The Merciless Ladies (7 page)

Suddenly he put his brush down and said: ‘ Oh, for God's sake, Bill, don't squat there like my nonconformist conscience! D'you think I don't know my obligations? My father came in for a bit of money and was stupid enough to blue it all on his undeserving son. As a result I am where I am. What would be the point of his coming down now and undoing what he's helped to build?'

‘Damn it', I said, ‘you underrate even the people you mix with! Nobody cares that much. Opie came to London a rough country boy and painted the best people in the land.'

‘The trouble is, I'm not a rough country boy any longer.'

‘Nor need you be. Nobody would take more than a passing account of your father.'

‘Thanks', he snapped. ‘When he comes I
want
them to take more than a passing account of him. Anyway, I'll choose my own wedding guests.'

The telephone rang and we had time to cool off. Of course I knew his anger was not because I was raising fresh arguments but only those in his own mind he had narrowly overcome. And of course I knew it was not so much his prospective clients he was sensitive about as his prospective in-laws. He knew he was marrying outside his class. This may all seem derisory in the present day, when a crude accent and an ignorance of syntax rank as a status symbol, but it was not so then.

All the same, I thought I understood. Only later did it come to me that the thing Paul could not and would not have stood for was any patronage of his father, any snide remarks just out of his hearing, any sarcastic glances. Perhaps his was the greater wisdom, for had his father been there and the subject of any such dislikeable display, Paul would have reacted in a very downright manner; and this could have set off his relationship with Olive on the wrong foot from the start. He was in love with Olive but he rightly judged the family she came from.

Soon after the wedding the opportunity arose for me to go out to Rome as Jeremy Winthrop's right-hand man, and I took it. So for two years, instead of watching at close quarters the progress of Paul Stafford, I witnessed the progress of the Fascist movement and the emergence of Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini as master of Italy. The ‘ Sawdust Caesar', as my old friend George Seldes called him. It was difficult work, trying to report objectively on a resurgence of national pride and national discipline which, so good in itself, was being welcomed throughout the world; but which had a sort of corruption at its heart. Anyway, by December '25 our reporting of the scene, however objectively intended, had so far displeased the authotities that both Winthrop and I were ‘invited' to leave the country, and in the new year I found myself back in London trying to pick up old threads and old friendships.

The break-up of Paul's marriage has been described elsewhere. Superficially, as I have said, everything was set fair. They were in love. Their tastes were the same; they were full of vitality, both night-birds, fond of life and society; they were both artists; they were both climbers. But Paul's only real concern in life was to paint; everything else was a means to that end. Olive wanted a part in every aspect of his life and he was not willing to cede it.

After a honeymoon in Paris they settled into Royal Avenue and things went well for six or seven months. Rifts first began to appear as she sought to influence whom he should mix with and whom he should paint. She was too demanding of his interest and he too untactful in his inattention. I sometimes wonder if possessiveness is not one of the hastiest of minor sins.

To her great annoyance he continued to see something of his old friends – even occasionally Diana Marnsett – yet there was never any suggestion at the time, whatever Olive may have implied later, that he was unfaithful to her. Nor that their love suddenly cooled. It sputtered and sparked, irritation and attraction like two chemicals that would not coalesce or interblend.

There would have been more chance for the marriage if he had been a lesser painter and she a better. She expected to have the run of his studio; she expected to paint there alongside him, so that they could work together, maybe have breaks for coffee and mutual admiration.

A. H. Jennings describes one of the scenes that led to the break-up. Where his information came from I don't know.

‘Paul had been working all day on a difficult portrait. The sitter was not now present but the artist knew that somewhere behind the self-conscious mask was an expression he was seeking but could not find. Unless he found it now, by himself, he knew in the morning when the lady came back he must start again. Olive had that morning been to a show by a contemporary painter at the Kalman Galleries, and over a sandwich lunch she wanted to discuss it. Her standard, like that of many amateurs, was impossibly high (for others) and she condemned everything she had seen, perhaps supposing that Paul would be pleased with her criticisms. But Paul, aware of his own difficulties and shortcomings, found himself drawn into a defence of a rival whose work he didn't actually like.

