Sargent had assumed a pensive expression. “The initials you drew resemble Whistler’s butterfly imprint, which he often uses as a signature. They’re a parody of it, in a manner of speaking—much like the ha ha in the letters, as you suggested, was a parody of his laugh…” He paused to consider his own observation and then leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “There may be something to your theory after all.”
***
Sargent suggested that the brothers stay and talk to Ellen Terry, who was expected to come for a sitting within the hour. He had been commissioned to paint Terry, the reigning diva of the English stage, by Henry Irving, director of the Lyceum Theater and her latest official companion. Irving was so pleased with the arrangement, which allowed him to rehearse any time during the day or night, that he had commissioned the portrait to hang in the lobby of his theater.
“Ellen knows Sickert,” explained Sargent. “He had some bit parts in her company a few years back. It’s possible she can shed light on his character.”
They had passed from Sargent’s living space to his studio, which was, in its way, as delightful as his drawing room—more so insofar as its decoration was more unrestrained. Colorful rugs in bright colors scattered the floor, and tapestries and drapes in velvet and satin swung from the long windows. There were armchairs and divans, as well as screens and large sequined pillows for lounging by models in an Oriental pose, or by visitors who wanted to take a nap. There were also large trunks containing costumes with a wide range of garb, from ropes of pearls and ruffled blouses to gypsy shawls, plumed hats, and tambourines.
The riot of colors and textures was supplemented by the numerous paintings, with their lush brushstrokes, propped up against the walls, some of them in an unfinished state, some completed but waiting to be framed and picked up by a buyer. Most of the paintings displayed face forward were genre scenes and landscapes, while the ones, by far more numerous, facing toward the wall were portraits, with the exception of the notorious portrait of Madame Goutreau—renamed Madame X to protect the lady’s dubious reputation—which was prominently placed, facing forward, directly behind the easel. Although Sargent had initially been upset by the controversy surrounding this painting, berated in some quarters for its purple skin and plunging neckline, he had eventually adopted it as his greatest promotional asset. People came to him now asking him to paint them in the style of Madame X. “Wait long enough, and all judgments will turn into their opposite,” Sargent liked to say, pointing to the portrait by way of example.
“It helps if you can afford to wait,” Henry would grumble. He supposed his books would eventually sell very well—but he would be dead by then.
As Sargent set out his brushes in preparation for Ellen Terry’s sitting, William began looking around the studio, furtively examining the paintings facing the wall.
“Are you looking for something?” asked Sargent.
“No,” said William quickly. He was in fact looking for a portrait of Ella Abrams. The trunks full of costumes were enticing his imagination; he could imagine her in a fringed shawl leaning against the cushions. He had hoped that she might be posing for Sargent that day; thus the feeling of being disappointed, given that he had dwelled for some time on this fantasy, was all the greater. He wanted urgently to ask his friend about her but dared not mention her name for fear that he would betray something—what, he could hardly say.
Sargent had begun taking out the canvas on which he was painting Terry. He had already laid down some blocks of color (the method, William noted, for which Legros’s student had been berated), and began to prepare his palette. Niccola entered to announce that Ellen Terry had arrived and was changing into her costume in the next room.
In a few minutes, an imposing woman of about forty swept in. She was dressed in a green brocade robe and matching cape, had a thick gold belt around her waist, and a red wig, plaited into two long, heavy braids, on her head. She allowed them all to kiss her hand and assured them they were free to stay and watch the artist at work. “It’s the costume I wore for Lady Macbeth,” she explained with a grand gesture at her attire. “John suggested it, and I trust him absolutely.” (Sargent had recently confided to Henry that the trust of his clients—which was really the trust that he make them look young and beautiful—was beginning to wear on his nerves.)
“Do you like the wig?” she asked Sargent, who had been eyeing it approvingly.
“I do,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, but it adds something. Did you wear it in the role?”
“No,” said Terry. “It was a last-minute inspiration, lent by a friend. Where’s my crown?”
