I, Hogarth

by Michael Dean

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’

  ‘Don’t sound so disappointed.’ She threw the cloak and bonnet off, going straight to the heart of the matter. ‘I will do whatever pleases you.’

  That was enough. That was what I required from her. Her ample bosom was heaving. Breathing hard, I thankfully threw the engraving tool at the wall, from whence it clanged to the ground. I pushed a tea chest, kept largely for this purpose, against the door so we could not be disturbed. It contained some of my worldly goods, the chest did, the rest being at my new abode, a room in Long Lane even tinier than the workshop.

  I lowered my breeches and drawers and sat back down at my engraving chair, my member springing obligingly to attention as I did so, for Sarah was reaching behind her to unbutton her dress, after which she pulled the front down and wriggled out of her shift. She kneeled, then her practiced mouth took my member, while I reached for her breasts – a duet we managed after a bit of initial fidgeting.

  It occurred to me to imagine that it was Jane performing this service upon my person but, horrified, I rejected the thought: losing some stiffness in the process, unfortunately. I would not defile her, Jane, even in my mind. Let me never forget that the Choice of Hercules was between virtue and pleasure. I chose virtue, but nevertheless groaned aloud, as the Young girl gobbled my prick.

  She let me slip from her mouth. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you!’

  ‘Then who …?’

  ‘Oh, get on with it, woman. I’m losing the … power.’

  She took me back in her mouth and chewed away like a grenadier on a saveloy, until finally I loosed my load in her mouth.

  I was dozing, spent, over spoons to be engraved and thus become instruments of torture to me, when my next visitor arrived.

  ‘Felix!’

  He was carrying a folder of prints but put them down so we could embrace, which we did, long, hard and enthusiastically, banging each other’s backs. Then he kissed me all over my face like the wet foreigner he was.

  ‘Mon petit choux.’

  ‘Felix you are saving my sanity, probably my life. Come on, let’s get to work. How are you?’

  Felix shrugged. Now that he was no longer with Ellis Gamble, Frenchy-Felix was earning his daily crust by engraving copies of paintings for half the painters in London. He had come to help me with engraving, at no charge.

  I took out the rough drawing and the engraving plate. We both sat down at the bench. I was happy. I pushed the tea chest across the door again, so nobody could come in. It occurred to me that the tea chest was my barrier to shut out the world, for both sex and work. But I needed to improve both. The work had to get better and one day the sex had to be with Jane Thornhill. And have some love in it, which it would, with her.

  There was silence a moment. My member was on the rise again at the thought of Jane. I grabbed my breeches between my legs and thrust it down. Felix was looking at me.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ There was a faint smile, but he looked tense.

  I looked him in the eye. ‘Not now, we have work to do.’

  ‘But one day? One day …’

  ‘Maybe. One day. Now look.’

  I showed him the rough drawing of The South Sea Bubble (Who’ll Ride?). We were to engrave it, together. He was to help me.

  ‘There, in the centre of a carnival scene, is the South Sea merry-go-round with all sorts of greedy fools on it. They have all lost their money in the crash. Like Stout Gamble.’

  ‘Yes, good. Strong in the middle, there.’

  ‘I want a symbol on top. What’s the symbol for a fool? Jester’s cap?’

  ‘Hmm. Why don’t you have a goat? Symbol of desire.’

  ‘Good idea. And in the foreground, honesty is broken on the wheel, attended, of course, by a hypocritical clergyman, kneeling in prayer.’

  Felix laughed. ‘All this is good.’

  ‘But! Come on. But. There’s always a bloody but with you. Mais, mais, mais …’

  A smile from his thin lips. He was handsome enough and smelled good. Could I …? No, only if I really had to. Mind you, it depends what he wants.

  He was holding the drawing at arm’s length, as he usually did. ‘At the moment there is no depth. You need diagonals drawing the eye to the back. All this carnival can stay at the front.’

  I nodded. ‘So …?’

  ‘This London Fire Monument, move it from the left to the right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s massive and holds the eye. The viewer looks from left to right. It should be the last thing they see, not the first.’

  ‘Yes! Thank you, Felix!’