‘After lunch Olive came into the studio and began painting a still-life of some peaches in a dish, and during the afternoon her occasional remarks were nagging at the outer edges of his mind, pulling him back from absorption. His answers became shorter, and presently she tightened up into an icy silence. When he stopped to make tea from the studio kettle he knew that she had finished her painting.

‘Throughout the two years of their marriage he had humoured her about her own work, praising where he could and turning away the point where he could not. It was unlikely that his words ever quite satisfied her, for she was used to lavish praise in her own family and among the many young men who thought her beautiful. But this afternoon, still unable to grasp the secret of his own failure, his tongue would not frame the syllables for another evasive reply. He was exasperated, tired of her demands on his nervous energy.

‘But perhaps whatever he said it would by then have been useless. She had seen his gaze and rightly interpreted it.

‘ ‘‘Well'', she said. ‘‘So you think I'm no good. Is that it?''

‘ ‘‘Not at all.'' But his voice was empty of denial.

‘ ‘‘Perhaps not worthy of a place in your studio.''

‘ ‘‘As my wife you've every right to come in here.''

‘ ‘‘But not as a painter, is that it?''

‘ ‘‘Look, Olive—''

‘ ‘‘Not as a painter. You would like me to give up, be the little helpmeet, bringing in the food and drink for the great man.''

‘ ‘‘You're fully entitled to paint just as much as you want. But—''

‘ ‘‘But what?''

‘He threw down his brush. ‘‘Leave it at that.''

‘But she would not. ‘‘Don't you
really
feel you're the only one entitled to be creative? Aren't you jealous and grudging every time I pick up a palette? There can't be two suns in one house both attracting attention – and you have to be it!''

‘He considered this, but now it had to come. ‘‘All right, if we can't go on as we are, let's come to an understanding about it. I begrudge you
nothing
, Olive – certainly not the talent you've got. I wish for it everything you could wish yourself. But I'm tired – yes, dog tired – of trying to pretend to admire a talent you haven't got, and never will have—''

‘ ‘‘You being God, who knows all—''

‘ ‘‘Of course there can be differing opinions; but not over fundamentals. You – you've a considerable talent for sketching – your line is always good – and once in a while a watercolour comes off because it's almost all drawing and no colour. But so far as that goes'' – and he gestured towards the still-life – ‘‘how can you expect me to take it seriously? I would put the ability to
paint
there if I could, willingly and thankfully; but I can't. Really, Olive … I could do better with that sort of subject when I was ten. And Matisse could paint better than I ever shall if I live to be eighty. What's the use of shirking the facts?''

‘Olive Stafford turned on her heel and left the studio. She never entered it again.'

II

I tend to doubt whether Paul would ever have been quite so eloquent as that, but I'm pretty sure the gist is correct. Anyway, by the time I returned they were not living together. She had moved into a small but expensive apartment in Mayfair on the generous allowance Paul made her. By now Paul had reached the fullness of his success. His income had gone up and up, and thanks to Olive his expenditure had kept pace. Not that he was frugal himself. He was a popular man in his way, a member now of two exclusive clubs, a frequent attender at the theatre, at concerts and the opera. But he was careful not to run into debt. It was almost the last sign of his frugal North-country upbringing: during the ‘tight rope' period when he was dancing attendance on Diana Marnsett and her group, he had been acutely miserable, forever owing money, and he told me he would never let himself get into such a situation again. There was now no need. While general economic depression began to creep across the country those who made money like him were, because of the stability of prices, rich indeed.

