Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Heroes of romance, Mr Franklin reflected, faced no such strange situations, such uneasy relationships. Or, if they did, they hid their emotions under an imperturbable mask - which made him smile, since it was precisely what he was doing himself.

  He stayed in Wilton Crescent when Peggy went down to Cornwall, because it happened to be the week in which he had promised to accompany Pip to the Royal Academy; it crossed his mind to mention the visit to Peggy, to see what reaction, if any, it provoked. Complete lack of interest, probably; worse still, she might assume that he was clumsily trying to make her jealous; worst of all, he admitted to himself, that would have been precisely what he was trying to do. And, in the circumstances, it would have been a pathetic attempt.

  He took Pip to lunch at the Criterion, and they visited the gallery in the afternoon, among a fashionable crowd trying to convey an understanding of art, and an artistic crowd trying to convey a contempt for fashion. Neither succeeded, to their own mortification and the delight of Mr Bernard Shaw, who enjoyed the distinction of being both fashionable and artistic and quite plainly knew it, as he prowled among the paintings, stopping abruptly every now and then to straighten up to his commanding height and frown appraisingly at some particular canvas. However, since he confined himself to the two observations, 'Remarkable!' and 'Extraordinary!' no one had the slightest idea what his opinion was, as Mr Franklin remarked to Pip.

  'Course not,' said Pip, scornfully. 'That's his stock in trade - look at his bloody plays, if you'll pardon the expression.'

  She had dressed in keeping with the occasion and her part in it; her costume was of pale rose and white silk in the fashionable Roman stripes, with a Medici collar; her blonde hair, worn in long ringlets, hung to her shoulders from beneath a tiny circular cap on the back of her head. 'Classical innocence,' she said, when Mr Franklin commended her appearance. 'If you're a model you can either be bold and statuesque, or else look as though you took your mother with you to the studio to keep these randy artists at a safe distance. Now, let's go slowly, as though we're interested in the other pictures, too.'

  They joined the throng round the painting which was destined to become the most memorable, perhaps, of all that year's Academy: Dollman's dramatic canvas of Captain Oates setting out into the blizzard from the tent in which Scott's expedition were dying in the Antarctic waste. Everyone present knew the story - how Oates, knowing that provisions were exhausted, had said 'I'm just going outside', and had deliberately walked away to certain death so that the others might have a better chance of life. It followed that the picture was viewed with considerable respect - as it deserved to be, since it was also an extremely good painting.

  'I think it's just lovely,' said Pip. 'Don't you? It makes me shiver just to look at it - all the snow and the black and him huddled up as if he was freezing.' A critique which could hardly have been bettered by Mr Shaw himself, although he would probably not have sniffed and applied a tiny lace handherchief to his eye as he said it. 'It's rotten sad, though, isn't it?' she added. 'Him being so gallant, and it didn't do a ha'porth of good; they all froze to death anyway, poor perishers.' Mr Franklin had no doubt that her emotion was genuine, although it also served to attract attention.

  Pip's artistic soul was even more profoundly stirred, though in a noticeably less sentimental direction, by the other major attraction of the exhibition, the Hon. J. Collier's controversial painting "Clytemnestra". This depicted Agamemnon's adulterous and murderous queen as a strikingly handsome Amazon of impressive development, naked to the waist and glowering brazenly out at the viewers. The ladies among them coughed delicately and looked askance; the gentlemen frowned intently in a vain attempt to suggest that their interest was purely academic; a man in a clerical collar murmured that it was remarkable how the viewer's eye was inevitably attracted to the blood-stained sword in Clytemnestra's hand.

  'If that's where his eye's attracted there's something wrong with him,' muttered Pip darkly, her personal pride stirred is she surveyed her rival's generous proportions. 'Disgusting, I call it. Anyway, if Mr Matania had painted me that way, they wouldn't be gawping at this, I can tell you. I may not be six feet tall with shoulders like a house side, but I've got better - '

  Mr Franklin coughed hastily and the clergyman said nervously that it was remarkable that the artist had not included in the picture the queen's lover, Aegisthus; he felt the composition would have been enhanced by the addition of another, er, human figure.

