Helen Graham (B. 1802-) Voltaire, 1827 Oil on canvas
An extract by Elske Waite, inspired by Anne Bronte’s A Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Performed by Polly Waldron.
This one sold for £50 - a rare price for a work by a woman artist. Made doubly sweet by the fact that it was a piece I dislike intensely. The subject, as well as my own execution. I was persuaded to put it up for sale against my instincts - a portrait of a horse somewhat sullies the portfolio of high-profile portraits I have been compiling - but it was the first to be sold. And at the top asking price. It has proven a valuable lesson in ‘taste’ - in that certain members of the general public, it seems, have none.
He discovered my plans seven days before the night I had decided upon. I realised this when I entered the parlour early in the morning. The air in the room was heavy with a chemical smell, and the window panes were filthy with soot. When I turned to look at the grate, I saw the charred remains of my paints, brushes, canvases. He must have built up a furious blaze with all that. I noticed a smudge on one of the windows, where a hand had wiped away the dirt, and I stepped across the floor and stretched up to look through. The smudge was positioned about a head taller than my own, but I was just able to see through. I could see down to the wet lawn below. Strewn across the grass was the contents of the case I had packed, with all my black clothes. One of my dresses was floating in the lily pond, like a widowed Ophelia.
The sale for this painting arrived three days later while we were sitting to dinner one damp evening. It was placed silently beside my plate as my wine glass was filled. The room was almost totally dark, except for the four candles in the centre of the table. We had hardly spoken a word to each other. He was engrossed in eating, his mouth slathered in gravy. I slid the paper into my lap, and peeled back a corner of the seal. There were ten or maybe fifteen fresh bank notes in there. I imagined him looking up, demanding to see whatever it was I was looking at, snatching the notes, perhaps thrusting them into the flames... He had not looked up from his meal at all. I reached up to take a sip of wine, slipping the papers into my pocket with the other hand. He looked up when I placed the glass down again, and held my eye. Then he scowled and returned to his meat.