They moved on, and gradually the heaviness of the conversation gave way to something easier. Paintings invited disagreement, and disagreement with Owen proved surprisingly pleasurable. He admired force, movement, the difficult dignity of human action captured at its highest pitch. She preferred atmosphere, truth of light, the suggestion of feeling in a field, a river, a clouded sky.
“You would have every painting behave like a confession,” she spoke after he had praised a dramatic battle scene for the third time.
“And you would have every painting behave like a secret.”
“A secret may be truer than a declaration.”
“A declaration may be braver.”
“Not if it declares falsely,” she countered.
He looked at her then with sudden amusement. “You argue like a barrister.”
“And you judge like a general.”
He frowned. “I hope not.”
The words were simple, but something shadowed them. Aurelia’s smile faded. She followed his gaze to the next painting, before which several visitors had paused in sober admiration.
The Death of General Wolfe.
Even before she knew the title, she felt the gravity of it. The dying officer lay pale and noble at the center, surrounded by men arranged in attitudes of grief, reverence, and solemn devotion. It was a battlefield transformed into theater, death rendered graceful, with sacrifice framed in light.
Owen had gone very still. Aurelia watched him rather than the painting. She saw the change come over him, which wasn’t visible enough to attract notice, but clear to her. His shoulders remained straight, but his eyes had withdrawn from the room. He was no longer standing in a London gallery with her. He had gone somewhere else, somewhere louder, darker, and far less clean than the painted scene before them.
“It is much admired,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he nodded without looking at her.
“Do … you admire it?”
He was silent so long she thought he might not answer.
Then, she heard him. “As a painting, perhaps.”
“And as a truth?”
His mouth tightened. “No.”
The single word held more than speech.
Aurelia turned back to the canvas. “It shows grief.”
“It shows grief arranged for comfort.”
She looked at him.
He spoke without taking his eyes from the painting. “No man dies so conveniently for composition. No field waits for nobility to arrange itself. There is mud, noise, terror, confusion. Men callfor water, for mothers, for God, for no one at all. Some are brave. Some are not. Most are merely young.”
Aurelia felt her throat tighten.
“And yet,” he continued more quietly, “this is what people prefer … a noble death, a clean sacrifice, something that may be hung upon a wall and admired after dinner.”
His voice did not break. That almost made it worse.
Aurelia had no comfort adequate to such a confession. Words seemed suddenly poor things, too easily polished, too much like the painting itself. Without thinking, she placed her gloved hand upon his arm. He looked down at it.
Only then did she realize what she had done.