  'Well, there wouldn't have been all that much room, would there?' remarked Pip in a distinct undertone. 'Anyway, I hate to think what he'd have done with a male model - '

  Mr Franklin took her by the arm and steered her firmly away.

  'I think we ought to look at your pictures now,' he said, and Pip glowed with pride and led him to the fine canvas in which she was displayed with provocative decorum, lying prone and nude on a couch, awaiting abduction by Punic pirates. She surveyed her likeness with a sigh of profound satisfaction, glanced shyly at the considerable group of viewers who were admiring the work, and confided to Mr Franklin:

  'They always slept bare in Roman days, you see, because it was warm. It's a pity, I suppose, that you can't see my face, but that's not the point, really, is it?'

  Mr Franklin said soberly that he imagined not, and Pip explained that had her face been visible, it would have been necessary for it to register terror, which would have robbed the painting of its resigned pathos. 'It's better to be all cowering and helpless, don't you think? I mean, you can do that with your body much more expressively. I reckon I've put on about an inch round the hips, though. D'you like it?'

  'It's beautiful, Pip. He's a fine artist.'

  'You don't think it matters that you can't see my face?'

  'No - it's better that it's turned away for a subject like this. Of course, it's a waste of a lovely face,' he added gallantly. 'But you're perfectly recognisable.'

  'Cheek!' said Pip, and they went to view her other painting, a strikingly different study, in which she was shown dancing across a field towards the viewer, clad in a few discreetly diaphanous wisps, with tiny sprites lending support. It was, Mr Franklin decided, of considerably less merit than the Matania, and yet he looked at it with immensely greater pleasure - for it was Pip, laughing gaily out of the painting, teasing with a happy abandon that made him want to smile as he looked at it; the artist, evidently setting out with the intention of glorifying the female figure for its own sake, and no doubt brightening calendars and chocolate boxes as well, had ended by capturing all her vivacity and spirit and sheer good nature. If the man in the clerical collar had been present, he might have accurately observed that the eye was drawn to the face, bright and pretty and - Pip.

  'Of course, my hair isn't quite as dark as that, but it's not bad otherwise,' said Pip critically. 'And it isn't art, really, is it? - but I think I like it. It's a jolly sort of picture.'

  'I don't think I ever realised before what a nice girl you are,' said Mr Franklin. 'If it was for sale, I'd buy it.'

  'You wouldn't!' Pip was not given to blushing, but she went slightly pink with pleasure. 'You really like it! Oh, I'm glad! I don't know that I should be - 'cos it's a bit commercial, you know, and cheeky - but if you think it's that nice, well, it means it's come off, doesn't it?'

  She went on to tell him how long it had taken, and how she had had to pose holding on to a hall-stand, with one foot propped up on a chair and an electric fan blowing to keep her muslin draperies flowing properly -'Talk about freeze! Poor Captain Oates wasn't in it. But if you really like it, then I reckon it was worth it.'

  They lingered a few moments in front of the painting, and to Pip's delight a lady among the spectators recognised her and approached to ask if she was indeed the model. Mr Franklin was intrigued to observe that Pip received this with a demure politeness that stopped just short of reproaching the questioner with a breach of good taste; yes, she had posed for the painting, and also for the study by Mr Matania across the hall
; her vocation, however, was the theatre, and modelling was an occasional obligement in the interests of pure art. Did she paint herself? Pip replied gravely that she had not exhibited personally – not at the Academy, and had the lady remarked the fine picture of Captain Oates, an exquisite blending of the dramatic and harmonic that satisfied the canons of both in an artistic whole? Mr Franklin thought he recognised the description from a review in one of the papers, but the lady was deeply impressed.

