I, Hogarth

by Michael Dean

  And all this so soon after the sudden fountains of childlike joy when we were first married. Were happy, bubbly Billy and his Jenny to give way to plain William and Jane so soon? Already making the best of it. Just making the best of second best?

  I believed at first I was the only one who had noticed the change in her. But I feared Lady Judith’s cutting shrewdness as much as I respected it. Sometimes I thought her ladyship could see through walls. When I was angry with her I thought of her as a witch, and was promptly ashamed of the thought.

  And then there was the pert Fanny, Jane’s maid. Jane would not be the first lady to make a confidante of her maid. Did Fanny know of my treatment for the French Pox? The suspicion was agony to me. Of course, I did not know for certain that Jane knew.

  Sometimes I fancied that pretty Fanny looked at me differently now. Fanny was still damnably attractive to me. Once or twice, when I had asked her to help me dress, I had tried to kiss her. She nimbly evaded me then ignored what had happened. A couple of times I had touched her. Or gripped her wrist and forced her to touch me. Oh, this terrible temptation!

  But at least I had been able to resume being a full husband to Jane. The mercury cream had healed the lesions, almost completely. The pills had stopped the discharge. The sweat-baths had proved efficacious, as Theosophus Taylor, the egregious apothecary, had promised.

  All I was left with was an ache in my limbs, an ache in my gums, a strange need to dribble, occasional headaches, feelings of weakness, feelings of sudden bleak sadness and a greatly diminished desire to do the deed, which I nevertheless did because I loved Jane beyond reason and wished to make her happy. And give her children.

  At least I had managed to resist the charms of Mrs Malloy, at the apothecary’s establishment, despite the apothecary making it more than clear that such resistance was not necessary. Theosophus Taylor had unfortunately proved firmer in his insistence on limiting the amount of mercury prescribed.

  To this, I had testily responded that the small amounts of medication inevitably increased the frequency of his visits at 3s a time the round trip by hansom. At which the ghastly apothecary had most heartily laughed.

  The idea of leaving the Thornhill house came upon me slowly, as if it were an idea for a painting. Jane and I naturally wished to set up our own establishment eventually, not stay with Sir James and Lady Judith forever. But I now clutched at our future in our own establishment as the means of my redemption.

  I would buy her not a house but a palace, and in it we would be happy – I did not dare even think the words ‘happy again’ – and all would be well, as my father used to say. Somehow or other in the new place, or so I dreamed, I would be free of the French Pox.

  And so I found a palace for her. A place to make up for what I had done to us.

  The house in Leicester Fields, number thirty when numbered, was actually a better address even than Sir James’s place. Covent Garden was by then – the early 1730s – going downhill fast, with the close proximity of Tom King’s and Mother Douglas’s establishments helping it on its way.

  Leicester Fields, on the other hand, was travelling steeply in the other direction. It

  gained kudos from the north side being occupied by Leicester House, home of Frederick, Prince of Wales. Proximity to the Prince’s faction, I hoped, would do me no harm at all in obtaining commissions.

  The Prince’s lease for the elegant two storey house, with windows facing onto the square, was rumoured to be of the order of £6,000. I, of course, could not have afforded anything like that. But Leicester Fields ran to houses for the middling sort.

  It was something of a forgotten gem, indeed. For a start, it was among the quietest squares in the capital, traffic noise from Coventry Street being cut off by the houses in the northwest corner. The centre was planted with railed-off trees, adding to the mood of established tranquillity, as well as elegance. And the east side, where I had my property, had houses dating back to the 1670s, giving an atmosphere of settled dignity.

  And all that for £275 a year, which I rated a bargain, taking full advantage of the fashion in longer leases – mine was until the mid-1770s – coupled with relatively low ground rents.

  I was delighted with the house, itself, too. It was of rough red brick with rubbers: soft brick that was sanded into a curve both over the entrance and over the expansive sash windows, neatly flush to the wall.

