Chapter Twenty-One #2
‘Mon Dieu, Mr Du Maurier,’ I began firmly, speaking French as well. ‘This is neither the time nor place. As I said to you at the theatre last week, and the art exhibition the week before, though I’m flattered by your … proposition, I’m not interested. I’m perfectly happy with my husband.’
We both looked in Bram’s direction. He was deep in conversation with Henry. His eyes were shining, he was smiling broadly and nodding agreeably.
‘As happy as your husband is with Mr Irving?’
First Oscar, now Mr Du Maurier. What was I?
A window everyone could see through? It was a full minute before I replied, my eyes narrowing as I beheld my husband and his chief.
‘That’s not happiness, Mr Du Maurier. That’s worship.
’ The words escaped before I could prevent them. My hand flew to my mouth.
Mr Du Maurier chortled. ‘My, my, Mrs Stoker. You Irish don’t mince words, even in another language, do you?’
My throat burned, my face too. Of all the people to hear me speak so carelessly. A man who saved his often caustic observations about people for his satirical illustrations and scribblings.
I tried to mitigate the damage, laughing and placing my hand atop where his rested on the windowsill. ‘Who doesn’t worship Mr Irving? Bram is merely following the fashion.’
‘Really? Your husband doesn’t strike me as someone who cares for such tarradiddles,’ said Mr Du Maurier, returning to English.
‘Ah, wait till you get to know him.’ I went to move away, but not before he had the last word.
‘I’d rather get to know you, Mrs Stoker …’ I had no trouble understanding his French that time.
The afternoon passed in a whirl after that as I floated from one group to the next, trying not to think about Oscar, Mr Du Maurier, my unguarded words and the potential repercussions.
Hall asked me to acquaint him with the journalist who wrote the articles about the outbreak of smallpox earlier in the year and the importance of vaccination.
I obliged and left them to talk, having no inclination to discuss infection.
‘You’re a natural hostess, Florence,’ said Lady Jane when I joined her, kissing my cheek with her scarlet lips. ‘It’s not easy bringing such a disparate group together, but you’ve done a marvellous job.’
Her praise meant the world.
‘I was hoping there’d be more than verbal disagreements,’ said Willie, addled with spirit, pretending to box and almost falling over.
‘You’d still manage to be a punchline, dearest,’ said Oscar, holding his brother upright.
By the time the clock chimed seven, most of the guests had left, saying how much they’d enjoyed themselves.
‘It was all Florence’s doing,’ Bram told them proudly.
‘Well, Mrs Stoker, I hope you’ll host another soon,’ said Mr Gladstone, shaking Bram’s hand.
Much to my gratification, this sentiment was echoed by everyone.
Finally, only Oscar, Mr Sandys, Hall, Mr Singer Sargent, Mr Whistler, the Irish painter Walter Osborne (a friend of Matilda’s visiting from Brittany), Ellen and Mr Terriss remained.
We sat before the fire, the remnants of the afternoon mostly cleared away.
There were just a few empty glasses, platters with some sandwiches and cakes, which I’d told Emma to leave.
I’d briefly gone upstairs to say goodnight to Irving.
When I returned, everyone was deep in discussion about portraits.
Mr Whistler again insisting I allow him to paint mine.
‘While it’s very gratifying, Mr Whistler,’ I said, pouring a fresh cup of tea, ‘I oft think that portraits are little more than cruel reminders of who we once were.’
‘What do you mean, Mrs Stoker?’ asked young Mr Osborne, studying me with gentle eyes.
I eased myself back into a chair, trying to ignore my aching feet.
‘The idea that my face might be captured on canvas for all eternity as it appears now, never to grow older or fade, makes me … uneasy. I don’t want a reminder of what I’m destined to lose – or for others, over time, to compare and see what I’ve lost. It’s like a punishment for simply living, for being fortunate enough to grow old. ’
‘Maybe it’s just harder for women,’ said Ellen. ‘We’re only celebrated while young.’ She’d been painted many times and would lament how different she looked in real life to her portraits, how age had been cruel. (Which was ironic, because to me and her many admirers, she was still beautiful.)
‘Don’t you think it would be far more interesting if it was the portrait that was altered?’ I asked.
‘Do you mean artists should paint their subjects differently?’ Bram frowned.
‘No, not really,’ I said.
‘Oh, we should always imagine people differently,’ said Oscar with a smile. ‘Most are much nicer that way.’ There were chuckles.
I waited until I’d everyone’s attention again. ‘Imagine if, in real life, the person painted continued to look just as they did when they sat for the artist, no matter how much time passes. What if instead it was the painting that aged and changed?’
There were exclamations of wonder.
‘I like that,’ said Oscar, leaning forward in excitement. ‘The years no longer touch the person. They remain youthful and lovely regardless of advancing years or their dissipation.’
‘Exactly,’ I nodded, pleased Oscar grasped my meaning. ‘As if by magic, nothing corrupts the person, only the painting.’
There was silence, then some uncomfortable laughter.
‘That would be …’ began Ellen.
‘Demonic,’ said Bram, clearly beguiled by the notion.
‘It would, wouldn’t it?’ laughed Oscar. ‘And utterly marvellous.’