Chatterton

by Peter Ackroyd

  Claire was about to enter the room but she stopped, astonished, at the threshold. ‘What’s the matter with the Head?’ she asked Vivien, as if Cumberland’s recumbent posture had removed him from the sphere of ordinary conversation.

  The Head,’ Cumberland replied, ‘is waiting for Salome. When she comes, would you give her a dish?’

  At precisely three o’clock, Claire rushed into Vivien’s office and whispered, ‘It’s him! It’s the school bully!’

  Sadleir had come to a halt in the middle of the gallery; he held his arms down by his side, and was staring straight ahead. Because of his pronounced military bearing, in fact, he was generally known as ‘the colonel’ and he was still standing at attention when Vivien came towards him. ‘Sadleir’ was all he said, and he kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind Vivien’s head. She led him towards Cumberland’s office, and it was with a definite effort that he shifted his gaze fifteen degrees to the east: this was in the direction of Cumberland’s door, and he stared at this point on the compass after he had entered the room. ‘Sadleir,’ he said again.

  Cumberland bowed slightly and tightened the knot of his tie, Maitland stood at attention and blushed, Stewart Merk lounged in a chair and smiled. ‘Won’t you,’ Cumberland was saying, ‘sit down? If you can.’

  Sadleir lowered his eyes in the direction of Cumberland. Those paintings are fakes.’

  ‘No social niceties, I see.’ Cumberland looked back at him grimly. ‘What a breath of fresh air.’ Vivien had been standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to stay, but at this point he turned his wart towards her and she closed the door. ‘I’m sure you know,’ he went on, very agreeably, ‘Stewart Merk who was Seymour’s assistant.’ He emphasised the last word.

  ‘I know Merk.’

  ‘Now Mr Merk, who was Seymour’s assistant, assures me that the paintings are quite genuine.’

  Sadleir’s eyes swivelled towards Merk, who gave a little wave to them. ‘He is mistaken.’

  Merk laughed. ‘Oh really?’ He took out a cigarette but forgot to light it. ‘Is that right?’

  Those Seymours are not genuine.’

  Merk spent some time finding a match and then striking it, while the others watched him. ‘Let me put it this way. They are as genuine as all his other recent paintings.’ He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling, and settled back into the chair.

  Sadleir continued to stare at him. ‘I have been Seymour’s dealer for twenty-five years.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I know all his work.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘He kept a photographic record of all his paintings.’

  ‘I know. I took the photographs.’

  They were both staring at each other now. They’re fakes.’

  Merk laughed. ‘But who is to say what is fake and what is real? You’re sure you know the difference, yes?’

  Sadleir stiffened perceptibly and for a moment his eyes did not seem to be focusing on anything in particular. ‘I know what I know.’

  ‘Oh yes, and what do you know?’ Merk had suddenly become more animated; he stubbed out his cigarette and bent forward in the chair. Then he laughed, and sat back again. ‘Did you know, for example, that Seymour was suffering from arthritis in his hands?’

  ‘His hands…’ Sadleir was looking straight ahead.

  ‘And did you know that he couldn’t hold a newspaper, let alone a brush?’ Sadleir made an effort to look in Merk’s direction but he could not, while Cumberland ran his fingers across his highly polished desk as if he were playing the piano. ‘And did you know that he was in despair, that he didn’t want to paint any more, that he wanted to die?’ Merk paused. ‘You knew that, right?’

  ‘I don’t see…’ Sadleir began.

  ‘No, you don’t see.’ He leaned forward again. ‘You don’t see what’s staring you in the face. You don’t see that I painted all of Seymour’s last pictures.’

  In the silence which followed this, Maitland heard the sound of drilling in the road outside the gallery. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll close the window.’ But the others paid no attention to him and he stood, with his back turned towards them, staring out at nothing.

  Sadleir was moving his head from side to side, and his eyes were swerving wildly with it. ‘You may claim that you painted them,’ he was saying. ‘Very well. But I would like to see your proof.’