  It consisted of a basement and four storeys, plain but handsome. The line of its front was cleverly broken by two band courses above the second and fourth storeys. The door boasted flanking pilasters and a cornice hood on carved consoles, the very epitome of elegance.

  The house, my new home with my beloved Jane, had but one drawback – it faced east-west. Before we moved in, I had a painting room built, giving me the northern light essential for painting and engraving.

  And over the door, tradesman to my fingertips, as I am, I placed my sign offering my wares to the world. It was a bust of the immortal van Dyck, compacted out of cork and then gilded. Here, it boldly proclaimed, here is the new van Dyck. (That’s me.) ‘Come in!’ says the sign. And for all my dizzying social rise, the new van Dyck was still no further than a five minute walk from St Martin’s Lane and my dear brother artists at Old Slaughter’s. That was very important to me.

  The showroom was on the ground floor – the part of the house given over to trade. In this we were only aping the neighbours. Trennier, the fashionable tailor, lived across the way from us, also plying his trade from his house, as did Hans Hysing, another painter. In a sense, so did the magistrate Thomas de Veil, who lived a few doors down and had his watchmen visit him at home.

  This ground floor showroom, then, contained a colour cabinet with fifty-four drawers for colours, a printing press, models, as well as every unsold painting in my possession. The entire top floor was also functional, being given over to rooms for the servants, with the kitchen and more servants’ quarters in the basement.

  But there was still plenty of living space for Billy to show his Jenny when we embarked on the tour of the home, which was to contain our love and where our children were to be born. Although even then, such was my overweening ambition, I had a secret fear the place was too small for them.

  Unlocking the series of complex locks I had insisted on, I threw wide the entrance door. The hall and the main staircase were to the right, the parlour and backstairs to the left. I made straight for the second and third floors, towing my smiling Jane by the hand.

  White cornices were much in evidence, as were dormer windows and Baroque shell hoods. There were plenty of curves among many of the elements the previous owner, the late Lady Mary Howard, had had removed and which were now restored.

  But my past, never far from the surface of my present, had returned to me in force when I planned the interiors. I felt again the numbing, bone-breaking cold of my boyhood: chilling the spirit, freezing the flesh, paralysing the mind. Centuries of civilisation wiped away as the likes of our poor family were reduced to animals with the single primitive need to keep warm.

  So I led Jane at something like a trot through the elegant first-floor dining room, diagonally crossing the flower-pattern carpet Lady Judith had donated from the Thornhill establishment, past the walnut furniture Jane had chosen, past an ebony bookcase, a pair of oak pier tables and a pair of Italian armchairs with semi-circular backs, to the centrepiece of the room: the fireplace.

  ‘Look at that!’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  I shot her a sharp look, but she meant it. It was beautiful. It was a delicate, curved basket grate with traceried filigree work at the front, as fine as lace. The graceful small basket for the coal was an elegant shallow, which, she saw instantly, would need frequent refilling. But it was an object of loveliness in itself.

  I kissed her gently on the lips before the fireplace. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  I took her hand, holding it firmly enough, but there was something reverent in th
e pause before I led her away.

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Your room.’

  ‘My room?’

  ‘The drawing room.’

  The drawing room, naturally, was next to the dining room, so the ladies could withdraw there at ease, as the port, brandy and concomitant piss pots were brought in for the gentlemen at the end of the meal. Jane was preparing a bright reaction for her darling Billy even as she was hauled from the dining room, but the squeal-cum-gasp of her delight, arising all the way from her ample bosom, could not have been created artificially. And her Billy knew that with knowledge deeper than reason.

  She pressed both fists to the tip of the line between her breasts I referred to as ‘the wondrous valley’.

  ‘Billy, it’s …’

  ‘It’s yours. It’s for you.’

  It was the outward reflection of how I saw her: her as embodied in a room. One day, naturally, I would paint her again, although the prospect was more daunting to me now, as no Michelangelo ever approached his Sistine Chapel with more reverence. Meanwhile, this would do.

