threaten to do it then, in London in 1877, seemed absurd. There could be no mistaking the letter’s sincerity, though. Leyland was serious.

Maud’s next thought was for Jimmy, and what he’d stormed off to do. Would he be so foolish as to confront Leyland – to test the fellow’s resolve? Of course he would. Should she give chase, then – catch him on the threshold, urge him to step away? No, that would never work; and besides, he had too much of a head start. She read the letter again. This was the new trouble with Leyland that he would not admit to her, and it had nothing to do with artworks or that blasted room. It was about the man’s wife.

Above Leyland’s address, in the top corner, was the number fourteen. This was what Jimmy had returned to the dining room to write. Maud recalled his instruction: put it with the others. She went down to the studio. Jimmy was bad with letters. Usually he had no system of arrangement or preservation, piling them on mantelpieces, on sideboards, on the floor, to be gathered up like so much litter and thrown away. But there it was: a small wooden box, plain in design, containing letters from Leyland, drafts of Jimmy’s replies and a couple of telegrams, numbered from one to thirteen. These papers told the whole sorry story, from the dispute over the dining room to this current chapter: the attack and counter-attack of two very different voices. Jimmy’s flippancy was startling, as were his efforts to divide up this family, to draw distinctions between the husband and the wife; whereas his adversary remained scrupulously formal, his language rigid and brittle – cracking as the quarrel worsened to reveal a real viciousness beneath.

Maud returned the letters to the box; she pressed down on the lid as if trying to hold them in. The house around her was quiet. She looked up, out into the garden. John was sitting by the gate, smoking a small pipe, idling in the absence of his master. Behind her, she realised, across the studio, the portrait of Frances Leyland had been put on an easel – returned from the cellar, if it had ever been there. The subject was turned away from the viewer, her hands clasped at the base of her back. She was part Japanese maiden, part medieval princess, the diaphanous, pinkish fabric of her gown heaping upon the chequered matting like a train. Jimmy had taken her in profile, head angled to the left, her rich brown hair – a similar tone to Maud’s own – wound up loosely on her head. It appeared the pose of a moment, but Maud remembered very well the dreadful ache you’d get in your neck after six straight hours of standing like that. She’d never really seen Mrs Leyland in person. There’d been that time at Prince’s Gate, when Jimmy was finishing off his mural; but she’d been in shadow then, merely a lady sweeping into a hallway. Here she looked rather melancholy, gazing at the pale blossoms dotted beside her as if lost in reflection and regret.

It was a fine work, rightly considered one of Jimmy’s best. Maud had seen it before, of course, dozens of times. Now, though, she did find herself wondering why the painting was still in his possession, as it was surely finished and should be with the family – with the husband who’d ordered and paid for it many years previously. They were friends, Jimmy and Mrs Leyland. This she knew. There was a long-standing friendship with the whole family that was several years older than his connection with her. But had she been missing something here, something really rather obvious? Was it there in the portrait – in the sympathetic, faintly adoring way that Mrs Leyland had been painted? Was Jimmy actually in love with this woman?

The jealousy was devilishly sharp, a hot blade against the skin; but even as Maud flinched, a part of her was qualifying, setting out the broader view, warning herself against over-reaction. What could she expect here at Lindsey Row, in the end? What could she ever really be to Jimmy Whistler? No promises had been made, as Edie so liked to remind her. There was little feeling that they were building towards anything, towards any kind of change. She’d just sent their child for fostering, for heaven’s sake, so that their circumstances could stay the same. Their child. That sweet scrap. Hers for minutes. Now in the care of strangers.

And what would she be left with? What would she be without Jimmy? A compromised woman. An artist’s model, her best years already gone. An aspiring painter who couldn’t even bring herself to pick up a brush. She dropped onto a rickety, paint-flecked stool, head sinking to her knees, dull with despair once more.