  ‘What’s the inscription? You’ve just doodled there.’

  I thought for a second. ‘This monument was erected in memory of the destruction of this city by the South Sea in 1720.’

  Felix roared with laughter, hands on hips. ‘Oh, that’s good. That’s very good. Can you engrave the lettering? It will have to be capitals, you know.’

  ‘No, I thought you could do that.’

  ‘And what do I get out of it?’ Face all innocent.

  ‘Behave.’

  Felix sighed. ‘What are you going to have on the left? Diagonal, drawing the eye to the back. Something very much London.’

  ‘Guildhall,’ I said firmly, ‘possessed by the devil. He butchers Fortune and throws the flesh to the mob.’

  ‘My God! Bill, there has been nothing like this in London. It’s tough and raw and brave.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I took a mock bow, doffing an imaginary plumed hat. ‘And behind the Guildhall, because we need a deeper diagonal, a house where women are selling themselves, to Greed as king.’

  ‘Magnificent! C’est magnifique ça.’

  ‘Come on! Let’s do it together. This engraver’s shop is closed.’

  Felix ran a hand over the plate, ready to start. ‘Indeed, indeed! You know I will help you, always. Come what may. Yes or no. But … Please, Bill! Please. For me? Just …’

  He mimed what he wanted, then kneeled at my feet.

  ‘Oh, all right then.’

  For two decades nobody wanted my whang, now the bloody thing was no sooner tucked in, than my drawers were down and it was out again.

  ‘Hey, we could have a “Who’ll Ride?” sign on the South Sea merry-go-round,’ I said.

  But Felix didn’t reply, only moaned and groaned in that foreign way of his.

  7

  THERE WAS nobody around and I was early for my lesson, so I tucked my folio of drawings under my arm and popped into the drawing room. The drawing room at Sir James’s place was massy and airy. Despite being one of the smaller rooms on the ground floor, the ceiling was so high and so much light came in the two arched windows that it was like being outdoors.

  I had always measured my progress by space, as well as money: the two being naturally closely related. A painter represents priority by space, as well as positioning; life rewards its favoured children by giving them more space.

  I pictured the expanse of drawing room as containing cartouche-like squares of the incarcerations of my boyhood, the dingy vault in Bartholomew Close, the damp dark in the Rules of the Fleet Prison. And slowly the squares grew smaller, even faded, though they never entirely disappeared.

  The drawing room, naturally, was the epitome of taste; one would have expected no less from the newly appointed Serjeant Painter to the King, as Sir James now was. Yellow walls, of course. Oh, the exquisite taste! A glorious pendant chandelier, of finest Venetian glass. Corniced pillars of salmon pink, just touching a sky of white ceiling with all the delicacy and disdain of a countess drinking tea from a tradesman’s china.

  The ceiling itself was adorned with allegories by Sir James of the cardinal virtues: temperance, justice, prudence and fortitude. Justice and prudence had a panel to themselves, temperance and fortitude shared. This pleased me, as too precise a symmetry does not create balance, but on the contrary is its enemy, not to mention being a
sign of the second-rate.

  The furniture was a mix of modern Flemish and older pieces dating from the time of Queen Anne, wavy-legs and suchlike, walnut much in evidence. The upholstered pieces were in an exquisite pale green, with white embossed motifs.

  ‘Mr Hogarth? Sir?’ The ‘sir’ was very much an afterthought, tinged perhaps with irony.

  I descended from my reverie, where I was at one with the room, regarding, instead, the speaker. She was a pert young lady whose rank was uncertain to me, as I could not tell it from her attire. (I found out later that the floral patterned silk gown she habitually wore was an old, much altered and reduced one of Jane’s.)

  ‘I am Fanny, the maid,’ the person supplied.

  She was damnably attractive, pert little thing.

  ‘I’m William Hogarth. I am here for …’

  ‘… Your lesson. Yes, I know.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a lesson. I’m not a beginner. I’m an artist in my own right. I …’

  ‘Miss Jane asks you to return to the drawing room after your lesson. She says she will meet you there.’

