by James Wilson
‘I’m not going to faffle about like a woman,’ said Nisbet quietly. He narrowed his eyes, and looked out of the window again. ‘There’s a bridge-stocker there. There’s a manager. There’s Harkness. They know where to find me if I’m wanted.’ He returned to me, and, touching my elbow, moved me towards a picture over the fireplace. ‘There you are. There’s a Turner for you.’
It was a large marine scene: a turbulent grey sea, churned up by the wind, with an embattled steamer struggling against the storm. Everything was extraordinarily imprecise, even by Turner’s standards – the waves no more than a few thick, ridged swirls laid on a brilliant white ground – the ship a fuzzy black blur, of which the most clearly defined feature was the torrent of smoke streaming from its funnel. And yet the effect was somehow so vivid that you could feel the lurch of the deck under your feet, and the sting of the spray on your face, and smell the hot sour reek of coal-smoke, and hear the wheels thrashing and the engine throbbing in your ears.
‘What do you think?’ asked Nisbet.
‘It’s very fine.’
‘Is that an honest opinion?’
‘Yes,’ I said, somewhat taken aback by his bluntness.
‘Then you must fight the whole neighbourhood. Including my father-in-law.’ He turned to the old man. ‘This is Mr. Hartright, Dad. Mr. Hartright, Sam Bligh.’
‘How d’ye do?’ said the old man. His hand trembled as it took mine.
‘Mr. Hartright’s an artist, Dad,’ said Nisbet. He pointed towards the Turner. ‘Tell him what you think of that.’
Mr. Bligh attempted a smile. ‘It’s all froth and splutter,’ he said, like a child encouraged to repeat some amusing remark before visitors.
‘And you’d as soon …?’ prompted Nisbet.
‘I’d as soon sit in the laundry, and watch the bubbles on the copper.’
‘There,’ said Nisbet, laughing. ‘That is what I must contend with. And his daughter’s no better. She thinks -’
But I never discovered what Mrs. Nisbet thought; for at that moment the man in the brown suit entered without knocking. He was out of breath; his hair was wet and tousled, his red face blotched with dirt; and there were scorch-marks on his sleeves.
‘What is it?’ snapped Nisbet.
Harkness glanced covertly at me. ‘I think you should come, sir,’ he said softly.
‘What is it?’ roared Nisbet. He was white and shaking, and spat out the words so furiously that he had to wipe the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand.
I struggled to hold my tongue; for poor Harkness had clearly been through some terrible ordeal, and Nisbet’s behaviour seemed akin to the Roman tyrant’s monstrous practice of killing the bearer of bad news. But Harkness himself appeared quite unmoved by it – as if, having bolted the doors and put up the shutters to protect himself against some great catastrophe, he was not now going to be intimidated by a mere show of temper.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, drawing himself up and looking his employer calmly in the eye, ‘I told him what you said. And he said, he was a free man, and if you wouldn’t have him there’s others as would. And he stormed off.’
‘Is that all?’ said Nisbet, his eyes lightening, like a condemned man who had suddenly glimpsed the possibility of reprieve.
Harkness shook his head. ‘There was a barrow by the filling-hole, barring his way. He couldn’t see it clearly, what with the dark, and him drunk. I suppose he must have thought it was full, for he seized it with all his might, to throw it clear. But it was empty, and gave way too easily, and the force of his own movement sent him into the furnace.’
‘Oh!’ whimpered the old man, turning away, and pressing his fingers anguishedly against his brow. Nisbet’s gaze did not waver; but his face paled and seemed to tighten, as if some unwelcome presence had insinuated itself beneath the skin.
‘Two of the other men pulled him out again, almost at once,’ said Harkness. ‘But he’s bad. Very bad.’
‘Has the doctor been called?’ asked Nisbet.
‘Of course,’ said Harkness. ‘But…’ He dropped his eyes, finally admitting defeat.
‘And what of his wife?’
Harkness shook his head.
‘Give her five pounds, and tell her I shall see her tomorrow,’ said Nisbet, shooing him towards the door. He started to follow, then stopped and turned to his father-in-law. ‘Dad, look after Mr. Hartright, will you?’