Sargent retrieved a large gold crown from one of the trunks, which she took and placed on her head.
“No,” said Sargent, “hold it above your head. We want the sense of desiring to be crowned, not being so.”
“Excellent,” said Terry, holding the crown up. “But it’s tiring to hold this way.”
“For art, my dear,” said Sargent, and Terry ceased complaining.
“How’s Henry?” asked Henry, referring to Henry Irving.
“He’s fine,” said Terry indifferently. She had had so many male companions in the course of her career that she had ceased to think much about any of them.
“I suppose he’s always on the lookout for new talent,” Henry continued. He had a fleeting thought of his own talent, since he had long wanted to write a play and had drafted a dramatization of one of his novels, as he had told Alice a few days earlier. He did not mention this, however. Instead he said, “I was telling William about a wonderfully talented young man I saw the other night performing a musical hall turn with Wilde. They say he’s a painter. I didn’t catch his name.”
“I wonder who it could be?” said Sargent.
William and Henry looked at each other. Sargent did everything so naturally that when he did something calculated, as in the present instance, the effect was ludicrous.
Terry, fortunately, was too preoccupied with holding the crown to notice. “You must mean Walter Sickert,” she said. “He and Oscar perform all the time. He’s the one who lent me the wig. He has loads of them.”
Sargent, William, and Henry looked meaningfully at each other.
“Tell me about him,” said Henry casually. His ability to be disingenuous was much more developed than Sargent’s.
Terry sighed. “Walter could be a great actor, but he refuses to be patient, so he’s turned to painting, where he says he won’t have to wait as long. Perhaps he’s right. He may be as great a painter as he could be an actor. He is also handsome and charming. And professes to be madly in love with me, which means he has excellent taste.” She had assumed a wistful expression, suggesting a dalliance in that quarter and confirming that Sickert’s appeal to the ladies was impressive; Terry had her pick of aspiring actors.
“Is there any area in which he falls short?” asked William.
She considered the question. “He’s not reliable. He disappears, and one doesn’t know where to find him.”
“How mysterious,” said Henry.
Terry shrugged. “I imagine it’s a strain for his wife. It’s one reason I’m content to have him adore me from afar.”
“You suspect…romantic trysts?” asked William, an unaccountable tremor passing through him at the mention of the idea of illicit lovemaking.
“I suppose.” Terry shrugged. “Though I don’t know why he needs to be so discreet. I once saw him in the East End with a woman, and he turned the corner to avoid meeting me. It seemed silly. Even if she were a disreputable sort, he could always pass her off as a model.”
Henry, William, and Sargent exchanged another look. Not, their eyes said, if she happened to be Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, or Catherine Eddowes.
“When did this happen?” asked Henry.
Terry had had enough of the conversation. “God knows! Gossip is such a bore; I really can’t abide it. Speaking of tiresome—how lo
ng do you want me to hold this crown, John? My arms are beginning to ache!”
Chapter 32
The guest list for the party at Henry’s flat, scheduled for Sunday night, had taken some work to assemble. Henry, though he had originally balked at the idea, had predictably gone overboard once he got used to it, and Alice and Katherine had to persuade him to curtail the number of guests, given the limited space and the need for a certain degree of intimacy. Reducing the list had then involved some bickering and hairsplitting as to who should be included. Du Maurier and Wilde had been forwarded, but their wit was judged to be dangerous in such small quarters. Also suggested was Emily’s friend Flora Priestley, who was known to be enormously shy and finally deemed expendable, since she would say nothing. There had been some dispute about inviting Violet Paget (who had lately, in rebellion against her femininity, renamed herself Vernon Lee), but for the opposite reason that she was never silent. It was eventually decided that Violet (or rather Vernon) might be useful in keeping the conversation going. Henry had wanted to invite Henry Irving for the sake of his dramatization, but that would have necessitated inviting Ellen Terry, who might find it odd to see Sickert among the guests, when Henry hadn’t known his name a few days earlier. Instead, they settled on the infirm but gentle Fanny Kemble, who could be counted on to talk about theater if that were necessary to draw Sickert out. Unfortunately, Edmund Gosse, always a dependable staple, was out of town. Constance Fenimore Woolson, known for mysterious reasons as Fenimore, was forwarded as his replacement, since she was in love with Henry and thus would make an effort, along with the Sidgwicks, because they were so fond of William and could distract Vernon Lee with talk of philosophy, if she became too voluble. Emily and John Sargent would round out the guests—Emily would be cheerful and accommodating, while John would be calm and observant, being the only person outside the family privy to their suspicion of Sickert.
