The Crimson Bed (24 page)

    Henry relapsed back into silence and Fred left in a state of extreme irritation. However, he slipped five guineas onto the hall table as he left. He had no wish to see his friend in poverty.

    Later that evening he spoke of it to Ellie over dinner.

    'His work begins to suffer, damn it. He has so many commissions, too. He can't seem to lift a paintbrush but huddles over a bottle of whisky day and night and won't come out of it. He'll end up in some debtor's prison at this rate. What's to be done with him, Ellie?'

    She pondered the situation.

    'Poor Henry,' she sighed. She was able to understand grief, something Fred in his comfortable and untroubled existence seemed unable to imagine. 'Perhaps I shall go and visit him and see if I can talk him out of his sadness,' she said.

    'Will you, Ellie? You're such a kind, dear soul. I want to help him but have no idea what to say or do. I merely irritate him at the moment.'

    'I'm scarcely surprised about that. All you do is upbraid him, Fred. He needs some sympathy just now.'

    'But not
too
much! Or he will sink even lower into his depths of despondency. Come, Ellie, admit he's being puerile.'

    'He is. But grief takes every man – or woman – in a different way, Fred. You've never known real grief and I pray you never will. But life throws surprises at us and if anything ever happened to you, who knows how you might react – so be sure to have some compassion now for your poor friend.'

    Fred found it hard to imagine that he could ever get himself into the state into which Henry had fallen. He wasn't like that, he told himself. He would always pull himself together and find a way out of any troubles.

Ellie went to see Henry in his chambers later that week. Like Fred, she was horrified to see the state their friend had descended into.

    'Why, Henry,' she said, looking around at the litter and chaos, 'we really must restore a little order. This will not do.'

    'What does it matter?' he muttered. 'Who is there to care?'

    'I care,' she said briskly, 'and so do all your friends. Sit there, my dear, let me make you a cup of strong coffee.'

    She pulled the whisky bottle away from his feeble grasp and gently led him to a chair. Then she removed his cigars and set them out of reach.

    'While I am here at least, you will not drink or smoke. A rest from all this would be of great benefit to you. Some good food, some cheery company is your greater need.'

    She now stirred up the miserable few coals in the grate, added some wood that she found flung aside in the storeroom and made a merry blaze that instantly lit up the room and drove away some of its gloom. The light fell on Henry's face and he felt a corresponding uplift in his spirits. Then she sent for the maid to tidy his littered and chaotic rooms and the boy to fetch him some food from the chophouse.

    'We need some air in the place,' she announced with a sweet smile and flung open a window. Later she told Fred, 'I had to shut them again pretty quickly as the river was smelling most evilly that night and I'm not sure which smell was worst. Henry's whisky fumes, the cigar smoke and stale sweat, or that old sewer, the Thames.'

    When the food arrived, Ellie found some pretty dishes and served it to him on a small side table, bidding him to come over to eat.

    'I
will
allow you some wine,' she smiled, pouring him out a glass of claret. 'You see – the crimson, the ruby red. My favourite colour and one of yours too, Henry.'

    He smiled faintly at this. 'Crimson madder,' he said, 'yes, your beautiful dress, Ellie. Your portrait. My best work. I shall never paint like that again.'

    'Nonsense! Of course you will. You are in pain just now but believe me, you will find that your suffering will soften and refine your work. You will have even greater understanding and feeling to bring to it. I know this to be true.'

    'How can you, Ellie? You're a young lass yet. You've led a charmed life. What could you possibly know of pain?' said Henry.

    She smiled enigmatically but said nothing.

    Henry ate now and realised he was hungry. The wine mellowed him a little and the colour came back to his cheeks.

    'Do you think I shall ever love another woman, Ellie? What do you think? Rose dealt me a cruel blow. I trusted her.'

    'I know you did, Henry. But one fickle woman should not make you so unhappy. Of course you will love again.'

    'I was a fool,' Henry stated glumly.

