Free Sin by Josephine Hart Page B

questions—perhaps awkwardly—because Miss Elizabeth Ashbridge is that most awkward thing, an unfashionable artist. Her work has been exhibited occasionally over the past ten years. It is rarely reviewed. Perhaps an understandable decision on the part of editors who have more “fashionable” artists to cover. Nevertheless I contend that though not contemporary—in the normal usage of the word—and though not an innovative force (the very nature of genius is ever to innovate), Miss Ashbridge is an artist worthy of our most serious appreciation.
    Skies, mostly English—her obsession—are executed with a growing note of desolation. As though the tension between the narrowness of our lives and the broad freedom of the skies was becoming clearer and ever more painful to her. Compare her earlier, charming “Blues London” with her more stark “Flight.” A single slightly ragged cloud seemingly beating against the edges of the canvas, as though desperate for escape from a harsh, high, almost searing blue. One can see why it is naive in the extreme to dismiss Miss Ashbridge’s work as that of a minor “lady” painter who has “a thing” about skies.
    Her “Athens Revisited” is a major development from the work “Athens Morning.” The latter, I believe, was executed on Miss Ashbridge’s honeymoon when she was married to Hubert Baathus. He was tragically killed early on in their marriage. I also recommend “Studio Sky.” It has a haunting quality, as though the artist was trapped in her studio, and, like Oscar Wilde, trying to catch “that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky.”
    There are many other fine pieces, sympathetically mounted in Adrian Carendon’s small gallery in Mount Street. I recommend a visit.
    Reports from strangers. Reports from a distant land. The past.

TWENTY-THREE
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    â€œI know.”
    â€œKnow what, Dominick?”
    â€œRuth. I know.”
    Silence.
    â€œI know.” Again. And again silence. Silence gives consent. To the knowledge I would have kept from him.
    Know. It has a heavy beat. Should I say, “I’m sorry”? Lie again? I take the coward’s way. I say nothing.
    â€œRuth?”
    I put down my drink. We were having dinner.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid you hear me?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œDon’t you want to know how?”
    â€œNo.”
    I only want to know if you know who.
    â€œI have only one question.”
    â€œOnly one?”
    â€œYes. Will you continue?”
    Silence. Oh, what a coward soul is mine.
    â€œI see, Ruth, that once again you have risen to the occasion.”
    Does that sardonic note mean that I may be “let off”? Is that the phrase? So cheaply. I’ve won. I can be carefree. I am loved. And I love. Is it my fault that I do not love where I am loved? That I accepted the gift I should have rejected? But then he would have been unhappy. Perhaps not. If I had acted honourably from the start. Such harsh demands, Ruth. Such terrible penalties, Ruth. Listen. Listen to the man.
    â€œI am rooted in you. From the day I saw you, I loved you.”
    Did love enter through the eye? I thought that was lust.
    â€œYou were a kind of perfection.”
    Like a formula. I had, perhaps, pleasing proportions. I wore the numbers 36 24 36. Draw it. Add some clothes, or not, as you like. Top it with a face. A vision of planes and pools. Dark brown, actually, for the pupils, black for the brow. Skin unpitted, the colour of full cream. And lips “bite red.” The way they like it. And lower down, legs in proportion. Fine and long. Was that the geometry of his downfall?
    So why does Charles resist? But he doesn’t. Yes, he does. There’s no not knowing that knowledge. I am the other. The addition. To Elizabeth. Again. Was he evenhanded, do you think?
    As Dominick spoke, I tried to listen. I knew it was important.