Set In Stone

by Linda Newbery

  ‘But your carvings - the Winds,’ I objected. ‘What I so admire is the individual stamp you put on them - your own style, clear and distinctive. You were not simply following there, where others have been before.’

  ‘But of course I follow. What else? How otherwise do we learn? Every sculpture I have admired, every carved figure, whether of wood or stone or marble, guides my hand. How have you learned to paint, Mr Godwin? I should say, how are you continuing to learn? For of course one never stops. Surely, by distinguishing between what you admire and what you do not; by experimenting and combining, by selecting and eliminating; that is how you develop what you call your own style. But it is all borrowed.’

  That I could see in myself; for I suspected that I could only ever be a skilled imitator, never a maker. ‘But your work!’ I persisted. ‘I find inspiration in it, even if you do not.’

  ‘That is not what I said,’ he replied, with a patience that concealed impatience. ‘My inspiration is in continuity. I am carrying on for a little while; when I am gone, others will continue. It is my one claim to immortality. I have no children, but the letters I cut yesterday will endure for centuries.’

  I have no children.

  He had said it quite guilelessly; unless he was as skilled an actor as he was mason, there was no intention to deceive. Could he be unaware?

  Might I ask?

  Hobday got up to refill my tankard with ale, and his own. Gideon Waring was drinking little. He finished eating a morsel of cheese from his plate, then went to the tiny kitchen and returned with a bowl of cherries, which he placed in the exact centre of the table. He was punctilious, I saw, in everything he did.

  ‘Now, Mr Godwin. What of you?’ he asked. ‘What makes you paint? What do you aim to do, when you paint?’

  No one had ever asked me this before, in quite these words. Only a short while beforehand, I should have replied that I wanted to make my mark, to achieve something unique, to win awe and recognition. After a few moments’ thought, I said: ‘I want to paint what I see. I want to show that objects are objects, and that light is light. That seems enough.’

  It seemed inadequate, and I expected him to challenge me; but he nodded, considering, and reached for a pair of cherries.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ he said. ‘That is good.’

  I thought: I should like to paint this table, set for our supper. The brown plates, a crust of bread, the tankards, the fall of light from a high window; the vermilion of the cherries, shiny as lacquer. The thingness of things, their essence, their textures, the way they occupy space: that is what I want to paint, and so far I have not succeeded; the techniques I have so painstakingly learned, obstruct my vision. I did not say this, but he saw me looking, and seemed to read my thought; he nodded and, for the first time, smiled. I felt that I had passed some kind of test.

  Against all my preconceptions, I was forming a strong liking for this man. I liked his precise movements, and the careful consideration he gave to every remark. I knew that even without painting the table-setting, I should hold it in my mind for ever; and the memory of what we ate, and what we talked about. Quite unlike the more obviously charismatic character I had imagined, he was a modest man, quietly wise, content with little, thoughtful, contemplative; a man to inspire devotion. I looked at Richard Hobday, who seemed to occupy the role of disciple to master, and to regard Gideon with silent respect. I rather envied him: I could, I felt, have happily trundled wheelbarrows and hewn stone under Waring’s direction, gradually learning to make my own mark, unassuming but timeless, on the vast edifice of the cathedral.

  I thought of my father; thought of his disappointment in me; knew that to be the son he wanted would be to deny an essential part of my self. For the first time I began to feel a sense of freedom from the bonds my father had imposed on me; to feel that accidental encounters may have as much power to shape our preferences and guide our lives, as those traits sown in us by heredity.

  ‘Pardon me,’ I said abruptly to Hobday, who sat with one ankle resting on the other knee, eating cherries and arranging their stones in a ring on his plate; ‘but I believe I saw you at Fourwinds, early one morning. Is that not so?’

  ‘You did,’ he replied, in his unhurried way; ‘you were swimming in the lake.’ He smiled at me pleasantly.

  ‘Might I ask what your business was there? And why you hurried away when you saw me, instead of identifying yourself?’

  He glanced at Gideon Waring from under his eyebrows, as if seeking permission to answer; Waring sat forward, clasped both hands on the table, and said, ‘I think the time has come to be frank with you, Mr Godwin. Samuel, if I may? We have each other’s confidence, do we not?’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Gideon Waring’s Account, as told to Samuel Godwin

  I have told you that I care very little for worldly fame. This has not always been my view. For a while, recognition was what I craved; I believed my work was nothing if it was not sought out, exhibited and admired. I was resentful towards rivals, and jealous of any praise given to anyone other than myself. That, Samuel, is a state to be avoided, for no small success can be enough, every achievement of others is felt as a personal slight, and what really matters, the integrity of the work, takes secondary importance. The world’s regard is fickle and deluding. It flickers from one subject to another, barely pausing before flitting off in some new direction.