This would not do. She would not be led down this path. She sat up straight, wiped her eyes and made a determined effort to order her thoughts. John was gone by now – as was Mrs Cossins, off on her errands. The house was empty. Raised in a tenement, sleeping three to a bed, Maud had always savoured these stretches of solitude at Lindsey Row. She’d read, or draw; leaf through Jimmy’s albums of Japanese prints, with their blossom-blotted branches and firework displays and tall bamboo bridges, or his many boxes of photographs; or simply watch the light move through the empty rooms. That day, however, she felt blank, without appetite or inclination. She forced herself to think of art. The sky was overcast, muting the garden’s colours, so she decided instead upon a self-portrait. This, according to Jimmy, was an exercise quite essential to a painter’s growth – to his sense of what he could do and where he was heading. Rembrandt, he’d say, as if the name was an argument in itself. Velázquez.

Maud chose a sheet of red paper and a piece of chalk, put a wicker chair before a mirror and considered her face. She’d thought herself prepared, but still saw the shift in her own expression – the dismay. The eyes had a bruised squint; the skin was pallid, waxen; yet the problem ran rather deeper than that. Sad, she thought, setting down her materials. I look profoundly sad.

She stood at various windows. She went upstairs and sat on the bed. The summer sun broke through the clouds, the floor growing bright around her feet; and the notion arrived, sudden and irresistible, of travelling north. Of finding Edie, in Lionel Crossley’s office or wherever she might be, and learning the address of the foster family – Edie had it, Maud was sure, even though she’d never admitted as much – and visiting her daughter. This could happen. It would be so simple. She’d let a month pass. More than a month. They were both in this same city. They were a mere handful of miles apart. Why shouldn’t Ione know who she was – why shouldn’t she be held by her mother? She might be smiling by now. She’d surely smile at her.

Maud wasn’t aware of having made the choice to go – only of being at the end of their path, pushing open the gate in a hat and a jacket that did not match, running the coins in her pocket through her fingers to check she had enough for the fare. Glancing downriver, she saw a lone woman about twenty yards along the Row, over at the rail, gazing out at the water. It was Rosa Corder, clad in a bright coral gown. Maud was in no mood to talk with her. She’d been tight at the Café Royal that night, but not so much that she had no memory of what Rosa had said about Ione – about the fostering, and how it had been so necessary and so brave. The Owl’s girl had acted like she knew everything about Maud and the decisions that had been made. Looking back now, it had the feel of trespass.

Rosa didn’t seem to have seen her, so Maud hurried away up the cobbled slope to the end of the Chelsea Embankment, and followed Beaufort Street over to the King’s Road. The omnibus stand was a few blocks to the east, close to the workhouse. Maud was already beginning to flag, her muscles protesting, but she walked towards it with everything she had. The long, straight street was quiet in the sunshine, with a sparse early afternoon crowd ambling along its pavements. A number eleven appeared ahead, wheeling in from the direction of Brompton, its flanks loud with notices for soap and matches and the latest cut of glove. Maud chased it for twenty or thirty yards, drawing level as it approached the stand. As she climbed arduously aboard, she noticed a vivid drop of coral, not far from the top of Beaufort Street, practically thrumming against the dusty shopfronts.

She handed over her tuppence and ducked inside the cabin. The two facing benches were empty save for an elderly couple, dressed in modest, much-mended clothes, the man fast asleep and snoring. The windows were open, but it was still oppressively hot, thickening the usual smells of dung, sweat and sawdust. They pulled away. Maud sat down opposite the couple, sliding along to the end; she caught her breath, turning this way and that on the bench, looking outside. Seeing no coral, she relaxed a little. It had been a coincidence, that was all. Rosa had probably been on her way from Putney, and would now be looking for a different omnibus to take her on to the West End. Maud’s mind returned to her task. It was Thursday, which meant that Edie would be at her husband’s neat little premises on Inkerman Road, just back from the high street, with a ledger open before her. She would walk in. She would say what she wanted, and hear no opinions on the matter. And then she would go to her daughter.