But, try as he might, poor Mr. Bligh had not the heart to play the host; and after enquiring where I had come from, and where I was going, and making two or three feeble observations about the pictures, he gave up altogether, and gravitated towards the window, where he stood with his hands clasped behind him, like an elderly Bonaparte surveying the field of Waterloo. Secretly relieved (for I did not feel much like making conversation myself), I lingered at the other end of the room, and tried to divert myself by looking at the remaining Turners. They were, undeniably, magnificent – the interior of a foundry, a dazzling contrast of dark and light; and a fiery railway train appearing through a curtain of smoke and rain – but even their drama seemed somehow flat and lifeless compared with the tragedy unfolding outside, and after a few minutes I found myself standing next to Mr. Bligh and looking out.
The commotion by the furnace seemed to have died down – the swarming throng had stabilized, and ordered itself into a long line, as dark and immobile as a wall. As we watched, it slowly parted, and four minuscule doll-figures emerged carrying what looked like an untidy heap of blankets on a gate. They moved at a regular, deliberate plod, without urgency, towards a horse and cart standing at the edge of the crowd. Clearly, the victim was either out of danger – or, as I feared, beyond help.
I looked away, but a pitying moan from my companion made me turn back immediately. It took me a moment to make out what he had seen: a woman, running and stumbling across the rough ground, who hurled herself down before the makeshift litter, forcing the men to stop. She hugged herself – then threw her arms in the air – then rose again, and did a strange distraught dance, stamping her feet, and flinging her head from side to side. We, of course, saw this only as a kind of dumb-show, for she was too far away for us to hear the accompanying wails and sobs – which (contrary to what you might suppose) actually made matters worse; for it heightened our feelings of powerlessness and detachment, while underscoring the awful solitariness of human suffering.
But enough – I do not want to distress you, or myself. Suffice it to say that I felt I must avert my eyes, and yet knew that I must not. For a moment I was paralysed by this impasse; and then I suddenly saw that by drawing the dreadful scene before me I might somehow make it tolerable. I could not be of material aid to my fellow creatures; but it seemed to me that by bearing witness to their agony I might – in some tiny, mysterious way – share it with them, and give it meaning.
My notebook was too small to be serviceable; so I turned to Mr. Bligh and said:
‘Do you think I might have some paper?’
I think he, too, was glad to be doing something; for he at once went to the writing table in the corner, and brought me five or six sheets – and then, seeing the speed at which I worked, went back’for more, and stood attentively at my side, like the assistant who turns the pages for a musician, in case I should run out again.
I do not know how long I stood there, or how many drawings I made, but I was still labouring when Nisbet at length returned. He seemed shaken, but after a minute or two recovered somewhat, and, recalling his duties as a host, offered me a glass of wine – which I was only too happy to accept. As he handed it to me, his eye fell on my drawings, and he picked them up, and silently scrutinized them for a minute or more. At length he returned them to me, saying:
‘Send me a sketch of the finished painting when you’ve done it. The locomotive, too. I might be interested in buying.’
Heavens! We are almost there! My love to you always, and to the children.
Walter
XLIX
Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
7th December, 185–
Limmeridge,
Thursday
My darling boy,
Your letter quite frightened me. Such a horrible accident! That unfortunate man, and his poor wife! I scarce dare think about it.
Please, my darling, be careful.
Your loving wife,
Laura
L
From the journal of Walter Hartright, 10th December, 185–
Prepared the canvas today. Reviewed my drawings. Worked up two or three preliminary watercolour sketches.
But I cannot settle to it.
There is something disturbing about being back in London. Sometimes – most of the time – I still feel myself. But occasionally I seem to glimpse the world through the eyes of someone else entirely – someone I supposed I had cast off for ever, but who appears to have been waiting for me here, and to have gained strength from my return.
Perhaps I am just suffering from wounded pride. For I feel I have been ordered here like a performing animal, to go through my tricks before Lady Eastlake, and parrot Marian’s views as my own.
