by Michael Dean
And to my further delight, we sang songs around the table.
There was I roaring lustily – drunk, full, belching, farting and red in the face:
The girls of the town are such ladies of pleasure,
They go to the town and stitch at their leisure.
With their black jokes and bellies so white:
Their cullies they call ’em my dear and my honey,
They let down their breeches and lug out their money
For their coal black joke that will lather like soap …
My eye caught Sir James’s as we roared away; no knight and courtier now, but an elderly boy in his cups, singing away, not as well as me because he was flat and out of tune. But he smiled as we roared together, my future father-in-law and me.
I wondered when my initiation would begin, those ceremonies so much mocked in pamphlets and newspapers. How about a drawn sword at the door, then? A ladder in a dark room? No! An all-seeing eye? Isis on an ass? A halter to lead me blindfolded by the neck? Pish and poh, had I just been invited to bloody supper? I could get supper bloody anywhere. Ye gods, I was drunk!
I was being hauled to my feet. Was this because I was drunk? No, it was because I was about to become a mason. Two wardens, as they called them, were gripping me by the arms.
Ah, the mysterious ceremony! The initiation! First, I was searched for all metal, in order to remove it. My noble sword was therefore taken and laid across the chair I had newly vacated, while the two wardens took one stubby Hogarthian arm each, extending them to the full, leading me thus to the door, where they folded my arms inwards so we might all exeunt in step. Once outside, my tasteful scarlet waistcoat with the gold trim was also removed, leaving me in silk shirt and breeches. (This was good; I was hot from all that brandy punch.)
Then I was hoodwinked – a thick blindfold placed over my eyes. I was stripped to my drawers. (By whom? I prayed I did not become stiff from all that fiddle-faddling about, down there. I tried thinking of Sir James to avoid arousal: this succeeded.) I was dressed in what I discovered later was a loose-fitting white linen shirt and voluminous white linen trousers, à la Turk. My bare feet were guided into soft slippers, which felt pointed (from the same Turk?).
My left leg was exposed to the knee, my left breast similarly bared to the elements and to any of the company who cared to look. I gasped in surprise, tinged with fear, as what was clearly a noose, reeking of tar, was slipped over my head, leaving its attached rope trailing down my torso.
I was led, still hoodwinked, the few steps to the door, whereupon I was bid to knock three times. This I did, so lustily there was a ripple of laughter. Sir James’s voice from inside bade me come in.
With one warden pulling at my rope from in front of me, the second warden holding my shoulders for guidance from behind, I shuffled forwards in the Turk’s slippers. The irregularity of the situation, perhaps coupled with my helplessness, made me want to piss. I wished I had used one of the pots under the table before my initiation, but naturally I could hardly ask for one now. The pressure on my rope ceased, the warden behind me squeezed my shoulders to stop: I stopped.
‘Here is a poor candidate in a state of darkness,’ intoned one of my wardens.
‘Ma’at-neb-men-aa. Ma’at-ba-aa.’ This was in Sir James’s voice.
‘What?’ SHUT UP, HOGARTH. I loosened my noose.
‘Those words in Egyptian mean “Great is the established Master of Freemasonry. Great is the Spirit of Freemasonry.” William Hogarth, why do you wish to enter the fellowship of masons as a member of the first order?’
TO GET CONTACTS FOR COMMISSIONS, SAME AS YOU, YOU OLD ROGUE. ‘To help others and to help my fellow brothers.’
Jane, who appeared at times to know everything on earth despite her tender years, had primed me on the correct answer (James didn’t), though I spoke sincerely enough.
Many masonic lodges had formed joint stock companies to help the needy, thereby doing good work, where others only turned a blind eye. Furthermore, I did believe that a man should help his fellow man, where he could, and if masons wished for conviviality while they did so, so much the better. As for the strange garb, well, there was stranger in molly houses and the Hell-Fire Club. Ditto the mumbo-jumbo, meaning nobody batted an eyelid when the Catholics did it.
‘William, you are accepted as a member of the lodge at the Hand and Appletree.’
