Mrs Whistler

by Matthew Plampin

  ‘In the spirit,’ he went on, ‘of my recent confrontations – the David and Goliath style of encounter that you fellows know I favour – I will be marching off to court for a battle of the, ah, legal variety.’

  ‘Ruskin,’ said Eldon. ‘Has to be.’

  Jimmy inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I went to the Strand to speak with Anderson Reeve – who I have to say remains the brightest little lawyer in London – and he believes there is a suit to be brought.’ He paused for a second or two, making a tiny adjustment to his knives. ‘Libel. You all saw the notice, I assume.’

  ‘Savage,’ said Mitford. ‘Irresponsible.’

  ‘Yes, a poor show indeed,’ added Cole. ‘Ruskin, I fear, has passed the point of reason. Of fairness. Many are saying it.’

  Maud drank some wine. She remembered the angry discussion in the Café Royal – the talk of recompense. Having an idea where this might be going, she looked to catch Rosa’s eye, but to no avail. The other woman’s attention was fixed entirely upon the Owl.

  Godwin alone was doubtful. A lofty, dapper gent, an architect Maud had been told, he was a touch greyer than the rest of them, and tended to adopt a schoolmasterly air when with Jimmy and Eldon and the others. She’d mentioned this once to Jimmy, who’d laughed hard; ‘Edward Godwin,’ he’d said, ‘is no deuced schoolmaster, I can promise you that.’

  ‘A Goliath indeed,’ he said. ‘John Ruskin’s influence, James, is difficult to understate. As is his petulance and his petty nature. This could inspire him to ruin you absolutely. To be written about in such a way must smart, that I understand, however—’

  ‘It does not smart, Godwin,’ Jimmy snapped. ‘I have been painting for upward of twenty years, and am well past the point where the views of some splenetic journalist can injure my feelings. This here,’ – he tapped his forearm – ‘is the hide of a rhinoceros. No, the issue in this instance is reputation. I cannot have these hopeless fellows, these philistine millionaires and backward-looking critics, treating me with such open derision. This goddamned Ruskin does not simply attack my art. He attacks me. He calls me an impostor. He says that my work, my Black and Gold, the product of all the knowledge that I have attained, is but a pot of paint flung in the public’s face.’

  Loyally, the party shook their heads, grumbling with disapproval.

  ‘He is blind,’ said Rosa. ‘As receptive as a rock on a riverbed.’

  ‘And of course there is the money,’ Jimmy added, to laughter. ‘There’s a hole in my finances, ladies and gentlemen, to the tune of one thousand guineas – thanks to the in­­­transigence of Mr Frederick Leyland, our extraordinary British businessman. And thanks now to Ruskin, I have sold not one canvas from the Grosvenor, nor am I likely to in the weeks it has left. Nor, if we are honest with ourselves, in the foreseeable future. He has injured me, so he shall make up the shortfall. I have conferred with Anderson Reeve. We will seek one thousand guineas in damages. With costs, naturellement.’

  He reinserted the eyeglass and looked over at Maud, supremely pleased with himself and expecting admiration. He plainly felt that this was the answer – the way in which their difficulties would be ended. His guests were delighted, for the most part. They began to talk of victory, of the rewards it would bring, and the great interest it would surely create for his paintings.

  Godwin remained the dissenting voice. ‘You seem to believe,’ he sighed, ‘that you are pitting yourself against some meek curate who pens the odd review for Blackwood’s. A harmless old sheep who will hand over his cash with barely a murmur. But this is John Ruskin. His hide, I would wager, is every bit as thick as yours. He’ll argue this case to the hilt, and will employ the most capable advocates to help him do it.’

  Jimmy made no reply. Instead he looked to his right, ceding the floor to Owl. The sleek Portuguese had stayed quiet up until now, gazing off appraisingly at the framed prints and painted fans that were hung across the walls; waiting for his moment, as it turned out, to stroll forward into the spotlight.

  ‘I know Ruskin,’ he said. ‘Better than most, I think. I can offer an insight into how he might defend himself here.’