I must force myself back to the picture. If I can but make that work, I shall truly know more of Turner than they ever could.
LI
From the journal of Marian Halcombe,
13th December, 185–
Thank God. My prayers have been answered.
How easily do we lose our sense of proportion. Twelve hours ago, had I been able to foresee the circumstances in which I write this, I should have been utterly distraught. But my heart, instead, is full of gratitude – for what I have lost, I can see, is as nothing compared with what I thought I had lost, and has been miraculously restored to me.
Now. I must be as good as my word, and set to work.
From this side of the abyss, it is hard to recognize the woman arriving in Fitzroy Square last night as myself. I observe her coldly (as a stranger would) being helped by Walter from the cab, and glancing expectantly towards the front door, and then devoting a full minute or more to smoothing her dress, settling her bonnet, and hoisting her skirts above the mire, as if a wrinkle or a stray hair or a muddy hem were the worst disaster that could befall her. There is something contemptible about such a petty display; and yet it moves me to pity, too – for I know what she in her blithe ignorance cannot even suspect: that her vanity is about to get its come-uppance.
I had supposed, from Elizabeth Eastlake’s invitation, that we should be dining with them alone; and I was therefore surprised to find, on entering the drawing room, that there were two other people already there. At first glance you might have supposed them to be an elderly couple; for both were grey-haired, and they shared a kind of plain, no-nonsense demeanour that marked them out as members of the high-minded, rather than the fashionable, portion of the Eastlakes’ acquaintance. Something in the way they stood, however – she talking animatedly, he stooping formally towards her, with the intent expression of someone who has difficulty hearing, but does not want to admit it – suggested that they were people who did not know each other well; and as they separated and turned towards us, preparing to be introduced, I saw that in fact she was a full twenty years older than he was. Her lively spirits, plainly, had enabled her to preserve the manner and appearance of a much younger woman; while he (by some strange law of complementarity), though still only in his fifties, seemed to be hurrying into old age as fast as his stiff limbs could carry him.
‘Mrs. Somerville,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I don’t believe you know Miss Halcombe?’
But of course I knew her name (it is impossible to spend ten minutes in the company of a blue-stocking like Elizabeth East-lake without hearing it mentioned at least once), and was keenly conscious, as we shook hands, that it was a great honour to meet her. And yet I could not but feel a spasm of disappointment, too, that the Eastlakes had not considered us worthy of an evening by ourselves, but had merely seen us as one more social duty that must somehow be accommodated with all the others.
‘Mrs. Somerville, Mr. Hartright,’ murmured Sir Charles. ‘Miss Halcombe, Mr. Cussons.’
The next moment, disappointment gave way to outright dismay; for, turning towards Mr. Cussons, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye another couple arriving. I could not, for an instant, believe my first impression of them; but a second glance confirmed it:
Mr. and Mrs. Kingsett.
I don’t know if Mr. Cussons noticed my shocked expression, for it was impossible to deduce anything from his face whatsoever. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, with a high domed forehead fringed with feathery hair, and the alert unsmiling eyes of a bird of prey.
‘How do you do?’ I said.
‘How do you do?’
I was painfully aware of the approaching Kingsetts, and frantically wondering how I should conduct myself towards them; but realizing I could not break free from Mr. Cussons just yet without seeming rude, I lingered beside him, waiting for him to go on. He, however, seemed to feel under no compulsion to say anything more, and merely continued to stare – intently enough, but entirely without interest, so that you felt he wasn’t really looking at you at all, but merely keeping watch in case a mouse or a rabbit suddenly broke cover, and scuttled across the carpet. After fifteen seconds I felt I had earned my release – for surely a man must exercise his claim to a woman’s attention by speaking within a reasonable time, or else forfeit it altogether? – and, muttering an excuse, bowed to the inevitable, and turned to Lydia Kingsett.
I knew at once that matters had not improved since our last meeting. She looked more worn than ever, and her hands were deathly cold as she clasped mine – although she was, I think, genuinely glad to see me, and even managed a little smile as she said, with pathetic eagerness:
‘Miss Halcombe, Miss Halcombe, I’m so …’
But then she caught her husband’s eye, and stopped abruptly.
