Girl Reading (18 page)

And she did stay—

—and we did live! For a short time. Do you know what I realized in the end? They envied us, because by their standards we had no right to be happy. Because for them, happiness requires pomades and powders and ruffles and diamonds and concertos. And we required a roof, and a dog and a paper and pen, a candle at night and sometimes a sip of wine or port, and we were more than satisfied. They must have begrudged it so much. Why else would they desire to poison something harmless and beautiful?

They love each other, His Lordship and this Dorothy?

Yes, I think they probably do.

Then it likely follows that your situation, and His Lordship’s tolerance of it, would have required at least her blessing.

Funny, she wrote to me once.

What did she say?

But Maria is done with this subject, so Angelica introduces another: I was not completely honest with you before, Maria, when
I described the extent of my influence as an artist. I oversimplified it. (Coward raises his head and Angelica scratches his ears.) I endure a stream of commentary and pronouncements from my contemporaries. My portraits
do not bear a likeness
—there is one I have heard time after time—because I exaggerate the best features of my sitters, because I tend to flatter them. Well, show me a portraitist who depicts his patrons accurately and I will show you one in poverty who does not paint at all. We artists use some license to ennoble our patrons . . . at least I try to get beneath the skin of a person, to reflect back what is true about them. So, I ask myself, why am I disproportionately criticized for it? Why am I singled out? My portraits of men are
feminine,
they say—as though feminity were exclusively the reserve of females, and not a character trait shared to a greater or lesser extent by both sexes; as though the men of today’s society were not a muster of peacocks, posing and prancing. They say the heroes in my history paintings look at best like androgynous youths and at worst like women wearing beards. They say, constantly, that I cannot draw the human body, that I have no knowledge of anatomy, and for this reason my work will always be inferior. Do you know why I have no knowledge of anatomy? Because, being a woman, I am not allowed to attend life-drawing classes. They deny me the opportunity to learn the techniques I need, then insult me for not having them. I have to make do with working from sculpture or other drawings and paintings, seeing the physical body through someone else’s eyes, their bias, the limitations of their talent. Maybe the art of the ancients reached a summit of aesthetic beauty, but I can tell you it is a poor substitute for flesh and bones, for the work of God’s own hand. Yet I want success and I play up to my strengths—color and romance—and so I become guilty of the very defects of which I am accused. I always thank these experts for their insight because I know belligerence encourages them to repeat themselves, more loudly and with greater conviction.
But if I am gracious, maybe they will be inclined toward generosity and one day the history books will say:
Miss Kauffman was a painter of middling accomplishment but delightful in conversation.
That is how I shall be remembered, as a dilettante and a moll. They whisper that I have got this far only because I use womanly wiles to advance myself, that I did not work for, and do not deserve, what I have achieved. Always eyes are upon me looking for fuel to add to that particular fire. I cannot form a friendship with a male colleague, however distinguished, without setting tongues wagging. Am I to form relationships only with lady painters? Must we, all three of us, sit in a room by ourselves? And now they do more than merely whisper it out of my hearing. Earlier this year, one of them made a painting that included a nude figure of me, flaunting myself, and exhibited it at the Royal Academy.

Did the members not act?

Joshua was incensed, and one or two of the others spoke up for me, but I suspect many of them found it satirical. It was a slur on my reputation and hurt my pride more than I can tell you, and yes, it was removed when I wrote to them. After several days.

They are galled by your fame. You will be remembered. Your art is unparalleled, exalted. Your work—and that of Miss Wheatley—will survive. Your legacy means that artists in future eras will flourish, and they will thank you for it.

Is that why I endure such humiliation, Maria?

Why you both do, Angelica.

I almost became a musician, you know. I wonder what life would have been like if I had chosen that path.

You picked art over music?

Easier, perhaps. It was a dilemma, but art was the more urgent calling of the two. I fear that Miss Wheatley has picked the most difficult art form in which to thrive. And the barriers she has to overcome are manifold.

