The Mysterious Commission (7 page)

He worked particularly effectively at the sitting that afternoon. He made a small but significant discovery in the mastoid-temporal area of Mr X’s skull. He saw that the two fingers thrust into Mr X’s waistcoat (leaving six plus thumbs to be depicted gratis) were going to prove unexpectedly useful. On one occasion, when Mr X appeared to be emerging from his Napoleonic dream in some fresh direction, Honeybath rebuked Sister Agnes with authority when she seemed disposed to interfere. (But Mr X was frightened of Sister Agnes, and promptly shut up, all the same.) He gave Mr X two more sketches to play with, and when Mr X announced once more that the imperial archives would receive them, he repaid this courtesy by asking to be allowed to sign and date them on the spot. And this (before Mr X securely sat upon them) was done.

At the end of this sitting Honeybath could hardly credit what he had put on his own canvas. It was exploratory quite beyond the normal twitch of his tether. His portrait of this strange old man, undertaken as it had been in circumstances of mere indignity, was going to put him among the swells. Not among the small swells of his own time and country. With them, after all, he was pretty well on equal terms already. But among the
real
swells. It was a breathtaking thought.

He didn’t sleep well that night. An artist doesn’t, when verging on a manic condition. Even when he dozed, a brush was still in his hand, achieving incredible things. And the church clock – or was it stable clock? – was tiresome. He had never been able to understand what use to anybody was a contraption that went banging away like that all through the hours of darkness. The owls and bats, after all, didn’t presumably seek to be told the time. Perhaps the performance was for the benefit of poachers and burglars. It was nothing but a damned nuisance to honest men.

He’d thought to relax by taking a bath not long after dinner, and in his bath he’d heard the thing strike nine. There was that flat effect on the last stroke. He heard it again in bed: at ten the penultimate stroke went wrong, and at eleven the antepenultimate. He told himself that this phenomenon reminded him of something, but he was quite unable to determine what it was. The point worried him unreasonably, and it was almost fretfully that he waited for midnight. Light, however, came to him before then. It came to him out of
The Waste Land
, the poem with which the obscurely apocalyptic voice of T S Eliot had so deliciously troubled Charles Honeybath’s generation when young. In
The Waste Land
one is told something about St Mary Woolnoth, which is in Lombard Street, London, among (it is to be supposed) the bankers. It is therefore known as one of Sir Christopher Wren’s City Churches, although it is in fact by Wren’s pupil, Nicholas Hawksmoor. It is scarcely one of Hawksmoor’s successes, since it looks like a gaol upon the roof of which some inexplicable atomic catastrophe has landed an undistinguished classical temple. But it is not this that is commemorated in the celebrated poem. It is the fact that St Mary Woolnoth keeps the hours
with a dead sound on the final stroke of nine
. In an annotation the poet assures us that there can be no mistake, since the phenomenon is one which he has often noticed.

Although in a drowsy and somewhat confused state, Honeybath didn’t fall for the error that he was actually in Eliot’s Unreal City, and flowing up the hill and down King William Street, now. He was deep in the country; there could be no doubt about that. It was simply that he was in contact with the effects of a similar mechanical deficiency to that commemorated in the poem. And not even precisely similar. Strictly read,
The Waste Land
asserted that only twice in the twenty-four hours – to wit when the striking of nine o’clock was in question – was the dead sound perceptible. ‘The final stroke of nine’ was quite unambiguous. Whereas here it was any ninth stroke that went wrong. There must be a missing tooth, or something of the kind, on some wheel or cog.

Honeybath in his muzzy state was so proud of working out this nice discrimination that he failed for some moments to reflect on its irrelevance. But there was something, he presently saw, that was very relevant indeed. Not many clocks in the south of England could be relied upon to behave in this way eight times out of twenty-four.

Set out from Paddington, plod along the line of the Great Western Railway, allow yourself (like Sir John Betjeman) to be sufficiently Summoned by Bells, and you would infallibly run to earth the residence of
Mon Empereur
, otherwise known as Mr X.