  My whole being soared, but I hid it from this self-possessed Fanny person. ‘Righty-ho.’

  Fanny the maid turned on her pretty heel, the epitome of pert self-possession.

  I made my way to the door to Sir James’s studio, a door I promptly threw wide, before striding in – first entrances establishing the man. And instantly everything was wrong, jarring and out of tune. The scene that met my eyes was one of marbled limbs, torsos and heads, all disconnected, all there to be copied.

  I had assumed when I started that Sir James himself would be taking the lessons. But no! They took place under the dead gaze of a cadaverous fellow in black, with a red indoor cap, a spectre by the name of John Vanderbank, a Hollander who had studied under Kneller. A former habitué of debtor’s prison, like my father, the Vanderbank fellow’s academy was known to me, but not that it was now being held under Sir James’s auspices.

  I proffered my guinea fee, payable in advance, which was snapped up. I was set to the mindless copying of bits and parts, in what was laughably known as the ‘academic style’.

  When something was wrong, I had learned, everything was wrong; John Vanderbank, instigator of this brain-and-soul eroding classical copying, was hardly older than I was. And my fellow copiers, once again, as at Stout Gamble’s establishment, were younger than me to a man. I was behind in life’s race for the second time! My spirits ached worse than my poor tired copying-arm.

  However, they rose when we broke from our labours – by then a twisted column copied, as well as a dismembered arm – for my companions, as so often, lifted my mood.

  There was George Knapton of the Knapton bookseller family. John Ellys, absurdly young. Samuel Barker, Arthur Pond. And towering over the lot of us, the still-a-boy of Francis Hayman. You could never overlook Hayman. He worked hard, copying furiously, but that did not stop him eating and drinking at the same time – beer and a massive pie, on this occasion.

  He was a huge, shambling bear of a man. At the much longed-for break, he regaled us with stories of his apprenticeship to a history painter known to me, one Robert Browne. See, see! Younger than me and ahead of me. Already with a proper painter’s apprenticeship behind him. But as Francis rolled on with his stories, in his deep Devon burr – a much richer accent than Sir James’s West Country overlay – it was impossible not to feel fondness for him.

  I asked my new friend Francis Hayman questions in his own Devonshire accent, which, far from offending him, caused him to roar with laughter through mouthfuls of food. Then he coached me in imitating him better.

  After the lesson in how to shrink the soul, I would usually, of course, go drinking with Francis and the others. But even better things awaited me. Eventually, I found my way back to the drawing room where I was to meet Jane.

  And suddenly there she was! In the same room as me! I was elevated again. I was a new me, an entity made to please and entertain her, a man that was a part of us. I gently took her hands as she lowered to the settee beside me.

  She was composed, as always, sometimes a little flushed in the cheek, perhaps, but prettily so. Her earnest grey eyes always sought out my face, penetrating the surface with forceful honesty and innate wisdom. She was serious, but not sombre or sad, though I could make her laugh and delight in doing so. I never thought of any difference in age between us, but if I did, and knew no better, I would have thought her older, not some eleven years younger. She was bigger than me: taller and broader.

  ‘I brought drawings to show you. And some prints. All my latest.’

  She smoothed her skirt – one of the many small gestures I had come to love – there, sat next to me, slightly turned towards me on the settle, face in quarter profile. She said nothing, waiting, but she was WITH me, IN THE SAME ROOM, and that made me a different person, one I wanted to be, a better one, a soaring one.

  ‘Shall I …? Shall I show …?’

  She nodded slightly impatiently, then softened with a smile. ‘Yes, of course.’

  I had my drawings between stiff covers in a folio. I had agonised for days over the order in which to show them to her. Needless to say, I had not shown them to my copying-master. What would be the point?

  My final decision, after all that agonising, was to show the man examining a watch first. I changed my mind at the last second, took a deep breath, and passed her the drawing of the waiter, the beggar and the dog. The passing was a votive offering, she the seer and goddess.

  ‘Here …’ I was croaking, my voice gone, my belly in some fiend’s grip. ‘What …?’

  ‘Oh, William, it’s marvellous! No, truly!’

  ‘What … think …? What do you think is happening? What’s the story? In my drawing?’