Absent for so long, I was able to look at him with new eyes; yet the changes were not in direction, only in degree. He had taken his new direction while under Diana Marnsett's influence, and success had only brought a hardening and a strengthening of the drive. To be seen at the first nights of
The Vortex
and
Saint Joan
were as important to him as knowing a fair sprinkling of the fashionable audience on first-name terms. In an age when advertising had hardly begun and television was a spectre of the future, this was a way of becoming and remaining a name, in newspapers and on the pens of gossip-columnists. In the middle-Twenties too, led perhaps by Coward, it was the fashionable thing to pretend decadence – a sort of Wildean amorality – however hard and devotedly one in fact worked when one was out of the limelight.

He was painting portraits exclusively now, and always had them in the Academy show; but whereas three years ago he had idealized his sitter only on rare occasions – as in the first portrait of Diana Marnsett – and often had been unsentimental and quite unflattering, now he seemed always to try to produce a painting that would please the sitter.

A few of the other critics were beginning to follow Alfred Young's lead in their attitude towards his work; Paul said this was simply because they were always looking for someone new; now he was an established success he could be disparaged. They for their part could be ignored. At least, I said, they did not ignore
him
. And it was true: even if his style showed signs of becoming facile, there was a quality in it that couldn't be overlooked. Many of these works are still in private hands, but a particularly good example of this period came up in Sotheby's last year and was bought for a record price by an American bidder: it was a painting of young Beatrice Lillie in the costume in which she appeared in one of André Chariot's revues, and the vitality of the original has been exactly captured – which so very few of her portraits succeeded in doing.

In February of that year the Grosvenor Gallery had an exhibition of modern portraitists, and I got the usual invitation to the ‘Private View 6–8'. I hoped to skip it, but Paul telephoned and said he would call for me. My flat was on the first floor, and he came up before I could meet him.

He said: ‘I thought I'd better warn you. It's La Diana's car. She insisted on calling for me at the last minute, so who am I to disappoint a lady?'

He was looking as well-dressed and as composed as ever.

I said: ‘ I didn't know you were still riding that horse.'

‘Dear boy, the company of journalists is coarsening your language.'

‘Well, you know what I mean.'

He smiled. ‘Roughly, yes. And the answer is roughly, no. But now that Olive has gone she considers she has a residuary interest.'

‘Any other legatees?'

‘It's a moot point. Come on: we're late as it is.'

Diana greeted me coolly but pleasantly. I was not of sufficient importance to rate big in her world, but I was a pre-Olive friend of Paul's and therefore might possibly be on Diana's side of the court. She was wearing a very short sheath-type black moire frock with a high neck and short sleeves, and a blue-fox fur. A cloche hat partly hid the eton crop. The silky legs were carelessly crossed; a cigarette in a long cigarette holder decanted ash on my coat. In the partial light of the limousine she might have been twenty-one.

We drove to the exhibition and made a royal entrance. Paul and Diana were surrounded by admiring friends, and I drifted away to look at the pictures. Three of Paul's nine exhibits were of royal mistresses: Louise de la Vallière, Diane de Poitiers and Nell Gwyn. I noticed that Mme de Montespan was not there and wondered if Paul had made any attempt to persuade Mlle Jacqueline Dupaix, Teacher of Ballroom Dancing, to sit for him. The last time I'd seen Leo had been six months ago when an orchestra with which he was working in some minor capacity paid a visit to Rome. Leo had looked quite unchanged except that his forehead was higher. He had asked about Paul, but the name of Mrs Marnsett had not come up.

As I drifted round the gallery snips of conversation came to me from others on the same parade, and I noted those which referred to Paul.

‘Yes, that's him over there. Still terribly young. And good-looking, my dear, in a sort of way.'

‘Did you see his ‘‘Frederick Arthur Marshall'' at the Academy last year? Reminded one of Whistler's ‘‘Carlyle'' … No, it's on show in Paris at the moment.'

‘They say the old man had done him some favour when he was at school … Dropped several commissions and went up and did it without charge … Hurry? I don't know. The old man was due to retire, or something.'