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Authors: Michael Innes
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interruptions – not seemingly very significant interruptions – eventually came along.
One morning Mr X was wheeled into the painting-room not by Sister Agnes but by Mr Peach. It was, it appeared, Sister Agnes’ day off, and Peach was standing in for her. Honeybath, of course, had never seen Peach outside his own studio, and he found himself not particularly pleased at seeing him again now. It wasn’t that he regarded him as excessively sinister. He regarded Sister Agnes, indeed, although he could hardly have said why, as a good deal the more sinister of the two. But he remembered Peach as an underbred and shifty little man who was entirely tedious. He disliked having to recall that he had even accepted banknotes planted before him by the fellow. He thought, no doubt unreasonably, that so affluent an outfit as he had become entangled with could readily have substituted for Sister Agnes another perhaps grim, but at least quiet and correct, trained nurse.
Peach wasn’t quiet. He insisted on inspecting the portrait, and this Honeybath regarded as an impertinence. He ventured to make comments on it, which was less an impertinence than an outrage.
‘Very fine, Mr Honeybath – very fine, indeed, if the liberty to say so may be allowed me. Undoubted gusto , as I believe the critics say. And abundant chiaroscuro – almost lavish, in a manner of speaking. But perhaps the old gentleman’s complexion might be toned up a little? No more than a suggestion, Mr Honeybath. Just as it is, some might think it a shade on the unhealthy side. A liver condition, perhaps. Whereas he’s as hearty as can be, isn’t he?’ This last question was addressed not to Honeybath but to Mr X himself. It was as if Peach regarded it as a matter of good form to address only in the third person one who was unhappily of unsound mind. ‘He’s in as fine fettle as he has been for years, eh?’
‘Hold your tongue, my good man, and let Monsieur David get on with his work.’ This sharp retort by the victor of Marengo and Austerlitz was the first sign that today was not to be exactly like previous days. Sister Agnes, perhaps, had Mr X under her thumb in a way that Peach had not. Peach was uneasy with his charge. His enhanced vulgarity – he was back, you might say, to Lesson One – seemed an index of this.
But Mr X himself was uneasy too. He kept shifting restlessly in his chair, so that Honeybath knew they were in for a difficult session. He wondered whether Sister Agnes’ absence had resulted in some tranquillizing pill or jab having got missed out. Of course, to have the opportunity of observing his subject in a changed mental state might well be interesting and valuable in itself. In psychological portraiture – and what other sort of portraiture was worth twopence in these days? – one had to work in depth. Ideally, layer upon layer, right down to the depths of the personality, ought all to be there. Sophisticated novels were like that in the present age. And Honeybath knew he had it in him to produce something quite as good as any sophisticated novel. It was going to be an edgy morning, all the same.
And then the cars began to arrive.
The painting-room faced north, as it ought to do. It had a single large window, from which there was quite a different view to that from Honeybath’s bedroom. It wasn’t at all an extensive or informative view, but Honeybath had got into the way of surveying it from time to time by way of relieving the strain of his work. There was simply a great gravel sweep, probably leading to the front door of the house, and beyond it one saw only the high wall of the garden in which he went for those tiresomely invigilated walks or toddles with Arbuthnot. There had never been the slightest sign of life or traffic on this sweep – but now first one car had arrived, and then another. Within half an hour there were almost a dozen cars parked side by side. They were rather grand cars, for the most part – quite as
One morning Mr X was wheeled into the painting-room not by Sister Agnes but by Mr Peach. It was, it appeared, Sister Agnes’ day off, and Peach was standing in for her. Honeybath, of course, had never seen Peach outside his own studio, and he found himself not particularly pleased at seeing him again now. It wasn’t that he regarded him as excessively sinister. He regarded Sister Agnes, indeed, although he could hardly have said why, as a good deal the more sinister of the two. But he remembered Peach as an underbred and shifty little man who was entirely tedious. He disliked having to recall that he had even accepted banknotes planted before him by the fellow. He thought, no doubt unreasonably, that so affluent an outfit as he had become entangled with could readily have substituted for Sister Agnes another perhaps grim, but at least quiet and correct, trained nurse.
Peach wasn’t quiet. He insisted on inspecting the portrait, and this Honeybath regarded as an impertinence. He ventured to make comments on it, which was less an impertinence than an outrage.
‘Very fine, Mr Honeybath – very fine, indeed, if the liberty to say so may be allowed me. Undoubted gusto , as I believe the critics say. And abundant chiaroscuro – almost lavish, in a manner of speaking. But perhaps the old gentleman’s complexion might be toned up a little? No more than a suggestion, Mr Honeybath. Just as it is, some might think it a shade on the unhealthy side. A liver condition, perhaps. Whereas he’s as hearty as can be, isn’t he?’ This last question was addressed not to Honeybath but to Mr X himself. It was as if Peach regarded it as a matter of good form to address only in the third person one who was unhappily of unsound mind. ‘He’s in as fine fettle as he has been for years, eh?’
‘Hold your tongue, my good man, and let Monsieur David get on with his work.’ This sharp retort by the victor of Marengo and Austerlitz was the first sign that today was not to be exactly like previous days. Sister Agnes, perhaps, had Mr X under her thumb in a way that Peach had not. Peach was uneasy with his charge. His enhanced vulgarity – he was back, you might say, to Lesson One – seemed an index of this.
But Mr X himself was uneasy too. He kept shifting restlessly in his chair, so that Honeybath knew they were in for a difficult session. He wondered whether Sister Agnes’ absence had resulted in some tranquillizing pill or jab having got missed out. Of course, to have the opportunity of observing his subject in a changed mental state might well be interesting and valuable in itself. In psychological portraiture – and what other sort of portraiture was worth twopence in these days? – one had to work in depth. Ideally, layer upon layer, right down to the depths of the personality, ought all to be there. Sophisticated novels were like that in the present age. And Honeybath knew he had it in him to produce something quite as good as any sophisticated novel. It was going to be an edgy morning, all the same.
And then the cars began to arrive.
The painting-room faced north, as it ought to do. It had a single large window, from which there was quite a different view to that from Honeybath’s bedroom. It wasn’t at all an extensive or informative view, but Honeybath had got into the way of surveying it from time to time by way of relieving the strain of his work. There was simply a great gravel sweep, probably leading to the front door of the house, and beyond it one saw only the high wall of the garden in which he went for those tiresomely invigilated walks or toddles with Arbuthnot. There had never been the slightest sign of life or traffic on this sweep – but now first one car had arrived, and then another. Within half an hour there were almost a dozen cars parked side by side. They were rather grand cars, for the most part – quite as
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