Page 56 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

He aimed the eagle’s beak at her and said, ‘If you enjoyed it, you cannot have understood it.’ He proceeded to explain the play, and his own inner workings, at great length, and since he didn’t seem to require anything from her in return, she was free to enjoy her soup and fish while covertly watching the rest of the table.

She was interested to see that Dame Myra Lang and Mr Cowling were engrossed in conversation.

The diva was a vividly dark, very round person in black-beaded garnet-coloured velvet, and she moved her fingers constantly to emphasise her words, which made the diamonds in her many rings catch the light.

When Mr Cowling spoke, she nodded in eager agreement, and the diamonds in her tiara flashed instead.

It was good for Nina to see her husband in a different environment: here he was not just her Mr Cowling, he was the powerful businessman and shrewd investor, adviser to the King and acquainted with almost everyone you cared to name.

And Dame Myra Lang, who had starred opposite Caruso and Zenatello, and who had sung Norma at the Met, found Nina’s husband worth talking to!

She noted that her aunt was getting just as good value out of Mawes Morris.

He was regaling her with some of his many anecdotes, and Nina actually saw her laugh at one point: Aunt Schofield was in no way bad-tempered or sullen, but she was serious-minded and rarely laughed in company.

Lepida and Decius were talking together in low tones, though their serious expressions prevented anyone from imagining that there was flirtation going on.

Lepida, Nina thought, was looking very handsome that evening in midnight-blue silk, with Indian enamelled ornaments in her hair, and wearing the sapphire-drop pendant that had been Mr Cowling’s bridesmaid’s gift to her when he married Nina.

When Isabel turned after the fish, Nina got the Russian as a pleasant relief from Mr Launde.

He had large dark eyes and a melancholy, fleshy face that made her think of a sad dog and want to be kind to him.

He began by talking to her about the Russian war with Japan, which had recently ended with the disastrous battle of Tsushima, in which all eleven Russian heavy battleships had been lost – seven sunk and four captured – forcing Russia to sue for peace.

It seemed very much on his mind. Trying to be intelligent, Nina brought up the Dogger Bank incident from the previous autumn, the only detail of the conflict she knew about because it had been in all the papers and caused a diplomatic incident.

The Russian fleet, coming into the North Sea via the Sound, had fired on a group of British trawlers out night-fishing, mistaking them for Japanese warships.

One had been sunk and six damaged, and only the inaccuracy of Russian gunnery had avoided greater loss.

In the dark, they had even fired on two of their own flotilla.

Mr Malkin’s melancholy increased with this topic, and Nina, feeling guilty, asked him instead about furs, on which he was able to wax enthusiastic.

He told her that he was hoping to use some of his fortune to open a department store in London, perhaps in Oxford Street, along the lines of Harrod’s, in which he would establish the largest fur sales, alteration and storage facility in the country – perhaps in Europe.

‘As ladies go automatically to Paris to buy gowns, they will come to London to buy furs,’ he told her. ‘You will come and see us, dear Madam Cowling, and I will find you the perfect fur, the very one that will most enhance your beauty.’

Nina was glad that with the next turn, the conversation became general.

Mr Cowling began it by saying, to the table at large during a lull, ‘We have a lot of artistic people here, from different fields. I would like to know whether the thing that makes you artistic – the artistic germ, if you like – is the same, regardless of what form of art you practise. Or is it different for a writer, say, rather than a painter?’

Mr Launde looked contemptuous of the question and lowered his eyelids still further, muttering, Artistic germ , as though someone had offered him pigs’ trotters to eat.

Mawes Morris said, ‘Interesting! Well, in so far as I am an artist at all, I write, draw, and play and compose music, so I am a jack of all trades. Do I feel differently when I practise these different genres? I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps the question should be answered by a serious artist,’ Launde said, with a world-weary air. ‘I think you would not deny that your abilities are modest at best.’

Mawes said, with a straight face but a gleam of laughter in his eyes, ‘By all means, answer it yourself, my dear fellow. No-one could accuse you of being modest.’

Launde didn’t know how to take the remark, and while he hesitated, Mr Cowling spoke again.

‘Well, shall I put it a different way? Does the artist start with a certain skill – say, a talent for drawing – which forces him to be artistic, or is there a sort of artistic drive that comes first, and it finds its way out through whatever he has a bent for, like water bubbling up through the cracks in the rock, following the line of least resistance?’

