Shooting Butterflies

by Marika Cobbold

  Only rarely did she cry and then it was from rage, not pain or sorrow. Lillian is bold. You see it in the way she pulls herself up to stand, as she takes her first step at only ten months, her straight dark brows knitted together in concentration. When she falls over she labours to her feet without a whimper, her tiny mouth clamped shut. But she has a temper, that little one, banging her tiny fists on the floor as if to punish it for her tumble. I love my daughter and I’m amused by her, but there is none of the visceral closeness I have with Georgie; rather, there exists a detachment, as if we, Lillian and I, have yet to work out the connection between us. She is so much her own person, with not a trait for which to thank or rebuke me. She looks at us all with her clear-eyed gaze, as if secretly we amuse her. She is the only one in the household who is unperturbed by Arthur’s rages. The only time she seems to mind is when he upsets Georgie. She adores her brother and treats him a little like her pet. And she is fond of me; I know that from the way her cross little face brightens when I hold my arms out towards her and the way she moves just a little closer when there are strangers around. I enjoy those moments when she shows her need of me. Mostly she does not seem to need anybody, but if she does – if she is hungry or wants a toy from a high shelf or a toddle in the gardens – then Jane will do nearly as well as I, and Nanny of course, or even the stern-faced whiskery old Grandma.

  Arthur tells me that I should get out of the house, have some interest outside him and the children. ‘Look at Jane,’ he says. ‘She cares for us all and yet she is always out and about in her free time. It would do us good to have to manage without you now and then.’

  ‘He thinks I’m boring,’ I tell Viola.

  ‘Do you think you are boring?’ she asks.

  ‘I wonder about it,’ I say. Then I smile. ‘But I think Jane, with all her activities, is duller still.’

  But I resume my painting. I don’t know that I’m very good at it, but I do know that when I’m at my easel I don’t need to ask who and why I am.

  ‘I was right, was I not?’ Arthur says, pleased and mellow, stroking his beard, twinkling at me. ‘You just needed to get out and about and enjoy some activity of your own.’

  I fear I shall never understand my husband. Our new teacher William Fenton is so pleased with our progress, Viola’s and mine, that he has suggested we hold a small exhibition. A friend of his owns a gallery in Guildford. ‘It would be the ideal venue. Lewis is especially keen to help new artists.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell William at first. ‘We’re just lady amateurs.’

  ‘Do you believe that? Is that how you feel? Like a lady amateur?’

  I look up from my easel. ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘When I paint I am alive.’

  And Viola is game. I tell Arthur of our plans, expecting him to be proud. My dream is for him to speak to me with seriousness, to discuss and engage the way he does with his friends. If I prove myself, even in a small way, he might. That’s what I hope. But unaccountably he is angry, accusing William Fenton of taking advantage of his pupils. ‘Can’t you see? Can’t you see that he and this friend of his are trying to gain from your connection with me? Oh, you are so naïve.’

  ‘I think William believes I have talent.’

  Arthur shakes his head. ‘Oh, Louisa, I’m not saying you don’t produce some very pleasing little pictures …’

  ‘It’s been a while since you saw any of my work.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe, but I doubt there has been such progress as to justify exhibiting. No, my dear, I fear you’re taken for a fool.’

  But some days later he tells me he has a surprise. ‘I have asked Donald Argyll down for the weekend to look at your work. We have the business of my next show to discuss anyway. If he thinks well of it then I am prepared to admit that I was wrong and I will personally organise a small exhibition for you. Although I think that here at home, with our friends and neighbours invited, would be most suitable.’

  Donald Argyll owned the fashionable gallery in London through which Arthur sold his work, and his opinion was much relied on. ‘He is a fierce critic,’ I say.

  ‘You have nothing to fear, Louisa. What Donald abhors is pretension: callow youths with their talk of Modernism setting themselves out to be great artists. You make no such claims. You are simply a young woman keen to share her husband’s world, and with a pleasing little talent of her own. He will be able to tell us – I feel I am too close to be an entirely reliable judge – if this young man is justified in raising your sights.’