  She looked closely. ‘The beggar’s giving something to the waiter, not the other way around. No, wait a minute. The beggar’s hand is clasped round something. That could be his cup, couldn’t it? And the waiter is about to pour him … what? … Coffee from that pot he has in his hand. Is that …?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’

  ‘Oh, William. I love that disdain on the waiter’s face. He’s bent away from the beggar, look. The beggar smells, doesn’t he! The waiter’s going “Pooh! Pooh!” to himself! I can smell the beggar myself.’ She laughed. ‘Pooh! Pooh! You smelly beggar! And look at the dog, there, sniffing up the beggar’s …’ She stopped and giggled.

  ‘Do you like dogs?’

  ‘I adore dogs. Papa won’t let me have one. Do you like …?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes! Very much so. I hate it so when people misuse dogs, well, any animals but especially dogs …’ My words were tumbling over each other. So much to say, so little time. So much to do, for that matter. ‘We shall have a dog when we are married. Two dogs. Ten dogs. And horses. Which dogs would you like?’

  She coloured red. Not a salmon maiden-blush. Robust. ‘Any … Which dogs do you like?’

  ‘Terriers. Or maybe Dutch Pugs. D’you know them?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘See. Here. In my drawing. How I’ve got the beggar bent? Do you remember my Game of Draughts Interrupted? I had an old man bent in that. I can draw bent old men now. The curve adds interest to the composition.’

  ‘Oh, I do love that dog! That’s my favourite. Look how intelligent and alert … One paw up.’ She imitated the dog’s paw by crooking her wrist, then laughed.

  I wailed. ‘Oh, we’ve got so little time! I haven’t even shown you the other one yet. Will you come and see me at my shop?’

  ‘William! You know I can’t.’

  ‘Please! Please. We could talk. I won’t … Jane, I wouldn’t dream of … Just …’

  She touched my hand to quieten me. ‘Show me the next drawing.’

  I breathed deeply to calm myself, then replaced the waiter et al between the stiff covers. I pulled out the drawing of the man examining a watch, passed it to her, shutting my eyes. She laughed softly at my performance.
/>   I cleared my throat. ‘Now! What do you think is happening here? I have tried to catch the moment in a moving story. What’s the story?’

  ‘Well …’ She shifted a little on the settle. She was rarely still for long. ‘He’s a rich man, isn’t he? Even though he is pawning his watch. He is, isn’t he?’

  ‘I should think so, yes.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Look, he’s rich. That’s a cigar in his hand, isn’t it? Or is that his finger?’

  ‘Of course it’s not his bloody finger! Jane! You stupid girl! Then he’d have six fingers, wouldn’t he? And one outsized. Use your brains, girl, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘William, I think perhaps it’s time for me to go.’

  ‘NO! No, no, no, no! Oh, Jane, I’m sorry. I’m an oaf, I’m a boor, I’m a clod.’ I clambered off the settle and kneeled at her feet in supplication, taking her hand. ‘Jane read the picture, please. Please. Your William is so, so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, get up! Nincompoop! Silly boy!’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, Jane.’ I resumed my place on the settle, only closer than I was before, sliding my arm along the settee-back for the first time ever. She allowed it.

  Jane cleared her throat, in what I thought she thought was a businesslike way. She was colouring again, though in a subtly different way, also her voice was lower.

  ‘I take it they are doing business in a coffee house, a bowl of coffee in front of the man as he pawns his watch. The pawnbroker is quite prosperous, isn’t he? Good quality broadcloth coat. What’s on that paper between them? Votes …?’

  ‘The pawnbroker buys and sells votes. Everything is for sale you see. The national debt. South Sea shares. Walpole himself. There is a price for everything and everybody.’

  She sniffed. ‘Hmm! The idea’s too big for the drawing.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish! Hey, look, you see how I’ve got the man’s hat upside down, on the bench? That’s damnably difficult, that is. Do you realise how few artists could do that? I’m not sure that even your father …?’ I stopped, sensing I had gone too far. Bite your tongue, Billy Hogarth. Bite your tongue. And keep it bit.