by JH Fletcher
‘You haven’t finished it! You forgot about that ruin I wanted!’ Atlas’s hand on hers, they stared together at the painting she had done in the forest and that she now displayed. Its green fire burned defiantly in the shadows of the studio. ‘You’ll have to change this. And this.’ Gesturing with his left hand, his right still firmly on her own.
She did not move; his touch no longer kindled any sparks.
‘Do I?’
She would change none of it, would let it remain as a reminder, and a challenge.
While Aline, sensing something new in her sister, worried at it constantly, but without success.
She is afraid I shall speak to Martha, Marie thought. Or even Horace. Doesn’t she realise that I cannot, even if I would? One word and we should both be locked up.
She did nothing to reassure her, all the same. Instead, observed the complacency that Aline, unknowing, wore like a cloak beneath her surface concern. Even if I had not seen them together, Marie thought, I would have known. And now he has the nerve to place his hand on mine. My sister thinks she can hide such things from me; it would serve her right if I encouraged him.
The episode in the studio was not isolated. Senses now alert, Marie recognised other times when Atlas and, on one occasion, Aline herself, persuaded her to repeat her plein air experiments while they, no doubt, continued with experiments of their own. She thought to steal back, to observe, but would not sully herself with their preoccupations.
I need neither of them, she said. And was glad of it.
Yet she watched in fascination as Aline, engrossed in her affair with Atlas Pentecost, encouraged or at least tolerated the attentions of Charles Widdecombe who, contrary to expectations, showed no signs of losing interest.
Marie felt sorry for Charles, a lamb for the butchering. Contempt, too, that he should be so easily deceived. That was just as well for, without it, she might have been tempted to entice Charles herself, out of pity.
One way or another, it was a difficult time. Only too well did she know how she herself might have acted had Atlas turned his attentions to her rather than her sister. So she blamed Atlas, instead of Aline; his behaviour offended every standard of proper conduct. Of course, he had always made it plain how little he cared for convention. Marie had admired him for it, seeing him as an apostle of freedom. Now she understood that freedom for one might mean the opposite for others and that Atlas was motivated, not by principle, but selfishness.
Her feelings for him were now turned on their head. She could not bear it when he pawed her, when his hot and violet eyes stripped the clothing from her body.
Keep those looks for my sister. It was all she could do not to throw the words in his face.
After several months, Aline became white-faced and preoccupied. For days at a time, she complained that she could not be bothered to visit the studio.
It infuriated Marie, who could not go alone. Instead, she set up her easel at home, exorcising her frustrations in the ecstatic capture of the landscape, of a tree within the landscape, the tree’s bark, a crevice within the bark, the moist exhalations of air that surrounded it … On and on, seeking truth within the particular, the tree within the tree. And all with the brilliant palette that she continued to use despite, or perhaps because of, Atlas’s disapproval. She had been doubtful of him as an artist even when she admired him as a man; now she admired nothing about him at all, and his views on her technique, or lack of technique, became irrelevant.
I shall do as I wish, she told herself. As he does. As Aline does.
As Aline, it seemed, continued to do. Now, when Charles came, grinning teeth and ardour, there was a change. She had tolerated him, good-naturedly, an adult observing the antics of a child. No more. Acting as the chaperone that convention required, Marie observed how her sister had elevated Charles to a man of consequence. How she beamed at him, as brilliant as the sun, while Charles grew hot-faced and stammering.
There must have been talk, behind the closed shutters of Martha and Horace Ingersoll’s privacy. Visits were paid, and returned. Smiles, too. Until one day, very quickly as such things go, Marie was instructed to absent herself from the room when, yet again, Charles came a-calling, and within two passionate ticks, it was over.
Charles and Aline were to be married, the lamb and butcher united. The noses of several young ladies were quite out of joint. Aline was as Australian as they were, yet would never be. For a French girl, a foreigner, to capture such a personable man, and the heir to the Widdecombe fortune … How lucky could you get?