  I was given the opportunity to work as apprentice to a fashionable sculptor, and my ambition was first to follow and then to surpass him. After several years of this, working on elaborate statuary for rich patrons, many of them with more money than appreciation, I took what many would regard as a backward step, and became instead a stonemason, cutting letters for gravestones, sometimes memorial tablets, heraldic work and the like. To handle stone is to handle the stuff of life and death, and of time and change, and the mysteries of the Earth itself; there is something humbling and moving and immensely satisfying in it. And thus I preferred to earn my living. It was while I was working on a memorial tablet, commissioned by a gentleman in Guildford whose son had been killed in India, that Mr Farrow approached me. He flattered me, and admired my work; he was a man of very decided tastes. He was interested enough to return to view the tablet when it was complete and fixed in position on the church wall. After the service, he spoke to me in private, and offered me considerable enticements to produce the relief panels you are acquainted with, the Four Winds. His house was nearing completion, and my carvings - with a few other small pieces - were to be its final touches. In conversation he discovered my personal circumstances: that I am a single man, I have few material needs, and that above all I need solitude and seclusion. He offered me Yew Tree Cottage, in his grounds, for as long as I required it, and an outbuilding for my workshop.

  Very gladly, I took up the challenge. I have since had cause to regret most bitterly the day I sold myself to him; but at that time, I saw only the good. Everything seemed to suit me perfectly. I installed myself, and spent many hours walking around the grounds, feeling the spirit of place, inspecting the house from every angle, considering how my Winds should look. They would be united in style, yet each should have its own character - well, you have seen three of them, and have been kind enough to say that you think I have succeeded, for which I thank you. I sketched all four before commencing, and obtained Mr Farrow’s approval. After discussion with him, I ordered my Portland stone from Dorset. It is the finest limestone to work with: pure and true. Only the best materials are good enough for Mr Ernest Farrow; he was prepared to pay.

  I set to. I work slowly and meticulously, with frequent pauses; it is important simply to stand and look. I spent long hours alone in my workshop and cottage; when I was not working, I wandered in the grounds or sat reading by the lake. But I was not always alone. Mr Farrow, as you may have found, likes to talk - especially late in the evening, and especially over a drink. On two or three occasions I was invited to dinner, and when Mrs Farrow and her daughters had
retired to the drawing room, he and I drank brandy, and talked. - Ah, you have done the same? Yes, of course - he misses male company, in his house of women. I admit, Samuel, that I liked him - as, maybe, you do. Yes? I should rather say that I liked what I saw, for there was much that I did not see - was not allowed to see. Very occasionally he would come across to my workshop and talk to me there. He liked to see in progress the work he was paying for, to see it taking shape under his direction.

  Mr Farrow, I thought at first, had every possible blessing. He had a devoted wife, two lovely daughters, a house built to his own specifications, and the wealth to furnish and maintain it. He was in good health, he had friends, influence and position.

  But there was one thing he did not have.

  A son.

  The lack of a son and heir was a bitter disappointment to him. Oh, he has spoken of it? I see, yes. Yes, quite so. Whereas most men would - to use the trite phrase - count their blessings, he could not put aside the grudge that the one thing he most wanted, he could not have - and it could not be bought with money. I should go so far as to say that it was an obsession with him.

  Worse, he allowed Mrs Farrow to believe that she was at fault, for failing to produce the son he so desperately wanted. I did not know the lady well, for she kept to herself. It was some unguarded remarks of her husband, when we were alone one evening, that suggested this to me. And then I noticed it whenever I saw them together. The formalities were observed, but, beneath, there was little affection. Mrs Farrow’s health was variable, and her husband, I am sorry to say, less than sympathetic.

  The two young girls found it a novelty to have a stranger living in their grounds. With their governess, Miss Hardacre, it became their habit to walk across to my shed, and to watch me at work, when I allowed it. I did not, always. For Marianne, it was the simple pleasure of watching a figure taking shape in the stone, and of guessing at its finished appearance. She was very much intrigued by the emerging personalities, and sometimes liked to draw while I worked - for she has a notable talent, Samuel, as no doubt you have seen for yourself. Juliana often came with her, and at other times besides. More and more frequently, she came alone. I wondered at the propriety of this, and whether I should discourage it; but I did nothing, and she continued to seek my company. Often, all she wanted was to sit by me, saying little. At other times she wanted to talk. After a while I sensed that something was troubling her deeply, something she had not confided to her mother, sister, or governess. One day, when she seemed particularly perturbed - indeed, she looked physically ill - I ventured to ask what was amiss, and if I could help her in some way. At first she would not speak, merely shaking her head in wordless grief. I persevered, and at last she did - hesitant, shivering, barely able to find the words - and, having told me, she became incoherent with weeping.

  What she conveyed to me, Samuel, was that her father had been regularly coming to her bedroom during the night. He had - in short, he had used her as a substitute wife.

  - Pardon me. I have shocked you. I know. I could hardly take in what I had heard - so obliquely did she convey this information, more delicately than I did just now. Forgive me - you have turned quite pale. Let me fetch you some water… Thank you, Richard. There. Shall I continue? Are you ready?

  Well, then. My first thought was that she was deluding herself, that she was mistaken, that he had simply gone to her room to wish her an affectionate goodnight. But Juliana, as you will know, is not in the least given to exaggeration or dramatization. There was a pleading simplicity in her manner when she told me, a need to be heard and understood - to be believed. Afterwards she sat quietly sobbing in the corner of my workshop. Everything in her demeanour convinced me that she had spoken the truth.

