James Miranda Barry

by Patricia Duncker

  Our heroine in breeches, armed with two pistols, a rapier, a cutlass, a slingshot and a large stick, storms into the nave. We are discovered! We must flee at once! Too late! The brigands rise up from behind the plaster-cast tombs. One, in an arresting theatrical effect, pushes back the slab and surges forth from the tomb itself, masked and armed, all ready for the resurrection. We all gasp, thrilled.

  The breeches part draws her sword and prepares to die for her friend. But no! Behold! Forth from the confessional, flinging off the white cowl of the Order of the Little Brothers of the Penitent Thomas, thus providing definite proof that cucullus non facit monachum, the cowl doth not make the monk, steps the virtuous count in lace and jewels, rapier at the ready, prepared to take on forty brigands. Standing astride the mother’s tomb and drawing a dagger from his boot, he reveals his identity.

  ‘I am the Chevalier of Valdevenant and I charge you on your lives to yield, or my sword shall find the heart of each of you. This maid is mine and by her sacred mother’s head I will poignard the first who dares . . .’ etc., etc.

  I am very struck by the fact that his announcement arrests the action completely. Say who you are, and every situation is instantly reversed. The balance of power is irrevocably upset. Murderers are frozen in their tracks, ghosts vanish and everybody listens.

  ‘You haven’t followed the plot, darling,’ whispers Mary Ann. ‘It was the utterance of his name.’

  ‘I can see that, dammit – but why?’

  ‘The brigands are being paid by the Marquis of Valdevenant to do away with the maiden, who is really the sole legal inheritor of all his lands and castle. They aren’t being paid to murder his son and heir.’

  ‘Oh, do keep quiet, Mary Ann,’ hisses Francisco, who, like a child, has tears in his eyes as the lovers are reconciled. Half the house applauds and the other half weeps at the affecting scene.

  But what of the heroine in breeches, who has risked all to save her beloved friend? What will become of her when the loose ends are tied up? After all, she has delighted us with her songs, her beautiful legs, and dazzlingly short tunic. Surely she must have some reward? She is swearing eternal friendship: they never will be parted. Yes, yes, we know all that. Ah! Here comes the noble cottager who was burned out by the brigands. Aha! He wasn’t a cottager at all, but the banished younger cousin of the Marquis, who was in on the secret of the disguise all along and had lent the woodcutter the rapier which she has just so proudly sheathed. The brigands have melted away, while we get down to the nitty-gritty of identity revelations. The erstwhile cottager drops to one knee and declares his love for the woodcutter. A sentimental sigh shudders through the house. She cannot refuse, nay, she must not, for we all want the closing song and the pantomime.

  There is a good deal of shouting from above us and flowers are thrown energetically at the principals. We leave the box before the pantomime begins, for I want a report from Rupert on his theatrical researches and one from Mrs Harris on Barry’s condition. But as we descend the marble staircase, Francisco is collared by several of his acquaintances, one of whom wishes to introduce him to the dramatist herself, and I find myself looking up at the soft, effeminate jaw of the persistent Mr Haydon.

  ‘Dr Barry, may I be so bold as to call upon you at your London residence?’

  He will call, whatever I say. He has the intent and predatory look of a man who will not be refused. I nod and sweep past.

  Rupert is holding the carriage door for Mary Ann.

  ‘No luck, sir,’ he shakes his head at once. ‘No one’s ever seen or heard tell of her. But a woman among the costume makers said that she could be at Bath or York. One of the provincial companies might have taken her on for their summer tours.’

  I will not be deflected or discouraged.

  ‘We must find her, Rupert. If it takes us the rest of the year.’

  I cannot believe that so flamboyant and energetic a character as Alice Jones will ever sink without trace. Alice is one of life’s entrepreneurs. We will find her at the gaming tables. She plays to win. She cheats. She wins.

  * * *

  James Barry creeps towards death an hour at a time. When he is awake he is obnoxious and impatient. His incontinence is now chronic, to such an extent that it can no longer be intentional. I employ another woman to help Mrs Harris. The sheets are boiled daily in the kitchen and the stairs creak with the continued rise and descent of both women, bearing cauldrons of hot water. James Barry refuses to be moved. He also refuses to see Mary Ann. Inexplicably, her banishment causes her to overflow in great pools of grief. He demands continually to see Alice, but has ceased to insist upon the recovery of the box.

