Keeping the World Away

by Margaret Forster

  They were, that evening, the only three in the dining room. On other evenings Sir Edward had elected to go to restaurants but tonight preparations had to be made for an early departure and so it seemed sensible to stay in the hotel. The food on offer was limited but good – charcuterie, pâtés, grilled meat or fish, cheeses – and the new guest appeared to enjoy it as much as they did themselves. Charlotte saw her looking in their direction once or twice, and smiling, and she wished that her father would say something. Eventually, at the coffee stage, he did. He asked her – in English – if she would care to join them in the courtyard for coffee. ‘It is very pleasant there,’ he said, ‘and much cooler.’

  The courtyard was not large but there were flowers and greenery at the edges, and in the middle was a tree with a bench seat running round it. There was room for three to sit side by side, with Charlotte in the middle. Normally, this would have embarrassed her, but there was something so relaxed and friendly about the way they were all obliged to sit that she was not. A little table was brought out and set in front of them, and coffee brought and poured. Charlotte did not drink coffee but she inhaled the aroma enthusiastically. Her father began a polite conversation, offering the information that they were to leave for Florence in the morning, and that they had spent a delightful week looking at art. The woman asked if he were an artist himself, and when he said no Charlotte interrupted to say that indeed he was and that he could draw beautifully. Sir Edward, smiling, demurred, saying that their companion should not be misled by a daughter’s loyalty, and that being able to draw tolerably well did not make one an artist. But Miss Tyrwhitt – by now they had exchanged names – disagreed. She said that on the contrary, drawing was essential to any artist and that at the Slade, where she had studied, her professor had valued drawing above all else. This led, inevitably, to a discussion about the Slade and its suitability for young women to study there. Miss Tyrwhitt vowed it was a perfectly proper establishment, where men and women were separated in the Life classes, and discipline was strict. ‘Your daughter,’ said Miss Tyrwhitt, ‘would do very well there, I am sure.’

  Charlotte longed to ask her why she was in Paris, but her father was already asking her if she was a painter and if so what was her subject matter. The answer was yes, she was, painting in both oils and water-colours, and that she painted flowers, not perhaps the sort of floral pictures he might imagine but bolder compositions. She had, she volunteered, exhibited at the New English Art Club the year before. Charlotte could tell that her father was impressed, and so was she. It seemed to her marvellous that this woman, who clearly was not afraid to travel, and to stay in hotels alone, actually had a profession and followed it seriously. Miss Tyrwhitt protested that she was not a particularly good artist, certainly not compared to her other women contemporaries at the Slade, one of whom was tremendously gifted. She mentioned names but they were meaningless to Sir Edward as well as to Charlotte. They learned that her father was a clergyman, and that he too had taken his daughter on a tour of Europe’s art galleries just as Sir Edward was taking Charlotte. ‘You will remember it all your life,’ she told Charlotte, ‘and get a great deal from it. It will entirely reshape how you think about life and what you are to do with yours.’

  *

  Ursula felt better after the little interlude with Sir Edward and his daughter – more relaxed, not so tense, not so worried about seeing Gwen the next day. She had never confessed to her friend that she had lost the valise and her painting with it, and it troubled her to be deceitful. Her distress had been awful – she had wept for days and been quite unable to sleep, going over and over in her mind the process of the packing and labelling and despatching of her luggage. The fault, she was sure, though, had not been hers. Nobody to whom she spoke in her search for the lost valise seemed the least surprised at its disappearance – rather, they said that it was amazing more pieces of luggage did not go astray.

  She had thought of writing to Gwen and telling her what had happened but it seemed too cruel. Gwen might say she did not care, that the painting had been a first attempt and a failure, but on the other hand, in her present state of mind, it might depress her more. It was a risk Ursula did not wish to take. It was more than a year now since she’d seen her friend and she was supposed to be visiting to cheer her up in the new room she did not like, in the Rue de l’Ouest. Gwen knew, now, about Rodin’s latest mistress and was suffering accordingly. Ursula did not want to tell her about lost valises. She would amuse her instead by describing Sir Edward and his daughter, with their solemn respect for art. The girl, Charlotte, adored her father, it was plain to see. Ursula had loved her boast that he was a fine artist himself. Maybe he was. He had not, she noticed, made any extravagant claims for Charlotte’s talents. It was always a strangely touching sight, a father with a devoted, admiring daughter. She supposed that once upon a time she had felt the same about her own father.