Several unremarkable days succeeded. Honeybath was now in a position to advance his painting in a number of regards without the presence of his sitter, and he achieved long hours of concentrated labour which once more left him without any very urgent impulse to quarrel with his situation. He had, in fact, fallen into a routine. The extent to which this was so became clear to him only when certain interruptions – not seemingly very significant interruptions – eventually came along.

One morning Mr X was wheeled into the painting-room not by Sister Agnes but by Mr Peach. It was, it appeared, Sister Agnes’ day off, and Peach was standing in for her. Honeybath, of course, had never seen Peach outside his own studio, and he found himself not particularly pleased at seeing him again now. It wasn’t that he regarded him as excessively sinister. He regarded Sister Agnes, indeed, although he could hardly have said why, as a good deal the more sinister of the two. But he remembered Peach as an underbred and shifty little man who was entirely tedious. He disliked having to recall that he had even accepted banknotes planted before him by the fellow. He thought, no doubt unreasonably, that so affluent an outfit as he had become entangled with could readily have substituted for Sister Agnes another perhaps grim, but at least quiet and correct, trained nurse.

Peach wasn’t quiet. He insisted on inspecting the portrait, and this Honeybath regarded as an impertinence. He ventured to make comments on it, which was less an impertinence than an outrage.

‘Very fine, Mr Honeybath – very fine, indeed, if the liberty to say so may be allowed me. Undoubted
gusto
, as I believe the critics say. And abundant
chiaroscuro
– almost lavish, in a manner of speaking. But perhaps the old gentleman’s complexion might be toned up a little? No more than a suggestion, Mr Honeybath. Just as it is, some might think it a shade on the unhealthy side. A liver condition, perhaps. Whereas he’s as hearty as can be, isn’t he?’ This last question was addressed not to Honeybath but to Mr X himself. It was as if Peach regarded it as a matter of good form to address only in the third person one who was unhappily of unsound mind. ‘He’s in as fine fettle as he has been for years, eh?’

‘Hold your tongue, my good man, and let Monsieur David get on with his work.’ This sharp retort by the victor of Marengo and Austerlitz was the first sign that today was not to be exactly like previous days. Sister Agnes, perhaps, had Mr X under her thumb in a way that Peach had not. Peach was uneasy with his charge. His enhanced vulgarity – he was back, you might say, to Lesson One – seemed an index of this.

But Mr X himself was uneasy too. He kept shifting restlessly in his chair, so that Honeybath knew they were in for a difficult session. He wondered whether Sister Agnes’ absence had resulted in some tranquillizing pill or jab having got missed out. Of course, to have the opportunity of observing his subject in a changed mental state might well be interesting and valuable in itself. In psychological portraiture – and what other sort of portraiture was worth twopence in these days? – one had to work in depth. Ideally, layer upon layer, right down to the depths of the personality, ought all to be there. Sophisticated novels were like that in the present age. And Honeybath knew he had it in him to produce something quite as good as any sophisticated novel. It was going to be an edgy morning, all the same.

And then the cars began to arrive.

The painting-room faced north, as it ought to do. It had a single large window, from which there was quite a different view to that from Honeybath’s bedroom. It wasn’t at all an extensive or informative view, but Honeybath had got into the way of surveying it from time to time by way of relieving the strain of his work. There was simply a great gravel sweep, probably leading to the front door of the house, and beyond it one saw only the high wall of the garden in which he went for those tiresomely invigilated walks or toddles with Arbuthnot. There had never been the slightest sign of life or traffic on this sweep – but now first one car had arrived, and then another. Within half an hour there were almost a dozen cars parked side by side. They were rather grand cars, for the most part – quite as grand as the one in which Honeybath had himself been driven here. Executive-type cars, a car-salesman would have said.

Mr X, of course, couldn’t survey this transformed scene. But it was obvious that he had been aware of each vehicle as it drove up. He was distracted, and so was Honeybath. Honeybath suddenly got a high-light grotesquely wrong. It was most confoundedly annoying.

‘Is there a board meeting?’ Mr X asked.

Honeybath was startled. It wasn’t an expression which
Mon Empereur
could conceivably use of a council of war at which the Marshals of France gathered themselves deferentially around him. Moreover, Mr X’s voice had been a new voice. And it was evident that it alerted Peach at once.