  ‘Bring her home, my boy. Bring her back to me,’ he whispers, with shuttered eyes. I send Rupert out, night after night. But every morning he has no news. He hears nothing.

  The spring blossoms all over London, and in Hyde Park Gate the dawn comes with shrieking birds. On still days the stench of London smoke and burning rubbish from the labyrinths and hovels which exist, disconcertingly, alongside the mansion houses and beautifully gardened squares, drifts towards even the most gracious and beautiful drawing rooms. Beggars with more exotic, running, fly-blown sores than I have ever seen, present themselves on doorsteps and at street corners. David Erskine employs two footmen, full-time, to chase them off. The clubs and drawing rooms of London society scarcely acknowledge their existence. Yet these freezing, ragged, barefoot children, who so torment James Barry, emerge from the lower depths behind Castle Street East, like invading demons, for a brief sojourn above ground, and then return to the abyss from whence they came. I watch, fascinated, as they fling themselves, like defeated goblins, down alleys and over walls, jeering and shrieking. I cannot imagine their lives.

  Mr Haydon proves, unfortunately, to be a man of his word. When he is announced in Francisco’s household, Mary Ann and I are out, trotting past the dusty bushes in Hyde Park. He leaves his card and undertakes to call again. Which he does, even earlier on the following morning. I am standing before the mirror in the drawing room, preoccupied by Jobson’s report from the hospital. I have no time for the importunate Mr Haydon.

  ‘Dr Barry, I would be honoured to accompany you to your uncle’s house.’

  This man is like a fly in summer. He cannot be dislodged. I am silent while the cab lurches and jolts towards the city. But nothing deters Mr Haydon. His conversation is almost entirely about himself.

  Do I enjoy the theatre?

  I attend too seldom to be in a position to comment.

  Ah, he had the privilege of seeing the wonderful Mrs Siddons as Lady Macbeth. They were performing in the Opera House, which gave the figures less effect. But the moment when she comes forth and Macbeth is in Duncan’s chamber, and she says, ‘That which hath made them drunk, hath made me bold . . .’ Ah, she was in a blaze! Why, it had the same effect upon me as my readings of Macbeth at home, at the dead of night, when everything was so silent that my hair stood upon end. I have begun another version of Macbeth, I fancy an improvement upon the great painting purchased by Sir George Beaumont. It would give me great pleasure to show you my studio and my latest works.’

  I foresee the inevitability of a visit to Mr Haydon’s studio.

  ‘I would be obliged if you would tell me, sir, what exactly is your connection with my uncle?’

  ‘I do not know a man for whom I feel a greater reverence. Believe me, Dr Barry, he is much misunderstood. He alone is the champion of the heroic in art. He has travelled in Italy, seen the works of Titian and Michael Angelo with his own eyes. He knows that Art must draw its audience upwards, always upwards, towards the perception of greatness, to the beautiful, the true and the good.’

  ‘My uncle’s unfortunate rejection of portrait painting and domestic scenes has principally been responsible for his declining fortunes, sir.’

  ‘But what Man of Genius considers these difficulties? Or remarks aberrant tricks of fashion or of fickle taste? Many men are jealous of your uncle�
��s achievements. He has powerful enemies, Dr Barry.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that his paranoid fantasies have some foundation.’

  I rap upon the roof of the cab. ‘If you will excuse me, I will walk from here. Good day, sir.’

  As the iron wheels roll away I hear Mr Haydon’s voice, gently receding, like a redundant god delivering his last oracle, importuning me to honour him with a visit to his studio at my earliest convenience. He is a man some ten years my senior. He is also very clearly after something.

  James Barry is sleeping peacefully. But he has had a difficult night, with much coughing. I pull the curtains close, which we have arranged around his bed, so that he is shaded from the sharp, spring light. The wind is up, and London seems washed clean for the new season. I cannot understand how a painter survives in the smoky air and murky gloom which usually drapes this city like a cowl. James Barry often painted by candlelight. Patches of wax are ingrained in his coat, on the floor. I pull back the ripped drapes from the completed Pandora. And find myself peculiarly disturbed by the naked presence of Alice Jones; not so much her breasts and belly, as might be expected, but the curve of her calf, the slope of her ankle, and the oddness of seeing her feet so clean. She appears before me again, lifting her apron and her dark-blue cotton skirts, the mud squelched between her toes, as she steps out onto the rocks and the rushing cold of the stream.

