The Fugitive Colours (Genevieve Planché Book 2), page 10
I select a simple dark blue dress. What any Huguenot woman might wear. My face will be unpainted, my hair coiled up in a bun but without elaborate dressing, powder or ribbons. I have learned the lessons of Joshua Reynolds’ gathering.
I ask George to escort me to a hackney carriage, which he does reluctantly, for Sophie is feeling poorly, and he wants to take her home.
Once again, my carriage is caught in the evening frenzy of London society. I watch the city slowly move past as I sit back – the red brick and grey sooty smoke and white torch fires. I am not at all nervous this time. The fitful starts and stops of the carriage, slowed down by sedan chairs, grand coaches and other hackneys, don’t trouble me. As no one is expecting me, it doesn’t matter when I arrive.
The Society of Artists holds its exhibitions at the Great Room on number ten, Spring Gardens, near Charing Cross. I know the building is not terribly far from Leicester Fields, but more important to me, it’s close to Soho. If Spitalfields is home to the largest community of Huguenots, Soho is home to the second largest. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of French Protestant families live on or around Threadneedle Street. Very few work in the silk industry. This is where the French silversmiths, furniture makers, barber-surgeons, eyeglass makers and dentists cluster. I’ve met more than a few Huguenots from these fine families and liked them very much.
My carriage draws near Charing Cross, the place of travelling inns and other big, bustling buildings. There’s no sign of the Huguenots’ quiet existence. The November night belongs to the carousers. How loud and exultant these crowds are. The nights of early curfew and furtive after-dark entertainment during the war are truly forgotten.
I reach the street where The Society of Artists holds exhibitions. I arrange for the carriage driver to return for me in an hour’s time. As soon as I step out, I am caught in the pull of the crowd to a large, square building with doors thrown open. Londoners are mad for theatres and pleasure gardens, but this is neither, it’s the hall holding the art exhibition. I am amazed to see so many people being drawn here – and from all walks of life. A wigged man in silk brocade escorts a female wearing robe a la Francaise, not unlike the dress Caroline had worn. Moving toward the same entrance, right behind the grand couple, is a trio of ordinary fellows, all wool caps and worn cotton shirts and breeches.
I’d never thought to see this, an enthusiastic crowd gathered to see the work of English painters collected in one space.
I’m waiting in an outer lobby, standing in line to pay my shilling, when I hear my name called.
“Mrs. Sturbridge, this is wonderful – delightful,” cries Sam Baldwin, pushing through the crowd to reach me. Wearing a finely embroidered, short waistcoat under a long coat as he had the previous week, Sam stares down at me as if the sight were too good to be true.
“Yes, Mr. Baldwin, I thought I’d attend after all,” I say, pleased, if a trifle embarrassed by the fervour of his greeting. “I must thank you for telling me about the exhibition.”
“And did you choose this sombre attire in order to come incognito?” Sam asks.
I laugh, thinking this is a joke.
“Why would I need to conceal my identity? I am beyond obscurity.”
“You’re being modest, how refreshing,” he says.
Sam insists on sponsoring my shilling and escorting me into the main room. As this is being organised, he tells me some background. Four years ago, The Society of Arts was founded for the purpose on display tonight, to show paintings to the public, as was already happening in Paris and other parts of Europe. But some artists felt excluded or disagreed with the group’s ideas and formed a rival, The Society of Artists, Joshua Reynolds being one of the leaders. Now, the second group has the upper hand.
“Is Mr. Reynolds here tonight?” I ask.
“I haven’t seen him. I heard he’d sent over a painting to be shown, but there’s no sign of it yet.”
In the doorway to the main room, I’m overcome. My eyes burn, my ears ring, yet my heart sings. What an orchestra of bright colours! In a high-ceilinged room, lit with dozens of candles, paintings cover the walls, closer together than I’ve ever seen before. People flock in front of them, pointing, arguing, laughing, shouting.
