I knew I should feel guilty about my callousness, so when I saw the review of Evelyn’s exhibition, I thought I would expiate my sin by going round and making sure she was all right. Better to succour the living than waste time on the dead, who hardly need our support anymore. So I went round to her studio, though I didn’t know if she had even seen the review, or worked out who had written it. She was the sort who didn’t bother reading a paper, after all, and many a painter studiously avoids them until their exhibition is long closed. I guessed, of course, that she’d be upset if she had. Who would not be? It is a horrible thing to be publicly brutalised like that. You do not know, of course; you have only carried out such assaults, never yet been on the receiving end. The way the mind reacts is interesting, I suppose; an incredulity followed by a rising desire to turn away, which is so easily defeated by the necessity of reading it all. The battle to remain detached, unconcerned, the slow realisation that this defence is crumbling. The mounting panic as the words flow over you, metaphor by metaphor, insult by insult. The terrible fear that what you are reading is the truth, not merely the opinion of one biased, malevolent man. The way the words come as you answer the charges—words which no-one will ever hear, for you know there can never be any response; the critic will never have to account for himself. It is not done.
And then, the hatred. The blind but utterly impotent loathing of the man who has done this, so coldly. The way obtuseness has become insight, and stupidity intelligence, and cruelty a passing entertainment for the reader. The realisation that the review was written with pleasure, seeing in your mind’s eye the smug look of self-satisfaction as it is finished.
Finally, the belief, as all your defences and self-confidence suddenly crumble. The belief that the words are true, that you have been exposed for what you are, because the words are there, in print, on the page. The overwhelming conviction that what you are reading has an authority which overwhelms your self-belief, that the author has seen through you and exposed you for the fraud you really are. And this lasts, believe me. It does not go away quickly or easily, however strong you are. They gnaw at you, those words, bring you to the brink of madness, because you cannot shake them out of your mind. Everywhere you go you hear them, echoing in your mind. Only the most worldly, most cynical, can resist their power. You could, no doubt. I couldn’t, which is why I toadied to people like you for so long, and had to come here when I decided to do so no longer.
Ah! My friend, it is another—yet another—experience you have missed in your life, that realisation that someone wishes to do you harm, and has successfully done so without meeting any resistance. It is a great hole in your existence.
So I realised she might well be distressed; but I supposed that fury would sustain her, especially if she realised who was the author. She had, as you always guessed, a very high opinion of herself. It is odd how the greatest arrogance can be contained within the most timid creatures. Besides, she didn’t like you, although she was too polite ever to say so. Her opinion was contained in a vague shadow that once passed over her eyes when you were mentioned.
It took me about an hour to get to Clapham, I remember, and I also remember becoming annoyed as I walked, because it was drizzling with rain and cold; annoyed with you for what you had done, annoyed with Evelyn’s possible unhappiness, and annoyed with myself, because I discovered that I could not even rush to the side of a beloved colleague and friend without thinking of myself. Not only seeing myself offering aid and comfort, but also feeling irritated because my working day had been disrupted. That was callous of me, was it not? Truth is everything, and I cannot pretend to gallantry I did not feel. I was preoccupied with a picture I was trying to complete for the New English exhibition; my portrait of that Woolf woman, and I was proud of it. It was a good likeness, which captured her odd mixture of discontent and complacency, and she had already made it clear that she disliked it. She never said so, of course—that would have spoiled her notion of herself as being above such vanities—but I was getting under her skin, tormenting her a little by showing her things she could never see in a mirror.
But it wasn’t there yet, and I had worried about it all week and almost decided to give Evelyn a miss for a day, so I could worry some more. Eventually my notion of chivalry triumphed, and I did not turn back on Westminster Bridge and retrace my steps to my easel. I never did finish that painting, in fact, and it was one of the ones I threw out when I left. But I left my mind back in the studio, along with my brushes, and thought about my composition all the time as I walked to Clapham, thought about it as I rang the doorbell and exchanged pleasantries with the landlady, and still thought about it as I tiptoed up the stairs and opened the door.
