The Painted Dragon. Katherine Woodfine

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СКАЧАТЬ around the edge of the big airy space, scattered among the plaster casts of classical statues that gave the Antiques Room its name. The first years spent most of each day drawing here, and would continue to do so until they were considered to have mastered the basics of line and form.

      Today, Leo had chosen to draw the figure of a nymph with a garland of evergreen: it reminded her a little of one of the statues in the Long Passage at Winter Hall that she had drawn many times before. The familiarity was comforting. The action of her pencil against the paper, outlining the figure’s shape in smooth strokes, felt soothing.

      Nothing else felt familiar in the least. Everything here seemed so strange. The big room was stark and bare as a blank canvas: the white-painted walls, the white shapes of the plaster casts, the white shirtsleeves of the young man drawing next to her. She sensed her chest tightening as she looked around at the circle of strangers. After a week, she was beginning to recognise a few of their faces: the young man with the carefully waxed moustache; the tall girl with the habit of chewing the ends of her pencils; the red-haired, freckled boy with the Northern accent. While she drew, she stole glances at them under her eyelashes. She liked looking at their clothes: that young lady’s flowing Liberty-print smock; that young man’s paisley-patterned scarf.

      Most often, her eyes were drawn to the girl who wore the most striking and unusual outfits, usually including brightly coloured stockings and odd shoes – today one was red and the other blue. She had a wild tangle of curls and a pouting mouth, and Leo had heard the boy next to her call her Connie. Leo would have liked to draw her. Now, as Leo glanced over at her again, Connie noticed her watching and frowned. Blushing, Leo let her eyes fall back to her work.

      Behind her, she sensed the presence of the drawing master – the professor, she should call him. He paused, glancing over her shoulder, and she froze for a moment. Even she knew that Professor Jarvis was legendary here at the Spencer. She had already seen the way he spoke to some of the students – firing out sarcastic criticisms: ‘Is that the best you can do?’ ‘And you say you want to be an artist?’ Or sometimes, worst of all, merely a short snort of contempt. Now, he was standing right behind her, so close that she caught a whiff of his tobacco. Not knowing what to do, she kept on drawing, taking refuge in the familiarity of the pencil between her fingers. A moment later, she realised that he had moved on.

      ‘I say, you got off lightly!’ said the young man next to her. ‘Didn’t you hear what he said to me yesterday?’

      She had – it had not been very complimentary – but the young man’s good humour did not appear to have been dented. ‘They say he’s like that all the time,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘He must think you’re good if you escaped a tongue-lashing.’

      Leo kept on drawing, not knowing what to say. She had noticed the young man before: the way he drew, in bold, assertive strokes, pausing to stand back and survey his work every now and again. The way he swept back his dark hair and tossed a charming smile to the giggling girls across the room, before turning to make a friendly aside to his neighbour. She had never seen anyone so sure of himself in her life.

      ‘Gosh, you are good, aren’t you?’ he went on, coming closer to look at her drawing. ‘I wish I could draw half as well as you.’

      Suddenly, she felt annoyed. ‘Well, maybe you should spend more time concentrating on your own work instead of looking at mine,’ she said. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back again. This was exactly the sort of thing that made Mother say that she was awkward and difficult. Why couldn’t she just be friendly, like everyone else?

      To her surprise, the young man didn’t seem at all offended. Instead he laughed – a cheerful, hooting laugh, as though she had made a particularly good joke. ‘Yes I suppose you’re right there!’ he exclaimed. ‘Probably if I did, old Jarvis wouldn’t have told me yesterday that my fellow’s arms looked more like strings of sausages. I can see you’re going to be a good influence on me.’ He stuck out a hand, and Leo stared at it in surprise. ‘I’m Jonathan Rose, but everyone calls me Jack. What’s your name?’

      She managed to shake his hand, and mumble her own name, her face still burning with embarrassment at her own rudeness.

      ‘Leo – I say, that’s quite a name. Short for Leonora? Oh, I see. Well, Leo it is. You’re new too, aren’t you?’

      She nodded, surprised to discover that he was one of the first-year students. He seemed so comfortable, it was like he’d been at the Spencer for years.

      ‘Seen him?’ asked Jack, gesturing over to the corner of the room with his pencil, where Leo now noticed an older gentleman, with a sweep of iron-grey hair, deep in conversation with Professor Jarvis. He was elegantly dressed in a smart, tailored suit, in contrast to the professor, who was rather shabby in tweeds. Leo noticed that the gentleman’s silk waistcoat was finely patterned, his shoes were polished to a gleaming shine and he wore a gold lapel pin and an elaborate fob watch and chain.

      ‘Who is he?’ she found herself asking.

      ‘That’s Randolph Lyle,’ explained Jack in a low voice. ‘He’s one of the most important art collectors in London. But, more than that, he likes to support young artists while they’re getting started. They say he comes here every year looking for new talent.’

      Leo looked over at Mr Lyle, intrigued.

      ‘Maybe that’s what he’s doing here now,’ suggested Jack, but before he could say anything else, Professor Jarvis began to speak, and the lively chatter around them fell silent. ‘This is Mr Randolph Lyle,’ he said in his usual brusque tone. ‘As I hope at least some of you are aware, Mr Lyle is a leading expert on fine art. He has come to speak to you today about an important opportunity. Mr Lyle.’

      Mr Lyle gave a small bow. ‘Thank you, Professor. I am delighted to be here to speak to you all this morning. I am honoured to be a supporter of this wonderful institution. I have the greatest interest in our next generation of artists – and am proud to say that in my own small way, I have been able to help some of them on their path to success.’ He spoke with an elaborate politeness that contrasted starkly with the professor’s short, sardonic way of speaking. He looked – and sounded – very much like one of the guests that Leo might have encountered in her mother’s drawing room. ‘Today, as you have heard, I am here to talk to you about one such opportunity. I am currently working on a new exhibition, which will be opening in London in a few weeks’ time.

      ‘This exhibition is to be unlike any other: a combination of the very best new works and some of the masterpieces that have helped to inspire them. I have been lucky enough to have the chance to bring together a selection of old masters, including some works from my own collection, but also some treasures which have been most generously lent to me by a number of London’s museums, galleries and private collections.

      ‘The venue for this exhibition will also be rather unusual: it will take place at Sinclair’s, the department store on Piccadilly. As some of you may be aware, I have a passionate interest in bringing our best works of art to what we may call “the masses” – and Mr Sinclair happily shares that enthusiasm. Together, we are mounting what I hope will be one of the most exciting exhibitions of this year, in the store’s beautiful Exhibition Hall. Admission will be free to the general public, and we hope that many hundreds will attend.

      ‘Today, I am here to seek out some volunteers to assist me with putting together the exhibition. We will require a considerable commitment of time from our volunteers over the next few weeks, but in return I can promise a most interesting, instructive, and I hope also enjoyable experience.’

      He smiled around the room again, and СКАЧАТЬ