  By this time a small group had gathered to eavesdrop politely and view the centre of attraction with respectful admiration; Pip, whom Mr Franklin would have expected to blossom like the rose, appeared coolly unaware of the minor sensation she was creating, and presently, with a gentle smile at the lady, she took Mr Franklin's arm and passed sedately on; only when they had turned a corner did she stop to nudge him in the ribs, giggle exultantly, and exclaim: 'What about that, then? Honest, I ought to get a percentage!'

  They strolled about the gallery, revisiting the Matania which Pip, her identity now satisfactorily established, viewed with a cold appraisal, inviting Mr Franklin's attention, in an aside which was audible to the interested and attentive spectators, to the subtle shading of the draperies in an obscure corner of the painting; she even insisted that they view the area under discussion from close range, with the result that when they passed on, there was a general movement towards the lower left-hand corner of Mr Matania's canvas, and much peering and nodding and appreciative whispering about tone and line.

  'You ought to be horse-whipped,' said Mr Franklin quietly, and Pip looked serenely ahead and whispered: 'Garn, it makes their day! By the time they're ready for tea they'll feel proper educated.'

  They were sauntering idly past the paintings, and Mr Franklin was on the point of suggesting that they seek some tea themselves, for the crowds in the gallery were now thinning out, when his eye was caught by two women standing by one of the largest canvasses in the hall, a scene from medieval mythology showing a boyish Galahad reverently contemplating what appeared to be a large electric light bulb in the recesses of a forest grove, with celestial nymphs lurking in the thickets. It was by an eminent English artist, and if anything more prestigious if less popular than Clytemnestra and Captain Oates. It was the smaller lady who first attracted Mr Franklin's attention; she was quite old, rather eccentrically dressed in a rusty coat and a most unbecoming black beret, and carrying a large leather satchel; he had an impression of flowing grey hair and bright, hard eyes in a strained face which glanced sharply round as her companion spoke to her. The taller lady was fashionably turned out in a maroon three-piece suit trimmed with dark fur, and wearing a stylish toque with a sweeping feather. Something about her was familiar, and then she half-turned, and he recognised Lady Helen Cessford.

  'Why, there's someone I know,' he said automatically, and Pip made a rapid survey and commented: 'Oh, society - and brought her charwoman along, by the looks of it.' And he was just wondering whether to approach and make himself known, when it happened.

  The older lady stepped up to the Galahad picture, facing it, and Lady Helen moved swiftly out to a spot in the very centre of the gallery. She glanced quickly both ways, drew herself up, and in a voice that rang through the entire hall, declaimed:

  'Ten days ago the House of Lords rejected the bill for women's enfranchisement! Without regard for justice, for decency, or for common sense, these selfish and arrogant men decreed that women must remain inferior beings, slaves without a voice in the land that dares to call itself the citadel of liberty - '

  Every head was turned in her direction, every eye in the main gallery was staring at the tall slim figure, one arm raised as though in denunciation as she pealed out her message. All except Mr Franklin - he was heading, with rapid strides, for the little old lady before the picture. A large man, turning to stare at Lady Helen, bumped into him; they blundered against each other, and in that moment over the large man's shoulder Mr Franklin saw the little old lady whip something that looked like a butcher's cleaver from her satchel and slash viciously at the painting. He shouldered the large man aside and ran, but Lady Helen darted in front of him, thrusting at him with the folded parasol she carried. Instinctively he fell back, and then a small pink and white fury flew past him, squealing with indignation.

  'Stop it! Stop it, you wicked old hag! Police!' Pip rushed at the little old lady, but she was too late. Two slashes of the cleaver had cut a large strip from the centre of the canvas and it was hanging out horribly from the frame; another sideways slash and it was almost severed, and the little old lady, grim-faced, having completed the mutilation of Galahad, was striking at random at the rest of the canvas. Pip snatched at the cleaver and screamed as it narrowly missed her hand; she grappled with the little woman and they went down in a welter of skirts and kicking legs. Mr Franklin parried a sweep from Lady Helen's parasol and wrenched it from her hand; she recognised him, and for a moment he thought she would launch herself at him. But one quick glance at the vandalised painting told her that the work was done; she shot him a glance of triumph and shouted: 'Women of Britain! How long - '