  Merk unzipped the portfolio beside him and took out a small canvas: it was clearly an example of Seymour’s late style, with its combination of abstract shapes and small figurative objects as well as the characteristic stippled texture of its paint. ‘I finished this last week.’ He looked at it with admiration. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Cumberland said, ‘there are no critics in this room.’

  Sadleir could not take his eyes off the painting. Then, with the flourish of a conjuror, Merk turned it around and showed the reverse side to Cumberland. ‘There is the canvas number, yes? And there is the supplier’s mark. Am I right? Just like yours –’ Now he looked at Sadleir. ‘And just like yours.’

  Sadleir blinked nervously. ‘How do you…’

  ‘I kept the books. I know what canvases you have. You have sold only three paintings in the last two years, and you have kept fifteen. You knew that Seymour’s death would push up the prices –’

  ‘Gruesome,’ Cumberland murmured.

  Merk took off his neat gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Now you don’t want to accuse me or anything, do you? You don’t want to ruin a good trade.’

  Sadleir closed his eyes. There was a long silence. ‘I’m sure,’ he said at last, ‘that we can come to some kind of arrangement.’

  And for the first time Cumberland laughed – a loud, long laugh which echoed around the gallery.

  Harriet Scrope turned into New Chester Street; she was walking a few paces ahead of Sarah Tilt, and with so purposeful an air that a casual observer would have been forgiven for thinking that she was leading her companion forward. In fact she had no idea where she was meant to be going. ‘Come on dear,’ she said in a fever of impatience. ‘Mother hasn’t got all day!’

  ‘It’s my legs!’ Sarah screamed across the heads of several people who had already come between them. ‘I can’t help it!’

  ‘I can’t help it.’ Harriet mimicked Sarah’s plaintive voice; she looked back at her with a vicious smile, and at that moment collided with Sadleir who was just leaving the gallery. He did not notice; in fact he did not seem to be noticing anything, but stared blindly ahead as he made his way through the crowds. ‘Cunt!’ Harriet called out after him. Then, realising that she was now outside Cumberland and Maitland, she adjusted her hat and proceeded into the gallery.

  ‘I’m Harriet Scrope,’ she announced to Claire. ‘And this –’ she waited until Sarah had followed her into the gallery. ‘This is Sarah Tilt. The famous art critic. Take us to your leader.’

  Sarah, still breathless after her forced march down New Chester Street, managed to intervene. ‘Mr Cumberland,’ she said, ‘is expecting us. I telephoned…’

  Claire went into the office. ‘Is the Head around?’ she asked Vivien. ‘There are two old bats to see him.’ Their voices had in fact penetrated some way into the gallery, and when she had heard Harriet’s name Vivien had panicked. Had she called with bad news about Charles? Had he collapsed at her house? But, no, she knew already that they had come to talk to Cumberland about the purchase of a Seymour painting. There was nothing at all to worry about. She came out to greet them. ‘Miss Scrope,’ she said. ‘I’m Vivien. Charles’s wife…’

  Harriet stepped back in astonishment. ‘Are you? I had no idea that you worked here! Charles is so secretive, isn’t he? But such a dear.’

  They smiled at each other and Sarah, who was slightly nervous at the thought of Harriet’s prospective interview with Cumberland, added, ‘And such a coincidence.’

  Harriet gave her a baleful look. ‘There is no such
thing. This was meant. Do you know Sarah Tilt? The famous art critic?’

  After another round of introductions Vivien left them in order to find her employer, and for the first time Harriet looked around the gallery. ‘What’s all this?’ she asked.

  Sarah had walked up to one painting which showed several rows of human figures, each one linked to the next so that they resembled lines of hieroglyphic writing. ‘Innocent Art. Art Brut. Naive Art.’

  Harriet rolled her eyes. ‘I know all about that.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Sarah sniggered. ‘All these mad artists.’