  ‘Should you not take a look yourself first?’

  ‘If you wish, dear, if you wish.’

  But he is busy in the next few days and there is never quite the right moment. By the time Donald Argyll arrives I feel shy and foolish for having listened to young William Fenton. Mr Argyll is charming, however. He compliments me on the children and on the excellent luncheon. Then they withdraw to the studio to look at Arthur’s work in progress, his great Island canvas. Much later, when the light is fading and I believe with some relief that they have forgotten all about me, Jane fetches me from the nursery saying that Mr Argyll is ready to look at my work.

  With the help of William Fenton and Viola I had chosen five paintings to display. I had placed them in the morning room: one on my easel and the others propped up on chairs. (I had felt it presumptuous to replace the paintings already on the walls with my own offerings even for a day and Arthur had not suggested it.)

  Mr Argyll walks around the room. Arthur is not with him. I watch him, alert to every flicker of emotion. My heart beats faster and my palms turn clammy as I await his pronouncement. He does not keep me long.

  ‘My dear Mrs Blackstaff, I must ask you why, when you have so many duties to which you are so eminently suitable, would you wish to pursue the difficult path of the artist?’

  The heat rises in my cheeks and my eyes start itching, but I look straight at him with what I hope is an easy pleasant air. ‘I never set out to. It was just something to bring me out of the house. But gradually it began to take me over; yes, there’s no other word for it. I tried to pretend otherwise, I am aware of my limitations, but this,’ I gesticulate towards the easel and my picture upon it, ‘is what I am happy doing. When I paint I feel most myself. And then Mr Fenton, our teacher, told us that he thought we were ready, Viola Glastonbury and I, to put our work before an audience. He believes,’ I hesitate then I push back my shoulders, ‘he believes that I have a talent.’

  ‘Does he, now? Then let it rest there.’ Donald Argyll turned on his heels, about to leave the room. ‘I shall make no further comment.’

  Arthur had come in and now he too was inspecting my work. I tried to read his expression; he noticed and turned away, but in the short moment when his eyes met mine, I saw it: dislike. I felt close to tears and tried to compose myself, turning to the window, looking out across the garden.

  ‘No, Donald,’ my husband’s voice was even. ‘We asked you here to give your honest view. You would not do Louisa any favours allowing her to labour under false illusions or allowing her to make a fool of herself.’

  I blanch at his choice of words and dread what will follow, but all I can do is wait.

  ‘Very well. I would not go as far as to say that what I have seen is entirely without merit, Mrs Blackstaff. There is a naïvety that can be quite charming in its place. However, were I to judge your work against that of true artists, your husband being one …’ here Arthur inclined his head in recognition of the tribute ‘… then I would have to say that everything about it speaks of a negation of the skill and care that is the hallmark of the professional artist. May I also add that I find some of your work, mainly the canvas entitled Mother and Child, lacking in good taste as well as the basic skills in drawing, composition, perspective and colour.’

  ‘It was for the best.’ Arthur wants to comfort me. There is no sign now of the anger I had seen in his eyes when he first saw my pictures. Maybe I had been mistaken; I was upset. ‘I fear you would not
have taken my word alone but that you would have suspected me of some underhand motive in wishing to keep your work from a wider audience. This is why I called on Donald to give his opinion. Surely it is better we are spared the humiliation of a public exhibition? And don’t forget, there would have been far more interest paid than is usual for the efforts of an unknown lady artist because of who I am. Believe me, he did us both a kindness. Now, no one is suggesting you should not go on enjoying your lessons, only that you should see it for what it is: a pleasant pastime. And can I also say that you have been a little neglectful of your duties at home of late.’

  I stop going to my classes. I try to explain to William Fenton and Viola. William’s jaw clenches and his dark eyes flash with anger; how young he is, I think. ‘That pompous old fraud. That …’ I put my hand on his arm and as he glances down I wonder if he thinks, as I do, what a large strong hand mine is, what an unladylike hand. ‘Louisa, I implore you to take no notice. Don’t let them take this away from you.’

