The Poets' Wives Read online

  In the blink of an eye he is in the courtyard below and he is calling the boy to him, beckoning him gently with his arm, but the boy is startled by the agitated appearance of Mr Blake and he cowers a little, his walk, so laboured by trailing the weight, preventing his undoubted instinct to flee and although I cannot hear what words pass between them I can see that Will is telling him not to be afraid and once more signalling the boy to come to him as might be done with a frightened animal. The boy has stopped moving but even at a distance I can see the fear in his eyes and he keeps glancing to the open sheds that stand to the side of the yard. Then there is the muffled shout from someone who is not visible and both Will’s head and the boy’s turn to look in the same direction. And I am filled with sudden fear and want to run to the yard but know that whatever is going to happen will have done so before I reach it and so I stand unable to do anything but be a silent watcher.

  It’s a man, burly and red-faced like a drinker, who steps into the yard from the sheds and he is shouting and his hand waves a piece of wood. I try to bang on the glass to make him know there is a witness to whatever monstrous intentions he harbours but he is striding unaware towards Will who faces up to him and whose own fist is raised in unabated fury and moving furiously up and down as if beating a drum to the rhythm of the words I can’t hear. And the man with the cudgel has stopped short but Will continues to advance on him and he is pointing at the boy. Then almost as quickly as he appeared the man turns on his heels and is walking back to the sheds, his arm thrown out in a dismissive gesture and the cudgel held lifelessly by his side, and I watch as William rests his hand on the frightened boy’s shoulder before he frees him from his burden then throws it to the ground with all the power his body can muster. As he walks away he looks up at me and I feel all the love I hold for him spring forth and I raise my hand and am rewarded by his smile.

  Such a man as Mr Blake deserves and needs a child and I count myself blessed to be able to bring what he so desires into the world. Because now there are no doubts that the child grows inside me and my whole being feels gently nudged and quickened into a newness of life. And William talks of us as Adam and Eve, father and mother to a world that will be conceived without taint or stain because old things will have passed away and all things made new. In the little summer-house at the end of the garden in Lambeth there is a vine that grows which although rich in leaf never bears fruit and we like to sit in the summer warmth this place holds. Although I am uncertain at the start, Mr Blake tells me that art can never exist without naked beauty displayed and sometimes when we sit in it in our natural state and read Paradise Lost I feel truly as if I am in the Garden of Eden. One such day, freed from what he calls our ‘troublesome disguises’, I am startled by the approach of a caller but he tells me there is no need for embarrassment or apology because ‘naked we come into this world, clothed only in the Divine mercy’ and he welcomes the visitor to our heavenly garden as if nothing is amiss or strange. I tried not to blush but with no more success than I do now at the memory.

  The seed inside me has hardly started to grow no matter how often I look impatiently or brush it lightly with the encouraging palm of my hand and I am often sick and it makes me frightened that I shall expel the child from where it lodges in my womb. And I have started to talk and sing to her and tell her her name will be Eve. That summer is hot and it is difficult to stem the stench of the city. The heat coats everything with a sullen lethargy and even the river seems to idle, caulked in the stench of tar and oils and everything else that is inflicted upon it, and I keep as much to the house and the garden as is possible but there are times when the very smell of the paints makes me feel ill and so I cannot help him as much as I like to do. And now this moment must be coloured even though it prints itself sharp and more painful than almost any other page so I am in the summer-house and I let my fingers trace the softness of the vine’s leaves. And the colours in my head are pale and delicate – mostly yellows and lilacs with the future sky painted palest blue. I wonder too if the good angel has visited me when I was asleep or unawares and think how much of a blessing that would be to know of his ever-present care. I think too of Mr Blake and the brightness of his spirits as he is filled once more with ideas and plans and his belief that the sun will yet shine upon all his works and they will be brought into the light of day.

  I feel too hot, unable to read my Paradise Lost, and I take one of the vine leafs and rub its coolness across my cheek. William is working in the house more contented for the moment to be busy with commissioned work because it brings some of the money that we shall need. And I wonder if the skill of his hands might be able to fashion a crib for the daughter I bear him. It is in the hazy heat of that summer’s day that the first pain comes, so sharp that I drop the book and cry out, and the voice I hear does not sound like my own and then the pain comes in waves so I cry out even louder and I have to force myself to break free from its shock to make my lips form Will’s name. I scream it again and again and then my hand feels my wetness and I almost faint when I see my fingers stained in red. When he comes I cannot speak but hold up my red-stained hand and he bundles me into his arms and carries me to the house and our bed.

  A doctor is sent for but what need for someone to tell me what I already know? And at first Will’s care is all for me as I lie in the room that is always too hot and he strokes my brow and dampens it with a cloth. Below my window the city streets boil themselves into a cauldron but I burn with an even greater fire that only fades with each passing day and when I must be on my own for a while I lie and listen to the strange sounds that climb up from the heated confusion that labours there. And then I start to think that it is the foul and poisonous vapours of the city that have killed my child and I call God’s judgement on it and hope to see it plunged into the lake of fire. Will attends me lovingly both day and night and then slowly I begin to see that he has come to understand his loss and his spirits sink once more and even though outwardly he tries to continue in his tenderness, soon it becomes a duty that must be rendered rather than a love that must be shown.