    'We're all Love's fools. It's a strange state of being. The scales will fall from your eyes in time and then you will see clearly again and I truly believe you will meet another. Have faith, Henry, have faith. Meanwhile, don't neglect yourself – for in this lies a lack of love for yourself and that is the first step to dissolution. Think of those who love you, not just yourself. We are made so unhappy to see your talent wasted. Will you not at least pick up a brush and try again?'

    Ellie walked into his studio and surveyed the half-finished work. She picked up a small jar of colour from the table then looked back at the picture of yellow cornfields in the sunset.

    'This is already interesting,' she said, 'though frankly, I would have used a little less of this cadmium yellow. Is it likely to prove stable, do you think? It's a rather new colour and I've been told it might fade in time.'

    Henry came in on hearing this and regarded his painting.

    'I am trying it out,' he said. 'I agree, it's a bit of a risk. But it does achieve a wonderful vivid shade. The yellows are always a problem. I'm using yellow madder as well which can be useful if I want a warm shade of brown in the end. It turns that way when used with oil binder. But in the end, only time will tell how well these colours will survive. Perhaps like the Old Masters we so abhor, our own bright efforts will be a dull and muddy chiaroscuro.'

    'You cannot worry about the future, Henry. It's now that is important. It's achieving the colour and brightness and beauty you want here, now. Creating should please its maker as well as the purchaser. None of us will be here in a hundred years time to care what has happened by then. My feeling is, however, that these paintings will shine for a long, long time. It would be a joy to me if I could paint as beautifully as this. May I come to you for lessons?'

    'That would give me immense pleasure,' Henry said turning to her and lifting her hand to his lips. 'I thank you, dearest Ellie,' he said, 'I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my tender friend.'

Chapter 21

Later that summer Fred decided to take a trip to Paris. Some months before, he had met a Liverpool art dealer called Thomas Oldham at a gallery in the West End. This gentleman had taken to Fred and befriended him. He was a very useful contact and his knowledge of modern artists and the market in general was highly instructive for Fred, who still felt himself a bit of an amateur.

    Thomas Oldham was a tall, thin man in his forties with a wispy reddish beard and moustache and penetrating pale blue eyes. He had a slight limp but otherwise bore himself well and dressed elegantly, a characteristic that appealed to Fred who was always a bit of a dandy. There was something knowing, something slightly mocking in Oldham's expression that made Fred feel uneasy but he was also immensely charming and amusing. He seemed to have met everyone worth knowing, had copious adventures all over the world and survived the Battle of Alma.

    'I took to the art world after my discharge from the army,' he said. 'I have a wound in my right leg now which made me unsuitable for cannon fodder. Frankly, I'd had enough anyway. Life is not about getting shot as fast as one can. Pure necessity made me join the army and pure fear made me leave it.'

    Fred laughed at his honesty and said, 'You've certainly made this profession work well for you.'

    'Indeed so. I already had a great many contacts amongst the type of northern merchants who have now risen in the world and made their money. That's the new sort of buyer, Mr Thorpe. I shall be delighted to introduce you in turn. There's room for both of us.'

'That's very gentlemanly of you.'

    'My pleasure. I can see you are an up-and-coming young man yourself and I'm glad to be of service. I am sure we can make many a mutual arrangement to our satisfaction as we go along.'

    Fred listened to his new acquaintance with respect, impressed by his sophistication and knowledge and the proof of his credibility. Oldham not only had a large house in Liverpool but also lived in quite sumptuous splendour in a town house in Prince's Gate. He was not married and said he had no inclination to be so. He enjoyed the freedom of travelling, going where he would and as he wanted, unencumbered by ties. In his London house, he had some truly beautiful works of art and his taste was impeccable. Yet he appeared to have no sense of possessiveness or sentiment about them.

    'If I find a buyer for any work, I will always sell it on,' he said, 'no matter how much I love it. There are always new things, new tastes, and new buyers. I prefer to let things flow through my hands.'

    'I wish I could be the same,' said Fred, for he often found it very hard to part with a piece he especially liked. Commissions for others often ended up on his own walls, which were fast becoming crowded. He determined he would have to be more strong-minded. Ellie was just as bad, saying, 'Oh, don't part with this one, Fred, it's so lovely! Let me hang it in the hall.'