  The dominant colour was rose pink, as deep as it was feminine. The stucco walls were broken by two strips of paper stained by me, myself, with motifs of (the newly fashionable) Chinese exotic birds and pagodas. The theme was echoed in the patterns on the upholstery of the couches and armchairs, which were pink and green. They were pushed against the walls at the moment, as were the Dutch marquetry dining chairs with cabriole legs, a wedding gift from John Thornhill.

  Jane went to sit on one, wriggling her bottom on the cushioned seat, which I had coaxed into echoing the main colour combinations and motifs. I followed her, bent over her and kissed her gently on the lips. She leaned one elbow on a tea table, which even had a tea set on it, and kissed me back.

  I straightened up, seized a silver tray from a small table and pretended to serve ‘milady’ tea, in a butler’s voice. I had retained the ability to mimic voices from my boyhood and could render Hayman’s Devon burr a treat, as well as Sir James’s increasingly flutey, high-pitched voice.

  Jane laughed at the butler voice and pretended to drink her tea. ‘Mama has, in fact, found us a butler, I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all!’ I was sincere. ‘What would a Spitalfields boy know of such matters?’

  The grey eyes opened wide. ‘Well, quite! No, seriously, Billy, Mama says we must have an experienced man to lead the servants. His name is Henry Tompion …’

  ‘Ooooh! His name’s more distinguished than mine!’

  ‘Listen! He began service as a footman with Thomas Cuthbert, who apparently lived in this very square, somewhere. Then he …’

  ‘Look, if Lady Judith …’ I always called her Lady Judith, even to her daughter. ‘If Lady Judith says he’s suitable, then enough said on the subject. I trust her judgement. I’d trust her with my life.’

  ‘She trusted you with her daughter.’

  There was an edge in her voice. I wanted to blurt out that I would never let her down, then recalled I already had. I thought painfully of the passionate love-making we had enjoyed before this curse of the French Pox, and its laboured imitation now.

  ‘I worship you.’

  She shook her head, as if there were a wasp in her ear. ‘I want a husband, not a votary.’

  ‘About the rest of the servants …’ I said.

  She let me change the subject. ‘We need another four immediately for a place this size. Ideally a couple more, but they can wait. I want to bring Fanny with me, as my maid.’

  ‘Of course!’

  She gave me a sharp look, but let it rest. ‘Is there anyone you want?’

  I hadn’t thought about it, but blurted out ‘Sarah Young’, without thinking.

  ‘Are you having her?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Have you ever had her?’

  ‘No! Yes, but it’s over. I don’t want to anymore.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘No! Yes! Perhaps. Look, I’ll find someone else …’

  ‘Don’t bother. She’ll do.’

  The cool grey eyes never left my face. Years later I worked out that I was less, not more, likely to tup Sarah if she were in my employ. There had been real revulsion in London at what the likes of Charteris had done with Ann Bond and any other women servants. I could not let myself be like that, even if I desired a maid of Jane’s. I would even have to forget about Fanny. Jane understood all that earlier and more clearly than I did. Of course.

  ‘And Henry Tompion will need an experienced older man as a footman, especially in the beginning, when we are so lightly staffed.’

  ‘Does he know anybody? Or do you want to advertise?’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  I spoke with relief. The home, it went without saying, was her realm anyway, but I hardly saw myself interviewing potential servants. I would be more nervous than they. Spitalfields boy!

  But then I smiled. ‘There is another room I have to show you.’

  ‘The kitchen?’ Her eyes were twinkling.

  ‘Forget the kitchen. Another room.’

  She waved her face with an imaginary fan. ‘The boy will stop at nothing …’ I led the way up the wide staircase to the second storey.

  ‘It was a dressing room when Lady Mary had the place, but …’ I came to a halt, flapping both arms.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because you look like a duck, doing that. And also because my Billy Boy makes me happy.’

  ‘Then I’ll flap my arms like a duck all day. I’ll never put my arms by my sides again. I’ll stop flapping only to paint.’

