‘In the
National Gallery’
My
intention was simple. I had a free hour. Instead of spending it going from
picture to picture until the time ran out, I would find one large enough to
be seen well from the middle of the room, and I would sit quietly and
look at it. Just one picture, by itself. It should be already
known to me. And there it was, the Stubbs chestnut horse, that magnificent
beast, all power and potency, and from the central benches I could see
it well. There were not many people that afternoon, fewer than with the
Impressionists next door. I might almost have been alone with the horse,
but then a man sat down, on the other side of the bench’s arm and he
leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked hard at the horse. He was about
sixty years old, well dressed, a well-presented man absorbed
in his
contemplation. A second man sat down next to the first, who
raised his
hand, imposing silence. The he murmured, “There he is, a
beauty,
isn’t he?” This second one was younger by a good bit. A son? A younger
brother? Certainly a pupil for now the first began talking, telling him
about Stubbs the painter, and about the horses he painted.
He was
talking in a low voice, not wanting to be taken as an official
guide, but
the people just behind on the bench were turning to listen,
and I tried
to hear too. How much I would have liked to know as much as he did, and
to share this passion for Stubbs and the horse, but only phrases
reached me. The second man listened and looked and, as people passed
between us and the horse, frowned at he interruption of his view.
But he
seemed restless, and soon was looking at his watch. The first man smiled at
this and said, “Come on, you can spare a few minutes.” The second man
did sit on, for a little, then jumped up, smiling, apologetic,
a bit rueful, like a pupil chidden by teacher. The first man then flung
out his hand, in a gesture of humorous resignation, and the young man
snapped, “You can’t make a silk purse out of me, I keep telling
you.” In the space of a moment the scene had turned ugly. The handsome
young rough, revealed by what he had said and how he had said it, now
seemed on the point of apologising, retrieving the situation, but the
first man had turned his shoulder on him. The younger one went fast to the
exit, which led to the French eighteenth century, though it was
unlikely he had meant to find himself there. He turned and sketched a little
frivolous wave, as if saying, “Oh, let’s kiss and make up,” but
his mentor
was still not looking at him but past me to the end of this
gallery.
The room was suddenly noisy and animated. Its tranquillity had been
banished by the advent of some schoolgirls, identified by some smart
little scarves, worn just so, expressing individuality, with a uniform of
black jeans and black jackets. They were French, ten or so, a group
conscious of being one, and they stood together just inside the big doors
near Constable’s picture of Salisbury Cathedral. They were not looking at
it, or at any of the pictures, but talked loudly and laughed, expecting
attention, which they were getting. The man next to me was actually
leaning forward, in his pose of elbows on knees, staring at them. He
had not so much as glanced at the exit where his friend had vanished.
What an attractive little lot they were these girls, glittery and shiny,
as if from a fever, excited perhaps from the trip, but more
from their
being here together, with each other, on show. Any older
female
watching would look and remember the driving competitiveness in a girls’
group; we would know that this flock of pretty, well-dressed girls was
full of rivalries, best friendships, betrayals, a seethe of emotion.
One girl stood out. She was “so French” in her way of presenting
herself, a package to be admired, in the French way with their
girls, with a pert little face which must have smiled a hundred times being
told that it was like Audrey Hepburn’s. Well, it was, quite a bit. She
was the boss girl in this group, even if not officially a head girl
or monitor. She was an original, the “card”, the wit, perhaps even the
buffoon.
The man
next to me now did glance to see if his delinquent friend was in sight, but
did not seem much put out, for he was absorbed by the girls.
Everyone
was looking at them. How could we not? They were so vivacious, so lively,
such a little bonfire of bright sparks. Now they were playing up to us,
making of some private disagreement a real drama, a joke perhaps,
but voices were rising and the chief girl stood in their midst,ready to
arbitrate, or adjudicate. The man next to me was staring hard at her.
Yes, she really was something, this little bit of a miss from France with her chic, her dark locks of
hair, cut to be crooked, dark eyes,
slightly angular eyebrows. She was altogether sharp and challenging,
like a spiky female kitten before it becomes a serious cat,with
measure and propriety. She stood there while disagreement swirled around her.
She yawned. The man stared and seemed to hold his breath.
And then,
without looking at them, without saying anything to them, she broke away,
came towards us, or rather, towards the man, and sat down near him,
on the other side of me. She had not looked at him. He did not move. She slid
forward on the slippery seat, pulled herself up, and then, as it
were, dived, hands between her feet, and she clasped her pretty
ankles. She sat herself up again, and yawned and looked at the great horse
looming there. Her mouth fell open, from astonishment probably,
but that turned into another yawn and she fell asleep. Just like that.
She slept.
The girls
had scarcely noticed her departure. They were continuing their disagreement.
The man near me was very still. A quick glance from showed how he
cautiously turned his head to look at the sleeping beauty, so near to
him. His face might seem like that if it had been slapped. She was asleep.
It was the delightful effrontery of it, as if she was really alone. But
she was not, and had been pulled away from that group of schoolgirls
because of how he had stared, focused on her, by the sheer force of
his attention. And she had not once looked at him.
“Good God,”
he remarked aloud, not meaning to, but then gave me a glance, and
laughed. That laugh could have been put into words, thus:
“Yes, I,
too, had that irresistible impossible vitality … where has it
all gone …
we don’t think when we are that age … time does its work without any
reference to us … yes, time ..” And so on. And I would bet words
something like these were running through the minds of many people in that
gallery just then.
The girl
slumbered.
He
remarked, to me or perhaps to himself, “She’s like a girl I was in
love with
once. But I was just a boy.”
“And she?”