‘He’s got it wrong, hasn’t he?’ Peach had jumped up and advanced upon Mr X in a disagreeable way. ‘He’d better quit that line, had he not?’

‘Sit down, sir.’ Mr X’s pallid countenance had amazingly taken on a faint flush. ‘Do you think I’m going to be spoken to in that way by a damned jumped-up clerk? Behave yourself, or a week’s wages will he the end of the matter. And you can whistle for the ghost of a reference from me. You’ll be tramping the streets on public assistance, or whatever the nonsense is called, within a month.’

Honeybath would have relished this odd metamorphosis but for the fact that there was something brutal about it. Here was Mr X, for a change, in some character he had once really owned, and it didn’t suggest itself as at all estimable.

‘Now, come to your senses,’ Mr X said. He hesitated for a moment, almost as if dimly aware of the curious character of these words from his lips. ‘And answer me,’ he continued hectoringly. ‘Is it a board meeting?’

‘And what if it is?’ Peach showed signs of losing grip of the situation. ‘What has it got to do with you, you old lunatic? A pretty figure you’d cut at a high-level thing like that. Belt up, do you hear?’

‘Take me to it at once.’ Mr X was struggling, feebly and distressingly, in his chair. His voice had risen a pitch – as, indeed, Peach’s had done. ‘I’ll have you know I know my rights in this place. I’ll have you up before the Governor. I’ll let no bloody screw–’

Quite suddenly, Mr X collapsed. He slumped, and a faint froth of spittle appeared on his lips. Honeybath was horrified – partly, perhaps, for the selfish reason that he didn’t want to find himself painting a corpse. And he saw that Peach, having recovered himself, was about to wheel his employer, patient, captive – impossible to define the relationship – from the room.

‘One moment,’ Honeybath said peremptorily. ‘Just what does this mean? Why is he talking about a Governor? What does he mean by a bloody screw? I insist–’

‘Only another of his fancies, Mr Honeybath. Another of the poor old gentleman’s imaginary lives, you might say. And a very distressing one – a very distressing one, indeed. Particularly embarrassing for the relations, sir – the family always having been so highly respectable, and lucky enough to keep clear of anything of the kind. I have very strict instructions about when it happens, Mr Honeybath. Immediate rest and quiet is what Mr X must have on these occasions. So you’ll be good enough to let me pass at once. I dare say he may be sufficiently recovered to continue the sittings this afternoon. Wonderfully resilient he is, isn’t he?’ Again this last question was addressed directly – but scarcely in an affectionate tone – to Mr X. Mr X, however, was not in a condition to offer an opinion on the matter. He appeared to be in some sort of coma. And Peach wheeled him out.

Honeybath returned to his room. He was thoroughly upset himself, and ventured on a stiff whisky earlier in the day than usual. This might have been expected a little to lull his senses, but, in fact the effect was rather to the contrary. At least his hearing seemed to become oddly acute. Normally the great house in which he was all but immured was soundless to a point of inducing nervous distress. Now it seemed alive and breathing. He heard, or imagined he heard, purposive footfalls in long corridors, doors briskly opening and closing, voices, now and then a telephone bell, even the muted clatter of a typewriter. His solitary lunch turned up as usual, and at about the same time there was a distinguishable change in the bruit and rumour from below. The voices were louder for a time, as if among a large group of people animated talk was going on. There was a clink and rattle of cutlery and glass. The volume of sound increased. It hinted jollity, as if the wine had been going round at some informal buffet occasion. Then it ceased almost abruptly. The board – it came suddenly to Honeybath – had renewed its deliberations. Once more, there were only occasional footsteps, an opening or closing door.

Half an hour later, he returned to his painting-room. He doubted whether Mr X would indeed be trundled in again that day, but there was still plenty he could do. In the background to the figure several small areas remained to be animated without being rendered too busy, or irritating the aerial perspective. He addressed himself to one of these, but was unable quite to trust his touch. He had developed, in fact, the ghost of an intention tremor, which is a disability not comfortable for an artist to contemplate. So he gave over, and prowled the room. He peered through the window. One of the parked cars was backing out; it swung clear and drove away.