  The company’s curiosity was tempered with something rather like caution. Maud sensed a pulling back, a packing away of mirth; Owl plainly had a reputation of his own. Unconcerned, he started to talk, embarking upon a thorough demolition of England’s most famous art critic. Ruskin, he claimed, was a dying star, a force in terminal decline, frail in both mind and body. Once the master of London’s exhibition halls, he now had to be escorted around them like an aged relative on the rare occasions that he left his retreat in the Lake District – where he lived as a recluse, his eccentricities growing more acute by the day.

  ‘And do you know who took him to the Grosvenor Gallery on this occasion? None other than Ned Jones and his wife, the fragrant Georgiana, whose works he went on to praise with as much warped fervour as he calumniated poor Jimmy here. There are connections, you see. Reasons behind the reasons. I also find it interesting that Mr Burne-Jones has recently discovered a new and enthusiastic purchaser,’ – here he paused for effect, as Jimmy himself might have done, drawing on his cigarette – ‘in the shape of our old pal Frederick Leyland.’

  Maud attempted to set all this out in her head, this little conspiracy Owl was proposing; one or two of the necessary links appeared to be missing. The table around her seemed equally unsure.

  Jimmy, however, was nodding strenuously. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, that is rather interesting!’

  ‘You were Ruskin’s secretary, Howell, is that correct?’ asked Godwin. ‘Before you became … that which you are presently?’

  ‘Secretary,’ Owl replied, ‘in the very broadest sense.’

  And then he told them the most astonishing story – the one Jimmy had curtailed, Maud guessed, when they were in the Café Royal – of how John Ruskin, at the end of the previous decade, had consented to give drawing lessons to the young daughter of a family friend, a girl of barely more than ten years of age, with whom this august figure had managed somehow to fall in love in the fullest and completest sense, as a man falls in love with a grown woman. The sorry fellow had used his position of great respect and trust to woo this child, and get the poor innocent creature to agree to wed him more or less the day she came of age.

  ‘When the parents got wind of what was going on, of course,’ said Owl, ‘the drawing lessons came to an abrupt halt. The young lady was sent to Ireland, to be sequestered at a family estate. The end of it, you might think.’ He took a gulp of wine. ‘Not so, unfortunately.’

  The Owl – then a younger, more impressionable man, and much in need of his employer’s goodwill – had been dispatched to rural Ireland with a begging letter. Charged with placing it in the girl’s hands, and bearing back her reply, he’d been given over two hundred pounds in cash to offer as bribes. The estate was closed to him, naturally, and he was hopelessly conspicuous among the peat-cutters and goatherds, so he’d disguised himself as a labourer. Waiting until the girl was alone, picking wild flowers in the grounds, he’d approached her slowly, the letter held aloft, and performed the task that had been assigned to him.

  The table sat in disbelieving silence. Owl blew out a single delicate smoke-ring, awaiting the question.

  Maud obliged. ‘What – what happened?’

  The Portuguese chuckled. ‘Dearest Maud, what the blazes d’you think? She recoiled as if I’d handed her a dead frog. She read it in moments, damn near sobbing with the strangeness of it all, then passed it back to me, this declaration wrung from the deepest chambers of John Ruskin’s heart, and told me that she could not grant him what he desired. Not now or ever. Sanity had been restored, you see. His influence shaken off. The child was a child once more. And it struck me too, most forcibly, like a bolt from above, as I stood there in the Hibernian gloom – clogs on my feet, a hessian collar sanding the skin off my neck, this innocent trembling before me, bravely rejecting the perversity I had travelled seve
ral hundred miles to lay before her. What, Charles, I asked myself, have you become a party to? What might he require of you next? I returned to London and ended our association forthwith.’

  Owl sat back, swirling the remains of his wine about in his glass and tipping it down his throat. For once, for nearly half a minute, Jimmy Whistler’s dining table remained absolutely quiet.

  ‘Why do I tell you this distressing tale, my friends? Simply to show to you the kind of man John Ruskin is. His desires are not our desires. His judgements are not our judgements, or those of any right-minded person. He has deviated from the path of reason. This needs a full public airing. This writing of his needs to be called what it truly is, and the injustice of its effects corrected. Jimmy needs to be compensated. Of course he does. Ruskin has the cash, of that I can assure you. And I’d say that he should be made to donate a slice of it to our worthy friend here.’

  Maud was persuaded. She looked around her. The company’s earlier circumspection was gone. Everyone was raising their glasses, Godwin included. She quickly picked up hers as well.