There was a chaotic roar from the assemblage; my blindfold and the rope were removed. Sir James was still speaking: ‘Here is your sign, William.’ Sir James gripped his right thumb in his left hand. ‘Your password is Boaz, the left-hand pillar in the porchway of Solomon’s Temple. Here is your fleece.’
Sir James nodded to one of the wardens, who presented me with a white lambswool fleece. I noticed for the first time that Sir James had one tied round his middle, too, as well as something else which looked like a costermonger’s money belt.
There was more of the mumbo-jumbo. The volume of the sacred law was revealed to me, but this turned out to be the Bible. I was shown a square and a compass, mindful of the literal origin of the masons, as stoneworkers.
Flushed and surprisingly tired, I was finally allowed to re-join the company round the table, which I did, after relieving what I could no longer contain in the piss pot in the corner.
Minutes later, there was a tug at my white linen masonic sleeve. A slight chap, unassuming to the point of diffidence in his manner, introduced himself as Richard Child (I later discovered him to be Sir Richard Child, Viscount Castle-maine). He murmured that his parents would be celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary shortly. Would I come to Essex, to paint Lord and Lady Castle-maine, family and friends, against a backdrop of their home, Wanstead House?
Yes, I would. I would indeed.
I HAD ARRIVED. I HAD ARRIVED. I WAS HERE.
When the assembled masons finally disgorged into the street, I was drunk with brandy punch and success. I sang snatches of the refrain we sang earlier, my arm round the portly figure of Sir James, though I dimly sensed this did not please him.
We approached his carriage in the darkness, as the company dispersed. I stopped the good Serjeant Painter, as his postilion was opening the carriage door.
‘Sir James, old chap. I ask for the hand of your loverly … loverly daughter, Jane. I wish her as my wife. There, what do you say to …?’
Sir James disengaged himself from my clutches. His gaze was white cold in the dark.
‘Jane? You hardly know Jane. Have you met her above once?’
‘Oh … more often than you think, sir. More …’
‘So, that’s your game, is it?’ His pudgy face was suddenly lean with fury. ‘Well, you will not see her again, sir. That, I promise you. For you shall not set foot in my house again. And my help too, my friendly patronage which you spurn in this filthy manner, is hereby withdrawn.’
‘James … Sir James, please. You misunderstand. I love …’
The postilion and a footman in Sir James’s livery, perceiving the (one-sided) altercation, came running up. For a second, I believed Sir James was about to set them on me. The postilion was indeed carrying a whip. But Sir James waved them down.
‘I am your enemy, sir. From this moment forthwith. I give you notice of that, which is more than you gave me when you abused my hospitality with your … I can hardly say it … with your designs on my daughter.’
Sir James turned on his heel. As I tried to follow, his footman pushed me. I stumbled and fell on the cobbles, into a pile of horse shit.
15
GIN WAS QUICKER, so I was drinking gin; less bulk than beer, less money than brandy, easier to find than wine – so I was drinking, knocking back, gin. Even John, scion of the Thornhills, was concerned about how much gin, how fast, not to mention how many brothels and bagnios.
I hated lying, to John or anyone else, it was totally against my nature, it was mean and small and convoluted. But at the beginning, at any rate, I had the idea in my head that John m
ust have been told some story or other about my sudden absence from the copying class he and Vanderbank were taking. His star pupil suddenly gone.
My attempts at fabrication had him cocking his pale head at an extreme angle – eyebrows, the while, sloping up towards the middle.
‘Oh, all right then,’ I roared at John. We were in a St Giles Geneva-shop, too low even for him: my choice. From the low roof to the sharp tip of the proprietor’s nose, the place was covered in grime. ‘All right then!’ I knocked back another tuppeny gin, banging on the soot-grimed table for more, waiting until the glass was filled. ‘Here’s the truth of it. I asked your father for his daughter’s hand.’
‘Jane?’
‘Yes, Jane. How many bloody daughters has he got? Too much, eh? His beloved daughter and a Spitalfields boy. Too much for you, too. I’ll be bound. You are welcome to leave my company.’
‘I had no idea …’
‘Yes, horrifying, isn’t it? Your sister so sullied and defiled. Goodbye John. I’m sure you’d like to go now.’
