Chapter 3 - The Tempting Muse
I had long been in the habit of supporting artists I thought promising. Some I grew quite close to, benevolently guiding their transition from uncertainty and impoverished obscurity to the warm praise and adulation of drawing rooms and galleries alike. At that time there was a young painter by the name of Edmund Winters producing amazing figural depictions. From his brush came the most incredible rendering of movement, figures in mid-action, expressions half-formed and events as they unfolded. His talent was far beyond anything I had seen but its brilliance was lost on London society. Too unknown to be fashionable and undaunted by the squalid existence granted unfashionable artists, he labored on, wholly devoted to his art.
I had discovered him lost in literary figures – at first the Greek pantheon then Medieval lords and ladies which had led, in turn, to a fixation on the women of the Romantics. Having spent the better part of my earlier years pouring over Byron and Blake, I enjoyed watching him bring their works to life. Given this temporal progression, I was surprised that evening to find him hard at work on a depiction of the Greek Muses.
"The Muses, Edmund? I thought you were done with the Greeks."
He turned, startled, brush still in hand.
"I didn't hear you come in. Is it seven o'clock already?"
He laid his brush and palette on a work stand, grabbing a cloth to wipe his hands.
"It is, but don't let me interrupt you. Supper can wait – after all, the food at the club will get no worse as it sits."
He laughed, dropping the cloth atop brushes slick with every imaginable shade. "Let me wash up and we can be off."
I wandered over to look at this latest piece as he readied himself. A typical structure – the nine muses draped in gauzy cloth, lush greenery and a few scattered remains of columns – yet there was something different about it. Most of the Muses wore the usual expressions of polite boredom, limp hands barely grasping their symbols, eyes focused on various points behind the viewer and the tiniest of contented smiles barely curving their lips. One, however, stood out. A pale hand reached up to straighten the ivy wreath perched atop her deep titian locks. The other arm supported a shepherd's staff, the hand dangling, almost resting on her hip. And her pose—no graceful, balletic dance for this muse. At any moment she might leap into an earthy, alluring peasant dance. But most startling were her eyes – she was staring directly at the viewer. Surely there was a twinkle of merriment in those greenish eyes, but also a deep sadness, as if she were burdened with some great secret, imprisoned in painted silence. The overall effect was of a wistful, longing muse, surrounded by her sisters, yet utterly alone in some terrible knowledge.
Suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder breaking my reverie.
"I see you've noticed Thalia. She adds something to the piece, doesn't she?"
I stood, letting the smell of Edmund, of soap and hair oil, mingle with that of paint and turpentine.
"Thalia?" I asked, gently grasping the hand, moving it from my shoulder. "Isn't she rather lively for the muse of tragedy? She certainly isn't as sober as a proper Thalia should be. I think there is a bit of a minx in that smile."
Edmund laughed, eyeing his work critically. "A minx? Yes, I can see it now. But were none of the muses temptresses? And you forget, Dorian, she is also 'she who flourishes'. Doesn't flourishing imply an overcoming, a struggle to overcome fate or perhaps, convention? Regardless, flourishing never struck me as an uncomplicated endeavor."
His fingers gently pressed mine before he released my hand, moving to retrieve his coat from the stand near the door.
"Besides, it is a commission piece and dear, tempting Thalia was specifically requested. I had a few sketches provided to work from but once I began she took on a life of her own. The gentleman is coming by next week for his first viewing."
"A commission at last? How wonderful." I donned my own cloak and gloves, entering the dingy hallway leading to the street. "But isn't it odd for him not to view the work until it is complete?"
There was silence as Edmund climbed into the hansom, settling against the cushions with a sigh, his brow furrowed in thought. Nodding to my driver, I took the seat opposite to him, listening to the clatter of hooves on cobblestones as we started towards the club. Edmund stared blankly at the streets passing outside.
"Honestly? This whole business has been odd. I had asked him – I don't even know his name - if he wished to visit as the piece progressed, especially since I had only sketches and he was so specific in his request concerning Thalia." Edmund pursed his lips, pausing for a moment.
"He simply smiled at me and said 'Don't worry, the inspiration will come to you. One morning you will awake and she will be there, in your mind, and you'll know just how to paint her'. I thought him mad, completely daft. But, Dorian…", here his voice barely a whisper. With a deep steadying breath he continued.
"It happened – just as he had described. I woke one morning, drenched with the sweat of a nightmare", he looked towards me then, a hint of fear in his eyes, "I awoke and suddenly knew."