  A burly attendant seized her round the waist from behind and dragged her back. The gallery was in uproar, people shouting and hurrying to the scene, Pip was half-sitting up on the floor, her hand holding on her cap, while the little old lady was being pulled to her feet by an attendant and one of the male spectators. The cleaver lay where she had dropped it before the picture. Someone was blowing a whistle, voices were demanding that the police be summoned, the large man was shouting: 'Suffragettes! Damned suffragettes! Damn them all!', a thin woman stood staring at the mutilated canvas in horror, screamed, and fell over in a faint.

  Mr Franklin helped Pip to her feet. 'Are you all right, Pip? She didn't catch you with that axe, did she?' She shook her head, her eyes blazing, and actually flourished her small fist at the little old lady, who was being held, grey-faced, in the grip of the attendant.

  'You - you bad, bad old woman!' Pip stamped her foot. 'Look what you've done! You're a heathen! You're a ... a murderer! I hope they feed you forcible, you old trot!'

  Elsewhere the woman who had fainted was having a bottle of smelling-salts waved under her nose, an attendant was lifting up the great torn lump of canvas and aimlessly looking at the huge rent in the painting as though wondering if he could fit it back in place; murmurs of shock and outrage were heard as people crowded round to view the damage; Lady Helen was sitting on a couch against the gallery wall, pale-faced and resolute, with the heavy hand of an attendant on her shoulder, while another man in uniform tried to restrain the threatening crowd clustered round her.

  'You're a disgrace to your sex! A damned disgrace!' The large man's voice trumpeted over the rest.

  'They should be publicly whipped!' This was the lady who had spoken to Pip earlier. 'Whipped at the cart-tail! They're worse than street-walkers!'

  The little old lady suddenly burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. The attendant guided her to the seat beside Lady Helen, who put an arm round her shoulders.

  'Oh, yes, you can bawl now!' cried the large man. 'You've shown how fit creatures like you are to have the vote!'

  Mr Franklin held Pip's elbow as she straightened her dress; he could feel that she was trembling violently. She looked from the shattered canvas to the frail figure of the little woman crouched against Lady Helen, the beret pathetically askew, a thin hand over her face to hide her sobbing. Pip stared helplessly at Mr Franklin; two uniformed policemen were pushing their way through the crowd, ordering everyone to keep back and move along.

  One of them took charge of the two suffragettes while the other demanded the names of eye-witnesses. There was a clamour of volunteers until the large man claimed attention. 'I saw everything, constable. That is the culprit - ' he pointed dramatically at the little woman whose sobbing could now be heard distinctly in the comparative quiet. 'The other one is her accomplice.' Lady Helen regarded him with icy contempt, and turned to whis
per to her companion, who was clinging to her arm, her face hidden against Lady Helen's shoulder.

  'This plucky young lady,' the large man was continuing loudly, 'tried to prevent the crime, and might well have been seriously injured.' He indicated Pip and Mr Franklin. 'The gentleman also attempted to intervene, and was assaulted by that woman. In my opinion, they might both be charged with assault with a deadly weapon - '

  'Hear, hear!' said a voice, and there was a murmur of approval. 'I can testify on oath that the woman with the cleaver tried to use it against this young lady,' said the large man with relish. 'A murderous assault, unprovoked - '

  'Oh, give it a rest!' snapped Pip. She looked in despair from the huddled form of the suffragette to the indignant face of the large man. 'You talk a lot; I didn't see you doing anything.'

  'Well!' said the large man. 'Well! On my word!'

  'If you don't mind, sir.' The constable scribbled in his notebook and turned to Mr Franklin. 'May I have your name, sir, and the young lady's?' Mr Franklin produced his card. 'And this is Miss Priscilla Delys.' Pip gave her address, the constable nodded and closed his book, and addressed the crowd. 'Now, please, everyone move along. Don't block the gallery. Move along, please.'