The Portrait (20 page)

And, I may say, I gave her some practical advice as well. That she should write you a letter informing you of what had happened, and asking you to contribute to the upkeep of your joint creation. I considered for a moment that she should also assure you that the secret would be safe in her hands. That she would not approach you nor threaten you in any way. That she would leave London and be as discreet as if she did not exist. But I decided against the idea. No, I thought. Let him sweat a bit. Let’s worry him a little. It’ll make him more generous. A mistake. I underestimated you.

Good God, man! All she wanted was ten shillings a week! Less than you spend on wine. She had nothing, and wanted nothing except that little brat. And she knew what she was giving up, as well. She knew that her chances of a dutiful husband and a little parlour and a respectable life would all but vanish once she had someone’s bastard on her hands. Even her friendship with Evelyn might well evaporate. She would be all on her own, and she was willing to take the risk. It wasn’t much she was asking of you, and it wasn’t blackmail. Even had you refused, she wouldn’t have done anything. She wasn’t like you.

But that was not the point, was it? The point was that she decided to defy you, go against your wishes. And that was unforgiveable. And even more unforgiveable were the actions of the person behind this plot to blacken your reputation. Jacky could never have written that letter to you; it was too well-phrased, too suggestive. Too well spelt. So who could it be? Who in your circle could be behind this? Not Henry MacAlpine, for example, who would never dare attack you, who was too much the fawner and flatterer. No; only one possible person who knew Jacky could give her such advice. Your attention turned to Evelyn.

What did you see in your mind—the two women, sitting together, giggling as they plotted to destroy your marriage, bring you to ruin? The ruthless fury of womanhood scorned, relentless in their pursuit, never resting until they had taken their revenge? Did you imagine that she was going to start spreading stories about you? That she would write to your wife? Did you think that Evelyn wanted a hold over you, to guarantee that you favoured her? Were you so puffed up with your own importance and so sure that everyone had the same values as you did?

They paid a heavy price, by God they did. When I read about Jacky being dragged out of the river, my heart skipped a beat. The reporter quoted the police. Part-time prostitute, pregnant, killed herself in desperation. Happens all the time. Open and shut, no mystery, racing results from Sandown in the next column. Maybe it was even true. How should I know? I have no evidence to suggest otherwise, except for the memory of the way her face glowed in the light through my window. A woman like that wants to live, will do anything to cling on to life. Such a person needs the life torn from her by force.

Did she scream and struggle, William? Did her fingernails scratch on the stone parapet? Did she thrash in the water before she went under? Did she hear you as you crept up behind her in the dark? Probably not, because even Jacky could have taken you on in a fair fight. And what about you? Was your poor weak heart thudding, threatening to tear itself from its moorings as you pushed her? Did you hurry away with your cloak up around your face? Or did you stay and keep watch, to make sure she sank and never came to the surface again? I don’t even ask if you felt remorse, or guilt. I know you too well; you decided it was necessary. It was done. She was punished for her impudence. She didn’t matter. People don’t, do they?

One more glass of wine; but no more. I don’t want you falling asleep on me, you know, and it is easy to do if you have too much of this. It is a deceptive brew, more potent than it seems when you drink it.

You cannot send a man to the gallows because of a tilt of the head in the sunlight. Not when you are so desperately trying to convince yourself that it cannot be true, when you range over your memories, reorganising your past to persuade yourself that a friend could not possibly do such a thing. Suppose I went to the police. They would make enquiries, and conclude there was no substance to the suggestion. But you would hear of it, and know who had said such a thing. So I kept quiet once more, and a week later you moved on to ensure that nothing Evelyn ever said about you, nothing she knew or suspected, would have any effect either.

I saw Evelyn after Jacky was found, and she had seemed calm enough on the surface, at least. Those years of careful upbringing were being put to use. She was most upset, she said, in an even voice. Upset, distressed, but not overly so. She passed no comment on the circumstances but politely, and somewhat coldly, took her leave. Her exhibition was to open the following day, she had a lot still to prepare. She was anxious.