And still thought about it as I stood there, in the doorway, looking at Evelyn’s body, hanging there from the big iron hook in the centre of the room. I was annoyed; only later did I try to construct a feeling of anguish, but that didn’t cover it up at all. A woman, one I loved, was dead, and I was annoyed that I might not now get a portrait finished in time. It’s these moments, I think, that reveal the true man; the instinctive reaction before manufactured and trained good behaviour can take over. You have a glimpse of what lies underneath the conventional responses, and in my case I saw a monumental selfishness.
Well, shock, perhaps. The mind sometimes cannot absorb certain things and takes refuge in the normality of daily concerns. I still think that is merely an excuse. I do not know how long my initial annoyance would have lasted, how long I would have stood in the doorway staring, how long it would have been before I came back to life and did something. Not that there was anything to do. She was dead, had been for hours. Methodical as ever, she’d prepared it all with care. Thick cord, obviously newly bought from a shop, just the right length. Proper slip knot, stand on a chair, and—kick. No chance of changing her mind at the last moment, no way of getting out of it. She wanted to die and she did. She was competent at everything she attempted.
And I saw the result. The face contorted and discoloured, the tongue sticking out, the odd angle of the neck, the looseness of the limbs. The chandelier pushed out of true by her body hanging at an angle, its cheap glass decorations tinkling slightly as the wind came through the door. A still life, all femininity eradicated and, like the boy on the beach, the image has stayed with me ever since.
A carefully arranged tableau. On the desk was the newspaper, open at the page with your review, and at the bottom she had written in a small, neat hand, “written by William Nasmyth.” She knew, you see. Does it comfort you, William, that even a woman in such distress could recognise your style? That your personality is so distinctive it proclaims itself even in such circumstances? I hope it makes you swell with pride; it is quite an achievement, after all.
But you had a still greater triumph, for beside the newspaper with your review was another, with the notice of Jacky’s death inside it. And underneath that, the same hand had written, “ruined by Henry MacAlpine.”
She thought I was the father of that child, William! She thought I had driven Jacky to her death, that I had shamed one and betrayed the other, taken her friend away from her. She held me responsible for it all, and never knew about you! Doesn’t that make you laugh, at last? You must see the funny side, surely, the thought of that woman hanging there, dying by her own hand, cursing me with her last breath! I didn’t take it in; I didn’t want to take it in, and so I allowed myself to be distracted. I turned away from her body, and saw the last part of her careful mise en scène.
Around the walls, turned to face the room for the first time, were all those paintings she hadn’t put into her show, which she had been so frightened of me seeing.
Pictures of Jacky, painted in a way I could never have managed, and which made me realise all my failings. She had painted a person, not merely a model striking a pose to challenge the artist’s skill. Her Jacky had character, personality. She was a real woman, suffused with emotions, tenderly and gently depicted, not some mannequin
hiding behind the blank face of compliant stupidity. She had seen through the coarseness, the silliness, and found something beautiful; not merely a voluptuous body which I saw while I spent my time showing what a clever technician I was. Jacky sitting, lying on the sofa, curled up in front of the fire; in each one she saw something special and touching, and painted it with a loving hand. And her self-portraits shone with warmth as she sat close to Jacky and looked into her eyes, or with loneliness when the room was empty. This was what she had wanted, what no man could provide, why she rejected me out of hand. I could never have brought out those expressions in her; didn’t know it was possible.