  I smile at him. ‘You speak as if there is a conspiracy. I don’t think I’m important enough for that. No, this is my choice. I simply respect the work of real artists too much to wish to waste time and paint and canvas playing at art. Mr Argyll would have said if he had seen anything of real merit in my work.’

  ‘He is one man.’

  ‘One who happens to be our foremost critic. And don’t forget my husband. He did not disagree.’

  ‘Your husband …’ William paces the small studio, a frown on his handsome young face. I wonder if maybe his mother was Italian, Spanish perhaps; he has the colouring: olive skin, and those fine dark eyes. He turns and looks at me and I can see that he is trying hard to remain calm. ‘All I can say is that they are wrong.’

  ‘Oh, William, you are very kind, but I can’t dismiss their opinions like that. I respect yours, of course I do …’

  ‘But not enough to trust it above theirs?’

  I pause. ‘No. No, maybe not.’

  ‘You love your painting,’ Viola says. ‘Does that not count for anything?’

  ‘I told you; it counts for everything. I have too much respect for art itself, I love it too much to keep on producing inferior work.’

  William looks surprised. He is not used to me speaking like this, my voice raised. Viola knows me better by now, but she does not agree with my sentiments. ‘I think you are wrong. I think that in every sense you are wrong.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you that I do not find your husband’s work all it’s made out to be?’ William’s look of sullen defiance makes me think of Georgie and I can’t help smiling.

  ‘I would say that you are entitled to your opinion,’ I tell him.

  ‘And you, what do you really think of it? If you tell me you think him a great artist then I shall not try to persuade you further.’ William takes a step back, a look in his eyes as if he had won the argument.

  I look back at him, keeping my gaze steady as my heart beats faster. ‘I believe my husband is a fine artist,’ I say.

  William does not take my hand when I offer it to him. Young men break my heart with their earnestness and their futile passions.

  ‘You were right,’ I say later to Arthur. ‘I was a fool for ever thinking I could be anything other than an amateur, and an indifferent one at that.’

  ‘No, not at all, my dear,’ he says, taking my hands in his and lifting first one, then the other to his lips, kissing each and every one of my fingers. ‘It’s never wrong to strive. What’s wrong is not to accept when one has reached one’s limitations. And you know how stern, how uncompromising Donald Argyll is. He was asked to judge you alongside professional artists, men of note. Had he seen your pictures in the context of a lady’s accomplishments his judgement would have been made accordingly.’

  ‘You mean it would have better befitted the crime?’ I try to smile.

  He laughs. ‘No, Louisa, not at all. What I’m saying is that the fault is not with your work but with your aspirations.’

  A few weeks later he returns from a couple of days in London and tells me that he has talked again to Donald Argyll. ‘He asked me to give you his regards and to tell you that if you feel a need for a creative outlet you should consider textile work. He told me, and this is praise indeed from a man like Argyll, that you have an interesting way with colour.’

  ‘Could he not have said that at the time?’ I mumble but I do not make an issue out of it. His other comments made it quite clear what he thought and so did Arthur’s reaction. He had been ashamed at the poor quality of my work; that’s why he had looked angry. I think that was what affected me most … that my husband thought my work so poor he was ashamed. But my failure as an artist had served the purpose of bringing Arthur and me closer together. I could not have enough of my husband when he spoke to me in such a good-natured interested manner; as if we were truly friends and confidants. How could I have been so ungrateful, so unfair, the way I had almost hated him lately? Look at him, so handsome, so gentle and caring. I step towards him and put my arms round him, resting my cheek against the rough tweed of his coat. He quickly frees himself with a shrug and a small laugh.

  Of course he had his moods and his tempers. But I had known that when I agreed to marry him. He had told me himself, as he knelt before me in the wet grass that had quite destroyed his white flannel trousers, that he was a tricky fellow. That’s how he put it: ‘I’m a tricky kind of a fellow, given to all kinds of moods and tempers. I want you to know what you’re taking on, Louisa my darling, my solemn Madonna.’ He said I reminded him of medieval panels of a stern yet serene Mary, staring out at the world and its pain and sorrow with unblinking eyes.

