by Tim Jeal
‘It would be better if you thought carefully before continuing this conversation.’
Catherine watched some ants crossing the stones and disappearing into a narrow crack. When she spoke again she was more composed.
‘I am not your ward and will not be dictated to. I have some jewellery I could sell. I could become a governess and would.’ She paused and breathed deeply. ‘I would endure even that rather than stay here against my will.’
Helen had listened without evident emotion, nor did she show any as she said:
‘Your father must know the reason if you decide to go.’
Catherine let out a false laugh.
‘I am sure I may depend upon your ladyship to tell him.’
‘Only if you leave, or continue these threats.’
After saying this, Helen walked away towards the house. When she had reached the shelter of the rose garden, she covered her face with her hands which were trembling badly, and swayed slightly as if she might fall. Ahead of her a climbing rose had come away from the wall and trailed across the path. With a sudden angry gesture she clasped her hand round the thickest stem and closed her fingers on the thorns.
27
After breakfast, on the day which Tom intended for Helen’s last sitting, he had some time on his hands, and not wishing to talk to anybody, went up to his bedroom where he found an under-housemaid at work. The girl started to retire, but being curious to see exactly what she did, he told her to continue. Before starting on the bed, she took two velvet chairs out onto the landing – dust, she explained, being hard to get out of velvet. Next she stripped off the blankets and sheets and hung them on a clothes-horse in front of the window to air.
The bed was a large half-tester with valance, back curtain and hanging silk side curtains. To Tom’s surprise the girl lifted off the two mattresses and feather bed, exposing the rough cloth of the straw palliasse at the bottom. The mattresses were turned and the feather bed shaken and beaten to separate the feathers before being replaced. While the sheets aired, she dusted, brushed, emptied the water jugs and ewers into a slop pail, wiped and rinsed them, looked under the bed to see if the chamber pot needed emptying, and then once more turned her attention to the bed. If he had asked for a bath that morning, she or another servant would have had to bring it up, carry cans of hot and cold water from the kitchen, and when he had finished, empty it by hand, taking down the dirty water in pails. In winter she would have started by making up the fire. Tom thought of the same or similar processes going on in every occupied room in the house throughout the year; he thought too of the constant work in the dairy and creamery, in the kitchens, washing rooms and pantries, in the plate room, estate offices, stables and gardens, and he felt dazed by the sheer quantity of labour which women like Helen considered to be their right. Knowing that domestic servants were better cared for than factory workers, he did not feel angry; nor did he feel envious, only surprised that during his brief stay, he too had started to take for granted his perfectly laundered shirts, his polished shoes and immaculate room.
*
Noon, and Helen was looking at her portrait in attentive silence. The background was incomplete, so too her dress, but her face, shoulders and hands were finished. The ambivalent sadness of the preliminary sketches had been replaced by a more assured expression. The uncertain smile had gone and now, instead of tremulously parted lips, her mouth was firm and slightly compressed with little brackets at the corners suggesting quizzical amusement. Her eyes were no longer looking down, but gazed out confidently at the beholder with a look of challenging inquiry. Here was Helen as Tom had seen her in company: social Helen, the mistress of every situation, never shocked, never at a loss; a proud, self-confident but not insensitive expression; the public face rather than the unguarded private one of the sketches.
Tom had walked away from his work and was staring fixedly out of the window. The portrait in his eyes was a travesty; he also reproached himself for having followed Helen’s advice over Catherine. By making himself remote, he had merely increased the girl’s infatuation: inaccessibility and mystery often being better stimulants to passion than complete knowledge. Now, wise after the event, he was sure that had he been as open-hearted as she, he could hardly have caused her greater distress than that inflicted by his immediate rejection. Nor, looking back, was he happy to have renounced an intimate relationship which could have brought them both happiness – albeit of short duration. Catherine was undoubtedly an attractive and unusual woman. It would also have been most gratifying to have imagined the fury Charles Crawford would have felt had he ever learned the object of his sister’s affection.
But neither Catherine’s misery nor his own sense of a missed opportunity accounted entirely for Tom’s feeling of dissatisfaction. His greatest self-reproach stemmed from the fact that in this, as in the matter of the portrait, he had deferred to Helen Goodchild’s wishes. Believing more in an aristocracy of merit than one of heredity, Tom did not consider that he had been over-awed by Helen’s rank; nor could he explain away his obedience as a means of gaining her ladyship’s good opinion in order to secure new commissions from among her wide acquaintance. The simple truth seemed to be that in spite of, or possibly because of, the unpredictability that made her charming one moment and mordantly scathing the next, she exercised a personal influence over him not far removed from fascination. Memories disturbed him. The vicious way in which she had once attacked portraiture as a dead art, her rudeness to him during her first sitting, followed at once by her bizarre gesture of reconciliation, had all left him confused and feeling at a disadvantage.
If he spoke only in harmless commonplaces, she treated him like a fool, but when he spoke his mind he always ran the risk of being reproved for discourtesy. His solution had been a proud but respectful silence, but this too had failed. Whenever she had been serious with him, he had felt obliged to reply in the same spirit. On more than one occasion she had made fun of him for tentative replies which she had described as ‘arrogant humility’.