But there were others as well, pictures of both of them entwined, stretched out together, passionate and unrestrained, intimate and pornographic, doing things that even now make me shudder. Shocking pictures, with faces distorted by depravity, bodies twisted out of shape in their striving for each other. And she had used the light, not hidden herself away in darkness. By God, she had used it as no one had ever tried before. Each picture was suffused with brilliant dazzling colours, the flesh tones green and purple and red, the sun shining off sensuous limbs that splayed out in ways no life model could ever emulate. The complex bundle of angles and curves on their bodies. Celebrating even as they abused the majesty of the human form, God’s image, and reduced it to the obscene and the grotesque. The sun shining through the windows even gave them haloes as they mauled each other, as though their depravity was the stuff of saints. The eyes, too, I remember, staring out so calmly, shining brightly as they gazed out of the frames, daring me to disapprove, amused at my shock. No gallery could ever put such things on its walls. No man could ever have painted them. I never imagined a woman would ever dare.
Even now those pictures haunt me; I dream of them, they come to me unbidden as I lie in bed at night; I try to put them out of my mind but even now, after four years, I cannot. I’ve tried everything—long walks, sleeping draughts of every sort prepared by the pharmacists of Quiberon, prayer, confession. Nothing works. These were not subtle paintings; not Manet’s Olympia, where all is left to the imagination, the pose so careful and decorous, the viewer drawn into the picture so that the obscenity is in your mind and the painter can plead innocence. There was no coyness about these. Anyone who looked at them was an intruder who had no right to be there. I remember one most of all; Jacky was on her knees in front of Evelyn who was naked on the sofa. There was no joy on her face: this was not a portrait of the lover touched by the divine. This was devilish and violent, her face twisted, her body tense, an exultant scream coming from her mouth. What could that have to do with love or tenderness? This could not be that frail, dainty woman I knew? But like your moment with the shattered glass, I knew this was the truth. This was what she truly was, degraded and foul.
Those pictures made me tremble; I thought it was the shock of seeing Evelyn hanging there, but it wasn’t. It was knowing her for the first time, and being revolted by the way she let loose what was within her and revelled in it. To do such things, think such thoughts and paint it as love. Not to see it for what it was, what it must be, but to turn it into art such as no-one has attempted before.
It was the scream of her landlady, coming up the stairs to bring her a pint of milk, stopping behind me as she saw inside the room, dropping the bottle on the floor so it smashed and the milk ran into the room, that brought me back to reality. Or rather knocked me out of it entirely, for I scarcely remember a single thing after that. Not of what happened, in any case. I suppose someone called the police, the doctors, somebody must have cut her down, taken her off to the morgue. Presumably some member of her family arrived, at some stage. I must have given statements to the police, talked to her father. I do not remember any of it. All I know is that eventually I was on a cross-channel ferry, feeling I could breathe again for the first time in weeks. Between opening the door to her room and hearing the hooter of the ferry leaving the harbour, there was nothing at all except the memory of those pictures.
As the days and weeks passed I became ever more angry at her for daring to have a life unseen and unsuspected until you destroyed the only two things she truly valued and brought it all into the light. You cast down a terrible, perverted animal; even the wildest of bohemian London would have recoiled at those images, been overwhelmed and revolted by their passion and power. The work that was truly close to her heart, which came from what she was, could never be shown in public to anyone. Should I have been grateful to you, William? You exposed Evelyn for what she truly was, made me see the error of my ways in even being friends with her. Should I not thank you, old friend, for rendering yet another service to me?
But you destroyed much of me, as well. You took away my belief that I could see people in their faces and know them. You took away someone I loved and replaced her with something monstrous and twisted. The Evelyn I knew I can now scarcely recall; all there is left is that picture leaning against the wall, and the corpse which swung there, hating me as she died. Had your ruthlessness not intervened, nothing would have changed; I would never have known. Life could have gone on, and I would have my wife and house in Holland Park, my students and my riches.
