The meeting was proving a testing affair, though, fast sapping away the triumph and excitement that had carried him through the past week – for they had a date, a date at last for Whistler vs Ruskin. The trial was to occur early in the Michaelmas sittings of the Court of Exchequer, which according to Reeve meant mid-November. Only a month or so off. This was the first proper council of war, with the legal team assembled, and Jim’s initial impression of his barristers had been encouraging. Sitting on the other side of Reeve’s expansive desk were Parry and Petheram: a serjeant-at-law, no less, and his junior. There was an interesting contrast between the busy little solicitor, flanked by his weighty volumes and heaps of papers, and these more languid courtroom men – that of beasts bred from the same stable, broadly speaking, but for an entirely different kind of race. Parry was in his mid-fifties, with a lugubrious, bloodhoundish face and the pot-bellied physique of the bona fide scholar. He was an advocate of renown, Jim understood, a real barnstormer, much given to the impassioned appeal – to eloquence of an imploring nature, irresistible both to one’s sympathy and one’s common sense. The junior, Petheram, was sparer in every regard, pale and red-headed, his thin features suggesting a cool, unhampered intelligence.
Their view of the case, however, was another matter. The whole trial hinged, they believed, on the presentation of Jim to the jury as an artist of unquestionable status, possessing both professional dignity and expert ability.
‘You are,’ Parry had said, ‘you will excuse me, sir – a rather singular character, and one that has been subject to a great deal of attention of late. Written up in The World and Vanity Fair. Parodied, I am told, at the Gaiety Theatre. Known widely as a Frenchified American who sees people principally as harmonies of colour – is that correct? Who dries his paintings out in the garden, and signs them with a butterfly. Who decorates his houses and clothes his person in a wholly, ah, original manner, with little regard for prevailing fashions …’
Here Petheram had spoken up, in the cut-crystal tones of the nobility. ‘They will attempt to portray you as a charlatan, Mr Whistler. A man whose attitudes and habits mark him out as an aberrant clown, not to be taken seriously, and who is thus deserving of Mr Ruskin’s censure. Our task is to establish the significance of your art. Its contribution, if you will, to the societal good.’
This had sounded a little lifeless to Jim. His vision, first and foremost, was of confrontation. John Ruskin had recovered from his extremely convenient affliction and was said to be back in the National Gallery, bothering the Turners. He wanted the old viper dragged to court and held to account – before London, before everybody. Reeve hadn’t been wildly pleased about this, saying that nothing was guaranteed where Mr Ruskin was concerned, but Jim had hardly heard him. He was growing afraid that his libel suit had all but disappeared from the public mind, as had surely been the enemy’s intention; or that it had simply become a joke, or even an opportunity for some lesser men from the Royal Academy to make a demonstration against him.
‘I’ve heard that one of their number,’ he’d said, ‘this ghastly hack named Marks, actually intends to present himself in court with easel and brushes, ready to produce a Nocturne in five minutes as an illustration of my imposture. As if art was a question of time, of the hours put in – like painting fences! Or breaking rocks!’
Parry and Petheram hadn’t been particularly interested in this; indeed, they’d rather wanted to stress that Jim himself had shown his art on the Academy walls, as an indication of his pedigree. If paintings were to be brought into court, they’d asked, as looked likely, could he produce the picture that had been exhibited – the portrait of his mother?
Jim had declined to answer. This was a sore subject. As the clamour of bills had intensified, the draper, the boot-maker, even the blasted photographer piling in – along with a new levy called the income tax, a most ungentlemanly notion – Jim had assented at last. He had given the Mother over to Owl, and it had gone to his man on Pall Mall, Mr Graves, accompanied by the barely complete portrait of Miss Corder and two Nocturnes – leaving behind an absence so total, so damned yawning, that he scarcely dared think of it. Of course, these were only the latest works to take flight. Another tranche were in a place on the Strand, near Way’s premises; not a pawn shop, Owl had insisted, not at all, merely a reputable dealer in fine pictures who happened to offer credit in exchange for collateral. Jim had tried self-deception – the paintings were going out into the world, being put on display with cash involved, which was nearly as good as a sale – but he couldn’t hope to succeed. The sums were paltry, nothing close to what was warranted. There was a feeling beneath it, too, something agitating and provoking and rotten right through. Desperation, he suspected.
Instead, Jim had suggested they mention the Peacock Room, his greatest work, which had been admired by all sorts of famous and influential people. But again the barristers had been reluctant, plainly regarding Jim’s dealings with Frederick Leyland as a beehive they did not want to poke. James Whistler the professional painter was what they wanted. There must be no hint of previous disputations.
