by James Wilson
‘What did …? What did he …?’
‘Oh, it were all one to ‘im. Weren’t my legs as fussed ‘im. On or off?’
‘Off.’
She bent down and took them off as matter-of-factly as if I had asked her to remove a tea tray.
‘There,’ she said, flinging them on the chair. As she did so I saw the bounce of her heavy breast, and glimpsed the thicket of darker hair beneath her belly. She appeared entirely unselfconscious, as if she felt no shame in her nakedness, and no pride either.
But to me …
To me it was a miracle.
I had never seen a woman undress before.
She threw herself on the bed and lay there, turning her head from side to side, gently rolling her hips so that her legs fell open.
‘Come on,’ she said.
And then I knew the depth of my own folly. The folly of thinking I might see another life – imagine another life – but not cross the threshold into living it.
The folly of denying my own fate.
For I had not chosen this. I had resisted, indeed, as I have been resisting for months. But fate had overruled me, and delivered me here.
No-one I knew had seen me.
This woman did not know my name.
I was free.
She watched me approach, but then, as I drew near, laid an arm across her face. I sat beside her, uncertain what to do.
Put it on, then,’ she said.
She removed her arm, but kept her eyes closed.
Put it on,’ she repeated.
I slipped the hood over her head. She stretched out her arms in a parody of crucifixion, blindly adjusting them until each wrist was lying against one of the bed-posts.
The meaning was plain enough. I tied one hand with the rope. She did not murmur. For the other I used one of her stockings.
I stared at her. She could not stare back. She had no eyes.
There was so much of her. Such an ocean of skin – as still now as cream, and as smooth, save where it was creased and printed with the stamp of her corset.
Not my wife. Not a woman I knew. Just woman.
I took off my clothes slowly, looking at her the whole time. Why hurry? I did not need to entice her, or persuade her, or ask her permission. She could not escape me. She was entirely within my power.
When I entered her she sighed, and yielded up a cry that seemed extorted from her against her will.
And when I had done she shuddered, and whispered:
‘You’re more of a man than ‘e was. You want to do it again? Or you going to untie me?’
I did not sleep when she did. I have never been more awake. I got up and listened at the door. I heard nothing, except a distant noise of snoring. My captor must have drunk too much at the public, and passed out in a stupor.
I went to the window. The cloud had cleared, and there was a moon. I could see a steep roof, with what appeared to be an outhouse or shed below it, from which – I thought – I could easily enough reach the ground. The snow lay thick everywhere. It would, I thought, break my fall, and muffle the sound of it.
I had no fear. I knew I must trust my fate.
I quietly dressed, put a sovereign on the pillow, and cracked open the casement. It was too small for me to get through fully clothed, so I had to remove my coat and drop it out before me. For a moment it snagged on a broken gutter, but then its own weight freed it and it fell on to the lower roof. And it was as well it did – for when I landed on it, I felt a sharp grazing pain, and found that beneath the snow the whole surface was covered with pieces of broken glass, which had doubtless been put there to stop boys climbing on it. The coat was badly torn, but the reticule and my flask were undamaged, and I sustained no more than a few scratches.
Trust your fate, and no harm will come to you.
I dropped down, and found myself in a little alley behind a row of houses. At the end I could see a line of rickety buildings thrown into silhouette by the moonlight. I made my way towards them, and emerged into a mean street of wharves and taverns and warehouses. I had no idea where I was, or which way I should take; but it seemed slightly lighter and more open towards the left, so I struck out in that direction. And once again fate rewarded me; for after a few minutes I came out in a main road, and almost immediately spied a cab.
The driver hesitated a moment when he saw the state of my clothes, but the sight of my purse soon convinced him.
‘What street is that?’ I asked him, pointing to the way I had just come.
‘New Gravel Lane, sir.’
So I have been in Wapping, where Turner went. I have known the freedom he knew. I have partaken of his power.
LIII
Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
14th December, 185–
Limmeridge,
Thursday
My darling Walter,
You bad boy! Did you not promise you would write every day? Or has dining with Sir Charles Eastlake quite turned your head, and made you forget your poor family altogether!
We are well, save that we miss you so much. Would it were Christmas already – for that will bring us the best present of all.
Your loving wife,
Laura
LIV
From the diary of Marian Halcombe, 14th December, 185-
An odd postscript to yesterday, which I was too tired and upset to note down before I went to bed:
I spent most of the day writing my journal, and resting. About six, having not heard Walter enter the house, I returned to his studio, to ask whether he would be coming in to dinner. I think I took him by surprise; for he was engrossed in writing himself, but stopped as soon as he heard me, and stood before the table, as if he were hiding something from my gaze. He was wilder-eyed and more dishevelled than ever, having plainly neither slept nor changed his clothes since the morning.