  ‘Rupert! We must find that girl. At all costs we must find her. And bring her home.’

  * * *

  Francisco comes with me to Mr Haydon’s studio. The painter’s rooms are at 342, The Strand. I am pleased to find his household modest, clean and so lacking in affectation that I begin to regard Mr Haydon in a new light. Francisco stands gravely to attention; his quiet mass of dignified solidity takes up a good deal of space in the little parlour, which is filled with sketches and books. Mr Haydon is a native of Devonshire and he once visited David Erskine’s estate on his way into Wales, to which he repaired with the intention of sketching cataracts, torrents and mist-covered precipices in the new style. His detailed enthusiasm for the beauty of this country on the Welsh borders fills me with the pleasure of memory. He saw that house in the country, the barns, the gardens, the great curving fields, the donkeys cantering in the paddock, the dank picture gallery and the endless rising staircases. Ah yes, and the vegetable garden with the experimental greenhouses, and the machine for measuring the potential growth of cucumbers. And so, for the first time, I begin to look even more favourably upon Mr Haydon, with his tiny, round glasses, his impeccable linen, and sinister, clean hands. I imagine that all painters are like Barry, covered in paint and wax, his wig occupied by beetles. I have begun to associate genius with dirt. We rise up to the extended attics where Mr Haydon plies his trade. The window is open and we have a promising view out over the roofs and chimneys.

  I look around.

  The most awesome gigantic canvas takes up all of one wall. At first, as with the paintings of James Barry, it is impossible to make out the subject. We are standing too close. I step back as far as possible, leaning against the opposite wall, and my gaze encompasses the noble face of the king in judgement, with the temple’s lofty pillars looming ponderous behind him. A man’s naked torso glows in the dark. Haydon reads my desire correctly and brings more lights, which he places on either side of the picture. I am impressed by the massive formal structure and the drama of his faces. He has caught them all at the moment of decision. One woman offering up the naked child, and the other, palms raised, her throat exposed, begging the executioner to stay his hand. This is The Judgement of Solomon.

  I stare at the painting.

  Suddenly, I see her. She is running. Two children caught in her arms, her dark hair enveloped in a flying cape, but it is her face, her dark eyes, dimpled chin and fresh cheeks, more clearly her face than could ever be guessed from the erotic, coy goddess Barry drew. Am I so lost a man that I see her everywhere? No, I am not wrong. She is unmistakable. I stand transfixed in an attitude, like one of Mr Haydon’s sketches of Lord Elgin’s marbles, which have lately caused such a stir. Representations of them litter Mr Haydon’s walls.

  Francisco comes to peer at the object of my fascinated stare. Haydon intervenes.

  ‘I took great trouble with that figure. You do not feel that she disturbs the balance of the painting?’

  ‘She disturbs my balance, sir. For, as a matter of fact, I am in search of the original.’

  ‘Good Heavens,’ exclaims Francisco, adjusting his spectacles, ‘it’s Alice Jones.’

  ‘Mrs Jones? Alice? Barry’s model?’ cries Haydon, surprised. He is irritated that we are concerned no longer with the grandeur of his painting, but with the verisimilitude of his portrait. I can hear it in his voice.

  ‘You appear to know who she is.’

  ‘All the painters know Mrs Jones. She is quite a famous model. Artists will pay a good deal for her services.’

  My lips tighten.

  ‘Will they, indeed?’

  ‘She has given up her career as a model for a new career as an actress. She is a woman of great talent. I am confident of her success.’

  ‘I was under the impression that she was already well embarked on a career as a kitchenmaid,’ laughs Francisco, very amused. Mr Haydon is about to take offence. He will not have his model belittled. He steps back from his mighty canvas, a little flushed, and addresses me directly.

