another question was expected. ‘Who is Mr Joshua Reynolds?’
He shrugged dismissively. ‘He is one of the Painters of the day to whom Miss Ffoulks introduced me. He returned to London from his Grand Tour long before I did, talking of nothing but Michelangelo! Ever since he painted a shipwreck in a Portrait he was spoken of - hah! - but I earn more money. He is not exactly a gentleman, there I have it over him.’ Again she stared across the clattering coach at this new Philip. ‘And he is a fool: forever speaking of the importance of Historical Art and Epic Art and Michelangelo. He speaks of painting Religious stories and Historical stories - Noble Visions, he calls them - but Noble Visions are not seen in Guineas . People want to look at themselves hanging on their walls, not an embodiment of Virtue, or Courage, or our Lord! And believe me, it is not always so simple to make them look cultured: I often have to paint common men who have hair in their noses and in their ears, and ladies who stink, with pimples on their faces! And horrible, ugly, spoilt little children. But I make them all look so fine - that is what I am paid for. As I say, be aware, Grace, how lucky you are.’
But she did not speak. She did not thank him. He leaned forward.
‘Grace. This is not a game. You are not joining me in some jovial Prank. I will tell it to you plain just once more.’ And here it was still, something sharp and cold and different. ‘I have completely changed my Life and my Expectations. I am a very, very successful Artist in London, and I have come back for you, as I promised, and you too will have to change. You are to be my housekeeper and my hostess. I have just now taken a house in St Martin’s Lane, a decent-sized house to set me above other Artists, larger than William Hogarth’s house nearby and Joshua Reynolds’ house nearby. I must have the most elegant Establishment - for the irony of my story is, as I told you, that I am now beginning to paint the real Nobility, as well as those who strive for Nobility, and I cannot ask the real Nobility to visit a Studio in the slums.
‘And the other important matter is: I now wish to entertain, for a successful Artist must entertain. You will be charming to my guests. I want people sitting at my dinner table talking of the latest developments in Art and I am ready to pay for it. There are two people to whom I wish you to give particular Attention. One is the Dealer, James Burke, whom I have mentioned. The other is in his way even more important: Mr Hartley Pond. He is a very, very powerful Art Critic in London, steeped in Classical Knowledge and Old Masters, and he knows more about European Art than anybody else in this country. He supports me because he thinks I am Italian and I need his support absolutely. If he knew I was from Bristol he would cut me dead.’
Large, dark eyes stared at him across the coach.
And then: then it was as if he suddenly caught himself, heard his own tone. And his eyes softened at last, and he laughed again in his old charming way and again he sat back in the carriage, delighted with the world - and indeed with seeing his little sister after so long, for he remembered her fondly with her enquiring eyes and quickness to learn and her eternal questions! ‘Oh London, London!’ His enthusiasm burst forth once more and his own dark eyes that she remembered so well sparkled, no sign of hardness there now, and suddenly (reminding her of their father) he dropped his Italian accent completely for a moment and began to sing.
O London is a dainty place
A great and gallant City,
For all the streets are paved with Gold
And all the folks are witty!
‘Are they?’ said Grace in alarm, finding her voice again at last.
‘But when we begin our entertaining we will be the witty ones: The fascinating Foreigners! London is ours! We shall have a wonderful life, Grace. We shall take a Golden Coach across London Bridge! People will clamour to dine with us.
He shrugged dismissively. ‘He is one of the Painters of the day to whom Miss Ffoulks introduced me. He returned to London from his Grand Tour long before I did, talking of nothing but Michelangelo! Ever since he painted a shipwreck in a Portrait he was spoken of - hah! - but I earn more money. He is not exactly a gentleman, there I have it over him.’ Again she stared across the clattering coach at this new Philip. ‘And he is a fool: forever speaking of the importance of Historical Art and Epic Art and Michelangelo. He speaks of painting Religious stories and Historical stories - Noble Visions, he calls them - but Noble Visions are not seen in Guineas . People want to look at themselves hanging on their walls, not an embodiment of Virtue, or Courage, or our Lord! And believe me, it is not always so simple to make them look cultured: I often have to paint common men who have hair in their noses and in their ears, and ladies who stink, with pimples on their faces! And horrible, ugly, spoilt little children. But I make them all look so fine - that is what I am paid for. As I say, be aware, Grace, how lucky you are.’
But she did not speak. She did not thank him. He leaned forward.
‘Grace. This is not a game. You are not joining me in some jovial Prank. I will tell it to you plain just once more.’ And here it was still, something sharp and cold and different. ‘I have completely changed my Life and my Expectations. I am a very, very successful Artist in London, and I have come back for you, as I promised, and you too will have to change. You are to be my housekeeper and my hostess. I have just now taken a house in St Martin’s Lane, a decent-sized house to set me above other Artists, larger than William Hogarth’s house nearby and Joshua Reynolds’ house nearby. I must have the most elegant Establishment - for the irony of my story is, as I told you, that I am now beginning to paint the real Nobility, as well as those who strive for Nobility, and I cannot ask the real Nobility to visit a Studio in the slums.
‘And the other important matter is: I now wish to entertain, for a successful Artist must entertain. You will be charming to my guests. I want people sitting at my dinner table talking of the latest developments in Art and I am ready to pay for it. There are two people to whom I wish you to give particular Attention. One is the Dealer, James Burke, whom I have mentioned. The other is in his way even more important: Mr Hartley Pond. He is a very, very powerful Art Critic in London, steeped in Classical Knowledge and Old Masters, and he knows more about European Art than anybody else in this country. He supports me because he thinks I am Italian and I need his support absolutely. If he knew I was from Bristol he would cut me dead.’
Large, dark eyes stared at him across the coach.
And then: then it was as if he suddenly caught himself, heard his own tone. And his eyes softened at last, and he laughed again in his old charming way and again he sat back in the carriage, delighted with the world - and indeed with seeing his little sister after so long, for he remembered her fondly with her enquiring eyes and quickness to learn and her eternal questions! ‘Oh London, London!’ His enthusiasm burst forth once more and his own dark eyes that she remembered so well sparkled, no sign of hardness there now, and suddenly (reminding her of their father) he dropped his Italian accent completely for a moment and began to sing.
O London is a dainty place
A great and gallant City,
For all the streets are paved with Gold
And all the folks are witty!
‘Are they?’ said Grace in alarm, finding her voice again at last.
‘But when we begin our entertaining we will be the witty ones: The fascinating Foreigners! London is ours! We shall have a wonderful life, Grace. We shall take a Golden Coach across London Bridge! People will clamour to dine with us.
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