Frances said that many of life’s skills can be taught—oratory, carpentry, agriculture, drawing too, by the sounds of it. But she was convinced that poets are born. So you may be right when you describe poetry as the more difficult art form, but you are probably wrong that Miss Wheatley knowingly chose it.

Angelica lies awake in the dark, her arm curved above her head. Her instincts prickle. Does she hear anything amiss, or is it only the sounds of the night scraping and rustling outside? Stepping into her shoes and wrapping a blanket about her shoulders, she feels no fear, only the ache of fatigue when one cannot sleep, the relief of giving up the attempt.

On the landing the moon casts rectangles. The furniture becomes stone, the picture frames are as dark as tunnels, eyes peering out of them. Blood rushes in her ears as loud as the wind. The house holds its breath. Nothing dangerous—just unsettling, vexing, a puzzle to be solved. Angelica leans over the balustrade and stares down into a space as impenetrable as an underground lake. She hears a disturbance coming from Maria’s room.

She does not knock, lets herself into the chamber, is unsurprised by the sobbing woman. Coward is also awake: restless, grumpy. She does not talk, except to hush and hush the tired body buried in the pillows. With a confident embrace she encircles Maria, who responds with stillness, tears leaking down her face into her hair. Sheets and covers are pulled around, tucked in against the night, and Coward is the first to find repose. Then Maria, grateful for Angelica’s company, feeling nonetheless alone in the world, sleeps with this pain like a pin in her chest.

Angelica lies awake, listens to their breathing, dozes for a few hours until the morning, when the shadows are banished and the heartbeat of the estate increases in tempo once more.

* * *

It is consuming me. I feel nothing but this grief all the time. I find a wardrobe filled with gowns, and I think they must have been yours once, but they are mine. I had forgotten them because I have forgotten myself—literally the Maria I was. She is a foreigner. How did she do it—those parties, concerts, assemblies at court—when I cannot stand even to leave the house? I am afraid of the world, of its faces and jagged edges, of its venom. The thought of a journey brings on the terrors. I never want to leave here. I never want to make false conversation for as long as I live, or be judged by people I detest. I want to build a wall. I am falling so far, so deep, but I have yet to hit the ground. I could have killed you yesterday, for doing this.

The portrait is surprising. She is adding the bronze Minerva from the ballroom. A trick of composition to stop the eye trailing off the edge, she says. I almost collapse when I realize: of all the objects d’art she could have chosen . . . ?

You sent it back to me. You sent it back, saying I had misunderstood your motive but I made you accept it, because you had misunderstood mine. I was not attempting to buy your body, or your silence. Honestly. I just wanted you to have something I knew you would like. I fully expected not to see you again.

I betray myself to Angelica but will not be drawn out. And something else, though I do not know if you would approve.

Is it too late to make a change? to have a symbol to show—

My head hurts. Everything hurts.

I ask. I ask Angelica if she can show that you were a person who wrote.

I expect her to be annoyed. She is not, has anticipated my request, has already made a drawing of the hands in the painting adapted to hold a scroll and a pen. I remark that the scroll is rolled up, and she says she could include a whole legible stanza if I—

No, I like it that way, in the drawing.

I sense her disappointment; she wants me to share that aspect of you. I do not. The change is agreed.

Mrs. Plett is suspicious. She has taken to ambushing me in the morning, flings petticoats and hats on me, hides things away. Of course I find them again.

All of it stays inside me, hissing and biting. I cannot, physically, sustain my anger at you, but if I stop, there will be nothing left, just a void. I do not believe I shall be free of you in this life. Extraordinary—I can almost hear what you would say to that, an echo of it, a chime. You are wrong. Besides, you went away, so what you think no longer counts.

They picnic on the knoll overlooking the village, Angelica in a cream shalwar kameez trimmed with burnished red, Maria in a white dress with a royal-blue hat and sash. The excursion has been forced on them by Mrs. Plett, a means of restoring order, Maria explains. The potted meat is rich, the honey is sweet, the salad is sharp, the bread is wholesome. The sun radiates warmth until it is covered by a cloud turning the air fresh, then the cloud passes, the sun returns. Coward rolls on his back in the grass, plays like a puppy, investigates.