  ‘Mrs Jones was peculiarly loyal to your uncle, Dr Barry. No matter how badly he treated her. They argued with considerable violence. But she would never hear a word against him. I always thought well of her for that.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know where she is to be found?’

  I try to keep the urgency out of my voice. But my caution is unnecessary. Mr Haydon notices nothing. He is a very assiduous salesman. He is trying to interest Francisco in some noble sketches of the famous marbles.

  ‘Mrs Jones? She was here three days ago. She has joined a touring company at Greenwich.’

  The next half-hour nearly brings on an apoplexy of impatience. We are wasting time looking at this vain man’s spatterings of genius. But I begin to examine his sketches and figures with close attention. And now I do see her everywhere. As Persephone, as Hermia, as Eve. Here are her strong arms, here is her merry face, and here it is, that wicked, calculating smirk when she has got her own way. I hear her voice, find myself watching the slope of her shoulder, the swing of her hip.

  Francisco purchases a fine Greek torso, based on the marbles, worked in silverpoint, after the Italian style, and is negotiating an oil portrait of Mary Ann, depicted as Demeter. I peer at Mr Haydon’s implements, chewing my whip in obsessive irritation. When did she begin to call herself Mrs Jones? Is Alice seeking some kind of specious respectability? She won’t gain much more respect as an actress than she would as a model. No one becomes an actress, who is not born into the trade. What can she have learned from working as an artist’s model? How to strike attitudes and take pleasure in immodest stares? I make the descent from the attic studio with indecent haste. But Mr Haydon wants one thing more.

  ‘It would be an honour beyond measure, Dr Barry, if I were able to view your uncle’s last best work, the famous Pandora, which has not yet been exhibited but about which we have heard so much.’

  I will not be so easily pacified.

  ‘My uncle is not dead yet, sir. And I find it somewhat dis­­concerting that you should refer to the Pandora as his last great work. He is resting beside that very painting. I am his doctor. And he cannot be visited.’

  * * *

  Easter. The festival approaches with an uncharacteristic explosion of fair weather, early flowers and a fresh warm wind. The mud cakes and cracks in the streets. The streaked buildings begin to dry out. I hear the perpetual banging and hammering as the work on new houses accelerates with astonishing vigour. To the west and north of the park and into the fields of Marylebone, London comes creeping, putting forth smart new streets. The bulge of
worked earth, spreading into the green, appears like a tumour on the town’s best cheek. I spend the night with Barry and once I am certain that no change can reasonably be expected in the coming hours, I set out for Greenwich, on horseback and alone, filled with my terrible determination to recover Alice Jones.

  I cross the river at the new Blackfriars Bridge. There is a chill wind coming off the water. The tide is out. The smaller boats and wherries lie enfolded in nests of ropes, their keels sunk into the mud. The crossing is like a medieval battle. I find myself engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with a struggling mass of pedlars, beggars and loaded carts on their way to the Easter fairs. We proceed, very slowly, locked together, like a millipede acquiring a fresh complement of legs. Once clear of the city I proceed at a brisk trot towards the hills of Greenwich, scarcely noticing, all around me, the greening of the world. But, as the stench of London recedes, I become aware of the fine, subtle odour of ploughed earth, the dew drying on the unshadowed side of the hedgerows. I observe two house-martins fluttering under the eves of a cottage a little to the left of the roadway. It gives me great pleasure to see people working their gardens, digging rows for potatoes. And here is an old man tending young seedlings. Can they be marrows, which he has grown under glass? The small coppice on the hill is alive with birds. My heart lifts.

  When I reach Greenwich I find the fair already in full swing. Booths have been set up all along the streets, right down to the river, selling everything: farm produce, live animals, pottery, cakes, spices at fantastic prices, last year’s honey and jam, fresh bread, fish, still alive and wriggling, piles of sweetmeats, sugar hearts, dried flowers and herbs in jars, furniture, textiles and candlesticks. There is a phrenologist, almost certainly a quack of the most vicious kind, reading people’s characters off their heads. I listen to his patter for a moment. He is assuring two newly wedded couples that their domestic lives will be full of good-natured humour and their nights overflowing with pleasure in bed. This is so unlikely that I let fly an incredulous snort, only to find that everyone is enraged by my scepticism.