  I store away the good moments and, during the bad, indifferent days, they sustain me.

  I’m expecting once more. I wish I were not. I fear the pregnancy will destroy the new closeness between us. After Lillian was born Arthur confessed that he did not much like the way a woman’s body changes in pregnancy. ‘Of course I know it’s not your fault,’ he added, ‘it’s nature’s way, but I would be lying if I said it was attractive.’ And I know that he is jealous of the love I give my children although he will never admit it. He is a good man at heart and he wants his children to have a good and loving mother. The problem is that he also wants a wife who loves only him.

  When John is born it is obvious from the moment the cord is cut that something is wrong. The midwife shakes her head and tuts before catching my eye and trying a wan smile. Later my new son’s father and grandmother bend over the crib and stare down him, finding nothing to say. They don’t stay long.

  ‘You’d think they’d ordered beef and been given tripe,’ Jane says to Nanny. They are just outside my open door but she doesn’t bother to lower her voice. I can hear Nanny rebuking her, saying this is no time for glib remarks.

  I know he will not live. And I know why. He will not live because his own mother wished it so. I had wished it from the moment I knew of his existence. I had railed against every extra inch on my waist and every vein showing on my breasts; oh, I hated the child growing inside me for keeping my husband out of my bedroom and alone at night I had whispered poison. ‘I don’t want you, do you hear? You’re ruining everything.’ I wished the life from my baby through the days and weeks of red rage, through the orange weeks of smouldering resentment and the charcoal months of bitter melancholy. And I was heard. Now I gaze down at my transparent child, and I weep. ‘Be careful what you wish for because one day it might come true.’

  Georgie tells me that today the baby is ‘very well, it seems’. I had held John in my arms only moments before and had seen no improvement in his tiny waxen face. I whispered, ‘I love you,’ even as I knew I was too late. But I also know that Georgie is trying to cheer me up the best he can, so I nod and smile and say yes, maybe he is right, maybe John is better this morning. ‘Lillian wanted to come and say hello but when Nanny told her she could go for a ride in the big wheelbarrow she did that instead.’

>   ‘That’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘Not everyone likes little babies the way you do.’

  ‘But you and I, we like them very much.’ He climbs up on my bed to sit next to me. After a moment he clambers on to his hands and knees and peeks over the edge at the baby in his crib. ‘If you promise to get well I shall show you my toys,’ he says.

  ‘That’s a good kind boy,’ I say.

  ‘He is looking at me but he won’t smile. Why won’t he smile at me?’

  ‘He is too little. He hasn’t learnt how to yet.’

  Georgie tugs at my sleeve. ‘But he’s staring. It’s rude to stare. You look.’

  I lean across the bed and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the scream.

  Jefferson stood on Grace’s doorstep on a fine mid-winter day, a shiny brown leather suitcase in his hand. She stared at him as if he was a photograph come to life. ‘You haven’t muddled up the days, have you?’ he asked as he stepped inside. ‘You were expecting me?’

  She shook her head, then changed her mind and nodded. She kept her distance and he didn’t encroach. ‘Are you OK?’ He lifted his hand and traced a smile in the air. Now she took a step towards him, walking into his arms.

  Later, after he had had a shower and something to eat, she tried to explain. ‘You leave and go back to your family and it hurts; it really hurts, here.’ She frees one hand, bashing her chest with her clenched fist. ‘I toss and turn in bed. I wake up sweating, my heart racing from all the devils chasing my sleep. My work suffers because wherever I point my camera I see you. My mind is not on what I’m doing, only on what we did, what we will do. I am a poor friend because while I listen I am only thinking of you. It’s hopeless, this love; it sucks the life out of me.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s worth it as long as you will still love me when all that’s left of me is a little desiccated gnome with a Leica dangling round her neck.’