Chatterton

by Peter Ackroyd

  ‘I need more time,’ she was saying to Harriet. ‘I have all the ideas.’ She pointed towards her head. ‘And I have the pictures –’

  ‘Have you got any new ones?’ Harriet was growing impatient with her.

  Sarah knew this, and broke off her usual complaints to recite the list of paintings which she had just located. The Death of Bunyan, The Death of Voltaire, The Death of –’

  Harriet gave a little shudder of pleasure. ‘But you don’t know,’ she said, stopping her in mid-sentence, ‘you don’t know how they really died, do you?’ She was loudly stirring the teaspoon in her empty glass and Sarah, with a practised air of martyred resignation, rose to refill it. ‘They were painted from the imagination, weren’t they?’ Harriet added as she grabbed the bottle and filled her own glass.

  Sarah stared at her: there were occasions when Harriet spoke like a child, and she was never quite sure how deliberate this was. They could hardly have done it at the time, darling. Some of these paintings took years to finish. And bodies rot. As you know very well.’

  ‘So what did the artists use?’ Again, the child’s question.

  They used models, as they were supposed to.’

  ‘Models? Models pretending to be dead?’

  ‘As far as I know, they weren’t killed on the spot. What do you want? Blood?’

  Harriet was tapping the spoon against the tip of her nose. ‘And so the dead can be exalted by others feigning death?’

  ‘The whole point of death is that it can be made beautiful. And the real thing is never very pretty. Think of Chatterton –’

  Harriet, now becoming bored by the excessive sobriety of the conversation, sprang up from her black chair. ‘Cut is the bough,’ she said, ‘that might have grown full straight.’ And she doubled up, as if she were about to be sawn in half.

  ‘Branch.’ Sarah was very deliberate.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It was a branch, dear, not a bough. If you were quoting.’

  Harriet stood upright again. ‘Don’t you think I know? I’ve been quoting all my life!’ Then she began again: ‘We poets in our youth begin in gladness.’ She waved her hands joyfully in the air. ‘But thereof in the end come despondency and madness.’ She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth, and rolled her eyes. Then she sat down, rather heavily, and took another sip of gin. ‘Of course I knew it was a quotation,’ she added, ‘I’ve given my life to English literature.’

  Sarah was still very cool. ‘It’s a pity, then, that you didn’t get anything in return.’

  Harriet tried, but failed, to look ‘hurt’. ‘I am supposed to be famous, at least.’

  ‘Yes, and I hear they’re ready to have you stuffed.’ Sarah paused. ‘Which will be the first time in years.’

  Harriet giggled. ‘Let the blind man do it.’ She put her hands in her lap and squeezed them. ‘But he’ll have to do it through the mouth. Every other orifice is closed.’

  ‘Well, at least let’s hope he begins with the mouth, dear.’

  Harriet decided not to reply in kind, and with studied nonchalance she took up an art magazine which was lying upon Sarah’s glass table. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘Seymour. My favourite.’ She leafed through the reproductions of Joseph Seymour’s most recent paintings, which had been included in a fulsome obituarial tribute. ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked Sarah, holding up one of them and almost ripping the page in the process. It was of a child standing in front of a ruined building; the child stared out from the canvas, while above him rose a series of small decayed rooms. Seymour had carefully painted the torn wallpaper, the broken pipes, the abandoned furniture, all of which seemed to spiral inwards towards a vanishing point in the middle of the painting; in contrast, the face of the child was featureless, abstract.

  Sarah did not share Harriet’s admiration for Seymour’s work. ‘Why don’t you buy it? He’s one of those realists you seem to like.’

  Harriet put down the magazine and walked over to the window. ‘But who’s to say,’ she asked as she stared down into the small courtyard below, ‘who’s to say what is real and what is unreal?’

  ‘You should know. You’re the one who’s writing her memoirs.’

