River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [196]
Mr Chan is not a man who gives the impression of being enamoured of small talk; at the first pause I handed over Ellen Penrose’s illustrations of her father’s collection. To my surprise, he did not even open the folder; laying it aside he said he would examine the pictures later; for the time being there was another matter he wished to discuss with me.
By all means, said I, at which he proceeded to explain that it had come to his ears that I was closely related to Mr George Chinnery, the famous English painter, and that I was myself an artist in the same style.
Yes, I said, this was all true. So then he asked whether I happened, by any chance, to be acquainted with a certain painting of Mr Chinnery’s – a canvas that was generally known as ‘The Portrait of an Eurasian’?
‘Why yes,’ I said, ‘I certainly do!’ – and this was no more than the truth for it is a fact that I know this picture very well indeed. Of the work Mr Chinnery has done in China, I like none better – and as you know, Puggly dear, it has long been a habit of mine to make copies of pictures that make an impresssion on me. Fortunately I had not neglected to do so in this instance: the copy is small, but, even if I say so myself, perfectly faithful to the original. I have it in front of me as I write: it depicts a young woman dressed in a cloak-like tunic of blue silk, and wide, white trousers. The garments are sumptuous, yet negligently worn; the face has the delicate contours of a heart-shaped leaf and the eyes are black and startlingly large, with a gaze that is at once gentle and direct. A pink chrysanthemum peeps out of her glistening black hair, which is parted in the middle and pulled back so that it falls over her temples in graceful, rounded curves. Behind her, serving as a frame within a frame, is a circular window; it outlines her head and provides a view of a pair of misted mountains in the distance. Every detail is chosen to evoke a Chinese interior – the shape of the sitter’s chair, the tasselled lantern above her head, the high-legged teapoy and porcelain teapot. The face too, in the tint of the skin, and the angle of the cheekbones, is of a clearly Chinese cast – yet there is something about the woman’s smile, her stance, her pose that suggests that she is also, in some way, foreign, an alien at least in part.
The painting is, to my mind, one of Mr Chinnery’s finest, but I am not, as you know, Puggly dear, always the most impartial of judges. It may well be that my passion for this picture springs from a sense of sympathy with the subject – Adelina was her name – not only because she is of variegated parentage, but also because of what I know of the circumstances of her life and her death (and when you hear the story, as you presently shall, I think you too will agree that it is indeed impossible not to be moved …).
You will understand from this that my acquaintance with this painting is not of any ordinary measure (it took no little time and effort, I can tell you, to ferret the story out of Mr Chinnery’s apprentices) – but fortunately I had the presence of mind not to betray to Mr Chan, the extent of my familiarity with it.
‘I do know that painting,’ said I. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘What do you think, Mr Chinnery, could you make a copy of it for me? I will pay handsomely.’
This put me in something of a quandary, for I know that my Uncle would be incensed if he found out – but on the other hand Mr Chan is such