Luckier than they knew, thought Marie. She knew, yet would not permit herself to know.
The wedding took place very quickly, in deference to the young people’s wishes. So sweet, to see how they ate each other up. Martha and Mrs Widdecombe agreed that temptation, which was natural to the young, must be thwarted, so raised no objections.
Aline, in white, every inch the bride, smiled tremulously, modest eyes down-turned as she walked in stately procession to and from the altar. Eugénie was there in a hat to rival the best. Atlas would no doubt have said he’d done the bride a favour by creating the situation, but Atlas, thankfully, was not there.
Marie watched and said nothing, wondering whether the comedy would affect her own plans, determined that it would not. Atlas Pentecost, she knew, was out of the equation, but other possibilities remained.
At the wedding reception, Marie met Madeleine Throstle, wife of Desmond, who was one of Horace’s associates. Madeleine proclaimed to the world that she was into art. Before her marriage, as Madeleine Grant, she had lived in Melbourne, had been acquainted more or less closely with many of the artists who lived there. One of them, Lukas Smart, had recently come to Sydney.
Madeleine expressed a fondness for Lukas, who had suffered such sorrow.
‘I blame myself,’ Madeleine said.
She told Marie she had been instrumental in introducing Lukas to a young friend of hers, little more than a child.
‘If only I had realised where it would lead …’
Yet it had been so beautiful that she could not blame herself for it altogether. Dorrie Ballard and Lukas Smart had embarked upon a passionate relationship, had lived together in the Dandenong Ranges, like gypsies. There had been a child, Madeleine confided beneath her breath. Who, alas, had died.
‘Died?’ Marie was horrified.
‘He went into the forest. By himself. Not even two years old.’ Madeleine clucked her tongue at what could only have been Dorrie’s negligence.
‘And?’
‘They never found him. Lukas was devastated. I nursed him through it.’
‘And Dorrie?’
Coldly, Madeleine discarded Dorrie. ‘I could not say what she thought. Only that she left him. As though he were to blame. Suffering from guilt, I suppose.’
‘And now he has come to Sydney?’
To bury his grief, Madeleine believed. She would be happy to introduce Marie to him, if she would like.
Marie thought she had probably had enough of artists, but changed her mind when Madeleine explained that Lukas was a modern painter, one of the Heidelberg school. Of whom Marie, like all artists and would-be artists, had heard.
‘I suppose there would be no harm meeting him …’
But she remained cautious. There would be no more Atlas Pentecosts in her life.
Madeleine had no such inhibitions. ‘I might almost be Lukas’s pimp,’ she said, very pleased with herself.
Marie, who liked to think herself modern, took care to show no reaction to the shocking word. ‘Why is that?’
‘It’ll be the second time I’ve introduced a likely woman to Lukas Smart. Make sure you don’t follow Dorrie Ballard’s example.’
Madeleine’s lascivious chuckle nudged her meaningfully, but Marie was sure there would be no chance of that.
Lukas was a big man, strongly made, with a golden beard across his chest. He might have been good-looking once, but there were deep lines on his face, a
general impression of not aging well. He was, moreover, a man who believed in speaking his mind.
‘I do not take women pupils.’
‘Why is that?’
‘In my experience, they do not take art seriously.’
Marie had seen some of his paintings and thought they were interesting, which made her even less willing to be dismissed as part of the universal package that this man seemed to think made up the female sex.
She smiled sweetly at him. ‘That is a ridiculous thing to say.’
Which opened his eyes for him. Marie did not find it easy; it was not in her nature to seek such confrontations, but she was not prepared to be treated so dismissively.
Lukas did not back off. ‘The ones I’ve met have always been too busy fussing about what society lets them do, what it doesn’t.’ He gestured at Madeleine standing in a corner of the studio, while his eyes remained fixed on Marie’s face. ‘You’re as bad as the rest. You can’t even come here without another woman to hold your hand.’