At Sloane Square there was trouble with a coal wagon. The omnibus halted and stood still; insults were slung between the drivers, briefly waking the slumbering man opposite, and prompting some scandalised whispers from his wife as the language deteriorated. Then Rosa Corder appeared at the cabin’s entrance, her gown bringing a rich blush of colour to the varnished wood, altering the quality of the light. She must surely have come down the King’s Road at a healthy trot – the coral dress was indeed dusty in places and its armpits a touch dark – but she settled onto the bench beside Maud as if she’d been waiting at the corner in a state of perfect leisure.

For a while the two women didn’t speak. Others came aboard, taking places around them. Neckties were loosened and newspapers shaken open. Maud thought that perhaps she’d just stay silent. Surely Rosa wouldn’t ride with her all the way up through Piccadilly, Euston and Camden Town. She’d see that she wasn’t wanted and she’d disembark. Mind her own business.

‘Forgive me for following you,’ Rosa said eventually, as the omnibus eased its way into wider, busier streets. ‘I was approaching your door when you left. I’ve had an idea – I was on my way over to tell it to you. Why don’t we make an expedition together, with our sketchbooks, out to Hampton Court or somewhere? An artistic colloquy, it would be, of a sort. What do you think?’

Maud said nothing. She didn’t even look Rosa’s way. They rounded a corner and sunlight swept through the cabin, laying a scorching band across her face. She raised a hand to block it.

Unconcerned by this lack of a response, Rosa was now peering through a window at the long shed of Victoria station. ‘I must confess that I don’t know this route,’ she said. ‘It goes … north, doesn’t it?’

And at that Maud was up, pushing past the knees of the elderly couple and worming between the bodies packed around the entrance. She felt damp fabric pressing against her, and the slippery flesh beneath; a beard dragging across her shoulder; someone’s breath washing warmly over her neck; and then she was out, released onto the grand, curving street that ran away from the railway terminus towards Hyde Park Corner. She unbuttoned her jacket and pinched the top of her dress, peeling the material from her clammy collarbone. There would be another omnibus she could catch up there. But she had to be quick.

After a dozen yards or so Maud looked back – and sure enough, there was Rosa Corder, hopping down from the number eleven as it started to move. So it was to be a chase. Maud went faster, gathering up her skirts; she considered breaking into a run. Ahead, Hyde Park Corner was a great revolving ring of dust and noise. She reckoned that she could glance against its left edge and shoot off into the park, among the trees, along one of those endless diagonal paths. Lose Rosa. Recover herself a little, in the shade somewhere. Head over to Paddington and resume her journey to Kentish Town. To Inkerman Road. To Ione.

But it was no good. Maud simply couldn’t manage it. She was still too weak; too strained and ridden with aches. Her lungs burned. She tasted blood, she was sure it was blood, in the back of her throat. By the time she reached the gateway to the park her limbs were lead, barely hers to command. She had to stop – to stagger out of the sun and lean hard, panting, against one of the fluted columns that fronted the gatekeeper’s lodge. Rosa was there in less than a minute. Maud realised that it hadn’t actually been any kind of chase at all. Her pursuer had been hanging back, biding her time, a cat stalking a crippled bird.

‘You mustn’t,’ Rosa said. ‘Please believe me. You think that this is something you have to do – something that will help you. But it will not.’

Maud wiped the sweat from her eyes. She waited for more.

‘This life requires us to endure certain things. To adapt to them.’ Rosa moved closer, joining Maud in the shade. She was speaking more softly than she ever had before. ‘I can tell that you are strong, Maud, and that you are determined. You have made this place for yourself, with Jimmy. I couldn’t bear to see you squander it.’

Maud glowered at the sandy ground. She felt neither strong nor determined. She felt like she was slowly melting. ‘Squander it,’ she repeated.

‘There are different ways of living. This is becoming ever more clear. We might need these men, but we need not be defined by them. Not forever.’ Rosa was nearly touching her now. ‘Charles has a wife, you know, over in Putney. And an infant daughter, born in the spring. It suits him to be married. To be established. And I get the best part of him, there’s no question about that. It is rather like having a different room in the same house. Would I swap rooms with Kitty Howell? Would I give up my studio and devote myself to rearing children, and worrying about linen, and arguing with the cook? I would not. I am an artist. We are artists.’