John looked round uneasily, for I was yelling, causing the lascars who packed the dingy hole, some close enough to touch, to look round at us curiously. Swarthy, long-bearded types off the ships, these lascars were, filling the dingy room with pungent, thick smoke from their clay pipes.
‘Jane always speaks most highly of you,’ said John with unusual firmness, but speaking quietly. ‘Both to me and in company, but …’
‘BUT! But, but, but. But, but, but, but. I know what the bloody but is, John, so bugger off.’
An Englishman swaggered up to us, dressed up in white silk stockings, a Brussels lace handkerchief in his sleeve. I was interested in the gait people adopted, mimicking it sometimes, as I did their voices. I liked to catch it in paint, if I could. Anyway, this worthy affected what they called a Ludgate Hill hobble. As he passed, he gave a wavy-dribbly smile, saying something I took to be ‘sister’. I leaped up, hand on sword hilt, blocking his way.
‘What say you there, good friend? Hmm!’
The lascars were looking at us curiously. I let go my sword hilt to push the pretentious promenader in the chest; he was considerably taller than me, but that was nothing new.
‘Leave it, William!’ John stood. ‘I am Viscount Thornhill,’ said John to the promenader. ‘My friend is intoxicated with the gin, but means no harm. Here, sir, a tot on me.’ John proffered a shilling.
The promenader waved away the offer, swaying on his way to the soot-black counter from where gin was dispensed.
‘William, we are leaving,’ said the newly-firm John. ‘I wish for some cunny, while we both still can, preferably without a dose of the pox to follow. So none of your St Giles punks, thank you all the same. We’ll find a chair somewhere, to take us to the Folie.’
‘Wha’s …?’
‘It’s a brothel afloat, moored opposite Somerset House. You must do it to the rise and fall of the tide, William. It will be the making of you.’
‘Oh, very well.’ I stopped as John was walking me to the door. ‘Afloat, eh? Seems a sound idea! And your sister? Me and your … You don’t mind?’
‘No, not in the least.’
I tried visiting the Thornhill residence; a footman threw me out. I tried twice more with the same result. The fourth time, Lady Judith saw me coming from an upstairs window and waylaid me on the threshold.
She held me by the arm, as if escape was my intention, before being characteristically blunt: ‘You must give it up, William. All thoughts of Jane. I have tried, my dear boy. Believe me, I have tried.’ She sighed. ‘I tried because I like you, I believe in you and I cherished hopes for you and Jane.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But once he is driven to stubbornness, there is no more stubborn man than Sir James. He will not budge on this.’
‘I …’
‘William, nobody knows him better than I do. And if I cannot move him …’
‘And Jane? How …?’
I fought back tears, then let them go. I loved Lady Judith, more, if truth be told, than I loved my own mother. My poor powers of dissembling were even poorer with her.
Lady Judith shrugged, a masculine gesture only she could bring off. ‘Jane is sad, naturally. But she is young. There is another suitor and …’
Her eyes were down, looking at the ground. A bolt of hot hope shot through my misery. Another suitor? Oh, no! Lady Judith, you were lying to me.
I was working intently on my Harlot’s Progress; a new type of painting. I was also completely changing the way I worked. Until then, I had always prided myself on my memory for the line, scorning the preliminary sketch-drawing as leading to copying. But now I resolved to make sketches properly, to take my time.
So there were six good sketches, or rather many variants of six good sketches, as the base for six paintings, telling an exciting story; just as Sir James told the story of St Paul in his works in St Paul’s Cathedral.
Mine would be a new story, though: the story of Kate, given the heroine name Moll Hackabout (MH for short) for the purposes of the tale. Kate, newly arrived in London on the York wagon, fell, became the mistress of a Jew, then a Drury Lane harlot, fell even from there to debtor’s prison in Bridewell, then died of the pox at just twenty-three, leaving behind her a beloved son. That was my tale.
I kept the door securely locked while working on Harlot; I wanted no other world intruding on mine. So I ignored the knock when it came; it was certainly not the first, nor would be the last. But then I caught a glimpse of a figure at the window. A brown linen dress … It couldn’t be!