‘You’re what?’ I said, laughing, and trying to encourage her with a tone of easy familiarity. ‘Come on, tell me.’
She mumbled, shook her head, stared at the floor. I touched her wrist, and bent close to her, as you would to a troubled child.
‘Hmm?’
But still she said nothing. In the awkward lull that followed, I felt her husband’s gaze upon me, as palpable as heat from a fire, challenging me to turn and discover what had silenced her. I tried to resist, but after a few seconds curiosity got the better of me.
It was disagreeable enough just to see him again, like suddenly smelling some foul half-forgotten odour; but what made it worse was the leering way he was looking at me, which was so frankly insulting that I thought one of the other gentlemen must see it, and come to my defence. Mr. Cussons, however, was still surveying the world from his perch, and Walter and Sir Charles were engaged in conversations of their own; so I had no alternative but to try to deter Kingsett myself, by scowling imperiously at him.
For answer – to my amazement – he protruded his tongue an inch or two from his lips, and ran a finger unhurriedly along it, in a gesture of unmistakable depravity – all the while eyeing me with a shameless smirk. If anyone else observed it (and I pray they did not), they could not but have seen it as evidence of some past intimacy between us; and, although I knew myself to be guiltless, I could not help blushing furiously.
I was, for a moment, transfixed; and then, as I saw him starting to advance towards me, preparing to extend the hand he had just licked, I turned tail and fled. Elizabeth Eastlake was, mercifully, talking to Walter, and I felt no compunction in intruding on them and drawing her to one side.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Do not ask Mr. Kingsett to take me down to dinner.’
‘Why?’ she said, surprised, with a surreptitious glance in his direction.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I whispered urgently – for already he had changed course, and was bearing down on us again.
She nodded, and – woman of the world
that she is – promptly turned to intercept Kingsett, allowing me to make my escape. I don’t know what she said to him, but when, a few minutes later, she whispered something to Sir Charles, and then slipped quietly from the room (presumably to change the place-names on the dinner table) he made no attempt to approach me again.
I stood in a corner, silently congratulating myself. This was not what I had imagined it would be – it might turn out to be a dull and worthless evening – but at least I had averted the worst harm it could do me.
Or so I thought.
I was spared Mr. Kingsett; but in all other respects the dinner turned out every bit as gruesome as I had feared. The price I paid for my deliverance was to be seated next to Mr. Cussons, who for most of the meal showed as little inclination to talk as he had done before it. I did try to breach the silence with a trivial comment or two, but they were as futile as pebbles flung against a castle wall; for he seemed to regard human communication as an unnecessary distraction, and merely grunted and glowered at me when I spoke, as though I had interrupted an important business meeting between him and his soup.
Sir Charles sat to my right, and was pleasant enough; but he was largely taken up with rescuing Mrs. Somerville from Mr. Kingsett, who – under the revised arrangement – was now between her and Lady Eastlake. Kingsett was almost as silent as Mr. Cussons – though not, in his case, out of aloofness, but rather from a kind of sulky petulance. The conversation, when it caught fire at all, was about photography, and prisms, and optical effects; and knowing himself unqualified to contribute to it (it was, quite literally above his head; for Elizabeth Eastlake is at least three inches taller than he is), he did his best to extinguish it altogether. Whenever either of his neighbours said anything, he would sigh, and shift in his chair, and clatter his knife and fork; or gaze absently into space; or appear to listen, with a foolish, put-upon little smile that said: It’s all nonsense, and I won’t be taken in by it. But his principal occupation, which he resumed whenever there was a lull, was terrorizing his wife – staring at her with such undisguised loathing and contempt that the poor woman was almost paralysed with misery and fear, and could only respond to Walter’s repeated attempts to draw her out with a few stammered words. I cannot deny being relieved that it was she, and not I, who was the object of this relentless persecution; and yet it left me feeling desperately angry and frustrated, too – as if I were being forced to witness some dreadful unequal battle, while being quite powerless to help the victims.