‘Are you unwell?’ I said.
He shook his head. As he did so, the light caught his cheek, and I saw that the bruise there had grown into an ugly swelling.
‘Oh, you are! You’re injured!’ I cried, moving towards him impulsively.
He shook his head again, and put out his hands to keep me from him. Perhaps he was merely being delicate, for he smelt vile, and might have been trying to spare me the stale fishy sweetness that clung to him like a fog, and still lingers in my nose as I write these words; but from the way he flinched, and the coldness in his eyes, it was difficult to avoid the impression that his motive was to protect not me, but himself.
Of course I was hurt. But worse – far worse: I suddenly caught myself calculating the distance between here and the house, and wondering whether Davidson would hear me if I cried out, and come to my aid. I have grown used, these last few months, to feeling I could not completely trust Walter, or guess what was in his mind. But never before have I doubted my own safety with him.
What did I fear he might be capable of doing?
I cannot bring myself to write – to think it, even.
My judgement must have been disordered by anxiety. And lack of sleep. And a night of terrible imaginings.
As I backed away he reached behind him and then moved quickly in front of the painting I had seen that morning. His aim, presumably, was to prevent me from seeing it; but he succeeded only in drawing my attention to it, for it was far too big for him to conceal. It was quite unlike anything I have known Walter attempt before, with none of his customary care and sweetness and faithful attention to detail. The paint seemed to have been flung against the canvas, where it hung in great pools and drips as thick as icicles – as if the artist’s job were merely to get it out of the pot, and he had no obligation to do anything with it once it was there. I can only assume he was trying for a Turnerish effect, for there was a jagged red smear in the middle, surrounded by black – but it entirely lacked Turner’s lucidity and brilliance. The red wasn’t red enough; the black wasn’t black enough; they bled into each other around the edges, and suggested no natural
object or effect I have ever seen in my life.
But something about it reminded me of another picture. Not the style – not the subject-matter – but the grandiose scale. The not-qnite-rightness of it.
What was it?
And then I remembered. Poor Haste’s huge picture of Lear.
Perhaps Walter saw my reaction; for he snapped: ‘It’s not finished!’ and then, without giving me a chance to reply:
‘What do you want?’ From the tone of his voice you might have supposed I was a naughty child, who had been told that in no circumstances was Papa to be disturbed.
‘I forgot my reticule,’ I said hastily – which was true enough, though I had only that moment thought of it.
He nodded towards the table where it still lay. I picked it up, and knew at once that it was too light.
‘Where’s my notebook?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
I pulled it open, and looked inside. Nothing else was missing. I took out my purse. Two sovereigns and some change. Just as I remembered.
‘Could it have fallen out?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’
‘The thief had the string round his wrist.’ He rotated his own wrist impatiently for emphasis. I noticed that it was red and chafed, but knew better now than to ask why. ‘And after that it was in my pocket.’
‘What about when you took it back from him?’
He shook his head again. ‘You must have left it at the East-lakes’.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You must have!’ He seemed taken aback by his own vehemence, and made an effort to calm himself before going on, more reasonably:
‘It would have been easy enough to forget, wouldn’t it? In the circumstances.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, moving towards the door; for I could see there was no point in discussing it further. ‘I’ll write to Elizabeth East-lake about it.’
And I will. But I still find it difficult to believe that I would have left my notebook there, even in all the confusion – for usually, whether I am thinking consciously of it or not, I am as aware of its whereabouts as I am of my own hand.
Walter did not come in to dinner.
LV
From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
14th December, 185–
To live as Turner did you need a basement.
I did not think to provide myself with one when I designed the studio. As a result, Marian surprised me today when I was writing, and saw the Ironworks Accident before it was ready.
There is not a great deal I can do about the painting, save to deter further visits. But for this notebook there is a simple remedy. I shall go out tomorrow and get a box.
LVI
Letter from Lady Eastlake to Marian Halcombe,
15th December, 185-
7 Fitzroy Square,
Friday
My dear Marian,
Thank you for your note. I am so glad that your brother was able to retrieve your reticule, which has a little restored my faith in Fortune’s taste, if not in her morals – for had she deprived you of that, after heaping on us all the other disasters of the evening, I should have considered her guilty of vulgar excess, and avoided her society altogether. Did the wretch who tried to steal it escape, or was Mr. Hartright able to deliver him to the police?
No sign, I fear, of your notebook. I have made a fleeting search of the drawing room myself, and made enquiries of the servants, without success; but we shall keep looking, and if the fugitive is found will put it securely under lock and key, and return it to you under armed guard.
We must – we will – meet soon, and make good what we so signally failed to do on Tuesday; though it will not now, I am afraid, be until some time after Christmas.