I’m longing to get closer to the paintings and concentrate on them, but being in the company of Sam Baldwin delays this. He seems to know most of the people here, and not surprisingly, when these people greet him, he introduces me. Some seem strangely enthusiastic to gain my acquaintance. I cannot account for it.
One man, sporting a short, square black beard, brings me closer to understanding my situation. “You are Mrs. Sturbridge?” he says, his face lighting up. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve heard much about you.”
“What have you heard, sir?” I ask.
He says, “I only know what everyone else knows, Madame.”
At this point, I tell Sam Baldwin I am in need of an explanation.
“Well, your being a new favourite of Joshua Reynolds is a topic all over town,” he says.
I am a favourite?
“He’s pulled strings to arrange the show for your grandfather’s paintings connected to Hogarth at the Foundling Hospital, hasn’t he?”
Shocked, I say, “People have heard of the hospital show? But I’ve told no one.”
“Well, it would seem Joshua Reynolds has told others.” Sam hesitates, biting his lip. “And then there’s the incident with Henry Hoppinger.”
“Oh, no, no. I don’t want that. People have heard of the quarrel? That I threw wine?”
“Yes, well, Henry is quite a gossip,” Sam says. “But after telling the story a few times, he stopped because no one took his part. You became the heroine. Now he’s gone into hiding. He’s probably gone off to be with Thomas Gainsborough in Bath.”
Detecting my embarrassment, Sam says, tactfully, “Perhaps it’s a good time for viewing that Hogarth. It’s a portrait made from one of his engravings, I’m told.”
On our way to viewing the Hogarth, among all the people jostling for a view of this painting or that, we pass a remarkable woman. She holds forth to a tight group of admirers, her every gesture imbued with confidence. Somewhere between thirty and forty years old, she is tall and shapely, her wig stretching so high above her head that if I were trying to wear it, I’d be in danger of collapsing. Just as eye-catching is her dress, robe a la Francaise of green silk satin, a row of thick ruffles down the centre. Her ensemble is completed by earrings, heavy with rubies.
Unable to contain my curiosity, I ask Sam who she is.
“Her name is Mrs. Teresa Cornelys. She was once an Italian opera singer, and now she’s London’s leading hostess. She took the lease on Carlisle House in Soho square, and everyone lives for her evenings.”
“What happens there?”
“Music, dancing, gaming tables, dining. Everything you can think of and probably a few things you can’t. At some of her balls, men must come dressed as women and women as men. She calls herself the ‘Empress of Magnificent Taste and Pleasure’.”
“How humble of her.”
I am standing too far away for Mrs. Cornelys to hear me, but she looks over as if she has. Her eyes rake over my plain dress and hair, my jewel-less state and the celebrated hostess tosses her head in scorn.
Her contempt amuses me. And to think that I chose my dress carefully for the evening. I keep missing the mark.
We reach the painting in question. It’s a portrait of a man in his middle years, kneeling under a tree and wearing a monk’s brown robes, though he doesn’t look too monastic, with a full head of hair and a white shirt peeping out from beneath the robes, his lips curving in a slight smile. The man kneels before a small table crowded with objects, a book that could be the Bible propped open, a masquerader’s masque, a crucifix hanging from a set of beads and a small statue of a figure.
Scrutinising it closely, I realise the figure is that of a naked woman on her back, her legs spread wide.
Well, Hogarth was known for his earthiness. He employs his salty spirit in his fearless depictions of women and men, always to make a point. The painting I look on satirises the man in the portrait, no doubt, but I’m not familiar with the subject, so I’m at a loss over what Hogarth is trying to say.
“Stand back, could you stand back, please?”
The request is directed at Sam and me as well as a half dozen others positioned directly in front of the portrait. A haughty young man, short in stature, is asking us to move away so that someone in particular may see. Without questioning him, we do so.
Only then do two men approach, who by their bearing, their wigs and their expensive dress, must be members of the nobility. One is in his late fifties, fat, with heavy jowls. The other is taller, about ten years younger and much slimmer. Everything about him is angular, his long nose, his sharp chin.