When she had finished looking at the portrait, she gestured to him to come closer.
‘It will do nicely, Mr Strickland.’
‘I am glad to have pleased your ladyship.’
‘You’re nothing of the sort.’
‘Since I did not please myself, it is some compensation to have satisfied my sitter.’
She smiled, evidently amused by the deliberate irony of his answer.
‘That perhaps is nearer the truth.’ She put down the oriental fan which she had held while sitting and looked at him reproachfully. ‘I know I’ve said so before, but it would be such a relief if you could be less careful of your dignity.’
‘I have little else to take care of.’
‘Your talent?’ she asked with a trace of gentle mockery. He stiffened inwardly.
‘Your picture shows how I value that commodity.’
‘When you return to London I am sure you will be able to paint scenes more to your taste: Night in the Workhouse or Workmen in the Gin Shop.’
‘There is little enthusiasm for such work,’ he replied coldly.
Helen stared at him with a concern which he was well aware was false, and then pretended to be deep in thought. A moment later she looked up brightly.
‘Change the names then. Try the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus and the Roman Holiday. Roman mobs are always much more acceptable; their togas are so clean.’ Uncertain whether this was an attack on him personally, or on current popular taste, Tom remained silent. ‘Or a more humorous subject? I have an excellent one for you.’ She looked at him expectantly, but he did not meet her eye. ‘Shall I tell it you?’
‘Please do.’
‘A monk gazing at fattened sows in a pen, and called Thoughts of Christmas.’
‘I am sure it would sell excellently.’
‘I know I can think of others.’
‘Your ladyship should have been an artist.’
Helen laughed delightedly at his hea
vy sarcasm.
‘I really am sorry,’ she said, still laughing. ‘But your grand scorn for low story-telling art is more disdainful than anything a duchess could manage.’
‘Being an artist I cannot share your detachment over the condition of my profession.’
‘Forgive my deviousness, but I think I’ve proved us equals in pride if not in possessions.’ She smiled enigmatically and motioned to him to sit beside her on a chaise-longue by the window. A light breeze from the garden was rustling the curtains. ‘Perhaps you have read Le Rouge et le Noir?’ she asked in a matter-of-fact voice. Tom shook his head. ‘The Marquis de la Mole has his secretary, Julien, wear a black coat during the day and a blue one in the evening. In the black coat Julien is a servant, in the blue a friend.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Could you put on a blue coat, Mr Strickland? Your black one gives you too many advantages. You talk to me in a tone which says “I humour the woman because I’m paid to, not because I wish to.” Contempt is never more apparent than when dutifully concealed.’
‘All right, my blue coat is on,’ replied Tom in a resigned voice. He suspected that he was about to be made the butt of some subtle joke. She looked at him admiringly.
‘How well it suits you. A perfect fit.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
It had occurred to Tom that the implication behind Helen’s literary allusion was: ‘How charming I could be if you were not who you are. But I am considerate enough to be prepared to imagine you’re something different. Naturally since my personality is perfect, you must be the one to make changes. Don’t expect me to.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I prefer my old one, and would like your ladyship to wear a coat of the same colour.’
‘But, Tom, I thought you far too democratic to worry about niceties of protocol.’ This quite unexpected use of his Christian name made Tom catch his breath; the shock was almost as acute as if she had touched him. She smiled at him and held up her hands. ‘Very well, my coat is black.’ She turned to him and he was painfully aware of the proximity of her bare arms and shoulders. ‘Now tell me, Tom, did Catherine ask you whether I had spoken about her?’
‘She did, and I denied it.’
‘She was very angry with me.’
‘I did not tell her.’
‘Then perhaps you can explain her anger.’
‘A voluntary rejection is always harder to bear than one that is forced.’
‘She was angry because she believed you acted solely by inclination?’
‘I think so.’
Helen appeared to think about this for a few seconds, then she got up and walked over to the mantelpiece. Tom sensed that she was not satisfied with what he had said, but could think of no way to convince her. Also he suspected that the investigation was aimed less at Catherine’s thoughts than his own. She appeared to be trying to force some kind of admission. The steady uninhibited way she was appraising him made him embarrassed. He shifted his gaze from her to the Vulliamy clock behind her on the mantelpiece. He heard her say:
‘There is an alternative, isn’t there, Tom?’
She was waiting patiently for his reply; he could tell from her tone that his answer would be important and was frightened to say the wrong thing, but his heart was beating too fast and he could not think clearly. All the time he was aware of her remorseless eyes. At last he shrugged his shoulders and let his hands drop to his knees.
‘It’s stupid, I know.’ He paused and took a breath. ‘I suppose she could have thought you wanted me for yourself … that you were jealous of her love …’ He let his sentence end unfinished and felt his cheeks glowing. She crossed the room and sat opposite him in Warren Hastings’s ivory chair; the silence while she did so seemed unbearably long to Tom, who could tell nothing from her expression about how she had taken what he had said.
‘And that idea seems stupid to you?’ The same bland matter-of-fact voice.
‘She knows you’re to marry her father,’ he objected with attempted incredulity.
