Iain Pears - The Portrait

One more glass of wine; but no more. I don’t want you falling asleep on me, you know, and it is easy to do if you have too much of this. It is a deceptive brew, more potent than it seems when you drink it.

You cannot send a man to the gallows because of a tilt of the head in the sunlight. Not when you are so desperately trying to convince yourself that it cannot be true, when you range over your memories, reorganising your past to persuade yourself that a friend could not possibly do such a thing. Suppose I went to the police. They would make enquiries, and conclude there was no substance to the suggestion. But you would hear of it, and know who had said such a thing. So I kept quiet once more, and a week later you moved on to ensure that nothing Evelyn ever said about you, nothing she knew or suspected, would have any effect either.

I saw Evelyn after Jacky was found, and she had seemed calm enough on the surface, at least. Those years of careful upbringing were being put to use. She was most upset, she said, in an even voice. Upset, distressed, but not overly so. She passed no comment on the circumstances but politely, and somewhat coldly, took her leave. Her exhibition was to open the following day, she had a lot still to prepare. She was anxious.

Why should she be any more than regretful, after all? Jacky was just a model, however valued. A friend, perhaps, but what friendship can there really be between two such people, so different in outlook, upbringing, temperament and tastes? And many people become preoccupied, distracted, when they are preparing for a show. I put it out of my mind, in the same way that I tried not to think of Jacky. I succeeded there; I even forgot to go to the funeral. I was working, trying something new and different which I couldn’t get right. I kept trying and trying, almost stopping but then going back for one last attempt. And when I finally gave up, the effect I was chasing still unachieved—it was too late.

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.