working in charcoal before the blank-eyed figures of goddesses and gladiators in the winter halls of the Neues Museum.
‘We met in Berlin,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘I am the brother of Mrs. Lewes’s publisher.’
But Meyrick, clearly desperate to impress the visiting celebrities and secure his commission, merely nodded, bowed and welcomed him into the draughty atelier, then flung himself into captivating the silent Sibyl, whose prophecies and pronouncements remained suspended. The studio smelt of turpentine, mixed paints, linseed oil and burned vegetables. Meyrick clearly lived where he worked. An assortment of cooking pots littered the brick hearth surrounding a small black stove, apparently the only heating in the huge cavernous space. Coals glowed through a round gap in the lid and the hob chuffed gently like a stationary steam engine. Vast northern windows welcomed the autumn light. Unfinished canvases turned their faces to the wall, so that all they could see were the rough sketches and the brown mesh of the reverse sides. Meyrick led them straight to his easel where he had prepared a sofa, covered with a glaring white linen sheet, ready for Mrs. Lewes, who subsided thankfully, her skirts compressing like an expiring bellows.
‘I prefer grand historical subjects,’ declared the painter, ‘but created in the spirit of that stern realism so admired by your English artistic brotherhood. Yet I also treasure that affecting tenderness that I fancy best illustrates my own style. Here is the last in a series of four: Berenice Weeping in the Ruins of Jerusalem .’
The painting revealed a beautiful young woman, her rich clothes ripped and torn, her feet bare, her gaze vacant and empty, the lovely breasts partially exposed. All around her lay a great city destroyed; the temple toppled and the roofs aflame. The eerie atmosphere surrounding the abandoned grieving woman gained in intensity from the fact that the city appeared to be entirely uninhabited. No other figure haunted the picture. Jerusalem, in Meyrick’s vision, resembled ancient Rome, rather than an Eastern walled fortress, which, Max suspected, would have been nearer the mark. But the detail was extraordinary, crisp and sharpened like a photograph, each fallen brick and splintered column painted with a meticulous attention to shadow and weight. The city’s calamitous destruction could have been caused by an earthquake, or any other act of God, as the victors were nowhere visible, nor were the bodies of the slain. Berenice herself appeared to be both agent and victim of the absolute ruin that surrounded her. Max thought he recognised the model, but could not be certain. The maiden in the painting was a dark-eyed beauty, representing the Jewish princess, whose tragic story now ended in catastrophe.
‘Did she ever return to Jerusalem according to the legend?’ asked Lewes, peering closely at the woman’s delicately painted breasts.
‘She was cast out from Rome,’ murmured the Sibyl, drawing her shawl closer to her massive aching jaw, ‘but no one knows where she died.’
‘I like to believe that she returned to her people,’ said Meyrick. Max now convinced himself that he had indeed recognised the magnificent breasts through the shimmering veil of convenient myth. The Rape of the Sabine Women , which Meyrick now displayed, contained naked breasts a-plenty and some extraordinarily convincing Roman thighs, partially covered in metal and leather. The artist’s genius for creating surfaces and tiny, convincing details loomed out at Max: the thonged sandals of the screaming women and the bloody sides of white horses, wounded in battle. That much-praised stern realism now seemed menacing and uncanny. He found himself eyeball to eyeball with the inside of a woman’s mouth as he shouldered the canvas on to the easel, with Meyrick supporting the other end. The entire painting writhed and howled. Even the blood appeared fresh and dripping.
‘I completed
‘We met in Berlin,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘I am the brother of Mrs. Lewes’s publisher.’
But Meyrick, clearly desperate to impress the visiting celebrities and secure his commission, merely nodded, bowed and welcomed him into the draughty atelier, then flung himself into captivating the silent Sibyl, whose prophecies and pronouncements remained suspended. The studio smelt of turpentine, mixed paints, linseed oil and burned vegetables. Meyrick clearly lived where he worked. An assortment of cooking pots littered the brick hearth surrounding a small black stove, apparently the only heating in the huge cavernous space. Coals glowed through a round gap in the lid and the hob chuffed gently like a stationary steam engine. Vast northern windows welcomed the autumn light. Unfinished canvases turned their faces to the wall, so that all they could see were the rough sketches and the brown mesh of the reverse sides. Meyrick led them straight to his easel where he had prepared a sofa, covered with a glaring white linen sheet, ready for Mrs. Lewes, who subsided thankfully, her skirts compressing like an expiring bellows.
‘I prefer grand historical subjects,’ declared the painter, ‘but created in the spirit of that stern realism so admired by your English artistic brotherhood. Yet I also treasure that affecting tenderness that I fancy best illustrates my own style. Here is the last in a series of four: Berenice Weeping in the Ruins of Jerusalem .’
The painting revealed a beautiful young woman, her rich clothes ripped and torn, her feet bare, her gaze vacant and empty, the lovely breasts partially exposed. All around her lay a great city destroyed; the temple toppled and the roofs aflame. The eerie atmosphere surrounding the abandoned grieving woman gained in intensity from the fact that the city appeared to be entirely uninhabited. No other figure haunted the picture. Jerusalem, in Meyrick’s vision, resembled ancient Rome, rather than an Eastern walled fortress, which, Max suspected, would have been nearer the mark. But the detail was extraordinary, crisp and sharpened like a photograph, each fallen brick and splintered column painted with a meticulous attention to shadow and weight. The city’s calamitous destruction could have been caused by an earthquake, or any other act of God, as the victors were nowhere visible, nor were the bodies of the slain. Berenice herself appeared to be both agent and victim of the absolute ruin that surrounded her. Max thought he recognised the model, but could not be certain. The maiden in the painting was a dark-eyed beauty, representing the Jewish princess, whose tragic story now ended in catastrophe.
‘Did she ever return to Jerusalem according to the legend?’ asked Lewes, peering closely at the woman’s delicately painted breasts.
‘She was cast out from Rome,’ murmured the Sibyl, drawing her shawl closer to her massive aching jaw, ‘but no one knows where she died.’
‘I like to believe that she returned to her people,’ said Meyrick. Max now convinced himself that he had indeed recognised the magnificent breasts through the shimmering veil of convenient myth. The Rape of the Sabine Women , which Meyrick now displayed, contained naked breasts a-plenty and some extraordinarily convincing Roman thighs, partially covered in metal and leather. The artist’s genius for creating surfaces and tiny, convincing details loomed out at Max: the thonged sandals of the screaming women and the bloody sides of white horses, wounded in battle. That much-praised stern realism now seemed menacing and uncanny. He found himself eyeball to eyeball with the inside of a woman’s mouth as he shouldered the canvas on to the easel, with Meyrick supporting the other end. The entire painting writhed and howled. Even the blood appeared fresh and dripping.
‘I completed
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