Maud looked off into the park. She kept quiet.

‘It is difficult when a child is involved. I know it is. But it has to be this way. Maud, you have Jimmy Whistler. That really is an unbelievable thing. He is certain to rise. To overcome his enemies. And the better his position, the better everything will be. For both of you.’

Maud eyed her doubtfully. ‘I’m going,’ she said.

She moved from the column and selected a path, thinking again of Paddington. She was weary, though, deeply weary; and Rosa was still there too, slowing her further it seemed, causing what remained of her impetus to leak away. Fairly soon she came to see that it would not happen. She would not visit her daughter, not then. She would not hold Ione in her arms. The journey to Kentish Town, which had seemed nothing ten minutes earlier, telescoped out to an impossible distance. The afternoon was starting to grow old, besides – the sunlight becoming richer, deeper in tone, losing some of its glare. The moment had passed.

Maud veered from the path and sat beneath a tree. The grass around it was long and cool, tinted blue in the shade. She wanted to cry, perhaps; to curl up and sleep. She covered her face, welcoming the darkness, breathing heavily against her damp palms.

Rosa sat next to her. ‘You must bide your time, Maud,’ she said, ‘that’s all. You must be patient.’

*

After a while they began to talk. Maud knew that she was being teased out, that Rosa was trying to foster an alliance between them, but found that she was too tired to care; that it soothed her, in fact, to speak of the latest difficulties that were rapping at the door of Lindsey Row. Why in heaven’s name should she keep it all secret anyway? Jimmy wouldn’t be. He’d be telling everyone he could. Rosa was listening closely – and she knew a fair bit of it already, of course – so Maud gave her the entire story, the whole frightful swamp of the Leyland letters, right up to that morning’s threat of a horsewhipping. This last part still left Maud thoroughly perplexed. Rosa merely nodded, however, as if it was an entirely predictable development.

‘Leyland believes his honour is at stake,’ she said. ‘The situation has advanced. Mrs Leyland is involved now. I’d heard this might be so.’

Maud stared ahead. The morning’s jealousy was resurfacing; she could feel it standing in her eyes. ‘What’ve you heard?’

‘There’s a rumour that they were preparing to elope. Charles thinks Gabriel Rossetti is the source. He’s been seeking to end Jimmy’s connection with Leyland from the outset and has been dripping all sorts of poison into his ear.’

Maud didn’t know what to say to this.

Rosa looked at her. ‘It is nonsense, Maud. What on earth could Jimmy possibly find to admire about Frances Leyland? What has she ever seen, or said, or done? The woman is an adornment only, a millionaire’s brood mare. I suppose she must be lonely. Ill prepared for the heights her husband’s riches have raised them to. It is tragic, in its way. Mrs Leyland is friendless, derided everywhere for her lack of breeding, of manners – all those petty attainments that wealthy people prize. Jimmy alone has responded to her with decency. With kindness. No wonder that she clings to him as she does.’

Maud realised that this dismal picture was being drawn for her benefit. ‘I don’t fear her, Rosa. Never for a moment have I—’

Her denial faltered. Could Jimmy do such a thing – run off with a married woman, the wife of a prominent businessman? It would be a full-blown, shout-it-from-the-rooftops scandal. A lifetime’s worth of trouble. But this was Jimmy Whistler. Trouble may well be part of the appeal. Maud had decided that he’d directed her to his Leyland correspondence with the deliberate intention that she should read it – to understand the battle he was fighting. Now it occurred to her that it could just as easily have been a form of confession, designed to prepare her, in some small part, for the overturning of her world.

Rosa saw her uncertainty. ‘Jimmy values you, Maud. This is plain. For a painter to be with his model is hardly unusual. But for the model to move into his house, to have a part in his domestic affairs as well as his artistic ones, to serve as companion, and as hostess … Yes, I believe he values you highly indeed.’