‘Madeleine introduced us. In case you’ve forgotten.’
And she had stayed for the sake of decorum, but that Marie was not about to admit.
Lukas shook his head dismissively. ‘I can’t be bothered with that nonsense.’
‘Perhaps because you’ve never had to put up with it.’
While she talked, she strolled around his studio, looking at this canvas and that. Everywhere she saw the heightened palette that so excited her, the determination to capture the pulse and flare of light. Never mind Atlas Pentecost; already she knew that she could learn from this man, if he would have her.
She said, ‘I’ve brought some of my work to show you.’
She started to unpack a painting, but he raised his hand. ‘Don’t bother. I told you: women are more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘Really?’ Marie carried on with what she was doing. ‘Do you mean women in general?’ She stood the painting on a table so that the light fell upon it. ‘Or women as artists?’ And gave him once again her sweet, implacable smile. ‘Or both?’
He was frowning, eyes on the painting. It was the picture she had done on the fatal day when Atlas had pushed her off into the bush so that he and Aline could be alone together. When she’d done it she’d thought it was terrible but, looking at it today, deciding what she should bring with her, had thought it might not be so bad, after all. Might even have one or two good points, perhaps.
Side by side, they contemplated the green pigments taking fire in the sunlight.
‘Sun in splendour,’ Lukas said.
Marie looked questioningly at him.
‘It’s a saying.’
‘I like it. What does it mean?’
He ignored her question. She could see he regretted having unbent even as much as he had. ‘You did this? This … daub?’
‘Yes.’ Quaking behind her calm facade. ‘If that’s what it is.’
‘Exactly what it is.’ He prowled, eyes savaging the painting. ‘The colours are wrong. The perspective …’
He threw out his hands, then turned away abruptly, as though enraged by her incompetence.
It was an axe to her heart, but still Marie would not give up. ‘That’s why I’m here. To learn. I want you to teach me.’
‘To learn you must have talent!’
‘I have talent.’
She wanted to believe it, certainly, but was far from sure. Especially in the face of Lukas Smart’s assault.
‘I see no sign of it.’
But his eyes were unable to leave the painting alone. He worried it, a dog with a bone.
‘What else have you got?’
Trembling between hope and despair, she showed him another painting. And another.
He pondered them. Marie, watchful, saw him making shapes with his mind.
‘What did you think you were doing?’ he said abruptly to Madeleine. ‘Bringing this child to waste my time with her rubbish?’
He was not looking for an answer, nor did he get one. Instead he prowled. Back and forth across the studio. Back and forth. Always, Marie saw, his eyes were drawn back to the green fire.
Eventually he stopped. ‘Have a look at this.’
He took a painting from the pile stacked against the wall, put it on an easel. It, too, was a forest scene, trees and bushes and green light, but the tone was different from Marie’s painting. Here the branches threatened, and the light. There was darkness even in the brilliance, a sense of despair and loss. Almost hidden by the leaves, a figure, tiny and alone. Marie leaned closer to study it. It was a child. She caught her breath, remembering what Madeleine had told her. She knew that she was seeing the defining tragedy of Lukas Smart’s life, the child who had gone and never been seen again. With such a subject it could have been appallingly sentimental, but was not. Here you saw the loneliness and terror of the child, the agony of the artist in the casting away of hope.
She turned troubled eyes to stare at Lukas, discovered him watching her, and the painting, with an expressionless face.
‘Observe the use of the pigments,’ he said. The way I’ve blended the shades of green. Of course, that is technique.’ He was speaking dismissively, as though technique were of no importance. ‘I can teach you that. But the rest, the feeling …’
‘It is wonderful,’ Marie said, and meant it.
‘It is art.’ But he dismissed that, too, as though even art did not matter. ‘I cannot teach you talent,’ he said angrily, as though she had said he could.
And swept away the painting of the lost child, abruptly, as though it, too, were to blame for anger, and talent, and lack of talent.