  Gwen had never felt that way about hers, she knew.

  *

  It had been a pity to bid goodnight to their new acquaintance and to know they would not see her the next day, or indeed, probably, ever again, just when the relationship seemed so very promising. Charlotte had never met anyone like her, and neither, she could tell, had her father. Miss Tyrwhitt was their main topic of conversation in the train all the way to Italy. ‘I wonder why she is not married, Papa,’ Charlotte could not help speculating, but her father would not be drawn beyond saying, ‘Some story there, I imagine, death of a fiancé most likely’ (which for him was quite indulgent). Charlotte promptly imagined it too, but though this gave her a pleasant few minutes she rejected the idea. ‘No,’ she suddenly said out loud, ‘she has chosen not to marry, I am sure of it. She is married to her art. She prefers it.’ Sir Edward smiled and murmured, ‘Very well, she is married to her art, and it makes a much better husband for her, I am sure.’

  ‘I should like to be married to art,’ Charlotte said, ‘but I am not worthy of it.’

  ‘Dear me, Charlotte,’ her father protested, ‘why not worthy?’

  ‘Not good enough at drawing or painting for it to be my whole world.’

  ‘I should think not. I am sure it is not Miss Tyrwhitt’s whole world either. It cannot be a woman’s whole world.’

  ‘Can it be a man’s?’

  Sir Edward hesitated. ‘Perhaps. A man is better able to let art dominate his life and sweep aside interruptions.’

  ‘Interruptions?’

  ‘Distractions, breaks in concentration owing to other events.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Papa?’

  ‘A woman …’ began Sir Edward, and then stopped. As so often with Charlotte, he found himself verging on the kind of philosophical conversation which led into questions from her that he had difficulty answering as straightforwardly as he would have wished.

  ‘A woman?’ prompted Charlotte.

  ‘A woman has children to occupy her.’

  ‘Not all women have children. If women are not married, there are no children to be a distraction. A woman then can be like a man and have the same dedication, can she not?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sir Edward said, weakly.

  ‘Well then,’ Charlotte said, satisfied. But then she recalled what had begun this dialogue and said, ‘Still, I am not good enough. I could never dedicate myself to art. I need something else, but what?’

  ‘You are barely sixteen, Charlotte, you cannot yet know what you want.’

  ‘Caroline was …’

  ‘We will not talk about Caroline, if you please.’

  ‘But why not, Papa? Why can we never talk of her? Why is it so wrong even to mention her?’

  ‘It is not wrong. It is distressing, and better left alone.’

  ‘Well then, Priscilla. Priscilla is only twenty and was barely nineteen when she married …’

  ‘Where on earth is this leading?’

  ‘You said that I could not know what I want in life because I am only sixteen and my point is that my sisters were not
much older when they knew what they wanted.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Why, of course. Priscilla longed to be married …’

  ‘She longed, I think, for a grand wedding and the status of wife.’

  ‘Oh, Papa! That is cynical, is it not?’

  ‘And the truth, I am afraid, a truth, Charlotte, not to be repeated outside this railway carriage.’

  ‘I am discreet, Papa.’ Her father smiled, so she repeated this. ‘I am known for my discretion, I assure you.’ He smiled even more broadly. ‘At any rate, Priscilla chose to be married,’ she carried on, ‘and the unnamed one chose adventure and uncertainty and a wandering life.’

  ‘Is that what you call it? How very romantic it sounds.’

  ‘Now you are being horribly sarcastic.’

  ‘You tempt me too far for me to resist.’

  ‘If we could name names and talk freely I would explain what I mean about your eldest daughter, but as I am forbidden …’

  ‘You are indeed forbidden, and your point is taken. You feel that sixteen ought to be quite old enough for you to know what you want from life. I accept that, madam, but nevertheless I suggest that it need not concern you unduly that you do not, in fact, know. The knowledge will come soon enough.’