“There you kneel, my lord, how very amusing,” drawls the taller man.
So, the brown-robed man in the portrait is a depiction of the fat man standing in the room this evening. Yes, I recognise him, but my, it must have been painted a long time ago.
“What did I tell you, John?” says the older, larger man. “You’re in my halo.”
It’s true. There’s a long, narrow circle hovering above the man’s head, like a halo or a mirror. The face reflected has a narrow, pointed chin and a pair of beady eyes.
Sam whispers to me, “My God, this is an occasion. It’s Sir Francis Dashwood, and he’s brought the Earl of Sandwich with him to see the painting.”
So that is John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich.
I’ve never seen Thomas’ employer in the flesh before. The earl has lived in the country for months, I believe he hired Thomas to tutor his son through a series of letters. But this imperious, cold-eyed figure doesn’t seem the kind of father who’d go to so much trouble to ensure his son is instructed in the sciences. He makes me feel uncomfortable.
When they are a safe distance away, I take a closer look at the Hogarth painting. Its title, printed at the bottom of the frame, is The Worship of Venus. That’s who the statue of the naked woman is supposed to be. And a closer scrutiny of the book proves it’s certainly not the Bible.
I’m having difficulty getting the sound of their lecherous snickering out of my head. What appalling men. It drives home the sad fact that this exhibition is a victory, but only for the men. What I see around me are men painting subjects to be appreciated by other men. How could it be otherwise? The London academies do not give lessons in art to women. And as I can attest, the leading artists do not take women as apprentices.
Sam, still by my side, says, “I suppose Sir Francis Dashwood was attempting to shock everyone by wearing the habit of a Franciscan monk while worshipping Venus.”
“I am more than a little surprised that Mr. Hogarth would take the time to depict such nonsense.”
“Dashwood has, I believe, set up a private, exclusive club for those who share his beliefs. William Hogarth might have been part of their circle.” He brightens with a new idea. “Mrs. Sturbridge, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. I do think you’ll like him. His paintings are the most interesting on display tonight.”
“Please lead the way.”
We thread a path through the increasingly crowded room. Is the entire beau monde of London here tonight? In trying to cross over to the far wall, Sam and I nearly bump into Sir Francis Dashwood and the Earl of Sandwich. They’re deep into conversation with a third man. When I see who it is, I stiffen.
Hervé Gaynard, dressed in a dark gold ensemble, is holding forth on a musical performance he witnessed in this same room months earlier.
“You should try to hear them play, Sir Francis, before they leave London,” Gaynard is saying. “You cannot believe that such young children could play the harpsichord like that. The girl is twelve, and her brother is only eight.”
“I would rather hear the Italian castrato sing, what’s his name? The one visiting London this season?”
The Earl of Sandwich says, “His name is Giovanni Manzouli, and oh, what a soprano!”
“Long live the knife!” cries out another man in their circle.
The earl says, “Long live the knife indeed. Yes, the Magnificent Manzouli is much more worth your time this season than the Mozart children. I heard they were not real children. The boy’s a dwarf.”
Hervé Gaynard says, “Your taste in music is superb, my lord. But to speak to their authenticity, I have seen them up close, and the Mozarts are real children. Prodigies from Salzberg. I admit the father is unpleasant. He thought as I am not English, he could complain to me about London. The food without taste. The high cost of everything. The criminals who rule the street and holes in the road so big one may break a leg.” He pauses dramatically. “Not that he is wrong about any of that.”
The two noblemen laugh as well as the sycophantic group that hovers around them. As for Gaynard, with a self-satisfied smile, he surveys the group beyond the Earl of Sandwich and Dashwood. When his gaze alights on me, interest leaps in those dark eyes. His eyes flick to Sam, standing next to me, and then to me again.
His mouth opens, and I twirl around, quickly, and push my way through an opening in the crowd. I don’t want to hear from Hervé Gaynard.