  I was at a complete loss. What should I do? I am still not sure that what I did was at all adequate. I have questioned myself again and again as to whether I should have acted otherwise.

  I soothed her, assured her that it was not her fault, and not a punishment, but that it was wrong, very deeply wrong of her father and that it must not be allowed to continue. She must tell her mother, I told her, without delay. I urged and urged her on this point, until I had her assurance that she would. Mrs Farrow might consider it best to remove herself and her daughters from the family home - she has parents, I believe, in Ireland. Surely, after hearing what Juliana had to tell her, this is what she would do - I fervently hoped so - yet you tell me that the two girls are still at home…

  Yes. I shall finish.

  When I had calmed Juliana, and extracted yet another promise that she would tell her mother without delay, I escorted her back to the house. Then - and this is where I may have acted with unfortunate haste - I sought out her father, and told him that I could not continue to work and live on his premises.

  He wanted to know why. I told him.

  Immediately he flew into a rage - and if you have never seen Mr Farrow lose his temper, believe me that it is alarming to behold. He accused me of making up the most obscene slander against him; he accused me of behaving scandalously with Juliana myself; he accused me - and here I received another shocking revelation - of getting her with child, and making up malicious fabrications to conceal my disgrace. He told me that our arrangement was at an immediate end; that I must leave the cottage immediately, and that if I was found anywhere on his grounds by the next morning, he would not answer for my safety. He gestured towards the rifle he kept in a case on his study wall, oiled and ready for use.

  - I am sorry. Yes. You see the effect he still has on me. I am not easily roused to anger, Samuel, I am not in the least a violent man, but I truly believe I could have killed him. Maybe I should not have restrained myself, for what restraint had he shown?

  Poor Juliana, poor innocent girl. My heart went out to her - if it was true that she was with child, her plight was even more desperate than I had supposed. As I left the house, I hesitated, wondering still whether I ought to approach Mrs Farrow myself; but I glanced through the morning-room window, and saw Juliana seated with her mother on a sofa. Their postures were eloquent - Mrs Farrow was stooped, her face buried in both hands; Juliana, leaning against her, was weeping inconsolably - it was a heart-rending tableau. I could not possibly intrude into their distress; besides, I was aware that any intervention on my part could be misrepresented by Farrow as evidence of guilt. Propelled by impotent fury, I went back to my cottage and wondered what to do next.

  To be brief: by next morning I had packed up my belongings, and arranged to be conveyed here by a local carter. I left my three completed carvings behind in the workshop, but the fourth - the West Wind, which I had only half done - I took with me. The stone having been paid for by Mr Farrow, I intended to return it when my carving was finished. I imagined that he would discard or destroy the other three -hence my astonishment when I learned from Richard that they are in place on the house walls, as intended.

  I knew I could find work in Chichester, and soon did - but I have an outhouse here for storing my own projects, and in my leisure hours I completed the West Wind. Then I hired another carter to deliver it to Fourwinds. I don’t know what Farrow has done with it - but I fulfilled my part of the bargain. I made him his Four Winds.

  Soon after I arrived here, I met Richard, working here in the cathedral. We have become dear companions to each other - I think you understand. Hearing my story, he was curious about my Wind carvings, and travelled to Fourwinds with the sole intention of seeing them - expecting that, if they still existed at all, they would have been left in my workshop. Not finding them there, he approached the house, and saw my North, East and South in their intended positions -and the west wall, still blank. He returned to the cottage and workshop to look again for the West Wind

  - I had given him my key, which I had not returned

  - but he found no sign of it.

  As for Juliana, I am deeply grieved to hear that she and Marianne are still living with their father. I have reproached myself many a time for leaving
so hastily, before ensuring that they were safe from him - I should have stayed, I should have done more. But I felt sure that their mother would take them away -make whatever arrangements could be contrived to remove them from—

  - What? Dead? Mrs Farrow? When did this happen? But that is - pardon me, a moment - I - I— Good God! But this is— Are you quite sure?

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Thomas

  By Friday, missing Samuel more than I had anticipated, I awaited his return with a mixture of eagerness and foreboding. I longed to hear that he had been unable to find Gideon Waring, and hoped he had been so discouraged as to give up his search; also, I was most anxious to restore harmony between Samuel and myself. Several times I found myself planning what I should say to make amends for my brusqueness.

  He had made no arrangement to be met at the station, but on Friday afternoon, needing to make some small purchases in Staverton, I asked Reynolds to harness the pony and drive me into town. Marianne came with me, but Juliana declined to accompany us, saying that she intended to exercise Queen Bess for an hour or two, for she had lately resumed her habit of riding out in the afternoons. Pleased at this sign of improving spirits, I did not press her. The excursion was carefully timed; on completing my errands, I suggested to Reynolds, as if on impulse, that we should call at the railway station to see if Samuel was on the afternoon train. Of course, Marianne believed Samuel to have been in Brighton; in spite of my threat to tell Mr Farrow that he had lied, and was going to Chichester, I had kept this knowledge to myself.