Sickert had been sent a note saying that the Jameses had heard much of his developing talent and were eager to meet him and his wife, whose father, Alice made sure to mention, had been a great friend of their own. By Thursday, all the invitations had been sent, and by Saturday, the responses had been received. Everyone could come, except Ellen Sickert, who, Sickert wrote in a large, easy hand, sent her regrets; she was assisting one of her sisters during her confinement.
“From what I hear, she is often indisposed,” noted Sargent. “I don’t think he likes to be hampered on the social front.”
“Why marry, then?” asked Alice.
“My sentiments exactly,” said Henry.
Katherine had come to Henry’s flat on the morning of the party to confer about the dinner. She drew a diagram of the table and tried to explain it to Mrs. Smith. “Note the arrangement of the silver,” she said. “Make sure to place the smaller pieces on the outside and the little spoon at the top here, as I’m sure you know.” She glanced at Mrs. Smith, who it was doubtful knew anything of the kind. “Napkins, wineglasses, water goblets,” continued Katherine, pointing to her diagram, to which Mrs. Smith appeared not to be paying attention. “The condiments here, the ices here; please take care to keep the trifle away from the fire, or it will get soggy. Wash the strawberries thoroughly; you don’t want any dirt. And have your husband be sure to pour the wine from the left.”
Katherine was a calm, mild-tempered woman, but even she was beginning to grow irritable at the other woman’s lack of attention. After Mrs. Smith had left to go into the kitchen, presumably to start preparing the trifle, Katherine voiced her disapproval. “What does she do?” she asked Henry.
“Oh, this and that,” he said with some confusion. “I assure you she keeps busy.”
“I have no doubt that she keeps busy,” said Katherine, “but does she do any work?”
“Work, well…” Henry began to sputter.
Katherine felt it best to drop the subject. She would send Sally over to help in the kitchen, though Sally, who had just turned sixteen, could only do so much.
***
Alice had been preoccupied for several days with the question of what she would wear. She had feared at first that she had nothing and would have to resort to the dressing gown of the séance. But a bit of digging had located the black dress she had worn to her father’s funeral, and that could be made to look less funereal by removal of the material around the neck and the addition of a panel of pink and gray lace that Katherine found in a shop on Oxford Street. To this was added a set of pearls and black slippers. When she was finally done—dusted with rice powder, cheeks pinched, hair put up with a set of silver combs—she viewed herself in the large mirror in the sitting room and was so enamored of what she saw that she couldn’t take her eyes away. “It’s not that I look good,” she explained, “it’s just that I look so much better than I thought.”
Emily Sargent, who had come early to help her dress, said she looked beautiful, which Alice found annoying. “I don’t want to look beautiful,” she said. “I want to look normal. ‘Conventionally plain,’ for example, would be good. Or ‘rather ordinary.’ I’ve always felt like such a freakish sort of person, too pale, too weak, too odd in all respects. To pass for ordinary would be a wonderful change of pace.”
Katherine and Emily said she looked beautifully ordinary.
The carriage was finally called, and they got to Henry’s flat just as the other guests were arriving. The Sidgwicks were already present, chatting with William, when Vernon Lee came in with a strapping young woman in tow—it was like her to bring a guest without alerting her hosts. Katherine ran into the kitchen to tell Mrs. Smith to lay another setting.