Why should she be any more than regretful, after all? Jacky was just a model, however valued. A friend, perhaps, but what friendship can there really be between two such people, so different in outlook, upbringing, temperament and tastes? And many people become preoccupied, distracted, when they are preparing for a show. I put it out of my mind, in the same way that I tried not to think of Jacky. I succeeded there; I even forgot to go to the funeral. I was working, trying something new and different which I couldn’t get right. I kept trying and trying, almost stopping but then going back for one last attempt. And when I finally gave up, the effect I was chasing still unachieved—it was too late.

I knew I should feel guilty about my callousness, so when I saw the review of Evelyn’s exhibition, I thought I would expiate my sin by going round and making sure she was all right. Better to succour the living than waste time on the dead, who hardly need our support anymore. So I went round to her studio, though I didn’t know if she had even seen the review, or worked out who had written it. She was the sort who didn’t bother reading a paper, after all, and many a painter studiously avoids them until their exhibition is long closed. I guessed, of course, that she’d be upset if she had. Who would not be? It is a horrible thing to be publicly brutalised like that. You do not know, of course; you have only carried out such assaults, never yet been on the receiving end. The way the mind reacts is interesting, I suppose; an incredulity followed by a rising desire to turn away, which is so easily defeated by the necessity of reading it all. The battle to remain detached, unconcerned, the slow realisation that this defence is crumbling. The mounting panic as the words flow over you, metaphor by metaphor, insult by insult. The terrible fear that what you are reading is the truth, not merely the opinion of one biased, malevolent man. The way the words come as you answer the charges—words which no-one will ever hear, for you know there can never be any response; the critic will never have to account for himself. It is not done.

And then, the hatred. The blind but utterly impotent loathing of the man who has done this, so coldly. The way obtuseness has become insight, and stupidity intelligence, and cruelty a passing entertainment for the reader. The realisation that the review was written with pleasure, seeing in your mind’s eye the smug look of self-satisfaction as it is finished.

Finally, the belief, as all your defences and self-confidence suddenly crumble. The belief that the words are true, that you have been exposed for what you are, because the words are there, in print, on the page. The overwhelming conviction that what you are reading has an authority which overwhelms your self-belief, that the author has seen through you and exposed you for the fraud you really are. And this lasts, believe me. It does not go away quickly or easily, however strong you are. They gnaw at you, those words, bring you to the brink of madness, because you cannot shake them out of your mind. Everywhere you go you hear them, echoing in your mind. Only the most worldly, most cynical, can resist their power. You could, no doubt. I couldn’t, which is why I toadied to people like you for so long, and had to come here when I decided to do so no longer.

Ah! My friend, it is another—yet another—experience you have missed in your life, that realisation that someone wishes to do you harm, and has successfully done so without meeting any resistance. It is a great hole in your existence.

So I realised she might well be distressed; but I supposed that fury would sustain her, especially if she realised who was the author. She had, as you always guessed, a very high opinion of herself. It is odd how the greatest arrogance can be contained within the most timid creatures. Besides, she didn’t like you, although she was too polite ever to say so. Her opinion was contained in a vague shadow that once passed over her eyes when you were mentioned.

It took me about an hour to get to Clapham, I remember, and I also remember becoming annoyed as I walked, because it was drizzling with rain and cold; annoyed with you for what you had done, annoyed with Evelyn’s possible unhappiness, and annoyed with myself, because I discovered that I could not even rush to the side of a beloved colleague and friend without thinking of myself. Not only seeing myself offering aid and comfort, but also feeling irritated because my working day had been disrupted. That was callous of me, was it not? Truth is everything, and I cannot pretend to gallantry I did not feel. I was preoccupied with a picture I was trying to complete for the New English exhibition; my portrait of that Woolf woman, and I was proud of it. It was a good likeness, which captured her odd mixture of discontent and complacency, and she had already made it clear that she disliked it. She never said so, of course—that would have spoiled her notion of herself as being above such vanities—but I was getting under her skin, tormenting her a little by showing her things she could never see in a mirror.