In haste,
Yours very truly,
Eliz. Eastlake
LVII
From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
15th December, 185-
I am like an engine. Pulled and pushed by so many conflicting pressures I fear the rivets will break, and I shall fly apart.
But if I can hold myself together this will be a great book. Not just the life of an artist, but – for the first time – his soul.
People will ask me how I know.
I shall say nothing.
They will see the answer in my painting. Chiaroscuro.
LVIII
Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
16th December, 185-
Limmeridge,
Saturday
My darling Walter,
Still nothing from you. Is something the matter?
I thought things were well between us again, but now I fear they are not.
Please write soon.
Your loving wife,
Laura
LIX
From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
17th December, 185-
Sunday
A dreadful night. Dreamed of Laura. She was crying. She said: If that’s what you wanted, you had but to ask.
Another letter from her this morning. Did not open it. Have not opened the last one.
Tried to reassure myself with Nisbet’s words: ‘Everything has its price. Turner knew that.’
But what if the price is unbearable?
The worst of it is not being able to talk to anyone. This afternoon, in desperation, I called on Travis. He is a man of the world, I think. But his wife said he had gone to the Athenaeum. I was not dressed for the Athenaeum.
Spent the evening working on the Accident. It still would not come; and at length I could not bear to look at it any more, and retreated to my room. But I will not be defeated.
If I have learned anything, it is that victory or defeat is all a question of will. Tomorrow I shall return to it, and force it to express what is in my mind.
LX
Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
18 th December, 185–
Limmeridge,
Monday
My darling Walter,
Why do you not answer me? I can scarce see the paper for weeping.
Remember my condition.
Please.
Your loving wife,
Laura
LXI
From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
18th—20th December, 185-
Monday
It is a monster, but I must face it.
Travis appeared about three o’clock. I was doing well enough until then.
‘Kate told me you called yesterday,’ he said. One raised eyebrow asked: Why?
I did not feel I could tell him at once. ‘Yes.’
He did not press me, but whistled under his breath, and looked about him at the studio, nodding approvingly. Then his eye fell on the Accident. He did not say anything, but gave a knowing smirk that galled me.
‘I’t isn’t finished,’ I said hotly. I am growing tired of having to explain it.
‘No,’ he drawled. He did not add: I can see that, but he might just as well have done. ‘So you are still pursuing Turner?’
‘Yes,’ I said, wiping my hands, and edging him away from the canvas. ‘I am writing his biography.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ He pursed his lips, and rolled the notion round in his mouth, as a man will savour a wine before pronouncing on its quality. ‘What a good idea,’ he said at last – in a manner that perfectly conveyed: Or better, at least, than trying to paint as he did.
His condescension was insufferable; but I managed to contain my rage, and even to give a fair impression of genial hospitality as I gestured him to a chair, and took one myself.
‘And what have you found out?’ he said.
‘A good deal. Did you, for instance, know that he used to patronize a brothel in Wapping? Where he tied the girls up, and made them hide their faces?’
His response astonished me. I had expected surprise – disbelief – a cry of Graciou
s, man! How do you know that? and then the glorious relief of telling him. Instead, he merely chuckled, and said:
‘Oh, yes! – I’ve heard those stories!’
‘You have?’
He nodded and smiled superciliously, like a schoolboy amused at the naïveté of one of his fellows.
‘And you do not believe them?’
He shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. And I don’t greatly care.’ He took a cigar-case from his pocket and opened it. ‘It’s not my taste at all. The wilder and freer the better, so far as I’m concerned.’ He laughed. ‘Smoke?’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. We’re all rather strange, aren’t we? And Turner was stranger than most.’ He lit our cigars, and then meditatively tapped the match until it went out. ‘But it’s equally possible there are people who want us to believe it.’
I almost choked.
‘Too strong for you?’ he said.
’ Who would want us to believe it?’
‘Oh, I could give you a hundred names. Many of them titled. Most of them powerful.’ He shrugged again, as if the point were too obvious to need further elucidation. ‘And what else?’
‘Wait!’ I held up my hand to silence him, while I struggled to order my thoughts. Which was no easy task: for suddenly a whole clamour of doubts and misgivings, which up until now I had successfully kept at bay, breached my defences, and broke in upon my conscious mind.
Had my captors really gone to all that risk and trouble merely in order that I should know the truth? Even the cost of the cab, surely, would have been prohibitive for them?
Was it not far more probable that someone else had paid them to do it?
And then I remembered Farrant. And the man I had met with him, Hargreaves. There’s a value now, to stories about Turner. There’s a gentleman as pays good money for them.
I said:
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Would they want…?’
‘Oh, because of the will, of course.’
‘Turner’s will, you mean?’
‘Well, certainly I don’t think mine would have roused their interest,’ he murmured. ‘And’ – here he looked about him, and smiled languorously – ‘forgive me, but I rather doubt whether yours would, either.’