  ‘Actually, that’s why I came to see you.’ Harriet had at last remembered the real purpose of her visit. The truth is, you know, that I just can’t. I mean –’ She hesitated, but she could not resist the little barb. ‘I think I’m getting like you, Sarah. I can’t finish them. I’m getting nowhere.’ Sarah put out her legs and peered down at her stockings, smoothing them with her hand as she did so: it made her feel more comfortable as she waited for Harriet to continue. ‘The point is, you see, that I’ve really got nothing to say,’ And, with her back still turned, she mimed the open mouth and staring eyes of a simpleton.

  ‘What you really mean is that you have too much to say.’

  Harriet turned her head in alarm. ‘What do you mean, too much?’

  Sarah could sense her anxiety. ‘I don’t really mean anything –’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘- except that you have met a great many people, and written a great many books. And lived,’ she paused for emphasis. ‘For a relatively long time.’

  Harriet could see Seymour’s painting of the child standing in front of the ruined building, and for a moment she closed her eyes. ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘that I could begin all over again.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd!’ The thought of such a rebirth was appalling to Sarah. ‘You know it’s been a triumph!’

  ‘A triumph? Just look at me.’ Harriet turned around, holding out her hands as if in supplication.

  Sarah looked down. ‘What you need,’ she said quietly, ‘is an assistant.’

  ‘I have an assistant. I have that silly little bitch, Mary Wilson.’ She imitated the young woman’s high, plaintive voice. ‘Who begins every sentence with, It seems to me.’

  ‘No, I mean someone who can help you write. You need someone to inspire you.’

  It was at this moment that Harriet remembered Charles Wychwood; he had not been the most reliable of secretaries, as far as she could recall, but he was a poet, of sorts, and he had managed to make her laugh.

  And it was on the same evening that she telephoned him, just as he was cleaning the portrait he had found in the House Above the Arch. She did not want to discuss the matter on the ‘phone, she had said as Charles stared excitedly into the eyes of Thomas Chatterton. ‘What did that ridiculous German say?’ she went on. ‘Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent?’

  3

  HARRIET SCROPE was preparing a sandwich. ‘Mustard!’ she shouted, and raised the little yellow pot in triumph. ‘Pickles!’ She unscrewed the jar. ‘Lovely grub!’ She dug her knife into a small tin of Gordon’s Anchovy Spread, and smeared it over two slices of white bread before adding these seasonings.

  ‘Look at you,’ she said to the pungent meal she had created, ‘You’re so colourful! You’re much too good to eat!’ Nevertheless she managed to take a large bite and, widening her eyes, swallowed vigorously. But, even though she enjoyed the prospect of eating, she detested the actual physical process: whenever she ate she looked about anxiously and now, as more large pieces of anchovy, pickle and mustard travelled down her alimentary canal, she stared at Mr Gaskell as if she were seeing the cat for the first time. Then she grabbed it and began unmercifully to kiss its whiskers as it struggled in her firm hands. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘you want some pickles, my loveliness. But pickles are for human beings. At least I think that’s what Mother is.’ She held it out at arm’s length, and engaged in one of her ‘staring matches’ with it: Mr Gaskell blinked first, and with a cry of ‘Victory!’ she kissed it again. As she did so it began sniffing the traces of anchovy on her breath, and she put it down quickly. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered, ‘do you ever dream of Mother?’ She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine the cat world: there were walking shadows everywhere, and she saw the large dark outline of on
e of her own shoes. Then the door bell rang.

  She crept down the dark corridor, letting out a soft ‘Miaow’, and it was only when she had almost reached the door that she remembered she was expecting Charles Wychwood to call. ‘Just a minute!’ she shouted, and she rushed up the stairs into the bathroom where feverishly she cleaned her teeth. From the small window beside the sink she looked down at him, as he stood on the whitewashed stone path that led to her front door: he seemed to be in the middle of a daydream and, as his pale face flinched under the impulse of some private thought, she pitied him.

  Suddenly he looked up and, noticing her at the window, he grinned. ‘The Lady of Shalott,’ he said.

