The story, which Diana had had from her brother as she stood before the plaster cast for the first time, is that a student was strolling in the woods which used to lie close to The Queen’s College, when suddenly he was attacked by a wild boar. The poor young man remained calm in the face of what must have seemed his inevitable demise and, as the beast sprang upon him, he thrust his copy of Aristotle into its gaping maw. The beast fell before him, choked to death. So it is that Christmas is celebrated at The Queen’s College by the serving of a boar’s head and the singing of the “Boar’s Head Carol” with its rousing, Latin chorus. Hence the presentation to the college of a boar cast in plaster, a cast which has since come to reside in the Galleries.
“Caput apri defero, Reddens laudes Domino!”
The booming, sing-song voice startled us. We both gave a frightened jump and turned to see the Rev. J.L.P., walking on without so much as a second glance in our direction, a picture of innocence. I looked at Diana who whispered, “A Queen’s man,” and then laughed so loudly that I felt sure someone would appear and scold her. Thankfully we remained unaccosted by the few other patrons of the Galleries, although an elderly gentleman directed a censorious stare towards us, and with it an intimation that he was wont to consider an afternoon’s excursion incomplete without some opportunity to reproach the younger generation.
Facing an arrangement of casts of the Muses, under the watchful eye of Apollo, I performed a tableau vivant, standing first in front of Calliope, on the left, and moving clockwise from statue to statue, striking the pose of each. When I had reached Clio, the last of the nine, I returned to Diana and asked her which Muse she thought I might be. She replied, at once, that the pose plastique could not but indicate Terpsichore, but then, after a pause, she added, “Or perhaps Erato, if we are to draw comparisons with Lady Hamilton’s ‘attitudes’. ” It was an assessment to which one might react in any number of ways, depending on one’s opinion of Lady H. I chose to cast my eyes heavenward and, with the slightest shake of the head, brought her back to Terpsichore. If that were the case, I told her, then she must be Euterpe, as even the Muse of Dance needs music. She disagreed. “Melpomene,” she said.
I followed her as she moved swiftly through the remaining statues and ascended the great staircase. I quickened my pace to catch up with her, intent on finding the reason for her answer to my question: her identification with the Muse of Tragedy seemed so out of keeping with her demeanour. When I stopped her she told me that I ought to think nothing of her choice, that it had been nought but a silly reply to a light-hearted question. This she said as we stood in the ante-room of the picture galleries on the upper floor, where, hanging on the wall to our left, we saw Rubens’s awful painting of a dead child with angels. We were agreed that there is something ghastly about the image: the gentleness of the cherubic angels, carrying the child to his paradise, do nothing to diminish the horror of the child himself. His lids are not quite shut, and yet there is no doubt that the eyes beneath see nothing. His skin is—what?—I cannot say. The colours are greys and yellows, their effect dull and muted. The whole gives nothing more than the sense of death, and neither Diana nor I could find any joy in the piece, only loss and melancholy. I shivered a little at the sight of it, and saw Diana do the same.
The University Galleries have a marvellous collection of cartoons by Michael Angelo and Raffaelle, done in preparation for some of their major works. They are kept in a fireproof room, according to the Handbook Guide. I cannot help but feel that the dreadful Rubens coloured my viewing, for the pieces which remain uppermost in my memory, and the ones on which I troubled myself to write in my little note-book, are all of a nature which goes against the brighter emotions of the day.
Handbook Guide, M. Angelo, No. 50, “Michael Angelo and his friend Ant. Della Torre dissecting a human figure, which lies extended on a table; the arms hang to the ground, and a lighted candle is fixed in the stomach of the body”—frightful, as one might suppose from description; candle jutting from ribcage; reminds one of lurid tales of bodysnatchers; Diana described the skinless figure as “écorché”.
Handbook Guide, M. Angelo, No. 20, “Study from the Last Judgment—a demon gnawing the leg of a man; red chalk”—demon’s face is leonine; sharp teeth visible sinking into flesh of man’s calf.
Handbook Guide, M. Angelo, No. 51, “Five very fine studies in one mount, one of which is the Death’s Head in the Last Judgment”—flesh still on skull; one eye socket empty; other retains eyeball although in deep shadow; gaping nose; Diana dismissed it as “repellent”; moved on to Raffaelle.
Handbook Guide, Raffaelle, No. 155, “Melpomene—a Study for one of the Figures in the Fresco of Mount Parnassus”—joined Diana looking at her; flowing lines and drapery; looks back over her shoulder; no vines or grapes in hair, or hard to see them, but carries mask of tragedy held to stomach; mask in folds of material looks like head of John the Baptist.
I left Diana looking at her Muse, and came before Raffaelle’s sketch of Jacob Wrestling with the Angel. The opponents are central in the composition, holding each other by the arms as the angel raises his knee to Jacob’s hip socket: “He touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of joint.”
Handbook Guide, Raffaelle, No. 58, “Jacob Wrestling with the Angel”—looks like they are dancing, gazing into eyes; wings show this is an angel, less ambiguous than Genesis; we all have our struggles, but oft-times they bless us.