Lukas glared at Madeleine. ‘Take her away. Go on. Get out. The pair of you.’ And turned his back.
They left as soon as Marie could gather her things together. Behind them, the door slammed. Marie felt two inches high.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Madeleine was serene, confident. ‘When he’s got used to the idea, he’ll be in touch.’
Marie was not ready to forgive so easily. ‘Why should I want anything to do with such a man?’
‘Because he can bring out the best in you.’
Undeniably, it was true. Yet Marie remained unsure. She went out by herself into the mountains. She soaked herself in colours, light. The sun filled her with honey warmth. In which she worshipped.
Careless of ladylike dignity, she lay upon a grass bank beneath towering trees. At her feet, the ground fell into a deep gorge in which swam shadows and mystery. A mile away towered a series of peaks — moss green, acid green, emerald green — their summits serene and swimming in light, against the brilliance of the cerulean sky. She closed her eyes to taste that brilliance, those colours. Images flared in the darkness. Behind them she sensed the slow, sure pulse of her ecstatic blood.
Answering an indefinable impulse, she opened her eyes and stood up.
Unencumbered by easel, palette, any of the artist’s paraphernalia, she took with her only her eye and sensitivity as she walked, pace by slow pace. She was immersed in joy and wonder and grief. Beauty came to her, sometimes through closed eyelids. She was living for the instant only, for the joy … and wonder … and grief …
Tears seeped between her closed eyelids, from her ecstatically-beating heart, from every part and particle of her body, her mind, her spirit.
To lock awareness … forever … into her fibre … her fabric … into every part and particle …
It was frightening. It overwhelmed her.
I cannot live with the intensity of all I feel and … know myself to be. I cannot. But must.
She forced herself through the jagged thickets of awareness until, suddenly, she reached open ground and felt the staccato spasms of mind and emotion unlock. Beneath the pouring of the honey light, she knew certainty: of herself, of what her role in life would be. All her life; beyond it, too, perhaps. Her destiny was work, so that the vision she had now, that she would go on discovering and refining forever, would persist even af
ter her to shed light into the minds and perceptions of those yet unborn. To fashion in them as in herself a fundamental awareness of unity with all things.
That is my role, she thought. To record that of which I am a part, that is part of me. For that, a lifetime will not be enough.
She went back to the house, steeped in that sorrow that only a profound awareness of beauty can bring. To find a message waiting.
Lukas Smart would welcome the opportunity of calling on her as soon as convenient.
‘I have doubts. Grave doubts.’
Horace, hands stroking the lapels of his jacket, once again pontificated while Martha, suitably subservient, watched from her chair and thought her own thoughts.
‘At least that fellow Pentecost painted things I could understand.’
Horace believed he had reason to be aggrieved. He remained convinced that art was not altogether respectable; it was an uneasy thought. Like everyone he knew, Horace had paintings on the walls of his house. Of suitable subjects and enclosed in gilded frames, they lent a certain tone. That was all that was required of them, or him. No-one he knew had ever looked at them. They were there, as the walls of the house were there, the heavy and sober-coloured wallpaper, to provide a framework. For himself, his family, his guests.
The work that Atlas Pentecost had shown him might just have fallen within that category. Whereas this new man, about whom Marie enthused, so tiringly …
‘I believe I shall be obliged to say no,’ Horace decreed, heavy as any gilt frame. ‘You know what he told me? He said that Marie had talent. Talent! I would like to know what our friends would have to say about that!’
He was aggrieved that such a thing should have happened to him, to inherit not only a daughter but an artist, too.
‘The sooner we get her married off, the better,’ said Horace.
‘You are, of course, right,’ said Martha, who thought that he was wrong. ‘I wonder therefore if, as a first step, we should not let her take a lesson or two with this man. Properly supervised, of course. To get the idea out of her head, I mean. Afterwards, I am sure she will settle down more easily, for having done it.’
