David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

‘New benchers,’ he said cryptically to Powerscourt, ‘always have portrait done. Hangs in Hall or library.’ Now Edward mentioned it, Powerscourt remembered seeing some of these portraits displayed in prominent positions. He recalled, in particular, the two full-length Gainsboroughs of previous benchers behind Alexander Dauntsey in the Hall on the night of the feast. ‘Painter man wants to see somebody from Inn. Check he’s got the details right.’

Powerscourt and Edward were walking along the Mall that runs from Hammersmith Bridge along the river in the direction of Chiswick. Some of the houses were recent but there were also some fine eighteenth-century specimens looking out over the Thames. Number 35, The Terrace, Powerscourt learned, was where their painter lived, a man by the name of Stone, Nathaniel Stone.

‘Who the hell are you? What the devil do you want? Why can’t you leave me alone?’ This violent reaction to Edward ringing the bell came from a small red-bearded man with angry eyes, wearing a painter’s apron now stained with all the colours of the rainbow and a few more besides.

‘My name is Powerscourt,’ said Powerscourt in his most authoritative voice, ‘and this is my friend Edward. We have come from Queen’s Inn about the portrait of Mr Dauntsey. As you probably know, Mr Dauntsey is dead but the Inn still wants his portrait.’

‘Why couldn’t you say so?’ The red-bearded man sounded as though he was going to continue in the same vein. ‘You’d better come in. Thought you’d come about a bill. You look like you might have come about a bill. Had a lot of trouble lately with that bloody bill.’

He led them upstairs to a great drawing room that looked out over the river, back to Hammersmith Bridge on the left, and across the water to the fields of Barnes on the other side. A large easel, Powerscourt noticed, contained a full-length portrait of a society beauty, almost finished, he suspected, except for some elaborate lacework on the cuffs.

The little man glowered at the portrait. ‘She’s been driving me mad all day, that woman.’ He walked right up to the canvas and stared moodily at where the lace should have been. ‘Progress, that’s what they keep telling us, progress. Bloody electricity coming in to light everything up. Bloody motor cars coming along to run us all over.’ Nathaniel Stone picked up a brush and began prodding uncertainly at his canvas. ‘Bloody telephones coming in so your creditors can harass you in your own home without ever leaving their bloody offices. Bloody cameras – all right, I know they’ve been around for a long time – but they’re getting better and better all the time. Won’t be any bloody portraits left for us painters at all, some bloody monkey with an expensive camera will take our trade away.’

The little man paused and peered at those elusive cuffs once more. Powerscourt was about to speak but he wasn’t quick enough.

‘Progress? What progress?’ Nathaniel Stone spat bitterly into his fire. A sudden hiss flared up, matching the temper of the owner. He pointed back to his easel. ‘Four hundred years ago, three hundred years ago, any fool with a brush could have painted that cuff. Last year I could have done it. The year before I could have done it. When I was twenty-one years old I could have done it with my eyes closed. Now I can’t do it at all. I’m not progressing. I’m not progressing at all. I’m going bloody backwards.’

Powerscourt wasn’t sure how much this bravura display was genuine and how much was for effect. ‘Mr Stone,’ he said firmly, ‘you underestimate yourself, you really do. The reputation of Mr Nathaniel Stone in London’s artistic circles would not be what it is today if you were a man going backwards.’ Powerscourt would have had to admit that his knowledge of the Stone reputation was small, if not non-existent, but wounded artistic egos must be salved somehow. ‘I am sure it is the bill that is responsible,’ he went on. ‘Bills have a habit of being extremely disagreeable. They put a man off his stroke or his brush. They occupy the brain so it cannot issue proper instructions.’

Out of the corner of his eye Powerscourt saw Edward making discreet signs at him. Edward’s right thumb was moving rhythmically down into the palm of his left hand. The gesture was repeated over and over again. What on earth was Edward trying to tell him? Powerscourt saw that Nathaniel Stone was limbering up for another broadside of oaths. Suddenly he got the message. Edward was counting banknotes.

‘However, Mr Stone,’ he continued, ‘if it would help with the disagreeable bill, we could make a preliminary payment on Mr Dauntsey’s portrait.’ Powerscourt began rummaging about in his wallet. ‘Should we say thirty pounds, Mr Stone? Perhaps that would help?’

Stone looked at the notes greedily, like a man who finds the oasis after long days wandering in the desert. Powerscourt wondered what happened to the money. The man must be well paid and his portraits were excellent. Perhaps there was a Mrs Stone and a battalion of little Stones to feed. Maybe there was more than one Mrs Stone.

The painter stuffed the notes into his back pocket. They didn’t seem to have improved his temper very much. He swore violently as he lifted the society lady off her easel. ‘Bloody cuffs,’ he said bitterly, ‘bloody lace, why didn’t I make the bloody woman wear those very long gloves? Even I can manage gloves these days.’ He began heaving the painting towards the door. ‘Be back in a minute. Bringing your Mr Dauntsey for you to have a look at.’

Powerscourt and Edward smiled to each other. Then there was a great bang from next door. ‘My God,’ they heard Stone say, ‘the Hungarian Ambassador! In his Robes of State! With that damned Transylvanian fur! He was meant to be finished three months ago!’ Then a thin scraping sound as if something was being pulled across the floor. ‘Christ!’ There was real pain in the voice now. ‘The bloody Bishop of Rochester! Four months late and I never got that bishop’s crook right!’

The back room seemed to be a treasure house of unfinished masterpieces. Maybe he was like Leonardo, Powerscourt reflected. The man seemed to be constitutionally incapable of finishing a picture.

‘No, please God, no.’ Stone’s voice had turned into a high-pitched wail now. ‘The Cabinet Minister’s wife! That’s so far back I can’t remember the woman’s name!’

A loud crash followed as if a group of paintings had all fallen forward on to the floor. ‘Where’s that bloody lawyer gone? Who’s this? Oh, my God, it’s the Great Conductor! I should never have tried him with that baton, it was never going to work. And who are you, for heaven’s sake?’ Again they heard the scraping sound as if a canvas was being pulled along the floor. ‘You’re not, my God, you’re not. You can’t be. You can. You are. You damned well are. In Christ’s name, you are the bloody Governor of the Bank of England, due for delivery, it says here on the back, eight months ago.’

There was another loud bang. Powerscourt was to say afterwards that it was yet another canvas falling over. Edward maintained that Nathaniel Stone had kicked the wall very hard. The complaints went on.

‘You’re not a damned lawyer, you’re the Editor of The Times , for God’s sake. When were you due to be delivered? Six weeks ago. They might forgive me that. And you? Are you Dauntsey? No, you are not. You are some miserable banking person, meant to be handed over last October. Oh my God!’

Powerscourt suddenly remembered that his sister had commissioned a portrait of her husband, the distinguished banker William Burke, but he had no recollection of seeing it on the Burke walls. Perhaps it was still here. Perhaps he could ask the little man about it. Another wail came from next door.