We were quiet during the carriage ride home. Our infrequent speech arose, for the most part, from the gentle inquisition of the Rev. J.L.P., whose curiosity about our opinions of the Galleries was cordial, polite, genuine and entirely unwelcome. Lady Diana has a dinner engagement which requires her presence on the family estate, so I returned to my room alone. There, on our shared landing, I met Elizabeth, who looked much refreshed after her days of rest, and who greeted me with a heartfelt affection which lifted the weariness at the end of a long day. She and I dined together, for which she seemed grateful, although I suspect that my talk of today’s outing cannot have been of the least interest to one who has not experienced the pleasure of Diana’s company.
I retired early and have been at my desk since.
Sunday, 30th October, 1887
This morning, as we returned from the most tedious of sermons and the most dreary selection of hymns, Elizabeth and I spoke of Lady Diana. The subject was raised in the course of my rehearsing yet more of yesterday’s diversions. Today, however, after a morning’s service which was so awfully colourless, I found my memories circling around Diana’s flights of introspection.
Elizabeth is by no means a well-connected woman, but she does possess a certain natural ability when it comes to knowing the lives of those with whom she is acquainted, even those at first or second remove. It would be uncharitable to say that she is a gossip but, rather, she is an open door, through which the facts may pass and find themselves stored away, if occasionally redistributed. So it was that she attributed Diana’s melancholy turn to the loss of her brother in Burma, during the troubles of 1885: of the details she knew nothing more.
I wonder if I have found in Diana someone to whom I can talk about Mr. Taylor. I see now that the naturalness and ease with which Diana and I cemented our friendship are married with her own experience of tragedy. I should never compare the loss of a brother to my own situation. However, I do believe that there is a commonality in the isolation arising from, though not the nature of, these two events, which suggests that Diana and I might find some comfort from each other were we to discuss our respective sorrows.
Another letter has arrived, delivered by hand. Should I be asked, I shall say it came from Lady Diana. It is from Mr. Taylor. He is profuse in his apologies for his actions at the studio and assures me that such an occurrence will not happen again. All of this he does in language so opaque—“I do regret that my efforts as a considerate host were found wanting”—that any reader other than its addressee would se
e his contrition as relating to only the slightest of offences: the misremembering of a name, the serving of warm elderflower cordial on a summer’s day, or cold tea on a winter’s. He writes of the fondness which all artists feel for their muses, but only in the most abstract and dismissive of terms, “for did not Pygmalion experience a weakness for his own Galatea?” He wishes to meet me, and desires that I should sit for him in a scene from my “beloved Warber”. Can I? Ought I?
Empta dolore experientia docet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The auction house was part of a clot of low, brick buildings on the outskirts of Reading, no different from the other low, brick buildings which surrounded it in all their monotonous functionalism. We arrived late in the morning, when the day’s trading was complete and the last of the buyers, bidders and watchers were leaving. A tall man stood by the door, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette from which he seemed to take no pleasure. I began to speak before Emily had a chance.
“Hello,” I said. “We’ve come to inquire about a piece which you sold a couple of years ago. We thought we might be able to—”
The man interrupted.
“You don’t want me.” He reached an ochre-grey hand up to his lip and removed a piece of tobacco, flicked it to the floor and took another drag on his cigarette. “You want Mr Kemp.” He pointed at the sign above the doorway which indicated that yes, Mr Kemp would be the person to see at “Kemp & Co. Auctioneers. House Clearances. Estate Sales. Valuations. Est. 1975”.
“Thank you,” I said.
Emily and I passed through the tobacco smoke and the doorway. Inside, the building did nothing to compensate for its lacklustre exterior. Fluorescent tubes hung from chains to illuminate white-painted walls and rows of folding tables. High, thin windows added the faintest hint of daylight. The table surfaces were varying shades of wood and Formica, visible after the morning’s transactions, between the few items that remained unsold. Near the front door the tables gave way to ill-matched chairs and a raised platform which supported a battered lectern. Emily and I continued to the far end of the hall, where a large window looked into a small office. Beneath the window, stacks of old fruit boxes, some open, some closed, contained bric-a-brac which was presumably destined for the next auction.
I picked up a small statuette of the Artemis of Versailles. It felt cold against my skin: a Victorian bronze copy of a Roman marble copy of a Greek original. The lights hummed. Artemis stood, lean and strong, in a short tunic tied round at the waist. Beside her, a small buck rose up on its rear legs, as if trying to spring away. Her right hand reached over her shoulder to pull an arrow from the quiver on her back. Her bow was missing. Part of it was there, in her left hand, but the rest was long gone. There was a similar bronze on the Titanic, missing. The lights hummed like the attic. Artemis looked off to her right, towards whatever she intended to kill. She belonged in her cardboard box. Jigsaw pieces.
“It’ll be in the auction next week, if you want it.”
I gave the huntress back to her home and looked at the man who had just emerged from the office. He stood with his hands in his pockets. He was old, but he carried his age well, as though he were someone who should not be young.
“I can’t sell it to you now, but if you can’t make the auction I can bid on your behalf,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Emily, “but I don’t think we’ll bid on it.”