  Jimmy sprang to his feet, the eyeglass dropping out. ‘The suit!’ he cried. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let us toast the suit!’

  *

  The lawsuit was soon famous, discussed in the art journals and the various venues of artistic society, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Maud gathered that much of this was unsympathetic to the plaintiff. Jimmy Whistler was called a capering fool, a nuisance, an unserious man seeking merely to draw attention to himself and his work – to stage an advertisement, in essence, like the vulgar and dishonourable foreigner he was. The only way to combat such talk, Maud was told, was to talk oneself, and more loudly; to paint over it, layer upon layer, in tones more arresting and truthful.

  And so the dinners began. Jimmy had been obliged to restrain himself for the past year or so, due to lack of funds. Now, though, with a thousand guineas surely on the way, and a righteous cause to fight, all reserve disappeared. New suppliers were found; new lines of credit opened. Lindsey Row was filled at least twice a week with lavish five-course dinners and the late Sunday breakfasts for which Jimmy was renowned. Mrs Cossins marshalled an unending parade of dishes up the narrow staircase from the kitchen: grilled soles and fricasseed chickens, wild ducks and salmons, French crêpes and all sorts of unlikely salads, followed by pastries and ices and flans. Empty bottles crowded the yard. The usual names appeared frequently, but they were mixed in with a staggering medley of others – a long list of influential acquaintances deemed ripe for recruitment to the Whistler cause.

  Before each of these occasions a frank conversation would take place to decide whether or not Maud should be present, in deference to the sensibilities of Jimmy’s more respectable guests. Increasingly it was decided that she should not.

  ‘Better to err on the side of caution,’ he said, ‘where toffee-nosed types are concerned. This is all primarily for show, Maudie, you understand. A duty rather than a pleasure.’

  Exiled to the top of the house, Maud would mostly lie and read on Jimmy’s bed, simmering with vague ­humiliation; to be subjected afterwards to half-recalled witticisms and his distracted, boozy caresses. There could be no mistaking the process, however. Jimmy was attempting to draw a battle line through the art world of London. She’d listen out on the landing as the story of the Peacock Room was related for the umpteenth time, along with the ­juiciest passages from the Leyland correspondence. The lot of Leyland’s wife would be reflected upon sadly; and then, to restore their cheer, he’d embark upon his new favourite pursuit – reading out excerpts of John Ruskin’s criticism, from volumes purchased ­especially for this purpose, in order to dismantle them line by line, refuting suppositions and exposing inconsistencies with ferocious glee.

  Those who attended these gatherings were given the very best of him – premium Whistler, his energy and wit unflagging. Tours of the studio were made, with The Three Girls and the now notorious Nocturne in Black and Gold – recently returned from the Grosvenor, along with all the other unsold pictures – set out for viewing. He would even provide live demonstrations of his art, portraits sketched in chalk and oil, something he had previously abjured. And his reward was the keenest, most affectionate appreciation. All manner of things were predicted for him: certain victory against Ruskin; a fresh launch to his career, as a sought-after portraitist to the wealthy and fashionable; even a commission from the Crown, from the Prince of Wales, to decorate a royal property.

  There on the landing – or later in his arms, the moustache rubbing against her shoulder as he snored – Maud allowed herself to think of how everything might be changed, and her spirits rose again in the up-down pattern of hope and dejection that was life with Jimmy Whistler. A different way of living. That was what Rosa had said. She just had to wait.

  *

  Coal merchants, however, would not wait. Fishmongers would not wait. The landlord would certainly not wait. Even Jimmy understood this. He was meeting often with Mr Reeve now, as the summer slowly burned itself out and the city began to cool. The suit became real. Legal terms abounded in Jimmy’s conversation. Writs had been served, Maud heard; a statement of claim prepared. Reports reached them of Ruskin’s reaction – one of relish, apparently, equal almost to Jimmy’s own, the celebrated critic promptly appointing some grand old firm to represent him. No one seemed able to estimate when the trial might actually take place, though, or the damages be paid, or the flow of lucrative new commissions begin. Maud grew a little nervous.

  ‘C’est rien,’ Jimmy would say to her. ‘Rien de tout. My dearest Maudie, you mustn’t worry. You forget that we have the Owl.’