  I grow stronger in the weeks that follow so he returns to his work but it is as if every bright hope has dimmed and his darkened imagination produces only what is shaped by a sad despair. He works on with his Songs of Experience and everything his hand forms conspires to renew my grief. Our ‘Infant Joy’ becomes ‘Infant Sorrow’, the Garden of Love becomes filled with graves and briars. And when I think I am well enough to help him once more my first task is to colour a poem called ‘A Little Girl Lost’ and even though I read no more than the title because my eyes are blurred I cannot bring myself to touch it as I think of our child and wonder where she wanders now and if some angel descending Jacob’s ladder will be able to take her by the hand and secure her passage into Heaven. He sees my tears but says nothing and I wonder if it’s because in his mind he has started to blame me for our loss. And every waking minute of the day I am haunted by strange and sorrowful thoughts.

  One morning just as dawn’s light begins to creep into our room I slip from our bed where he is still asleep and go to where we work because I need to look again at the image that accompanies ‘Infant Joy’ and because my hands need to touch it and feel what answers it may give for what now feels like a terrible mystery and a punishment for something I must have done. But what once I thought was beautiful now offers only a reflection of my own sorrow and the red petals of the womb-shaped blossom that cradle the mother and newborn child are changed into the colour of blood and its very heart is shredded into shards. I want to cry but all the tears are dried up and my sorrow finds a poor release in the shiver of my body and the quickening of my breathing. I go to the window where the first light of day only serves to strengthen the image in my hands and then seeps across the copper plates, the paints and oils and settles on the pile of milky paper. What future will be painted there? Sometimes I see it blotted and stained as if by the soot-blackened hands of the chimney sweeps who parade once
more in my imagination like sprites from the gates of Hell itself; sometimes it bears the image of a lost child wandering in dark woods unable to find the safety of home.

  ‘It’s a suffering that’s difficult to bear,’ he says and I look up to see him standing in the doorway, ‘but God willing we shall have another child.’ I want him to take me in his arms but he turns away and I hold my hand up to the empty space where he stood until the light sifts motes through the splay of my fingers. And because I speak only silent words he does not hear me tell him that God is never willing and that there will be no miracle where Christ blesses the barren fig tree into fruitful life, does not hear me tell him that my womb is withered and closed for the rest of my life.

  Mr Blake says I must rest and it’s true that for a time I take to my bed again but I think the weariness is in my head more than in my body. His pictures are dark now and even the colours seemed edged with bitterness and I can’t bring myself to work them or help in the ways I used to. For the first time in our marriage when he is possessed of the spirit and leaves our bed during the night I turn away and try to shut my ears to the graver’s scratch and score. Then one morning when I wake he’s not to be found and I assume he’s gone about his business. The light makes changing patterns on the wall opposite our bed and the room is filled with the clatter of cartwheels, the cries of someone selling fish and what sounds like the distant hammering of iron.

  The heat has finally slipped out of the summer and I am glad but never again can I bring myself to sit in the summer-house or see the vine that won’t bear fruit. I briefly walk close to the house or in the garden but the emptiness is heavy in me and it seems that nothing has come to fill the space except a sadness that sometimes feels as if it will overpower me. On this morning I stay in bed even though it’s long past the hour to rise and sometimes my hand brushes against my womb as if in search of some miracle where the lost child is returned home once more. But there is only the sense of absence and when I gently call her name it returns unanswered. So I don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs at first and when I do I realise that there’s more than one set of feet. And then he appears and he’s looking at me a little surprised that I’m still in bed.

  ‘Can you get dressed, Kate?’ he says. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  ‘Who is it?’ I whisper as I start to do as he requests but he tells me it’s best I dress and see for myself.

  I try to pin my hair but know it must look slatternly and my clothes are thrown on as best I can. I assume it will be a buyer or someone arriving to commission work, and wonder why he needs me to meet them. But when I come out of the room I see only Will until I realise that there is someone standing behind him and then I catch a glimpse of a dress and know it’s not a buyer.

  ‘This is Lizzie, Kate,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘I have engaged her as a servant until you are restored again to health.’

  I stare at the ragged girl who has emerged from his shadow. Her dress has seen better days and her shoes look as if they will fall to pieces at any moment. But her young face still bears the print of prettiness and then I see a little smear of rouge puddled in her cheeks and I remember who she is.

  ‘Greet Mrs Blake,’ he instructs her and when she mumbles her response he nods at her until she gives a little curtsey that I have to force myself to acknowledge. ‘Lizzie will live with us?. . .’

  ‘But where?’ I interrupt.

  ‘I thought the back room,’ he says, staring at me.

  ‘But I am almost restored,’ I tell him. ‘A few more weeks and I shall be my old self again.’