  Instinctively she raised her hand in greeting although the gesture, seen from ground level, might equally have been one of farewell. ‘More like Lady Chatterley,’ she said to herself as she rushed down the stairs and once more into the hall; but then she skidded to a halt. She opened the front door cautiously in order to make absolutely sure that it was indeed Charles (for there were occasions now when she did not trust the evidence of her own eyes).

  Charles, assuming that this was one of Harriet’s little jokes, popped his head through the crack and said, ‘How’s Miss Scrope?’

  She gave a little shriek and stepped back, before opening the door properly to let him enter. ‘I thought,’ she said, ‘that you were Mr Punch come to get me.’ He did not look well, and she dimly recollected having seen him wear the same clothes four years ago.

  ‘Ah, Racine,’ he said as she led him into the front room. ‘Have you been reading Andromaque or Bérénice?’

  His speech seemed a little slurred, and for a moment she imagined he had been drinking. Or perhaps the furnishing of the room had reminded him of the French tragedian.’I don’t quite…’she began, but Charles was pointing towards a book which lay on the wicker chair. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you saw the wrong word. I thought I was going mad for a minute.’ On the chair was a form-book for horses with the single title, RACING, on its cover. But he seemed not at all discomfited by his mistake, and at once went over to the sofa where he began to caress Mr Gaskell: he and the cat had always enjoyed each other’s company, a fact which for a time had led to a certain deterioration in Harriet’s own relationship to her pet. She coughed loudly, in order to scare it off. ‘And so how are you, Charles?’ She hesitated. ‘You’re looking very well.’

  ‘Am I?’ He brightened. ‘I’ve never felt better, as they say.’

  ‘Is that what they say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what they say.’ Suddenly he felt depressed, but he knew the mood would never last and decided to ignore it. ‘And how are you?’ he asked her, putting his hands behind his head and stretching out. He had not been in Harriet’s house for four years, but he felt immediately at ease here. ‘How long has it been now since we met?’

  ‘Oh, I never change, you know. I’m still good old Harriet.’ She restrained an impulse to throttle the cat, which was licking Charles’s hand, and instead she started walking around the room, touching various objects with a restless, undirected energy. But when she came to the death mask of John Keats she stopped.

  ‘Are you still writing poetry?’ she asked him in a loud voice.

  ‘Of course.’ She had made it sound like a hobby. ‘I’ve brought you my latest book.’ From the pocket of his jacket he took out the slim xeroxed pamphlet.

  That is sweet of you. You shouldn’t have.’ She glanced at the contents and, realising that Charles was watching her carefully, nodded, smiled, turned back one page apparently to re-read one particular stanza, and then gave a little sigh of pleasure before dropping the pamphlet onto the carpet. ‘I must introduce you to my publisher,’ she went on, for want of anything more constructive to say. ‘He’s -‘ she hesitated. ‘He’s very good with poets.’

  Charles leaned back on the sofa, and raised his arms above his head as if he were about to yawn. ‘There’s plenty of time. I’m in no hurry.’ Then he added in a deep, mock-solemn voice, ‘My genius will one day be recognised.’ Harriet said nothing, and so he went on quickly with, ‘Vivien sends you her love.’

  ‘That is nice. Do send her mine.’ She could not for the moment remember who Vivien was, but she used her sudden rush of affection for this unknown woman to move on to her prepared speech. ‘Charles, the reason I telephoned was, I mean is, that I am not myself.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘No, I’m serious. I need your help. I need bringing out.’ He had put his head to one side, and was still smiling. T was wondering if you would like to come and work with me again?’ She was quite serene as she said this but she kept her hands firmly in her lap, as if without this restraint they might spring to life and carve strange shapes in the air in front of her.

  ‘This is very unexpected,’ he said, without looking in the least surprised. In fact he was unsure how to reply. A few days ago he would have responded eagerly to Harriet’s offer; but the portrait of Thomas Chatterton had inspired him, and he did not wish to be distracted from his pursuit of its significance. And yet Harriet might be able to help with that, as well…

  She watched him, remembering how difficult it was for him to come to any decision. ‘Just say no,’ she murmured, leaning towards him, ‘if you don’t want to do it.’