  ‘Really?’ Harriet was suddenly more interested, and she peered at the various objects around her. ‘Were they truly mad or were they just pretending?’

  ‘Seeing is believing,’ Sarah replied and took her up to a canvas which showed a girl sitting upon a wall: behind her, floating in the air, was her double and the second image was gently touching the first image on the shoulder. The colours were very bright. Sarah took up a catalogue, found the painting, and read out the summary as Harriet gazed at the two identical girls: ‘Fritz Dangerfield’s composition, The Opium Dream. He painted the same picture over and over again but he would not be parted from the canvases, which he kept in his bedroom until his death. He did not speak, and he did not write except with an alphabet of his own invention.’ She closed the catalogue. ‘Now that really is madness.’

  ‘I see what he meant, though.’ Harriet had become serious. ‘He wanted to be separate from everything. He had his own alphabet because words made him feel unclean. He wanted to start all over again.’

  ‘But that’s just the point. As a result, he was unintelligible. No one can start again.’

  ‘So there’s no choice. You have to carry it all around with you.’ Harriet adopted the stoop of a stage hunchback, and began limping through the gallery just at the moment when Cumberland emerged from his office to greet them. He looked at her, astonished, but she straightened up and said, ‘There was a stone in my shoe.’

  ‘How reckless. May I take your hat?’ He was delighted by the small budgerigar which was pinned, through the breast, to the blue cloth. ‘Or does it fly off by itself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harriet replied. ‘Why don’t you tempt it with some seed?’

  Already she felt quite at ease with him, and she approached with her hand outstretched; Cumberland resisted the impulse to flee. ‘I’m Harriet Scrope. And of course you know the famous art critic, Sarah Tilt. I mean Sarah Tilt, the famous art critic.’

  ‘I know both ladies very well.’

  Harriet laughed at his joke, principally because it seemed to be directed against her old friend, but stopped suddenly when Maitland entered the gallery. He was carrying a small brown parcel and, when he saw the two old ladies, he took a step backwards. Cumberland spotted him. ‘Do you know my partner in crime?’

  Harriet noticed that, for some reason, both men blushed at this. ‘Is he Burke or is he Hare?’

  ‘No, I believe he is one of the bodies.’ Cumberland was very gracious. ‘Miss Scrope,’ he said, ‘would like to buy one of our Seymours.’ Maitland dropped the parcel, and there was a muted sound of breaking glass. With a thrilled little laugh Claire rushed forward to help him as he stood there, looking down at it and biting his lower lip. In that moment of confusion, Harriet observed Vivien Wychwood closely: she could see the anxiety printed upon her face, and she wondered from where it came.

  ‘Tell me,’ Cumberland was saying to Harriet as he led her now into his office, carefully excluding Maitland, ‘have you visited the gallery before?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Then she added, in an effort to be more diplomatic, ‘But I’m always passing it.’

  ‘It must be the gypsy in you.’

  ‘Where?’ She turned round, alarmed, as if some swarthy gentleman were about to penetrate her.

  Cumberland tried not to laugh. ‘And where are you living now?’ It was as if he had known her all his life.

  ‘Well, I call it Tyburnia.’

  ‘What does the world call it?’ Harriet did not answer this; she had become fascinated by the large wart upon his cheek and she was raising her hand in its direction, apparently with every intention of touching or stroking it, when Cumberland took shelter behind his desk. ‘I gather,’ he went on, more nervously, ‘there was one particular Seymour?’

  Sarah Tilt decided that it was time to intervene. ‘Miss Scrope was particularly interested in Bristol Churchyard After the Lightning Strike. You know, the one with the glorious colour field.’

  Harriet smiled at her foolishness. It wasn’t a field. It was a building.’

  Cumberland merely nodded and Sarah knew that he was measuring the precise degree of Harriet’s ignorance. ‘Let me show it to you,’ he said, and pressed a button on his desk.

