Chatterton

by Peter Ackroyd

  No, Chatterton says hastily. From Bristol.

  Ah, the fair city.

  Yes, very fair. As fair as a sepulchre.

  Cross does not know how to decipher this remark, and returns to his original theme. So you may not know, sir, how in this city sudden grief or great misfortune often urge young people to destroy themselves. We read of it every day.

  The druggist’s words intrigue him. You speak of the young, Chatterton tells him, but is it not true that none of us, young or old, can really do wrong to ourselves? We must have power over our own existence, or else we are nothing at all.

  But to take one’s own life, is it not irrational?

  From his schooldays Chatterton has always enjoyed debate, and now he proceeds upon his argument. Irrational, perhaps, but it is a noble insanity of the soul. The soul is released by death, after all, and takes on its proper shape.

  But surely, sir, for the good of society – When we neither assist nor are assisted by society, we do not injure it by laying down our own load of life. Chatterton is pleased by his newly found opinion, and makes a small bow to Mr Cross before taking up his bag of arsenic and his phial of opium. Your servant, sir.

  And yours, sir. Cross smiles at him, and then goes to the door of his shop to watch him hurrying down High Holborn. Remarkable, he thinks, for such a young man. There is something remarkable there. He does not forget their conversation about suicide and later he will recite it, with appropriate embellishments, to anyone who cares to listen.

  Chatterton crosses High Holborn and, with his curious long stride, walks down Shoe Lane to the small coffee-house there. He orders his beef and coffee, and eats with an appetite. I have just been talking of suicide, Peter, he says to the pot-boy, so fill my cup again. It is thirsty work.

  The boy sits down with him for a moment. Suicide?

  Yes. Chatterton puts the linen bag of arsenic down beside him. Death by poison.

  Peter gets up again very quickly. Take it off the table, please, take it off the table.

  Chatterton laughs but then puts his hand up to his neck, making strange noises in his throat. He rolls his eyes, and adopts a series of savage and unearthly expressions as if he were being poisoned on the very spot.

  The pot-boy sees his game; he is a fat, jolly boy and soon begins to laugh. Oh, stop them faces, he says at last, or I shall die, Mr Chatterton. Stop, Mr Chatterton, please do.

  ‘Mummy used to live on your street!’ Claire was talking to Harriet Scrope in the gallery. Harriet had brought the painting to be examined by Cumberland and Maitland, having first established that Vivien herself was still on leave after her husband’s death. ‘Mummy was between Daddies then.’

  ‘Mothers always live alone, didn’t you know? It’s Nature’s way of saying she’s sorry.’ Harriet gazed with a certain pleasure at this plump, rather plain, young woman. I don’t suppose, she thought, that you’ve ever been sexually harassed. ‘Of course I have Mr Gaskell. But he’s just a cat.’

  ‘And Mummy had a cat, too! What a coincidence! Well, it was a parrot actually. But Mummy used to call it her green cat. It was a great hoot.’

  ‘You mean it had a large beak?’

  ‘No, you know. Hoot. Fun. You’re thinking of hooter. Anyway, it went into a decline. Mummy never knew why.’

  ‘Perhaps it swallowed a fly?’ Harriet opened her mouth very wide, and then pretended that she was yawning.

  ‘No. It just moulted.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry.’

  ‘It just used to sit there.’

  ‘Shivering?’ Harriet made an expressive little gesture.

  ‘Yes, just like that. There wasn’t a feather left in the end. It was like a little Christmas turkey.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Grope. Scrope.’ Cumberland had come out of his office, and was advancing towards her with hand outstretched. But he stopped short and pointed to her hat. ‘What happened to the divine bird?’

  ‘It flew away.’

  ‘The other hat is always greener, isn’t it?’

  Harriet refused to laugh. ‘No, actually it fell off. The cat ate it.’

  ‘One small swallow?’

  ‘I don’t know what kind it was.’

  During this brief exchange Cumberland had been leading her towards his office. ‘My secretary is away,’ he said. ‘Like an anchorite, I’m living in my own filth.’ In fact the room seemed as clean and as neat as it had been on Harriet’s last visit. ‘Her husband died very suddenly. It’s a sad story.’

