Iain Pears - The Portrait

I am being provocative; I apologise; I do not wish to set your weak heart a-flutter. There is a reason for it, though. I would like to see you angry again, to see you lose control for once in your life, in my presence. Otherwise Jacky will have triumphed over me, for you lost control with her, did you not? Hence the grey-green in my picture, to set off the shadows and echo the darkness back into your face. You will see it soon enough. The shadow in the background, the perfect man with the monumental flaw. The way the light falls on your face and is absorbed, so that there is a hint of something hidden behind. It is the fear that is in your life; a contrast with the earlier portrait, which has none of that, which has the blue and red of boundless self-confidence, of a world waiting to be tamed, a man who does not know his own weakness. Combine that with a slight hunching of the shoulders, as if you are protecting your soul from reality, and the point will be made, for those who can see. Only a true friend can do that, put that in. Only me.

I know about it only because Jacky came to see me a few weeks before her death to ask my advice, because I was your friend and would know best what to do. And because she feared to say anything to Evelyn, her friend and confidante, who could have given your wife a lesson or two in puritanism, so I thought. She shook her head when I suggested Evelyn might be a more appropriate person to talk to. “I couldn’t,” she said. “She’d never talk to me again.” There was fear in her as she said that; she made me promise I would tell no-one; certainly not Evelyn. Only I was to know.

Which just shows how desperate the poor girl was. Do you know what she said? That she had “compromised herself with a gentleman.” I was so delighted with the phrase—if you try it you will find it rolls around the mouth like a fine cigar—that I didn’t quite grasp what she was talking about for a while. She wanted to know what to do. She arrived at my studio just as I was beginning work, so I was probably rather brusque with her; I thought she probably wanted money or something to get her jewellery back from the pawnbrokers.

But no; she was compromised. And with a gentleman. I suppose a working man would merely have got her into trouble. Her face was a picture. I don’t mean that harshly, you understand. I’m not being comical. But as a model she always had this perfect deadpan look about her. No frown or smile ever troubled that pink face of hers; not with me, in any case. I didn’t hire her for her emotional register. Now, all of a sudden, she was a portraitist’s dream. The levels of emotion were extraordinary; shame, despair, hope, the pleasure of attention, fear. And something else as well, which I couldn’t pin down. Something fierce, almost animal-like. It was that look which ultimately brought you to sit in my chair here.

The interaction was ludicrous, of course; she talked in this bizarre language which was her own special parody of a drawing room conversation, so it was difficult to understand her at times. But eventually all became clear enough. She was pregnant; you were the father; and what could she do about it.

My initial reaction was one of complete indifference, once the astonishment at your foolishness had subsided. Such things happen, and they happen to people like her all the time. But then there was that fierceness. Do you know, I do believe things might have turned out differently had her expression not been so magnificent, and if she had not placed herself—quite by chance—by the window so the early morning light illuminated it perfectly? The way that emotion transformed her from a silly little woman into a queen, an empress, a goddess, even; the way her eyes shone and her skin took on a fiery grandeur; the tilt of her head as pride and defiance took over her soul. I could have sat her down and painted her then and there, just for that look. I knew that I should do my best to banish it, make sure that it never crossed her face again, to put out that light in her eyes forever. But it would have been a sin to do so. She was beyond beautiful, and her beauty was caused by the thought of that child. So I didn’t try to persuade her to do the sensible thing and go to the angel-maker, as the French so delicately say. Not because of her, or you, or because of what was right, but because of the effect of the light turning on her face. I gave her what she truly wanted. She hoped I would lend her the money for the abortionist. I told her to have the baby.

And, I may say, I gave her some practical advice as well. That she should write you a letter informing you of what had happened, and asking you to contribute to the upkeep of your joint creation. I considered for a moment that she should also assure you that the secret would be safe in her hands. That she would not approach you nor threaten you in any way. That she would leave London and be as discreet as if she did not exist. But I decided against the idea. No, I thought. Let him sweat a bit. Let’s worry him a little. It’ll make him more generous. A mistake. I underestimated you.

Good God, man! All she wanted was ten shillings a week! Less than you spend on wine. She had nothing, and wanted nothing except that little brat. And she knew what she was giving up, as well. She knew that her chances of a dutiful husband and a little parlour and a respectable life would all but vanish once she had someone’s bastard on her hands. Even her friendship with Evelyn might well evaporate. She would be all on her own, and she was willing to take the risk. It wasn’t much she was asking of you, and it wasn’t blackmail. Even had you refused, she wouldn’t have done anything. She wasn’t like you.

But that was not the point, was it? The point was that she decided to defy you, go against your wishes. And that was unforgiveable. And even more unforgiveable were the actions of the person behind this plot to blacken your reputation. Jacky could never have written that letter to you; it was too well-phrased, too suggestive. Too well spelt. So who could it be? Who in your circle could be behind this? Not Henry MacAlpine, for example, who would never dare attack you, who was too much the fawner and flatterer. No; only one possible person who knew Jacky could give her such advice. Your attention turned to Evelyn.

What did you see in your mind—the two women, sitting together, giggling as they plotted to destroy your marriage, bring you to ruin? The ruthless fury of womanhood scorned, relentless in their pursuit, never resting until they had taken their revenge? Did you imagine that she was going to start spreading stories about you? That she would write to your wife? Did you think that Evelyn wanted a hold over you, to guarantee that you favoured her? Were you so puffed up with your own importance and so sure that everyone had the same values as you did?

They paid a heavy price, by God they did. When I read about Jacky being dragged out of the river, my heart skipped a beat. The reporter quoted the police. Part-time prostitute, pregnant, killed herself in desperation. Happens all the time. Open and shut, no mystery, racing results from Sandown in the next column. Maybe it was even true. How should I know? I have no evidence to suggest otherwise, except for the memory of the way her face glowed in the light through my window. A woman like that wants to live, will do anything to cling on to life. Such a person needs the life torn from her by force.

Did she scream and struggle, William? Did her fingernails scratch on the stone parapet? Did she thrash in the water before she went under? Did she hear you as you crept up behind her in the dark? Probably not, because even Jacky could have taken you on in a fair fight. And what about you? Was your poor weak heart thudding, threatening to tear itself from its moorings as you pushed her? Did you hurry away with your cloak up around your face? Or did you stay and keep watch, to make sure she sank and never came to the surface again? I don’t even ask if you felt remorse, or guilt. I know you too well; you decided it was necessary. It was done. She was punished for her impudence. She didn’t matter. People don’t, do they?