    Oldham had at one time been interested in Rossetti's pictures. Not because he liked them. He considered them florid and peculiar and did not have enough classical education to understand the meaning of the themes and allegorical details. He simply knew the type of pictures his clients liked to hang in their dining rooms and parlours. Oldham did not have Ruskin or Fred's taste and faith in Pre-Raphaelitism, nor their high-minded ideals for the 'founding of a noble school of art' as Ruskin put it. All that interested him was what would sell and what would not. He felt that the PreRaphaelite fashion was a fleeting thing. Interest would soon ebb away. He had, he said, discovered some new French artists of whom he thought very highly and invited Fred to come along and see them at work in their studios in Paris.

    'Where,' said the canny gentleman, 'we might persuade them to let us have their efforts for a song. They are always starving and dying off in Bohemian garrets and will be glad of any price. We then keep the pictures awhile and sell them on at a good price when we have aroused sufficient public interest in them.'

    'And how will we manage that?'

    'My dear man, by discussing and writing about their works and praising them and telling people over here how well they are thought of in Paris. It matters not a whit if this is true or not. The art-ignorant merchants in Liverpool and Manchester and Birmingham want to collect new works but need to be sure what they gets is worthwhile and it is up to us to tell them that they are indeed worthwhile. Then the value will rise and continue to rise. In other words, we create a fashion.'

    'Is that morally right?' asked Fred in some surprise.

    His new friend regarded him with some pity, 'What have morals to do with sales? Would Millais and Rossetti be as well regarded as they are today if Ruskin had not taken up the cause of Pre-Raphaelitism? Ruskin set a fashion, did he not?'

    'Yes, but Ruskin spoke out in all sincerity. He truly loves their work and champions it like a knight of old.'

    'Knight of old... yes... the whole thing is a trifle too oldfashioned for
my
taste, Mr. Thorpe. All this nonsense about King Arthur and pathetic, abandoned women being rescued and mediaeval claptrap. It's all a dream and these men live in an idealistic dream world. It bears no resemblance to reality at all, despite their avowed intentions of being truthful to Nature. Painting every leaf on every stalk is not necessary any more. We have the camera to capture that. Exact representations are not going to be the art of the future. Something different has to be discovered. Something that will capture moods, light, movement.'

    Fred felt a little troubled to hear his friends criticised in this manner but in his heart he felt a reluctant agreement with Oldham's views. In fact, as he listened, Fred realised that he had grown away from many of those tastes and ideals of his younger days, finding them sentimental now. Oldham voiced a change that was arising in his own heart.

    'Yes, my good sir,' said Thomas Oldham with a smile, 'I mean to show you something new and different in Paris and you will love it, you mark my words.'

    Fred would have liked to take Ellie with him to see the sights of Paris but she refused to leave Charlie and Mary behind. He pointed out that Jane, the nursemaid, was a very competent young woman and the servants could well take care of the household under the direction of Mrs Thompson, their cook-cumhousekeeper, who was a regular martinet. Ellie, however, was adamant. If truth were told, she was rather delighted to be rid of Fred for a couple of weeks.

    However, she was not destined to be alone after all for just before Fred was due to leave, she received an invitation from Lord Dillinger to go and stay with Charlotte at Oreton Hall for a few weeks. He was to be away on business up north and Charlotte was not to be left alone and unsupervised with a fiancé hovering about in the background. Fred, hearing that Lord Dillinger was to be absent, gave his consent but with his usual air of unwilling grumpiness.

    'So... you don't mind taking Charlie and Mary
there
,' he said rather sourly.

    'Of course I don't!' Ellie snapped at him. Really, Fred was so tiresome at times. 'I shall take Jane and Mulhall with me and we shall be very well looked after. I certainly will not risk taking my baby on a sea voyage and amidst the heat and flies of Paris. Plus it will be good to get away into the fresh air of the countryside for a few weeks.'