  ‘Really?’ Harriet was determined to give no sign of recognition or even of interest: for what she planned to do, there must be no connection between Vivien and herself.

  Cumberland stepped quickly behind his desk. ‘But then all stories are sad, aren’t they?’

  ‘If you say so. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘But surely?’ He was about to say something else when Maitland appeared on the threshold, rocking slightly on his heels as if he were not sure whether to move forward or to retreat. He was wearing a light brown suit which was a size too small for him, so that he seemed to be held upright by it rather than in it. ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Cumberland when he saw him, ‘can this be Patience smiling at Grief? He seems to be looking in your direction.’ Maitland was about to leave, when Cumberland put up his hand to detain him. ‘Miss Lope. Scrope. Has brought us a painting. Something very romantic, if I know her.’

  Harriet had covered the portrait with an old beige shawl, which in winter she used to line Mr Gaskell’s box, and now with a flourish she removed it to reveal the image of the sitting man, his right hand hovering above his books, the candlelight upon his face. The three of them remained silent, and Cumberland took a step backwards: there was something about the face which intrigued him, as if he had seen it before in quite different circumstances. ‘Well…’ He hesitated. ‘It’s awfully good, isn’t it? For that type of thing.’

  Harriet was disappointed by his tone. ‘But is it genuine? Is it what it’s supposed to be?’

  ‘And what exactly is it supposed to be?’

  Harriet faltered; she was not sure if she wanted to explain the significance of the portrait to him, and she was no longer even convinced that the painted object she was now holding could endure all the imaginative life which had already been invested in it. ‘It’s supposed to be real,’ she replied.

  Cumberland went up to the canvas and examined it closely. ‘So you believe that it’s early nineteenth century? Or, rather, you believe what you see.’ He pointed towards the inscription in the upper right hand corner, Pinxit George Stead .1802. ‘But just look at those thick legs.’

  ‘You can’t see his legs!’ For some reason, Harriet was annoyed.

  ‘The legs of the table, Miss Scrope. Ugly furniture was just as popular then as it is now. Maitland, you know more about ugliness than anyone. I am right in thinking that this piece of furniture is from the 1830s?’ Maitland nodded, sat down, took out a paper handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘And the hair is quite wrong. Men’s hair was the greatest tragedy of the eighteenth century, with the possible exception of George Stubbs’s animal paintings. This hair is too carefully arranged. Strictly not done in the period.’

  ‘I thought they wore wigs.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Cumberland looked for a moment at Harriet’s head. ‘A wig can cover a multitude of gins.’ He took the picture from her and carried it over to the window. ‘Just look, I knew it. There is something behind that face. There is another face. Maitland, you little chatterbox, come and see this Janus.’ Maitland rose slowly and joined his partner by the window: and there, as Cumberland traced it with his finger, he could just see the faint outline of another face beyond the painted mouth, nose, eyes and hair; and, as the sunlight touched the canvas, it seemed to Maitland that this anterior face gleamed slightly.

  ‘What do you mean, two-faced?’ Harriet was indignant, almost as though she believed Cumberland’s comments had been directed at her.

  ‘I mean that it’s a fake.’ He
gently lowered the canvas to the floor. That is, if it’s meant to be what you think it is.’

  Harriet opened her handbag, examined its contents with apparent curiosity, and then closed it. ‘It is so hard to tell,’ she said, viciously snapping the bag shut, ‘what is real and what is not real, don’t you think?’ Ever since Sarah Tilt had informed her that there was ‘something wrong’, Harriet had prepared herself for the knowledge that the painting might have been forged; and she had laid her own plans accordingly.

  ‘There are experts, Miss Scrope.’

  ‘Whenever I hear the word expert,’ she replied, ‘I reach for my gun.’ She opened her bag again as if in search of that particular weapon, and Maitland backed away from her.

  Cumberland leaned gracefully against his desk. The greatest experts do tend to be the ones who agree with their clients. They are inveterate diners-out on other people’s expectations.’

  ‘And these experts are so often wrong, aren’t they?’

  ‘Certainly only very rich people can afford to take them seriously.’

  ‘May I take an example?’ Harriet was almost coy.