But it wasn’t there yet, and I had worried about it all week and almost decided to give Evelyn a miss for a day, so I could worry some more. Eventually my notion of chivalry triumphed, and I did not turn back on Westminster Bridge and retrace my steps to my easel. I never did finish that painting, in fact, and it was one of the ones I threw out when I left. But I left my mind back in the studio, along with my brushes, and thought about my composition all the time as I walked to Clapham, thought about it as I rang the doorbell and exchanged pleasantries with the landlady, and still thought about it as I tiptoed up the stairs and opened the door.

And still thought about it as I stood there, in the doorway, looking at Evelyn’s body, hanging there from the big iron hook in the centre of the room. I was annoyed; only later did I try to construct a feeling of anguish, but that didn’t cover it up at all. A woman, one I loved, was dead, and I was annoyed that I might not now get a portrait finished in time. It’s these moments, I think, that reveal the true man; the instinctive reaction before manufactured and trained good behaviour can take over. You have a glimpse of what lies underneath the conventional responses, and in my case I saw a monumental selfishness.

Well, shock, perhaps. The mind sometimes cannot absorb certain things and takes refuge in the normality of daily concerns. I still think that is merely an excuse. I do not know how long my initial annoyance would have lasted, how long I would have stood in the doorway staring, how long it would have been before I came back to life and did something. Not that there was anything to do. She was dead, had been for hours. Methodical as ever, she’d prepared it all with care. Thick cord, obviously newly bought from a shop, just the right length. Proper slip knot, stand on a chair, and—kick. No chance of changing her mind at the last moment, no way of getting out of it. She wanted to die and she did. She was competent at everything she attempted.

And I saw the result. The face contorted and discoloured, the tongue sticking out, the odd angle of the neck, the looseness of the limbs. The chandelier pushed out of true by her body hanging at an angle, its cheap glass decorations tinkling slightly as the wind came through the door. A still life, all femininity eradicated and, like the boy on the beach, the image has stayed with me ever since.

A carefully arranged tableau. On the desk was the newspaper, open at the page with your review, and at the bottom she had written in a small, neat hand, “written by William Nasmyth.” She knew, you see. Does it comfort you, William, that even a woman in such distress could recognise your style? That your personality is so distinctive it proclaims itself even in such circumstances? I hope it makes you swell with pride; it is quite an achievement, after all.

But you had a still greater triumph, for beside the newspaper with your review was another, with the notice of Jacky’s death inside it. And underneath that, the same hand had written, “ruined by Henry MacAlpine.”

She thought I was the father of that child, William! She thought I had driven Jacky to her death, that I had shamed one and betrayed the other, taken her friend away from her. She held me responsible for it all, and never knew about you! Doesn’t that make you laugh, at last? You must see the funny side, surely, the thought of that woman hanging there, dying by her own hand, cursing me with her last breath! I didn’t take it in; I didn’t want to take it in, and so I allowed myself to be distracted. I turned away from her body, and saw the last part of her careful
mise en scène.

Around the walls, turned to face the room for the first time, were all those paintings she hadn’t put into her show, which she had been so frightened of me seeing.

Pictures of Jacky, painted in a way I could never have managed, and which made me realise all my failings. She had painted a person, not merely a model striking a pose to challenge the artist’s skill. Her Jacky had character, personality. She was a real woman, suffused with emotions, tenderly and gently depicted, not some mannequin hiding behind the blank face of compliant stupidity. She had seen through the coarseness, the silliness, and found something beautiful; not merely a voluptuous body which I saw while I spent my time showing what a clever technician I was. Jacky sitting, lying on the sofa, curled up in front of the fire; in each one she saw something special and touching, and painted it with a loving hand. And her self-portraits shone with warmth as she sat close to Jacky and looked into her eyes, or with loneliness when the room was empty. This was what she had wanted, what no man could provide, why she rejected me out of hand. I could never have brought out those expressions in her; didn’t know it was possible.