‘And she believes my motive is pure convenience.’
Tom contrived a laugh as he said:
‘All the more reason why you would never jeopardise your whole future by such folly.’
‘A woman in love does not calculate risks.’ She gave him a half-sad smile. ‘Supposing me to be in that condition, why should she expect me to be cautious?’
Again Tom was at a loss how to reply; he tried to remember exactly what had preceded her last question but failed. The stupid game over blue and black coats and her use of his Christian name had blurred the clearly defined roles which he greatly preferred to her elaborate pretence of a temporary equality. At last the constant air of tension, present during all her sittings, had brought him close to breaking with all inhibition. All his past experience with women suggested that she wanted him to believe that she was strongly attracted to him – her object probably no more than to make a fool of him to relieve her boredom; just as flirtatious girls will encourage a man to be able to slap his face. Perhaps she really had been jealous of Catherine and was simply striving to assert her superiority over a younger woman.
He had been staring fixedly at the border of the carpet but, when he looked up, he saw an expression so vulnerably open and so tender that his defensive suspicions instantly melted away. All that his mind seemed capable of grasping was the reality of that look. His heart was fluttering and his breath came quickly.
‘What did you ask me?…. Something about Miss Crawford?’
He guessed at once from her swift glance of reproach and the sudden lowering of her eyes that she had mistaken his genuine inability to reply for a deliberate refusal to allow her the saving grace of an indirect approach. Unable to endure her silence he stammered out:
‘Either I’m mad or you intend me to understand …. that your feelings towards me are….’
‘Improper?’ she murmured. ‘Shameless? What are the words most often used?’ Her cheeks were burning but she held his eyes with a defiance that astonished him after her anguished reticence. ‘Now you know the meaning of hypocrisy, Mr Strickland. But then a lady’s most useful accomplishment is her ability to say quite naturally the opposite to what she thinks. Miss Crawford being well-schooled understood at once what I have had such labour to acquaint you with.’ She bowed her head and then looked at him beseechingly, all traces of cynicism gone. ‘You must not ask for explanations…. I cannot give them. Think what you wish. Only the guilty feel the need to justify.’
A wild elation made his head swim. Goodchild’s ethereal wife, proud, inaccessible, capricious Helen, prepared to make herself his mistress? A powerful wave of pride and dominance overjoyed him, only to be succeeded by a piercing shaft of doubt. How many times before during her marriage had this scene been acted out? With house guests, even her son’s tutors as victims? Could he honestly claim that he knew her any better now than he had done after their first meeting? Her instability frightened and fascinated him. Her eyes were glittering and her cheeks still flushed. An overpowering longing to sit by her and touch her caught him unawares. Not happiness now, not exultation, but a yearning more like pain. A terror of future hurt and loss overwhelmed him. He tore his eyes from her face, furious with himself for feeling so much and so soon. An eager schoolboy rushing to thrust his hands in the fire. Fools gave themselves away easily. No longer confused, thoughts came to him with stark clarity. She would tell him nothing, would not explain or justify, disdaining to give assurances to a plebeian artist, who would be grateful for whatever crumbs she might let fall. Even when revealing herself she had maintained the privileges of her position, and he, fool that he was, had been on the brink of babbling endearments. Forcing himself to be calm, he started to collect his brushes. At last he moved towards her and said softly:
‘A man who loves, where he can have no claims, will suffer; where he may not even ask for a single proof of sincerity, his helplessness is too abject even for pity.’
&n
bsp; ‘Proof?’ she whispered as though astonished. Her wounded tone pained him but he maintained his show of detachment.
‘I have so little to offer you, and you so much to lose that I fear you are toying with me.’
She rose and faced him with such sadness that he felt ashamed even before she spoke.
‘If what I have to lose is insufficient proof of my sincerity, what other may I give? You could ruin me at will; yes, and my son. Yet you speak of having no claims. You fear you may be unhappy….’ She broke off, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘My God, do you think me immune from that disease? Am I so jaded that I must risk ruin simply to beguile a few tedious hours?’
The passion with which she had spoken shook him badly, undermining all his previous sense of resolution. Close to surrender, he still resisted.
‘To escape intolerable unhappiness and to forget the future, thousands do daily what they very soon regret…. Tomorrow I could leave to finish your portrait in my studio.’
‘Or you may finish it here. The choice is yours.’
Why be afraid and not thankful? Why should he run from his strongest inclinations out of fear? Suddenly he was gripped by an intense and vehement pleasure in being where he was, in seeing what was before him, in being close to her and knowing that he would kiss her…. she in evening dress, he in his paint-spotted clothes. He saw from her apprehensive expression that his face had not betrayed his new mood. Fear? With the returning tide of confidence, he was dumbfounded by his former hesitance.
‘You still need proof?’ she asked, coming towards him. Before he could answer, she had cut the ground from under him, as she had so often done before. With ceremonious slowness she went down on her knees in front of him.
Never in his life had Tom seen a more defiant act of self-abasement. He was appalled by the thought that somebody might enter. The habit of deferring to her left him hideously embarrassed to see her at his feet; he felt powerless rather than commanding.