  ‘You may take anything you like.’

  ‘Just suppose, for example, that you had been exhibiting the work of a modern painter. And then, just supposing again, that you found out that his pictures had been systematically forged.’

  Maitland sat down heavily upon his chair, but Cumberland managed to remain upright. ‘Oh, you do have an imagination, Miss Scrope. The critics were right.’

  ‘These experts would never know, would they? They would have nothing to judge them by, so the forgeries would never be discovered.’ She was smiling now at Maitland as she spoke. ‘I was thinking about that when I saw your lovely paintings by Seymour.’ Maitland had just taken out another paper tissue and was about to apply it to his forehead when he froze. ‘Of course I would applaud the forger,’ Harriet went on. ‘It is a great talent. Anyone with that kind of skill should be rewarded rather than imprisoned, don’t you think?’ Maitland gave a low moan, and bit off part of the tissue. ‘And someone like that could work wonders with other paintings, couldn’t he? Just for the sake of argument, of course –’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A good forger might even be able to solve the problems of this old thing.’ She gestured towards the painting. This hypothetical person could take out all the little blemishes you mentioned, couldn’t he?’ Maitland had stuffed the rest of the paper handkerchief into his mouth, and was now chewing on it.

  Cumberland looked at her steadily. ‘And they were,’ he said very softly, ‘only blemishes after all.’ He bent over to pick up the canvas again. ‘I knew at once that this was a very remarkable portrait. How old did we estimate it to be, Maitland?’

  Maitland still had the tissue in his mouth, and Harriet answered for him. ‘It says 1802.’

  ‘And paintings never lie, do they?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Cumberland unbuttoned the collar of his blue striped shirt, and moved his neck slowly from side to side. ‘We must get an expert,’ he said, ‘to authenticate it properly.’

  ‘Of course I will trust your expert implicitly.’ Harriet was eager to leave now, and rose from her chair. ‘So when shall we three meet again?’

  Cumberland gave a short, high-pitched laugh. ‘Should I say something about being steeped in blood?’ There was a brief silence. ‘Well, Harriet. May I call you Harriet?’ She gave the briefest of nods. ‘Do you think you could leave the painting with us? Now that we’ve discovered how valuable it is.’ A motorbike accelerated in the street outside and Cumberland grimaced, putting his trembling hands up to his ears.

  As soon as she had left, he slumped against the door as if he were physically trying to prevent someone from entering the room. ‘So how,’ he asked, ‘did the old bitch find out?’ Maitland was removing the last pieces of his tissues from his mouth. ‘No. Say nothing, Frank. Don’t tell me she was just guessing. She knew. Someone told her.’ For a moment Maitland believed that this might have been through some indiscretion of his own, and nervously he took out another paper handkerchief. Cumberland was pondering on the problem. ‘Merk. It must have been Mr Stewart Merk.’ Maitland was relieved that he, at least, was blameless; he blew his nose very loudly. ‘No, don’t try to defend him. Mr Stewart Merk has been boasting about his success in the salons of London –’ Cumberland waved in the general direction of Chelsea ‘– and the old cow found out.’ At this point he seemed to come to a decision; he buttoned up his shirt and turned to his partner. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Frank, but we can’t go back. We can only go forward. Merk will have to fix this – this –’ He would have been happy to put his brightly polished shoe through the face on the canvas – ‘this thing. He will have to alter it to please that bitch. No, don’t ask me any more questions. I’m too depressed to talk to you now.’

  It is time. Time to deliver the verses on the late lamented Alderman Lee, and Chatterton hurries from the Shoe Lane coffee-house to his lodgings. The elegy must be printed at once, but should the satire be kept over for another death? He recalls his dialogue with the druggist, Mr Cross; how strange that I should be obliged to think of death in this summer heat. To expire on a hot day, in the midst of a prodigal summer, beneath an infinite brightness: this is a mystery which I do not yet understand. But his reverie is broken at the corner of Brooke Street where a cadaverous pale man is standing on one leg and turning slowly; Chatterton stops, and reads the sign propped up beside him: ‘The Posture Master. Extraordinary Exhibition of Postures and Feats of Strength.’