Before she could continue I stepped forward and offered my hand to the man. He looked down at it then took it in his own and shook.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Anna, and this is Emily. We’re really sorry to bother you. Are you Mr Kemp? The man at the front door said we should speak to Mr Kemp. We told him what we wanted and he said we should speak to Mr Kemp.”
The man, whose subtle nodding confirmed that he was, indeed, Mr Kemp, said only, “Well?”
I tried to remain calm and confident. Emily was beside me, ready to take control again, to be the lawyer and speak to the witness, to question and explain. She was tall, serious, dressed in black, hair tied back, attractive, poised. But the court floor was mine.
“Well,” I said, “we have a painting which you sold a couple of years ago. It’s very important that we find out who gave it to you to sell.”
“Even if I could lay my hands on the records, I can’t give out the details, love,” said Mr Kemp. He turned his head in the direction of the shelves behind his desk, laden with piles of box files and binders, stray papers and peppermint-striped printouts. “It’s privacy. You understand.”
The last statement was directed over my shoulder, to Emily. After all, how could anyone think that I could understand? Nevertheless, I pressed on.
“But it’s really terribly important. There’s no signature on the painting. I’ve looked. It’s out of the frame, on the table, and I can see under the spandrels. But there’s no signature. And then I was in the attic again. With the mice. I found the receipt.”
I fumbled in my pocket and retrieved the crumpled shibboleth, but the gatekeeper of the office did not take it. He just repeated himself:
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s privacy. You understand.”
Again, it was Emily who understood. I could not understand. I tried to form a persuasive argument, maybe lie a little, but liar was not my part to play.
“I know it’s Victorian,” I said. “It might be Shakespeare. The picture, I mean. Olivia. I don’t know. But you could check the files. Look for paintings. And we know when you sold it, so you could look by date. And who you sold it to. So there’s that, too. But there’s no signature, so I can’t tell you any more.” I was starting to cry. “But it’s important. It will help. Knowing about it will help, because they’re still together on the bed and we can know who they are.”
Mr Kemp looked past me as I spoke. Emily put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently and I raised my hand to hers like Artemis to her quiver.
“Come on, Anna,” said a soft voice which could not have been Emily because Emily would be angry and ready to fight. “We should go.”
And then the same voice—which was Emily, who was not angry, who was not ready to fight—said, “I’m sorry, Mr Kemp. I told her we shouldn’t trouble you with this. I’m sorry. Let’s go, Anna.”
I wheeled round, searching for Emily, not the Emily who spoke but my Emily, the old Emily, and she was standing there. It looked like she was standing there.
“We really should go,” she said.
Mr Kemp had returned to his office, watching us over the desk through the big window of his paper aquarium. He picked up a mug and lifted it to his lips, lowered it and peered into it, looked disappointed, put it back. I wanted my Emily.
“I’m not going. We need these papers. He can help. He just won’t.” I was not yet sobbing, but my tears overwelled my lids and ran down to the corners of my mouth. “I need you to make him help me.”
“He won’t, Anna. He can’t. Even if he wanted to, he can’t. How would he explain it to the sellers when we turn up on their doorstep?” She paused and ran a hand through my hair, used her thumb to dry my cheeks. “Go and wait in the car.”
“I need to ask him. If I don’t ask him he won’t help because he won’t see how important it is.”
“I’ll talk to him. Give me a few minutes. It’s better if I do it,” said my Emily.
Outside, the tall man had finished his cigarette and was rolling another with a mastery which he showed no signs of appreciating. I dropped my bag by the side of the concrete doorstep and sat down on its edge, wrapping my arms around my legs and resting my chin on my knees. I was shaking a little. The gravel in front of me shaded from white to black, and I tried to focus on it, to find patterns, pictures, escapes. The tall man sat beside me and offered me the cigarette, holding it out between finger and thumb, without saying a word. I shook my head.
“No, thank you,” I mumbled.
“Did you find Mr Kemp?” he asked.
“Yes. I talked to him and told him it was im
portant but he won’t help.”
“Doesn’t sound like Jim,” said the tall man. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag on it, then exhaled the smoke through flared nostrils. I ran the tip of my shoe through the gravel, making a little labyrinth.
“Thing about Jim is, you catch him right and he’s great. But you catch him wrong… Maybe you caught him wrong?”
“I was very polite. He doesn’t understand how important it is.”
“Well, how important is it?”
I turned and looked at him. His face was almost as grey as his hair, but tinged yellow around the eyes, with a hint of pink on the lips, and black stubble on his cheeks which faded to white on his chin and neck. Skin the colour of Marat, the French revolutionary, dead in his bath and Jacques-Louis David painting him as a hero with a gaping wound and Charlotte Corday, the Angel of Assassination, nowhere to be seen. Marat’s eyes are closed, but the tall man’s eyes were open and brown, and the turn of his mouth suggested sympathy, and he was there and Emily was not. I took a slow breath which smelled of tobacco smoke.
“We found a painting in the attic of the house we live in, and I want to know more about it,” I explained.
All the Perverse Angels Page 8