Maud nodded. She could see this. She’d known that her arrangement with Jimmy would be different. She’d known from the minute it began. They’d been laughing together in the studio, about something or other; he’d murmured an invitation, wryly offhand; she’d stepped down from the model table and accepted straight away. Submitted, some might say, but they’d be wrong. It had been a union. A meeting of desires. She’d been perfectly sure that she was safe; that it wouldn’t end with abandonment, or destitution, or any of the other things Edie liked to predict. She’d seen it in him, seen it clearly, for all his quirks and posturing. They were joined.

But how much reassurance could this supply, honestly? Rosa was right. There were things she had to endure. Conditions and limitations. It could never be complete.

‘How did Jimmy respond?’ Rosa asked. ‘Was there thunder?’

As Maud tried to frame a reply, she recalled an odd detail – something Jimmy had said just before his second exit, after numbering Frederick Leyland’s latest threat. I have to talk to Anderson Reeve. She hadn’t paid it any mind at the time, being too occupied with his great agitation and the letter that had provoked it. This Mr Reeve was a regular guest at Lindsey Row. Rotund, well groomed and somewhat older, Maud considered him a sober sort – and sobering also, as he was often required to pour cold water on all manner of hot-headed schemes. For Mr Reeve was Jimmy’s lawyer.

*

The two women returned to Lindsey Row to find a dinner in progress, assembled hurriedly in the latter part of the day. It was a ‘smoker’, as they termed it, an occasion attended by gentlemen only and characterised by noise and an accumulating sense of chaos. Maud and Rosa were hailed, however, and offered elaborate words of homage – lauded for their beauty and grace, and the light they threw upon an otherwise dingy gathering. There was a general insistence that they join the party, their day clothes and slightly dishevelled appearance (in Maud’s case at least) being dismissed as unimportant. Seats were found at opposite ends of the table.

Maud recognised Jimmy’s mood. He had something to reveal and needed an approving audience. The guest list contained no surprises. Edward Godwin was there, and Matthew Eldon, along with Alan Cole from the museum, Bertie Mitford and a few others; and in a far corner sat Owl, clad in his grey suit, with that red ribbon pinned to his lapel and a cigarette between his fingers. A couple of them were on their feet, engaging in a spot of amateur dramatics, as Jimmy put it – enacting the moment when a certain befrilled British businessman attempted to carry out the horsewhipping of a notable and tirelessly audacious American painter. Leyland, played by Bertie Mitford, stood upon the Chelsea pavement, drawing back his weapon; while Eldon, as the spry artist, hopped about, dodging the blows; then the whip’s end snagged on the extravagances of the frill, tangling it around the persecutor’s face and causing him, finally, to topple into the river.

Everyone roared and bayed, thumping the table until Maud feared for its legs. The morning’s letter, she sensed, had been the sole subject of conversation thus far. When the laughter had subsided and the actors returned to their seats, Jimmy first apologised for the absence of victuals – temporary only, he assured them, his menu having posed Mrs Cossins with a couple of unforeseen challenges. Then he laid his eyeglass on the tablecloth and said that the hiatus did at least give him a chance to announce a rather signi­ficant development. Grins widened once more. This was bound to be good.

‘In the spirit,’ he went on, ‘of my recent confrontations – the David and Goliath style of encounter that you fellows know I favour – I will be marching off to court for a battle of the, ah, legal variety.’

‘Ruskin,’ said Eldon. ‘Has to be.’

Jimmy inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I went to the Strand to speak with Anderson Reeve – who I have to say remains the brightest little lawyer in London – and he believes there is a suit to be brought.’ He paused for a second or two, making a tiny adjustment to his knives. ‘Libel. You all saw the notice, I assume.’

‘Savage,’ said Mitford. ‘Irresponsible.’

‘Yes, a poor show indeed,’ added Cole. ‘Ruskin, I fear, has passed the point of reason. Of fairness. Many are saying it.’