‘I’d have loved to be a concert pianist,’ said Miss Sylvia Partridge. ‘I play the piano, but not awfully well. And Evelyn draws very nicely, don’t you, dear?’

‘Thank you, dear,’ her sister answered, ‘but drawing is only a hobby. I only truly get inspiration when I write.’

‘Is inspiration necessary?’ Aunt Schofield asked. ‘Is it real? Or is it a meaningless word deployed to keep the non-artistic at arm’s length?’

‘Good point, ma’am. Well, then, what is inspiration?’ Cowling asked. ‘What inspires all you fine people?’

‘I must say,’ Mawes Morris said gravely, ‘that the coal bill gives me the greatest possible inspiration. One glance at the “demned total”, and I find myself beavering away like anything!’

Everyone laughed, except Mr Launde, who curled his lip and said, ‘Inspiration comes from outside one. As it has divine origins, it cannot be explained.’

Mr Wentworth looked at him indulgently and said, ‘I’ve heard Launde before on this subject many times – haven’t I, Mannox?

– and he’s not the only one of us to promote the idea that artists exist on a more exalted plane than the rest of humanity.

And why not? If anyone could do it, we wouldn’t be valued – at least, not sufficiently. ’

Launde looked at him with distaste. ‘Are you suggesting that anyone can do it? That artistic talent is not an extraordinary gift bestowed on the very few?’

‘In my experience,’ Wentworth answered, ‘artists are earthy creatures. Art is toil.’

‘Toil?’ Launde cried in outrage.

‘Surely there is more to it than that?’ Decius asked.

Wentworth shrugged. ‘You’ve heard people like Launde say you must suffer for your art. What you suffer mostly is dirty hands, sweat, sometimes an aching back. Art is a great deal of hard work allied to a modicum of skill.’

There was a general protest at this, and Mr Cowling said, ‘But aren’t there some folk – your great names – who are different? Like – er – your Michelangelo and your Rembrandt. Otherwise, how did they get to be so great?’

‘Simply, they worked very much harder at it,’ said Wentworth.

‘I think Mr Wentworth is trying to be mischievous,’ said Aunt Schofield. ‘You surely don’t suggest that anyone can be taught to be a Michelangelo?’

He bowed to her. ‘I confess I exaggerate a little for effect. But this idea that the artist is some rarefied fellow with ichor in his veins, who sips nectar from the flower of inspiration and sustains himself on manna from the gods . . .’ He shrugged.

‘It gets in the way. I teach in an art school, and the first thing I have to do with any pupil who shows promise is to break down their internal prohibitions, the barriers to thought and expression they’ve learned from their parents and society.

They must dig their fingers deep into the soil.

They must get grubby. They must be willing to try anything, do anything for their art. ’

‘That sounds dangerous,’ Decius said.

‘Yes,’ said Lepida, ‘and aren’t you by that measure still preaching that the artist is different from the ordinary man? Aren’t you, in fact, agreeing with Mr Launde, even if your sustenance is bread and cheese rather than manna from the gods?’

Mawes Morris said gleefully, ‘You have him, my darling! Well said! But I am going to expose your secret, Wentworth, my dear fellow. This dangerous man, this bohemian free spirit, this cocker of snooks at convention, goes home when term ends to Surrey, to a dear little cottage with roses round the door where he keeps a dear little wife and six dear little children with roses in their cheeks!’

‘Not six! You exaggerate,’ said Wentworth, with high good humour. ‘Only four at the last count.’

‘Well, I don’t pretend to know much about art,’ said Mr Cowling, ‘but a cottage and a wife and a quiver of children sounds like a fine outcome, and if Mr Wentworth can get there by painting his pictures, good luck to him!’

John Benson spoke up. ‘We seem to have concentrated on painting, which, with writing, is something we all practise to an extent, but surely we must all agree that music is different.’

The conversation took off in a new direction, and Nina sat quietly and watched the ball being lobbed back and forth with great pleasure. She rather missed this in her ordinary life.

Rose had to flatten herself against the wall to avoid being barged into by the delivery boy from Bowden’s, the grocers, staggering under the weight of a box of dry goods and big with news.

‘There’s such a to-do at Hundon’s!’ he exclaimed, as he erupted into the kitchen and thumped the box down on the long table. ‘I saw when I went past on me bike! There’s been police there and all sorts!’

Rose followed him to the kitchen door, a cold feeling in her stomach.