“I’m Kit,” said the strapping young woman breezily, gripping Alice’s hand so tightly that she winced in pain.
“She’s one of the Anstruther-Thomsons,” said Vernon, as though this explained everything. “We’re working on a new theory of aesthetic philosophy.”
“Really?” said Alice. Kit Anstruther-Thomson looked more suited to fox hunting than aesthetic philosophy.
Everyone clustered in the hallway, waiting for someone to take their coats, until finally Mrs. Smith came out of the kitchen, her bonnet askew, and exasperatedly gathered them up.
By nine o’clock, when dinner was supposed to be served, everyone had arrived, with the exception of Sickert. The siblings looked at each other in consternation as they registered the possibility that he might not come, and the entire event—tiring, noisy, and expensive—would be for nothing. But at 9:15, he was announced. Was a murderer about to make his appearance?
Sickert entered the room. He had a sharp, fine-featured face; rather thin lips; a profusion of curly, light brown hair; and a wiry, agile physique. His eyes were even bluer than Henry remembered. He was wearing a tweed coat, yellow gloves, and a soft-brimmed hat and carrying a cane. He gave his hat and cane to Mrs. Smith, who curtsied as she took them (something Henry couldn’t help noticing that she never did for him), and then he walked directly to Henry to apologize for being late; he had been delayed at his studio, waiting for a canvas to be delivered. “My framer is not reliable,” Sickert explained jauntily, “but as we trained together and he does good work, I make allowances.” He winked at the company, as if to say that allowances often needed to be made for him.
Henry had been anxious about the encounter, less because Sickert might be a maniac than because of the incident with Clemens, which he felt obliged to acknowledge. “Thank you for saving my life the other night,” he muttered with some embarrassment.
Sickert did not laugh as expected. “You must take more care in the future,” he said seriously. “You were lucky you weren’t pummeled to death.”
Henry was taken aback. Did Sickert know something about Clemens’s boxing prowess that he did not? To deflect further discussion, he led his guest to his brother across the room.
William had been standing off to the side in a state of nervous anticipation. The thought that he was about to meet a man who might be the cause of four women’s brutal deaths, no
t to mention an attempt on his own life, made him shudder. But Sickert approached him with apparent ease and expressed praise for his writing. So he reads philosophy between his rampages, thought William sourly. He shook the hand offered, paying close attention. It was the right hand, he noted. The blow he had delivered with the branch in Hyde Park had been to his assailant’s left. There was no evidence of debility, but he couldn’t help wonder if Sickert was carrying himself a bit stiffly. Was it the theatrical posture or the stiffness born of injury? In all respects, the man seemed charming and easy—too much so, perhaps. Sociopathic personalities could be extremely congenial in ordinary settings.
“I am intrigued by your theories concerning the plastic nature of human character,” said Sickert with the casualness of someone at home with ideas. “I agree with your hypothesis that we can shape ourselves in any number of directions.”
“Shape ourselves within limits,” murmured William. “There are biological constraints, not to mention habits formed in early childhood that seem impossible to revise.”
“Yes.” Sickert nodded. “But such things can exist apart.”
“Apart?” asked William, looking at their guest inquiringly.
“Relegated to the private sphere…or to other corners of life.”
“I don’t know about that,” said William, furrowing his brow. “Certain impulses cannot be fully buried.”
“Oh, not buried,” Sickert corrected, “compartmentalized. What is acting, after all, but the performance of character, devised from the tool case of one’s experience and fashioned for a given occasion?”
“But actors assume a temporary mask that they put on and off. Don’t you believe in an essential character?”
“No,” said Sickert blithely. “Why should character be singular and not multiple? The latter is certainly more entertaining…and more convenient.”
“Isn’t it a function of art to provide an outlet for contending impulses?” queried William, who recalled how alive, though also how fraught with anxiety, he had felt during his early years as a painter.
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