  ‘Good,’ said Charlotte, and did not speak again until they arrived in Florence.

  *

  Jessie was waiting in the hall, her coat still on, her box at her feet. ‘Oh, ma’am, oh milady!’ she gasped, hand to mouth. Lady Falconer did not speak. It was all too obvious what had happened. The ornate mirror above the hall table had gone and so had the silver tray and the runner from the floor, brought back by Edward’s father from Afghanistan. Calmly, she asked Jessie, ‘We have been burgled?’

  ‘Yes, milady.’

  ‘Have you inspected all the rooms?’

  ‘No, milady, fearing who might still be about, fearing …’

  ‘Have you sent for the police?’

  ‘No, milady, knowing you were about to arrive, and thinking it best that …’

  ‘Very well, Jessie. We will telephone for the police and until they arrive we will have some tea and be sensible. There is no use in being agitated. The deed is done.’

  And most thoroughly done. The opinion of the policeman who turned up with gratifying promptness was that the burglars had known what they wanted. Lady Falconer observed, drily, that this was most discerning of them. There was no real mess, apart from the glass broken in the pantry window and the lock forced off the kitchen door – the burglars had been tidy, smashing nothing else and opening but not emptying out any drawers (‘unusual’ the policeman said). The list of what had been taken consisted of small items of furniture, all of the silver and the safe, containing most of Lady Falconer’s jewellery. Itemising these jewels proved trying. She remembered the pearls and the diamonds well enough, necklaces, bracelets and rings, but listing the gold chains and lockets and the various brooches, some amethyst, some rubies, proved more difficult. ‘Thousands of pounds,’ the policeman murmured. ‘And of great sentimental value,’ Lady Falconer sternly rebuked him.

  She did not know what had been taken that belonged particularly to her husband. His bedroom and his study appeared untouched, but she could not be sure of this and said she would have to wait until he returned from abroad, which would not be for several weeks. The policeman was perturbed by this, but understanding, and most concerned that Lady Falconer would be alone in a now vandalised house. He advised that at least until the window and door had been repaired she ought not to stay in the house. Jessie was glad to hear this because she herself had no intention of staying a single night until new male servants were engaged and preferably not until the master himself was home. Lady Falconer’s calmness – ‘cool as a cucumber’ as Jessie reported to everyone afterwards – alarmed her. It might mean her mistress was unafraid and about to ignore the policeman’s advice. But she did not. ‘As you say,’ she said to the policeman, ‘the house must be secured first, if it ever can seem secure again. I believe there are burglar alarm systems, am I correct?’ The policeman said she was, but that they were expensive to install and liable to malfunction.

  There was nothing else to do but wait for a locksmith and a glazier to arrive. It angered Lady Falconer that she was obliged to call for them herself when it was surely a man’s job to make the arrangements. But there was no man available, and Jessie had already departed back to Norfolk, anxious to catch the last train. The policeman had toured the whole house, ascertaining that no one lurked in the attics or basement, so Lady Falconer felt able to look into each room herself in case she could recognise any disturbance. A rug had gone from the library – more Afghan loot – and so had some ornaments. Then she noticed that there was also a bare patch on the wall where Sir Edward’s treasured Dutch painting had hung. He would be more upset about that than anything else, but it was his own fault for insisting on closing the house up for such a long time. She knew that to think such a thing was spiteful and petty but that was how she felt. In the dining room everything had gone from sideboard and table – all the silver, as she had told the policeman – but she now saw that there was another bare patch to account for. It was a larger patch than the one on the library wall and this one she did recall. It was a painting of fruit, a tureen heaped with fruit, and it had belonged once to Edward’s aunt who had left it to him in her will some years ago. She had thought it ugly, almost vulgar, but Edward had been thrilled to inherit it. The frame, she remembered, was rather fine, quite the most attractive thing about it. Perhaps the ‘discerning’ burglars had taken it for the frame.

