Читать книгу The Girl in the Picture - Kerry Barrett - Страница 12

Chapter 5

1855

Violet

I almost slipped on the rocks as I struggled down to the beach, even though I’d been that way hundreds of times before. My easel wasn’t heavy, but it was cumbersome, and the bag of paints and brushes I was carrying banged against my legs. Eventually, though, I found my perfect spot. It was warm, but the sun wasn’t too dazzling and I breathed in the sea air deeply.

Working quickly, I set up my easel and pinned my paper down securely. I arranged my paints on the rock behind me, as I’d planned, pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and picked up my brush. I paused for a second, appreciating the moment; I was completely content. This was how I’d dreamed of working for – oh months, years perhaps. I finally felt like a real painter. My room in the attic was wonderful, of course, and I would always be grateful to Philips, the lad from the village who did all the odd jobs around the house and garden and who’d helped me secretly create my own studio.

I frowned, thinking of Father, who didn’t like me to draw. He said it was vulgar. He wanted me to marry and lead a normal life. A normal, boring life, I thought. A mundane life. A life with no purpose.

But out here, breathing in the sea air, I felt like I had a purpose. I was telling a story with my work and it seemed it was what I’d been waiting for. For years all I’d drawn was myself – and various kitchen cats. Endless self-portraits that helped my technique, undoubtedly, but – if I was honest – bored me stupid.

Then, one day, I’d picked up Father’s Times, and read about a new group of artists known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They painted stories – Bible stories, tales from Shakespeare, all sorts – and they used real-life models to do it. It had been like a light turned on in my mind. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do – I wanted to be like those artists. Paint like those artists. Live life like those artists.

After that, I devoured any articles on the Pre-Raphaelites in Father’s newspaper, and I read the Illustrated London News, and even Punch, when I could get it, though Father wasn’t keen on that one. I saved the issues that mentioned art and kept them hidden away with my drawing equipment.

The Times – and sometimes the other papers, too – were often critical of my heroes, who were determined to shake up the art world. But the more criticism they received, the more I adored them. They were so thrilling and forward-thinking – everything I wanted my life to be like.

I dreamed of living in London and imagined myself debating what makes good art with Dante Gabriel Rossetti – who was impossibly handsome in the pictures I’d seen – or John Millais – who had a kind, friendly face. I had to admit, I was hazy on the details of where these debates would take place – I had an uneasy feeling the painters I so admired spent a lot of time in taverns – but I knew just spending time with those men would make me feel alive.

‘Why, Miss Hargreaves,’ I imagined Dante or John saying. ‘You are truly a force to be reckoned with.’

It wasn’t just the men I admired. I had read that Elizabeth Siddal, who modelled for the painters and who was rumoured to be in love with Rossetti, had taken up painting herself. Oh, how I longed to be like her. Sometimes when I was feeling particularly vain, I thought I looked a bit like her, because I had long red hair, like hers.

Some people thought red hair was unlucky, but Lizzie made it look beautiful. She didn’t hide it or twist it under her hat like I always had, so I had started wearing my hair loose now, too, when I could. When I was away from Father’s disapproving eye. It got in my way and often irritated me but I thought it was all part of my plan – like venturing out to paint on the beach. After all, if Lizzie Siddal could be a painter, then why couldn’t I, Violet Hargreaves, do the same?

Lost in my dreams of success, I painted swiftly, my brush flying over the paper. I was just painting the background today. I’d already sketched Philips, draped in a sheet that was strategically pinned to create royal robes and wearing a crown I’d found in my old dressing-up box. He was ankle-deep in a tin tray of water. He had been very willing to pose for me. He was so good to me, and though I was happy he was so amiable I did occasionally wonder if he was harbouring feelings for me that were, perhaps, inappropriate. Father would be furious.

Mind you, Father would be furious if he knew what I was doing now, I thought. He grudgingly allowed me to indulge my love of art as long as I was in the house and out of sight. I’d never have dared go out to the beach if he hadn’t gone up to London for the week.

I daubed white paint on the top of the waves I had painted, and stood for a second, gazing at the sea beyond the easel.

‘King Canute turning back the tide?’ a voice said behind me.

I jumped, feeling a scarlet blush rise up my neck to my cheeks. I hadn’t expected to be interrupted, and I was horrified I had attracted anyone’s attention.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It was a man, older than me, and handsome with a kind, intelligent face and bright blue eyes. I looked at my feet, not sure what to say. Father’s disapproval of my painting stung, so I had never talked of it outside the house.

‘It’s very good,’ the stranger said. ‘Is this your own work?’

I nodded. I felt the man’s eyes roam over me and I shifted on the sand uncomfortably.

‘It’s interesting that you’re telling a classical story within a real landscape,’ he said.

‘I’m influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’

The man gazed at my painting and nodded slowly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I can see that.’

I gasped. He could tell? Maybe I was doing something right.

‘I adore them,’ I said, my words falling over each other as I spoke. ‘They’re wonderful. I want to paint detail like they do. The colours, and the form, of nature …’ I stopped, very aware that I was babbling and barely making sense.

