Unfinished Portrait
A stunning novel of death and destiny.Bereft of the three people she has held most dear - her mother, her husband and her daughter - Celia is on the verge of suicide. Then one night on an exotic island she meets Larraby, a successful portrait painter, and through a long night of talk reveals how she is afraid to commit herself to a second chance of happiness with another person, yet is not brave enough to face life alone. Can Larraby help Celia come to terms with the past or will they part, her outcome still uncertain?Famous for her ingenious crime books and plays, Agatha Christie also wrote about crimes of the heart, six bittersweet and very personal novels, as compelling and memorable as the best of her work.
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1934
Copyright © 1934 Rosalind Hicks Charitable Trust. All rights reserved.
Cover by ninataradesign.com © HarperCollins 2017
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008131470
Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780007534968
Version: 2018-04-11
Contents
Copyright
Foreword
BOOK I: The Island
Chapter 1. The Woman in the Garden
Chapter 2. Call to Action
BOOK II: Canvas
Chapter 1. Home
Chapter 2. Abroad
Chapter 3. Grannie
Chapter 4. Death
Chapter 5. Mother and Daughter
Chapter 6. Paris
Chapter 7. Grown Up
Chapter 8. Jim and Peter
Chapter 9. Dermot
Chapter 10. Marriage
Chapter 11. Motherhood
Chapter 12. Peace
Chapter 13. Companionship
Chapter 14. Ivy
Chapter 15. Prosperity
Chapter 16. Loss
Chapter 17. Disaster
Chapter 18. Fear
BOOK III: The Island
Chapter 1. Surrender
Chapter 2. Reflection
Chapter 3. Flight
Chapter 4. Beginning
Also by Agatha Christie
About the Publisher
My Dear Mary: I send you this because I don’t know what to do with it. I suppose, really, I want it to see the light of day. One does. I suppose the complete genius keeps his pictures stacked in the studio and never shows them to anybody. I was never like that, but then I was never a genius—just Mr Larraby, the promising young portrait painter.
Well, my dear, you know what it is, none better—to be cut off from the thing you loved doing and did well because you loved doing it. That’s why we were friends, you and I. And you know about this writing business—I don’t.
If you read this manuscript, you’ll see that I’ve taken Barge’s advice. You remember? He said, ‘Try a new medium.’ This is a portrait—and probably a damned bad one because I don’t know my medium. If you say it’s no good, I’ll take your word for it, but if you think it has, in the smallest degree, that significant form we both believe to be the fundamental basis of art—well, then, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be published. I’ve put the real names, but you can change them. And who is to mind? Not Michael. And as for Dermot he would never recognize himself! He isn’t made that way. Anyway, as Celia herself said, her story is a very ordinary story. It might happen to anybody. In fact, it frequently does. It isn’t her story I’ve been interested in. All along it’s been Celia herself. Yes, Celia herself …
You see I wanted to nail her in paint to a canvas, and that being out of the question, I’ve tried to get her in another way. But I’m working in an unfamiliar medium—these words and sentences and commas and full stops—they’re not my craft. You’ll remark, I dare say, que ça se voit!
I’ve seen her, you know, from two angles. First, from my own. And secondly, owing to the peculiar circumstances of twenty-four hours, I’ve been able—at moments—to get inside her skin and see her from her own. And the two don’t always agree. That’s what’s so tantalizing and fascinating to me! I should like to be God and know the truth.
But a novelist can be God to the creatures he creates. He has them in his power to do what he likes with—or so he thinks. But they do give him surprises. I wonder if the real God finds that too … Yes, I wonder …
Well, my dear, I won’t wander on any more. Do what you can for me.
Yours ever,
J.L.
There is a lonely isle
Set apart
In the midst of the sea
Where the birds rest awhile
On their long flight
To the South
They rest a night
Then take wing and depart
To the Southern seas …
I am an island set apart
In the midst of the sea
And a bird from the mainland
Rested on me …
Do you know the feeling you have when you know something quite well and yet for the life of you can’t recollect it?
I had that feeling all the way down the winding white road to the town. It was with me when I started from the plateau overhanging the sea in the Villa gardens. And with every step I took, it grew stronger and—somehow—more urgent. And at last, just when the avenue of palm trees runs down to the beach, I stopped. Because, you see, I knew it was now or never. This shadowy thing that was lurking at the back of my brain had got to be pulled out into the open, had got to be probed and examined and nailed down, so that I knew what it was. I’d got to pin the thing down—otherwise it would be too late.