  It was only in order to be thorough that she went into Charlotte’s bedroom at all, since there was nothing in it that was of any real value, or at least nothing that could be moved. The wardrobe was a beautiful piece of furniture but would have taken four strong men to steal. Peering into the room she saw nothing untoward, and closed the door firmly. She did not go up to the attics. The policeman had been, and it did not seem necessary even in the interests of scrupulous checking. She had only once, in all the years in the house, been up to the attics and that was at least ten years ago during the unfortunate incident involving a maid who had given birth. She trusted Jessie to see that all was as it should be up there. As she descended the stairs again after her tour of inspection, the house was extraordinarily quiet. She paused midway, hand on banister, and listened. It was not that she was afraid, though she would have had every justification to be, but that she felt a sense of surprise. The house always seemed full of noise to her even when only her husband and younger daughter were at home with her. The memory of familiar noises, now shockingly absent, overwhelmed her suddenly. No doors banged, no servant clattered about on the tiled kitchen floor, no grandfather clock ticked (and how had the burglars managed to steal that?). The air felt heavy with dust and the unnatural silence was ominous, making her imagine a bomb about to explode.

  Hurriedly, she swept down the rest of the stairs and picked up her coat. She could wait no longer for the locksmith and glazier. Instead, she would drop the key off on her way to Pamela’s and trust them to see to the repairs – the house had been burgled, everything worth stealing had already gone. She had no intention of returning until both Edward and all the servants were in residence.

  And she was certainly not returning to Priscilla’s.

  *

  Charlotte felt a great leap of recognition. This, surely could be the room. The ceiling sloped, the wallpaper was yellow, the window had a lace curtain in front of it, there was a small wooden table and upon it a vase of flowers. But the chair was wrong. It was not a wickerwork chair but an uncomfortable wrought-iron chair. And the floor was not right. It was covered in rush matting. But still, the room spoke to her and she was delighted with it, rushing down to her father to urge him to come and see her quarters. He came willingly, and saw what she meant but said gently, ‘There are many rooms such as this, Charlotte. I doubt if this could be the room
itself.’

  The villa was on a hillside outside Florence, near to Fiesole, and he had been directed to it by an old friend in London before he left. The landlady took English visitors and there was the atmosphere of a private home rather than an hotel which greatly appealed to her clientele, especially Sir Edward. He himself had been given a charming room with a superb view in the direction of Florence. Her view was, if anything, even better than his own and they stood for a moment, lace curtain drawn back, admiring it.

  ‘I am going to try to draw it, Papa,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘What, the view?’

  ‘No, no, this room. I will sit on the bed and try to draw it and perhaps paint it.’

  ‘A good idea,’ her father said. ‘When will you begin?’

  She began the next day, after they had returned from the Uffizi, and discovered at once how hard it was to capture what she wished to capture, and which had been captured for her in the little painting at home. Nothing came out right, either in pencil or charcoal or water-colours. All she produced was a corner of an undistinguished room, rather depressing in its flat ordinariness. Light was the problem. She could not convey the quality of the light, how it made the flowers glow and the table’s surface shine and the wallpaper recede into shadows. There was no sense, either, of herself in this room, or of anyone else. It was empty, of feeling, of human presence, of everything.

  She tore her attempts up day after day. It began to hang over her, this self-imposed task, which at first she had been eager to embrace. All she could think of was the painting back home, its perfection, its powerful simplicity, and she yearned to have it with her. But her failed efforts were not entirely in vain. Lying in bed at night, the window before her open and the stars shining in the dark sky, she thought she had learned something about herself on this trip. Art could not give her everything she needed. There was, for her, no real fulfilment in striving to draw or paint. She did not, after all, want to go to the Slade School. She could be moved by art, she could admire and value what artists produced. She cared about great art passionately, but she was not an artist. At first, she felt distressed at this growing realisation, and almost panicked at the gap which now opened up in her young life: if not art, what? She felt troubled, trying to invent other ambitions. The romantic image she had been able to envisage for so long was being denied her – she would never, now, starve in a garret or succeed in expressing herself in art.