  ‘It’s not that…’

  ‘I know you must be very busy.’ She picked up Charles’s pamphlet of poems and began to leaf through it. ‘With your work, that is.’ She looked down at one poem with great interest, while all the time trying to recall the rest of what she had prepared to say. ‘You once told me a very beautiful thing, Charles. You told me that reality is the invention of unimaginative people.’ In fact she had come across the phrase in a book review but Charles smiled, delighted to be reminded of words he must once have used. She pressed home her obvious advantage. ‘But can we go one step further? Can we imagine the reality?’

  He settled back again on the sofa, quite at ease with the sort of theoretical discussion he had once had at university; in fact, his understanding of such matters had not significantly advanced since that time. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a question of language. Realism is just as artificial as surrealism, after all.’ He remembered these phrases perfectly. The real world is just a succession of interpretations. Everything which is written down immediately becomes a kind of fiction.’

  Harriet leaned forward eagerly, not bothering to understand what he thought he was saying, but looking for another opening. That’s it, Charles,’ she said triumphantly. That is precisely why I need you. I need you to interpret me!’ She stressed the verb, as if it had come as a revelation to her. ‘You see I’m trying to write my memoirs -‘

  ‘Oh, your memoirs. Memories. Memorials.’ He had wanted to keep talking, but now he did not know where these words were coming from. ‘Mimosas.’ He was puzzled at himself.

  ‘- but I can’t put them together. I have all the names and dates. I have my notes and my diaries. But I can’t.’ She searched for the word. ‘Interpret them.’

  ‘But I don’t know how…’

  She cut him off, brandishing his pamphlet. ‘You know how to write. Everybody knows that. You write like an angel.’ She was watching him carefully. ‘And I’ll pay you well.’

  She regretted saying this almost at once, but Charles did not seem to have heard Harriet’s generous offer. He was wondering how so many people already knew that he wrote well: ‘everybody’ was surely an exaggeration, but if Harriet said so… suddenly he was filled with confidence. ‘So you want me to write your memoirs for you, do you?’

  ‘I want you to become my ghost writer.’

  This phrase appealed to him and, in any case, he prided himself on his ability to take sudden but appropriate decisions. ‘Miss Scrope,’ he said, ‘I will be your ghost.’ He smiled at her. ‘I will be the finest ghost you ever saw.’ the first sign ‘Chatterton! Chatterton! Chatterton!’ Edward was marching around the room, calling out his favourite new word; he had a pi
ece of toast in his hand, and with it he was writing the letters in the air.

  ‘Edward the Unquiet, you are giving me a headache.’ Or, rather, Charles feared one. He was attempting to fix the portrait to the wall, but it would not stay still. Either the nail was too small or the edge of the stretcher too narrow: the canvas slipped in one direction or slid off the nail altogether, and it was only with difficulty that he managed to prevent it falling to the floor. But he was always happy to be busy at this time in the morning, just as Vivien was about to leave for her own work, even though he often returned to bed immediately afterwards. The picture fell against his head, and Edward shrieked with laughter.

  ‘Do you want me to get it framed?’ Vivien asked him. She worked as a secretary in Cumberland and Maitland, a small art gallery in New Chester Street: she had taken the job hesitantly since from the early days of their marriage Charles had assured her that they would ‘manage’, that it was only a ‘matter of time’ before his writing was successfully published. He had repeated these assurances in the most placid way as they grew poorer and poorer but, when finally she announced that she had taken a job, she expected him to be angry or at least impatient with her for not trusting his judgment. But he had smiled, and said nothing. Since that time he had rarely mentioned her work and, when she had wanted to discuss some problem or argument at the gallery, he assumed a slightly puzzled expression - as if he was not at all sure that he knew what she was talking about.

  He had put his head against the canvas in order to balance it, and she repeated her question. ‘Framed? No, I don’t think so, Vivie. I don’t want to leave it with anyone just yet. You know how it is.’