  Claire must have been standing outside the door, since she immediately came into the room, with a small oil painting resting against her chest. The Deputy told me he wants to keep his hands clean,’ she was saying, ‘but I don’t see any dust on it.’

  ‘Just show it to them, Claire dear, and don’t say another word.’ So she held it up for their approval.

  In the afternoon light the child and the ruined building seemed more clearly defined, and Sarah Tilt was impressed by the confidence with which this ‘realistic’ scene had been placed in a more abstract setting. The face of the child was still indistinct, but the building now seemed to swirl around him; it was the vortex into which he was about to be sucked. ‘I do prefer Seymour’s later style,’ she said. ‘As he grew more abstract he became bolder.’ Cumberland smiled but said nothing. ‘He’s such a recognisable artist, isn’t he? Each work is unmistakably his.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’

  Now, in the actual presence of the painting, Harriet panicked, believing that she might be obliged to purchase it at once. ‘It’s not quite large enough,’ she said. ‘For my mantelpiece.’ She appealed for support. ‘You know, Sarah, with all that lovely marble I have.’

  Strangely enough, Cumberland seemed pleased by her response. ‘Would you like to think about it a little more?’ Harriet touched the bird upon her hat, as if to confirm this. ‘Of course. Don’t worry. Claire will now take the canvas away.’ He waited impatiently until she had left the room, and then turned back to Harriet. For a moment they looked at one another silently. ‘I expect that you’re writing another novel, Miss Scrope.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’ She leered at him. ‘Got any ideas?’

  ‘There’s not an idea in my pretty little head at the moment. But our Mr Maitland, as you saw, is almost entirely fictional.’

  ‘And what are you, brute fact?’

  ‘Something very primitive, at least.’

  He rose from his chair, but Harriet did not yet seem inclined to leave. ‘So perhaps,’ she went on, ‘I could buy you instead?’ She emitted a low laugh.

  ‘I might look nice over your mantelpiece.’

  ‘Not until you were stuffed.’

  Sarah decided that it was time for both of them to go, and hauled Harriet to her feet. ‘It’s been so nice,’ she said. Thank you so much.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Harriet told him. ‘It always gives me a headache.’

  And, when they got into the street, Sarah turned upon her. ‘That was a disgusting exhibition you made of yourself in there!’

  ‘I thought art galleries were meant for exhibitions.’

  Sarah pursed her lips. ‘You could have shown a little more interest in that picture.’

  ‘It was too expensive.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. You didn’t even ask the price!’

  ‘I know what I know.’ She adjusted her hat as she spoke. ‘I am what I am.’ And, as she looked at her reflection in the window, she saw Vivien standing at the back of the gallery. ‘Oh dear, Mother’s left behind her handbag. Don’t wait. I know how busy you are.’ Sarah realised that Harri
et, for reasons known only to herself, wanted to be alone; and it was with a certain amount of relief that she gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before returning home. Where her book, The Art of Death, was waiting for her.

  Harriet lingered until she had turned the corner, and then went back into the gallery. ‘I wonder,’ she said to Vivien, ‘if anyone has seen my bag?’ In fact she had carefully placed it in a corner, where it would remain unnoticed until she came for it. ‘Ah, there it is! Isn’t it sweet, just hiding there from me?’ She rummaged around in it before extracting a large bunch of keys, which she proceeded to rattle in front of her. ‘Just to prove it’s mine,’ she said. Then she snapped the bag shut and added, almost as an afterthought, ‘How’s Charles?’ She seemed to have forgotten that she had seen him only a few hours before.

  ‘It’s difficult to say…’ Vivien hesitated, not knowing how much of her own fear to express. ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Harriet had no idea what she meant, but she took an inspired guess. ‘He was looking a little pale, I thought.’

  ‘Thank God you saw it too!’ Vivien could no longer hold back her anxieties. ‘He won’t see anyone about it! He needs help!’ But the relief she felt at finally admitting this seemed to her like a kind of oppression: it made her fears more real.