For much of my exile I have hated her, but of late that has become weaker; even that terrible picture can no longer excite my disgust in the way it once did. I wish you had seen it; she was a good painter, you know, something extraordinary, and this was proof that would have convinced even you. She had taught herself to experience the extremes of passion and had learnt how to turn it all into painting. No-one I know has ever come close. Can I hate forever someone who managed such a thing? Who succeeded when I always turned away and flinched, compromised and sought the good opinion of people like yourself instead? Who was prepared to risk all and lose everything? Of course I hate her for where it all came from. I have abused her and scorned her memory for being what she was. I have tried to learn how to wish her soul happiness, and to mean it. But I cannot; not even the church can accomplish such miracles, it seems. My forgiveness lies only in the memory of her achievement, awful though it was.
I will cast her out entirely, now; she must not find any further place in my thoughts. I will find another way of calming my nights, so I no longer see those images when I close my eyes. I will forget them, and then they will have gone forever. I will replace them with the image of another friend, more twisted than she was. I have painted your soul in this picture, William, as much as I can; you may look at it now. Come; I will turn it round so you can see it without having to move; I think that wine I gave you is responsible for making it so difficult for you to stand. The strong flavour you so dislike hides many things. Don’t worry; it will do no more than make you a little groggy. I know this; my sleepless nights have made me experiment with many a potion, and I know the effects of them all. This particular one merely induces a certain lassitude and weakness, but does not bring any sort of oblivion.
Now, what do you think? You can look at yourself as you are. Do you see the coldness I have put in around your eyes? The cruelty of the mouth, the calculation of the chin? I hope you notice that the background is entirely dark, for there has never been anyone in the world but yourself. The shadows I am particularly proud of, there is no dominant light source, you see; rather it seems as though the light comes from within you. You illuminate the canvas, because you are the source of all certainty and truth. Set it up beside the older one and you will see the point I’m making, I hope. All the cleverness, the intelligence, is still there, the cultivation and the appreciation of beauty. But you have wasted your gifts, used them wrongly, lost the right to possess them.
Do you know, I’m proud of this? It really is a very good likeness of you. Deceptively easy on the eye, at first glance; only if you look closely do you begin to see its subtleties. I’ve come a long way in the past few years, I think. I am beginning to paint what I want to paint, rather than an approximation of it.
It’s not finished, of course. You can see that, certai
nly. You miss nothing where painting is concerned. It’s unbalanced. The first is a portrait of a man whole in mind and body; the second shows the corruption of the soul, but as you have noted, I have been a little flattering over your appearance. I’ve made you a touch younger-looking, less weakened than you are. A deliberate trick on my part; I am not falling back on old habits. The parallel corruption of the body will come in the last part of the triptych, which I will begin soon. It will never be seen while I am alive, of course; never could be, any more than Evelyn’s could be shown. But she taught me that is no reason for not painting something; perhaps the most truthful pictures must be hidden.
I don’t know, and I don’t really care. All I know is that I am looking forward to the challenge of the next part of this project. It will not escape me this time; it will be no rapid sketch for a newspaper, no missed opportunity or failure. I will work on you until I have you down, have no fear of that. I told you, I think, how I could not get that boy, because I did not know him in life. He was abstracted, just a pattern of shapes and colours. I will rectify that. I will heighten those greens without fear; make the eyes confront the viewer more directly. The way the sea erodes the flesh and exposes the bone structure I will depict with love. It will be an extraordinary work, something that will stick in the memory and replace those images that dance in my head when I try to sleep. A work that will last for all time. Worth the effort, I think. Even you would approve, critic though you are. I can see it in my mind so clearly.
I hope you understand all this; it is at your bidding, really. You are the one who suggested I go back to England, after all, and this is the only way I can think of which will allow me to return with an easy conscience. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life watching your success and knowing that at your heart you are a cruel, pitiless man, who can destroy others without a second thought. Surely you realise that? Such a person deserves no admiration or happiness. I could not accept a good review from you, nor yet a bad one. I could not belong to any club, show in any exhibition, be associated with any gallery, which had contact with you, and you have contacts with them all. I could not tolerate your sin and your success. I toned in your skin with green and brown in my portrait, shadowed your face to show that I understood the darkness of your mind.