  ‘You need to rest, Kate. Lizzie will do the housework and go for what things we need. She can be on hand to be your help and when you are your old self again we can decide whether we shall keep her on.’

  I go to speak but I can see from his face that he will brook no further argument so I turn on my heels and walk back into the bedroom from where I hear him tell her to go and bring her things. Her light footsteps echo on the stairs even after she’s gone and then he comes to me and his voice is gentle as he says, ‘I thought it for the best.’

  ‘We should have talked about this, William. And why this girl?’

  ‘Because it is a kindness for both of you. We can give her a home, help her find a better way in her life, and I think you are in need of someone for a while at least.’

  ‘Have you forgotten all the words she shouted – her curses and her damnations on us?’

  ‘Kate,’ he says as he takes my hand, ‘that was the only world she has ever known speaking through her. She lives in squalor with older women who with the help of poverty have led her into the ways of sin. We can help her free herself from her chains and I know no one better than you to guide her out of misery.’

  ‘Can we afford another mouth to feed?’ I ask, unable in the light of his words to think of any other objection.

  ‘Yes we can. Joseph Johnson has ordered plates for a new book.’

  So Lizzie comes to live with us, arriving at the house an hour later with her worldly possessions in a reed basket and which comprise little more than a few items of miserable clothing and a copy of the Bible that she says her mother gave her before she died. There is never any mention of a father. I greet her as I should and in truth feel shamed by the hardness of my heart that I showed earlier. We establish her as best we can in the back room even though her bed is no more at the start than some blankets on the floor with a cushion for her head but I try to make the room pretty by pinning up some of William’s pictures of holy scenes and she seems quiet but content, looking about her always as if everything is a great mystery.

  In truth her care restores me a little and soon I take her out and buy cloth to make her some clothes as I do for Will and myself, but her eye instinctively falls on what is prettiest and I know she is disappointed by my choice of plainer and cheaper fare. I try also to teach her to read but she’s not a good pupil, her concentration soon wandering, and when I look to encourage her she asks, ‘What good will it do me?’ I seek to tell her that she could read the Bible her mother gave her as she surely hoped but she remains indifferent and I put off the teaching to some future date.

  I get her to speak of her life, not out of idle curiosity but because I think it will help me to understand her better. So she tells me her father was a soldier who went off to a war somewhere she doesn’t remember and didn’t come back. The way she recounts it makes me unsure whether it’s the truth or something she’s made up. Her mother tried to keep the family together for as long as she could and then Lizzie’s two older sisters went into service and her mother had to do what Lizzie calls ‘work on the street’ to make things meet but she soon got pregnant and died in childbirth.

  It’s a sorrowful tale and it makes me draw on as much of my kindness as I am able to find. At first as I instruct her on the ways of a home – all of which seem entirely foreign to her – we get on passably well although there are times when I have to sweep the floor after she’s finished and if I rebuke her gently she looks at me and then her green eyes that sometimes remind me of a cat’s will narrow and stare at me with an unblinking intensity. Once when we sit after work is done and I try to read to her from her own Bible she interrupts by asking, ‘Is it true that Mr Blake is given to fits of madness?’

  ‘Who told you this?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ she dissembles.

  ‘Who told you this, Lizzie?’

  ‘The butcher who sold me the mutton chops yesterday. He said, “I hear you’ve gone to live with that madman Blake.” ’

  ‘You must not listen to the foolish prattling of such people,’ I tell her, silently resolving that he shall enjoy no further of our business.

  ‘But why should he say it?’

  ‘Because Mr Blake is not like other men and when people see someone they don’t understand they are liable to make the mistake of calling it madness.’

  Her green eyes are narrowed again, this time with suspi
cion, but instead of instructing her as I should to continue with her work, I find myself trying to persuade her of the truth of my words and so I say, ‘Have you ever seen any sign of this madness in Mr Blake?’

  ‘Some of his paintings are strange and not of any world I know,’ she says, hesitating at first then growing bolder. ‘And sometimes he talks to himself.’

  ‘Perhaps he talks with someone you cannot see. And some day the world will know him as the great artist that he is.’

  ‘His eyes?. . .’

  ‘What about his eyes, Lizzie?’

  ‘Sometimes they seem strange as if?. . .’ she hesitates again then looks at me to see if she herself has said something that is itself strange.

  ‘Mr Blake sees with the holiness of the imagination, sometimes sees worlds that are closed to others. You should not think it strange – it is a gift from Heaven.’

  She goes to ask another question but I stop her and think up some work that must be done before the morning and she returns to it with little enthusiasm. As I watch her mope about I can’t help but think of her past, what she has seen and done, and it threatens to blot out the kindness I should show her and I am not as convinced as William that she has embraced a new life. Then the suspicion I see in her eyes is also present in me, coiling itself tightly about my thoughts. And despite her questions about William slowly she becomes comfortable in his company, until she likes nothing more than to watch him work, and soon it is clear that he finds some pleasure in her presence in the house.