But the room is so full, I end up being blocked by a group of five men, considerably younger and less aristocratic than the Earl of Sandwich and Sir Francis Dashwood. They don’t notice me. Laughing and sneering, they swarm around two young ladies, sisters by the look of them. One of the men twirls a curl of hair belonging to the taller lady, and red-faced, she knocks his hand away. With considerable difficulty, the distraught pair push their way out of the circle of men and flee.
The entire episode upsets me. I clench my fists in the folds of my dress. So, women who come to see art without male protection become prey to insults.
“What swine,” I say between gritted teeth.
“Yes, they are.”
Sam has caught up with me, and he looks as pained as he did when trying to stop Henry Hoppinger from insulting me.
“Are these men also artists?” I demand.
“Two painters, two engravers and an illustrator, actually. I’m sorry they are behaving so abominably. As I told you at Mr. Reynolds’, artists are… well, they’re not gentlemen.”
“But you are an artist and a gentleman,” I point out. “Is your improved conduct due to the influence of your wife?”
Sam’s eyes widen, and I realise I’ve asked too personal a question.
“I am not married,” he says, a smile playing on his lips, and looks away.
Should I apologise for my forwardness?
“Here is my friend at last,” he says. “Let me introduce you to George Romney.”
It almost looks as if this artist is hiding from the crowds. An incredible attitude to take, seeing that Romney has more art hanging on the walls tonight than anyone else. I remember that at Joshua Reynolds’ house, Sam said that our host disliked Romney as a younger artist on the rise. I’m curious to speak to him.
The man himself is crouching low within his tight circle of companions. He is tall, so such crouching is not easy. He is handsome, or would be if his features were not twisted into a nervous scowl.
“Ah, there you are, George,” says Sam, in a manner both friendly and soothing. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”
George Romney bows to me and, with a visible struggle, forces himself to enquire as to whether I am enjoying the exhibition.
“I confess I’ve not seen enough of the paintings, there are so many enthusiastic patrons swarming in front of them,” I say.
“George has already sold three portraits, enquiries are coming fast and furious,” another friend tells Sam.
“Yes, I shall be shackled to portraiture for the rest of my days,” says Romney gloomily.
“Nonsense, my good man,” says Sam. “The Rizzio painting is the talk of the evening.”
Hearing that, a smile lightens Romney’s funereal features. “It’s kind of you to say so,” he says.
“I would very much like to see this particular painting,” I say, warming to the tormented George Romney.
Sam and I wait our turn to take position in front of Romney’s celebrated painting. During that time, I learn about his interesting life. The son of a cabinet-maker, George Romney had no personal connections to London or any successful painters. His obsession with art drove him forward. He managed to find an apprenticeship and then gain portrait commissions. While in training, he was too poor to tour Italy to study the Great Masters, as Joshua Reynolds and others have done. Yet since moving to London, Romney set himself a high ambition. History painters are the most illustrious of all artists. They recreate dramatic scenes from the Bible or from Greek or Roman antiquity. Romney’s inspiration was to paint scenes of high drama in the style of a history painting that occurred in modern times. Last year, he painted The Death of General Wolfe at Quebec, with the men not in togas or classical dress but in contemporary clothes. It caused a sensation.
The painting he shows tonight, The Death of David Rizzio, features a famous moment in Scottish history. A young Mary, Queen of Scots is throwing herself in front of David Rizzio, to protect her male secretary, as rough Scottish lords brandish swords and knives. In its classical light and colour and its composition, the painting is simply beautiful.
My concentration dissolves. It would have to be something momentous to seize the attention of everyone in this exhibition room. Yet that’s what is happening. The loud voices surrounding me have grown hushed.
“What is happening?” I ask Sam.
“I’ve no idea.”
Two men are busy with something across the room. I see one of them reaching up to move a painting to the left.
“Are they hanging something now?” says Sam, wonderingly. “All of the paintings for the exhibition were to be submitted by yesterday at the latest.”
But that seems to be exactly what is happening. And I recognise one of the men, he is presently taking a framed painting out of its paper wrapping to hang.
“That’s Ralph, Mr. Reynolds’ servant,” I whisper to Sam.