But the man tipped his hat to me and smiled. ‘I’m Edwin Forrest,’ he said.

Recovering my composure, I bowed my head slightly. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,’ I lied, wishing he would leave.

‘Forgive me,’ said Mr Forrest. ‘It is very hot and I’ve been walking a while. Would you mind if I rested here?’ He didn’t wait for my answer, but took his hat off and sat on a large rock a little way from me.

I looked at him in horror. I didn’t want an audience while I painted. And I certainly didn’t want a man – a handsome man – at my shoulder. I was shy and uncomfortable around strangers at the best of times, and unknown men made me very uneasy.

‘Please carry on,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I’d love to see how you compose your work.’

Feeling self-conscious, but not wanting to argue, I picked up my brush again. I tried to carry on painting the waves, but I couldn’t concentrate knowing Mr Forrest was watching. I felt his eyes on me, hot as sunlight, and my hand shook as I dabbed the paint on the paper.

I took a breath. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, sir,’ I said. ‘But would you mind continuing on your walk?’

I couldn’t believe I’d spoken my mind so bluntly. But I was horribly aware that the time was ticking on and before I knew it, Father would be home and my chance to paint outdoors would be over.

‘I’m so sorry, Miss …’

I managed a half-smile. ‘Hargreaves. Violet Hargreaves.’

‘Miss Hargreaves, please accept my most humble apologies for interrupting you.’ Mr Forrest patted the rock next to him. ‘I know your time is precious, but I wonder if we could talk a while. I’m very interested in the arts and I think we may be useful to one another.’

He flashed me a dazzling smile and I found myself thinking again how handsome he was. Despite my longing to be painting, I sat down next to him and arranged my skirt around my ankles. It was warm on the beach and I suddenly had an urge to pull off my petticoat and run into the cool sea. I shot a shy glance at my companion, wondering what he would do if I did.

‘I have many friends in London who are interested in art,’ he was saying.

‘Yes?’ I said, politely.

Mr Forrest looked out across the sea, as though he were trying to remember something. ‘There is John Everett …’ He paused and I couldn’t resist jumping in.

‘Millais,’ I said. ‘Do you mean John Everett Millais?’

Mr Forrest gave me another dazzling smile. I felt a bit dizzy and wondered if it was the effect of too much sun.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Are you familiar with his work?’

I was sure my heart stopped, just for a moment. I almost couldn’t speak. He knew Millais? My hero? ‘Millais?’ I gasped. ‘Of course I know his work.’

‘I know he is always keen to nurture young talent. So, I was wondering, do you have more?’ Mr Forrest asked. ‘More paintings like this?’

I nodded. I had three that were finished and many more sketches. My head was whirling.

‘Could I take them to show John?’

‘Show him my paintings?’ I stammered.

‘I think he’d be very interested,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘He and the rest of the Brotherhood are always searching for interesting painters.’

‘I know it’s hard for women,’ I said, feeling like I should be honest from the start. Despite my daydreams, I was painfully aware my options were limited. ‘There aren’t many female artists.’

‘No,’ Mr Forrest said, thoughtfully. ‘But I believe there are a couple. I read just the other day about one Elizabeth …’

Once more, I thought I might faint. ‘Elizabeth?’ I said. ‘Lizzie Siddal?’

‘Yes, she was a model but I read she’s painting now,’ said Mr Forrest, telling me nothing I didn’t already know, but somehow it had more authority when it came from this man. ‘Apparently, she’s even got that critic, Ruskin, interested in her work.’

He glanced at me.

‘John says she’s rather good,’ he said, in an offhand manner. Oh how I longed for someone to discuss my work in such a matter-of-fact way. I couldn’t believe that this man, this handsome, charming man, was talking about my art in the same breath as he discussed my heroine Lizzie Siddal. I felt like all my dreams were finally coming true, as though all the hours painting alone in my studio, listening with dread for Father’s tread on the stairs, were not for nothing. I was not going to let convention stop me telling Mr Forrest exactly how I felt.

With my heart in my mouth, I explained how much I wanted to go to London and become part of the art world. If I could just find a patron, I said, someone who believed in me, and who would take care of the bills while I could paint, then I could go.

Mr Forrest smiled. ‘Dear girl,’ he said. ‘You certainly have the talent. I’m due in London later this month. Perhaps I could take one of your paintings with me then?’

I agreed at once, though I had no idea what Father would think if he found out. Could I possibly do this behind his back?

‘Should I speak to your parents?’ Mr Forrest said.

‘No,’ I almost shouted, before I collected myself. ‘My mother is dead,’ I explained. ‘Father is, well, he doesn’t think I should paint.’

Mr Forrest nodded in understanding. ‘Some older people still think women shouldn’t have a voice.’ He put his hand close to mine where it lay on the rock. ‘I disagree. I think you’ve got something very special, Miss Hargreaves. Let me mould that.’

I was giddy with joy. I looked out at the sea and allowed myself a little shiver of pleasure. This was it. Finally my life was beginning.