  As he turns, he sees Chatterton. I am a model for the globe, he says. I spin upon my axis and bring forth the patterns of Nature. He comes to a halt and, keeping his eye still upon Chatterton, makes the sounds of a nightingale and then of a bull.

  Chatterton is intrigued by this, and throws a penny into the wooden box by the sign. Can you do forms as well as noises?

  The posture master winks at him and calls out, in a high voice: Pray here use your eye And you’ll not ask for a Y.

  Then he stands upon his head and opens his legs wide, so that he makes the very shape of the letter.

  Now these limbs strive to show

  They can make a good O.

  At once he links his hands and feet together, assuming a circular form; and he rocks dangerously, as if he were about to roll away down the street.

  Only one soul in view

  But sufficient for U.

  He unties his limbs and arches his back into the shape of that letter, still swaying upon the ground. Then he springs up and points at Chatterton. And what do these human symbols form but YOU, sir? You! You!

  Chatterton laughs at this, but for some reason he is afraid.

  Yes, sir, you laugh but be sure of where your laughter comes from. He puts his hand across his lips, and when he wipes it away his mouth seems to have disappeared and the lower half of his face is a blank. Chatterton studies him for a moment, and then performs the same trick. The posture master scowls, and starts spinning upon his heels so fast that neither his front nor his back can properly be seen. And with a laugh Chatterton imitates him exactly, both of them spinning together upon the rough ground. The posture master is the first to stop; he puts his arms out to Chatterton in a gesture of entreaty and murmurs in a low voice, You are a mad boy indeed.

  Not so mad, no. He does not like to be called a boy. Not so mad that I need pity from one such as you.

  The posture master rocks upon his heels and puts both arms above his head. A proud one, I see, as proud as Lucifer.

  Chatterton recovers his good humour. So you will remember me then, if I am so proud? He starts walking forward to the door of his lodgings and calls out over his shoulder, You will remember me!

  ‘So this is it, yes?’ Stewart Merk held the painting up to the light. ‘This is the little beauty.’ Cumberland repressed a shudder. ‘So I am told, Stewart.’

  ‘Just call me Stew, right? Al
l my friends do.’ He was examining the portrait carefully as he spoke. ‘It’s time for the old Nescafé then.’

  Cumberland telephoned Claire for some coffee, ‘Oh,’ he said, his hands gently placed over the mouthpiece, ‘Stewart. Stew. Do you like it black or white?’

  Merk took off his wire-rimmed glasses, shook his head slowly, and laughed. ‘Oh, that was a joke, yes?’ Cumberland was perplexed. ‘I need the coffee for the picture. If you mix the grains with the paint, you get the right effect of ageing.’

  ‘How fascinating. Until now I have been as protected from knowledge as an infanta. Should I start drinking tea?’

  ‘Old things have to be treated carefully, you know.’ Merk was looking across at him, with a sly grin. ‘They can break.’

  ‘At their age only confidences, I’m afraid.’ He was beginning to suspect Merk of a sense of humour.

  ‘You don’t like old things, am I right? You prefer young things.’

  At this moment Claire bounced in, carrying a tray with three cups of coffee. ‘Where’s the Deputy?’ she asked, peering around the door in case Maitland were hiding from her there.

  Cumberland was annoyed by her intrusion at this particular moment. ‘Perhaps he’s seeing Matron, Claire.’

  ‘Matron?’

  ‘I really don’t know where he is. He went to powder his nose a moment ago.’

  ‘Shall I try his office?’

  ‘Rather a Pandora’s Box, don’t you think?’

  Merk was still scrutinising the canvas and now broke in with, ‘Some of these cracks are just on the varnish, here and here –’

  ‘– I think we should discuss this after we have tasted Claire’s delicious coffee. Even though it may age us terribly.’

  He was leading her out of the office, but she stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, Vivien phoned. She’s coming round this morning, just to say hello.’

  ‘That is good news.’ He pushed her out of his office, blew her a kiss, and closed the door.

  Merk was crouched on the floor in front of the canvas, and Cumberland eyed his slim buttocks apprehensively as he turned back into the room. ‘You look as if you are about to be spanked, Stewart. Stew.’