  I kissed her with open mouth, squeezing her breast when she responded. She let herself sigh, let me hear her pleasure. She never withheld from me, then or later. She was bountiful and generous and womanly in her love.

  She cleared her throat when we finally stopped. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘No, it’s what I was saying. This room is for the children. Yes?’

  She nodded, very slowly. ‘Yes.’

  Jane and I were in the newly-completed studio, the pug dog, Trump, contentedly asleep in a corner. I was taken over by a deep fulfilment whenever I felt the northern light of the studio on my skin. Indeed, I was in the habit of pushing my neck out to put my face as near as possible to the light and warmth, as I had seen animals do, including Trump.

  I did this, even twisting my torso, pacing the length of the room, while my wife sat still, fixed and demure. We were Hogarth and his wife now, not Billy and Jenny. For Hogarth was working, as indeed was his wife.

  Pace, pace, pace. Little paces up and down. ‘The next projectus must naturally be another “Progress”. The whole world is crying out for another.’

  ‘Well, some of it.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. But my last story was told in six pictures. This one shall be bigger, ever onwards, ever upwards, ad astrum.’

  ‘It’s ad astra, actually. How many? How many pictures?’

  Pace, pace, pace. Scuttle. Adjust indoor cap as it slips. ‘Not sure. Eight? But I have my theme, Janey. I have my theme.’

  Her lovely grey eyes twinkled with fond amusement. She loved this side of my personality, when I was, as she said, like a runaway bucking colt, unsure itself of how high it could jump or even what jumping was, but revelling in the movement.

  ‘Your …’

  ‘My theme, my theme. It shall be a rake like Sir John Galliard in … What’s it called?’

  ‘You mean The Accomplish’d Rake? Mary Davys?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. Only my rake will be called Tom Rakewell. Like my harlot, only male. A man with his soul in his face.’

  ‘Out on show where anyone can take it.’

  ‘As open to ravishment as a girl. Like George Barnwell in that drama we saw at Drury Lane.’

  ‘The London Merchant? Lillo’s drama? “I followed my inclinations and that the best of you does every day. All actions are alike natur
al to man and beast.” You mean that?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, that’s it exactly. And I’d have him a follower of fashion, I think. From a higher stratum of society than my harlot. But, like the harlot, he shall fall.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he rise first? More symmetrical.’

  I stopped. Faced her. I clenched my fists, my fighter’s fists. ‘Yes, indeed. A flying man who shall rise and then fall. How should he rise?’

  ‘How does anybody rise? He becomes rich.’

  ‘Suddenly. Yes, but how? Shares? No, I covered that ground with the South Sea engraving, all those years ago. Can’t repeat myself.’

  She nodded. ‘An inheritance?’

  ‘Yes! And he squanders it.’

  She nodded again, harder. ‘Do you know that work of Bernard Mandeville? Fable of the Bees?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Mandeville argues that it is unreasonable and a folly to desire being opulent and at the same time to decry the very vices which are inseparable from the opulence. Shall I find a copy for you?’

  ‘No. No time, no time. But you couldn’t …?’

  ‘What? Mark the relevant passages?’

  ‘No time for that either. Just …’

  ‘Summarise it for you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please. But I like the idea that the gathering of riches is not good in itself. And indeed it may even be the seed of evil. That would make them sit up and take notice.’

  She smiled. ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Right! Come on! To business! Oh, I have wearied myself with walking.’ I straightened the red cap again. ‘Picture one.’

  ‘Start with the inheritance?’

  ‘Yes, his father dies. Oh, Janey, I’m sorry! Oh, I’m such a clumsy fool.’ I struck that bash-mark on my forehead in mortification.

  Sir James, never the most robust of men, had now abandoned his lengthy visits to the family estate in Dorset, unable to cope with the rigours of the journey. He was spending more and more time in bed, with a longer and longer list of ailments, of which gout and a rattle in the chest were the latest.