Maria complains aloud, She should be here. Why is she not here? As though Frances is running late.

She is here.

And Maria shields her eyes to see her companion.

Do you believe in it when you say things like that?

I believe that when someone loves someone it leaves an impression after one of them has gone.

Have you ever been in love, Angelica?

What makes you ask that?

Because you speak knowingly.

Cannot a heart believe in something it has yet to encounter? (And Angelica turns toward the steeple of the church, the roofs of the houses, the hills.)

How have you formed such notions of love without experience?—Maria narrows her eyes, not only because of the glare—Were you married?

I am married to my work.

And to a man, I think.

Angelica rises, brushes crumbs and grass from her trousers, steps away.

To a blackguard, then. And yet you still keep faith that love is unbreakable, conquering, enduring.

The Paintress folds her arms, gazes at the view around them, does not reply.

I had the best that love can offer, and look what it has done to me. You, I think, have had the worst. Somehow it becomes you, you have mastered it, turned it into a resource for your creativity. No wonder you are prolific.

I was prolific anyway. The only man who deserves any credit for my work is my father.

Ah, fathers. There is a different muddy puddle.

Who is that?

Climbing toward them is a blonde young woman raising her hand in greeting.

She is too far away to shout, yet she does, her hello scattered by the wind.

Maria stands.

It is Muriel! My goddaughter—she probably heard you are here.

Maria trips and strides down the slope, meets the breathless girl partway, takes both hands in hers. Angelica watches them. The
young lady is laughing, perhaps at her aborted attempt to run up the hillside, is explaining a complicated story to Maria, who clasps her around the shoulders, links arms with her. Both smiles are radiant.

And this is Angelica Kauffman, the renowned artist and my good friend.

The girl exclaims, Can it be? Miss Kauffman, I am so delighted to make your acquaintance. Muriel Wyndham, but I should like it if you called me Muriel.

Thank you. You must call me Angelica.

What a wonderful costume, Angelica. Is that trousers? I never can keep up with what society is wearing from one week to the next. They look very comfortable, as if one could play in them all day, then go to bed without changing out of them. Hello, Coward, you smelly animal.

She picks up the dog and fusses him. Maria leads the party back to the picnic.

Muriel talks fluidly: her parents in the village, a problem she had with her stocking this morning, a story from her childhood about getting stuck in a hayloft, and then, This honey is delicious, Maria (finally going quiet as she eats some).

And how are you, Muriel? I feel as though we have not talked for an age.

She nods emphatically, mouth full. I am so glad you have a visitor, Maria, and such a famous one at that. Were you going to tell me?

No need to tell you anything, you seem to find it all out on your own.

That is true. I have my spies. For example, Angelica is here to work on the painting of Frances, I believe. Is it finished yet?

Angelica says there is still work left to do.

I am desperate to see it!

This topic sets Muriel’s mind alight with questions about Angelica’s art. Where does she get her ideas from? What does she like to paint best? Who in society has she made portraits of? What is her favorite color? I wish I could see every canvas you have ever touched!

If you are so enthusiastic, you must come to London and visit me at my studio.

Oh, may I?

But of course. Perhaps Maria can be persuaded to bring you? I shall show you around the Royal Academy.

Muriel turns to Maria, presses her lips together in supplication, urges with her eyes.

Maria murmurs, We shall see.

The younger woman kisses her in gratitude, as though it were settled.

Then Maria announces she has to speak to Mrs. Plett, asks whether Muriel and Angelica would mind amusing themselves until she comes back.

As Maria heads to the house, Muriel becomes more reflective.

It was good of you to come; I was starting to worry. She seems better for it. She has not seen anyone since—you know—not even her sons.

They are estranged?

Not exactly. I think they have always belonged to their father. She has grown so very tired of society, become reclusive, exists with hardly any human contact. Poor Maria, and poor Frances, and praise God for the indomitable Mrs. Plett. You must be especially dear to my mama.