The Street Philosopher by Matthew Plampin

Author:Matthew Plampin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: 1853-1856, War correspondents, Historical, Crimean War, Fiction
ISBN: 9780007272433
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-02-22T16:00:00+00:00

3

As he began to speak, the last trace of Kitson’s nervousness left him. Nothing, he thought, absolutely nothing restores presence of mind like having to address an audience.

Being reunited with Mrs James whilst standing before the Pilate, hearing her say Nathaniel Boyce’s name and stare so intently at the panel he had stolen, had been severely disorientating. Kitson had been beset by an alarming sense that the two things he should be striving to keep apart were becoming inextricably tangled together. When he saw Charles Norton, however, standing in Saloon F with his managers flanking him like a royal bodyguard, and the loose crowd of perhaps two hundred and fifty working people assembled behind them, all this promptly vanished from his mind. Something awakened in him–an old assurance dating from his life as an art correspondent in the Metropolis, back when he would have been unable even to find the Crimean peninsula on a map.

Saloon F contained many of the Exhibition’s most recent works, a number of which had been shown in the Royal Academy only the year before. Heeding Mrs James’ comment about the overwhelming effect of the display, Kitson was careful to discuss one painting at a time. He explained the nuances of expression in Landseer’s hounds; the meditation upon mortality in John Millais’ scene of young girls burning leaves in the autumn twilight; the wealth of symbolic detail in Holman Hunt’s representations of Shakespeare. And he threw himself into his task, summoning all his enthusiasm and fluency. Turning frequently towards his audience, he was encouraged by the signs of interest he found there. Some soon slunk away, of course, and others looked around vacantly–but a tight semicircle of people over a hundred strong was following his words with close attention.

Only once did he dare to glance at Mrs James, who stood beside her father. In her face he saw such pride and love that it made him stumble on his words; and he had to look away again before continuing.

Then he came to the Chatterton. He knew from the time he had already spent in the Exhibition that it was one of the most popular works on display. ‘Here we see The Death of Chatterton by Mr Henry Wallis. It shows the young poet lying dead upon his bed, having poisoned himself in his garret after his work was rejected by a publisher. We see his dandy clothes,’ Kitson pointed to the scarlet coat and turquoise britches, ‘for which he was well known; the remains of his work, this shredded paper, which he destroyed in despair before committing his fatal act. Here is the vial of arsenic rolling on the floorboards, where it has fallen from his lifeless hand.’ He lowered his head for a moment, an unexpected pulse of sadness beating through him. ‘The–the poet is famous now, the subject of paintings and books, but he would have been much more so had he allowed himself to live. The picture tells us about waste, my friends, the waste of life, and of talent–how men are often their own worst foes.

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