  Much was said at Lindsey Row about the Owl’s abilities. According to Jimmy, the fellow’s business acumen was simply remarkable, and his contacts extensive; his art-dealing was imaginative and resourceful; his gift for spotting overlooked opportunities was entirely unrivalled. Thus far, however, his contribution had consisted of attending a great many of Jimmy’s dinners – the breakfasts he was incapable of making in time – at which he would spin his tales, eat enough for three, offend at least one of the other diners, and then fall asleep in the drawing room, taking his leave at some point in the night.

  Just as Maud was beginning to grow sceptical, the Portuguese appeared one morning with Rosa on his arm, quite unannounced, much as they had on that first day a few months before. Both, again, were exquisitely dressed, with the same attitude of genial inscrutability; but Maud knew them a good deal better now and could detect a specific purpose. Unusually, Jimmy was in, and they all met in the hall for a lively round of embraces and declarations of friendship. Maud and Rosa shared a confidential smile, a clasp of the hands; then the Owl swooped upon her, kissing each cheek and complimenting her fulsomely on what he termed ‘the pace of your restoration’. She thanked him for this with a shy grin – only to furrow her brow very slightly as they started up the stairs.

  ‘So, Jimmy,’ said Owl, ‘where is it?’

  Was this another artwork, to be added to Owl’s inventory? Jimmy didn’t reply. He took them to an unused room at the back of the house, looking out over the garden; the obvious place, Maud had once thought, for a child. She’d only been in it a couple of times. Rubbish was piled all about: packing crates and boxes, stepladders and broken easels, old discoloured folders bulging with drawings and letters. He pointed off into a corner. A machine of some sort, made from wood and blackened iron, sat almost hidden from view. Owl quickly cleared a path to it, indifferent to the cobwebs that clung to his fine fawn suit, and beckoned the rest of them over. It was like a mangle, this thing – a long roller mounted in a frame, turned by a wheel on the side, with a wide, flat surface set at waist height. The Portuguese had a bottle, produced from beneath his jacket. There was a smell of fermented oranges as he flicked a splash of the spirit within onto the flank of this contraption, leaving a long dark star on the dusty wood.

  ‘A tradition from my homeland,’ he said. ‘We must
anoint the press. It will bring us luck. Here – the artist drinks first.’

  The bottle was passed to Jimmy, who lifted it to his lips with a flourish, throwing back his head; the liquor sloshed about behind the tinted, brownish glass, but Maud couldn’t actually tell if he’d drunk any. Rosa did, though, a hearty slug, downing the stuff without a shiver and handing it on to her. It was strong, floral and faintly cloying; she sipped and coughed, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Owl went last, taking in a great sucking gulp. He fell quiet, briefly, savouring the moment; then he gave Jimmy a sideways look.

  ‘Are the plates still down in the studio?’

  Maud swallowed, trying to get rid of the drink’s taste. This neglected press was for making prints, she realised, like those Jimmy had hanging around the house, in stairways and corridors mostly: views of East London, of the docks at Limehouse and Bermondsey. They’d been done a good while ago, during his first years in London. It was a form with which he’d grown tired, he’d told her, despite being highly regarded for it. In the course of one of his inspections, it was now revealed, Owl had come across the original plates and had been astounded. Completely bowled over.

  ‘More so,’ he added, after another pull on the bottle, ‘than with any of the works our dear Jimmy has stowed here. For a painting is a painting. It has a value, one places it with a buyer, the coin is paid and there you are. Done with. Prints, though, exist in numbers. They can be placed all over town, in a variety of premises. They come in series, do they not, when produced by an artist of any sense at least – series that all self-respecting collectors will want to complete. And of course they make a man’s work known like nothing else. They circulate. In short, my dear Maud, they are gold. There is gold here, beneath this roof – gold in abundance, merely waiting for us to gather it in.’

  The plates were retrieved from a cupboard down in the studio. There were around thirty of them, each eight inches by five, and wrapped individually in lengths of flannel. The two sash windows were thrown open to flush the room of smoke and dust. Jimmy and Owl then started fussing with the press, prodding this and testing that, assessing the condition of the mechanism: rather rusty, it seemed, in need of some repair.