I dared
“She was
sixteen, like this one here.”
“And you?”
“I was
twelve.”
“Ah, then
she would be in love with a young man of twenty and to her you
would be
just a little kid.”
Now he
looked properly at me, took me in, decide I was worthy to
continue.
“Exactly
right,” he said, admitting to much more than the discrepancy.
“But has it
occurred to you how often our grand passions turn out to be bounded by
some silly cliché?”
“Well,
yes.”
“Yes. Of
course she didn’t reciprocate. But I was useful, you see. I was quite a
likely lad, well grown, as they say, and good enough to make sense of.”
Now we
stared, both of us, at the girl, who had not moved, not a muscle, while we
talked about her.
“I took her
to The Third Man all that summer … yes, exactly so, I didn’t get it
either. It took me years, when much later I saw the film again and it was
all clear. With her, I don’t think I saw much more than her little
profile.” And he indicated, smiling, that delightful face. “I thought she
had a crush on Orson Wells. I certainly had, but do you remember
how that girl at the end walked down that long avenue towards her
admirer, one step after another, and he waited for her, and then she walked past
him, nose in the air? Well, she was rehearsing, do you see?
She wanted
to treat her chap like that. His name was Eric, I seem to
remember.
Yes, she would walk right past him, just like the girl in the film and he
would be torn up with jealous rage.
“And did
that happen?”
“Who knows?
That summer went past, the way summers did in those days, slowly, and
later she married someone or other. And I did too.” And he laughed
again. It was an unscrupulous relishing laugh and he looked at me to share
it with him.
“But if the
snows of yester-year are you thing – here they are.”
“No, I
don’t think they are. I don’t go in for nostalgia.”
“But?” I
said
“But she’s
just walked in – walked in from the past. And I feel – well, let me
choose my words, I don’t want to exaggerate – yes, I would say there is a knife
in my heart. You are laughing?”
“Not
really, no.”
“No: you
shouldn’t. The passions of little kids are just as strong as
the
grown-ups.”
“But we
don’t like to admit that?”
“Exactly. I
remember every detail of that summer.” He was thinking of that summer
and not at all of her, who was breathing who was breathing away there,
at his elbow.
And I was
thinking that he had not suggested that his heart might have been even a
little discommoded by that nasty little scene earlier.
And then
she was awake. Her eyes focused, on the great brilliant horse,
so close,
towering there on the golden canvas, on his hind legs. Her
face did
not reveal what she was thinking.
What could
she be making of that so dramatic horse, with his
discontented
eye? Was she thinking, “Is this a circus horse? Horses
don’t
usually stand on their back legs.” And what was he thinking – the horse?
Surely: “What a silly business. I am a serious horse, and why should he
paint me standing here with my forelegs in the air?” One thing we could be
sure of was that this horse did not know he was the colour of polished
copper, and so very beautiful.
The girl
waved at her group, and they ran up and were scolding her for going off
to sleep there. There was something theatrical about these reproaches,
loud and meant to be heard. Now she must reaffirm her rights over them.
She stood up and went to stand in front of the horse, and flung out
her arm. “Look,” she cried, “A red horse.” “Voila! Un cheval rouge!”
They all
looked at the horse. Something had to be done, and in the
spirit of
their exuberance, their abundant animation, she began to
laugh,
theatrically. Girls have to laugh, they have to, for elation
rises in
them like bubbles in liquid and has to find expression. They
stood
laughing at the horse, led by the girl, and the man, the expert on Stubbs, got
up and stood in front of the horse, led by the girl, and the man, the
expert on Stubbs, got up and stood in front of the horse, as if defending
it. But the girls did not really care about the horse and wandered
off, towards the French eighteenth century. The man merely stood
there, staring after them. And then she wandered back, not to him, or that
didn’t seem to be the case; she stood beside him and stared at the horse,
which she must have felt she had affronted by her laughter.
At any
rate, she and the girls hadn’t really behaved very nicely.
Well-behaved
girls should not mock and giggles in a public gallery.
He stood
staring, yes he stared, and that wasn’t very nice either. He
went off
towards the exit back to the Impressionists. Her group came back to her
and again they stood together, disagreeing. Now I could hear what it was
all about. They were tired. They wanted to find a café and sit
down and have some coffee. But then, they wouldn’t see the rest of the
pictures in this world-famous gallery, and they had been allotted just so
long to see the great masterpieces which perhaps they might never see
again.
It could
have gone one way or the other. Then the girl, his girl,
decided for
them. “Come. We must have coffee. At once. Or I’ll simply die.”
The man was
standing at the entrance, or exit, looking at her.
The girls
were going towards him, but as they reached him on the way to departing altogether,
she swerved to the left and stood gazing at Salisbury Cathedral. I would swear that this
was the first picture, apart from
the Stubbs, that any of them had glanced at that afternoon.
Some of her
group had gone through to the Impressionists. She stood staring at
the Constable, a few paces from him. One girl came back and took her by
the arm and turned her around so now she was face to face with the
man who for the third time had drawn her – or his memories had – towards
him. She stood just in front of him. And still she did not look at
him. Young things do not see elderly or middle-aged or older people. She
might be staring straight at him, but she didn’t see him.
Her friend
pulled her through the big doors. There she stood and looked back. Her
face said that she was wondering if she had mislaid something … forgotten
something … missed something?
Then she
disappeared, with her group.
Slowly, he
followed. Oh no, I was thinking, he simply must not try and talk to
her, attract her attention, impose himself. If he did, it was easy to
imagine raised voices, ugly laughter, even an “incident” that could reach
the newspapers. There was a wildness in the air, unexpressed,
and raw, and dangerous.