I unbolted and unlocked the door impatiently, more thumbs than fingers, finally achieving it. I stepped into Long Lane, away from the world in my head. A roar of street clamour hit me like foetid air.
‘Fanny!’
The pert creature looked delighted to see me, pouting demurely. ‘Mr William, sir!’
A letter for me! She must have had a letter for me from … I was so certain of it I held out my hand for this missive I had imagined, which had suddenly turned my world on its head by becoming the most important thing in it. Give me the …
‘Hello, William. Will you not invite me in?’
Her voice was as calm and steady as her grey eyes, as if our meeting (oh, would that it were!) were some routine of every day. SHE WAS HERE! SHE WAS HERE! HERE, BEFORE ME! STANDING BEFORE ME! OH, I SWEAR BEFORE GOD AND ALL HIS ANGELS I HAD NEVER BEEN HAPPIER. I COULDN’T TAKE IT. I COULDN’T TAKE LIFE WITHOUT YOU, I KNOW I COULDN’T.
‘Yes, of course. Come in.’
She had a hood up round her face, which she lowered as she entered my room, my studio, I mean. She looked round, examining the small space, the tools, the paintings, coolly, with a crisp, fresh curiosity. It appeared incredible, unnatural, that she had never been here before.
‘It’s smaller than I thought it would be.’
BUGGER SMALL. BUGGER LARGE. IT HAD JUST BECOME PARADISE BECAUSE YOU WERE IN IT. ‘Yes.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’ Her eyes were twinkling now. She knew the effect she was having on me.
‘Oh, Jane! Jane! I came. I came to your house. They wouldn’t let me in. They wouldn’t let me see you.’ I started to cry.
‘Mmm. I know. Mama told me.’
‘Your mother … Your mother said …’ I staunched the sobs, with an effort.
‘Yuh, I know. I know what she said. She is a wonderful woman in many ways, certainly very clever. But she is not the oracle at Delphi. Do you not possess any chairs?’
‘Chairs? Yes. Um …’
I pulled a chair from under the workbench. She perched on it. I paced up and down in the confined space, wiping my painty hands on my mucky breeches.
‘You were painting? I disturbed you?’
I paused in pacing, staring at her. ‘Yes, you disturbed me. Don’t ever do it again.’
She laughed wholeheartedly. MY JANE. ‘Oh, Jane. Oh, I am so pleased to see you.’
‘Mmm. Me, to
o.’ She glanced outside the window, where we could see Fanny, keeping watch.
I paced to her chair, standing over her, and shyly took both her hands in my painterly ones. I kissed her ineffably, gently on the cheek, then brushed her lips with mine. ‘Oh, I love you, Jane. I love you so much!’
‘Yes, I love you, too. That’s why I’m here. Harlot’s coming along nicely.’ She looked at the completed three paintings, the sketches and plans for the rest, her head tilted just slightly to one side. ‘She’s very pretty! Not based on anyone I know, I hope!’
‘No! Yes. Jane, I’m not going to lie to you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you and I’m never, never going to lie to you.’ I started to cry again.
‘Good,’ she said, quietly.
‘The harlot’s based on a whore I saw at da Costa’s when I was a boy. It was the first … um …’
‘Bosom?’
‘Oh, Jane!’
We both started laughing. I kissed her awkwardly.
‘Your brushwork is getting lighter. You haven’t been looking at Mr Watteau, have you?’
I jumped up. ‘God, you are amazing! You’re barely human!’
‘Hmm. Not the most romantic compliment a lady’s ever been given.’ She got up to look at the three finished paintings more closely. ‘I like the blue of her dress when she arrives. Madonna presumably?’
‘I don’t know. Yeah, perhaps.’
She looked appraisingly at the first painting. ‘“The publicans and harlots will go into the kingdom of heaven before you.”’
‘Matthew?’
‘Yes. Matthew 21:31. You haven’t seen Duerer as well, have you? Life of Christ?’
I shrugged. ‘Do you know … At the moment, I honestly can’t … I am so happy to see you, my head is in a spin. Yes, Felix showed me some Albert Duerer. Dutch, isn’t he?’