It was at this point, thank God, that Owl made his entrance, scattering ash upon Reeve’s oriental rug as he hung his topper and overcoat on the stand, then sweeping through to settle himself in a chair that complained very slightly beneath his bulk. He was wearing that crimson ribbon on his lapel, and a pair of resplendent blue and yellow checked trousers that seemed to flash against the office’s dreary tones. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he popped open a jacket button with his thumb and raised his eyebrows in expectation.
Jim felt reinforced. There was no other way of putting it. Here was someone who would understand the precise attitude they needed to strike. This was remarkable, really, as punctuality and the Mother were by no means his only causes for complaint with the Owl. Foremost was their Disraeli venture, much discussed and anticipated, which had collapsed into farce. Letters had been written and the expedition made out to the grand house at Beaconsfield, so that artist and subject could agree their terms. After a long wait in a vestibule, Jim had finally been granted an audience. While he’d been making his first painterly assessment of the great politician – the bulging cranium, the oiled, steely hair, the gimlet eye – Disraeli had informed him, with the distant calm of a Sphinx, that he’d changed his mind. He was extremely busy at present, he’d continued, and would be sitting for no more portraits. Of Mr Charles Howell, of pensions for Cruikshank on behalf of Mr Ruskin, he’d denied all knowledge. An apology had been made, in an indifferent sort of way. And then the meeting had been terminated.
Jim had been left feeling a double fool. The Prime Minister had clearly let him undertake that journey – a waste of an entire day, and nearly five shillings in fares – as a reprimand for his impudent approach. For his presumption. For which Owl, with his apparently baseless tales of previous acquaintance, and his unlimited confidence in the scheme’s chance of success, had been completely responsible.
They had been due to assemble at Miss Corder’s that evening. Jim had rehearsed a castigation on his way back to London, a real flaying, but the Portuguese hadn’t been around to receive it. Miss Corder, so disarmingly reverent as usual, hadn’t the least idea where he might be. There’d been no sign of him anywhere for over a week. Then, quite characteristically, he’d strolled in uninvited to a dinner at the White House as if nothing whatsoever was amiss. He’d been full of optimistic predictions about the trial, the Carlyle mezzotint and much else. The enquiry about Jim’s trip to Beaconsfield had finally been made across the dining table, before the company – thus obliging Jim to spin a tale where he and Disraeli had sparred good-humouredly in the great man’s study, recognised one another as the artists they both were, in their respective fields, and parted with expressions of mutual esteem, despite the lack of a result. This had met with general amusement, and had made any scolding of the Owl effectively impossible. It had been a classic move, in short, played so smoothly it had ta
ken some effort not to admire it.
‘We were just about to say, Mr Howell,’ said Petheram, ‘that witnesses, in our opinion, will form a critical part of this case. We believe that Mr Whistler should concentrate his energies upon those immediately involved with the production and sale of artworks. Artists, naturally, but also art dealers. Critics from the newspapers. People who know how the market can be influenced.’
‘The more accomplished the better,’ added Parry.
‘Well,’ said Jim, ‘there are many dozens who will come forward. My table has hosted the greatest artistic minds in England. Leighton will surely help, as will Tissot. Sir Joseph Boehm.’
Anderson Reeve was nodding in approval. ‘We should make haste with our subpoenas. Ruskin’s people are already preparing their own witnesses, with Mr Burne-Jones foremost among them. He’s said to be offering advice on how best to proceed – sympathetic parties, angles of attack and so forth. I hear that he volunteered himself in the earliest days of the action, partly through gratitude for—’
‘I know Ned Jones,’ said Owl. ‘Rather well, as a matter of fact.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Mr Howell once worked for Ruskin,’ Jim explained. ‘He was in the rascal’s employ for the whole Pre-Raphaelite circus, just about. Isn’t that so, Owl?’
The Portuguese gave one of his magnificent shrugs. ‘Jones and I certainly had our dealings. A number of years back, we’re talking here. He’s spoken of as a master these days, gentlemen, but I saw the man behind it all. Behind the sickly, wax-work angels and the wooden fables. And that, I think, does not change.’
Parry’s initial curiosity had turned to doubt. ‘I am not sure that this pertains—’
There was no stopping Owl now, though. He had a story lined up, a favourite of his; and even these barristers, these professional talkers, could not halt or redirect him. The office was told of how, after a period of warmest amity, this artist had taken quite strongly against the young Owl – envious, most probably, of the great trust that had then existed between the famous critic and his secretary. Burne-Jones had begun to undermine him at every juncture, to sow poisonous seeds of suspicion in the suggestible Ruskinian mind. Things had quickly reached the point where action was called for.
‘Now, Ned Jones had a wife. Do you know, I believe he has her still. The fragrant Georgiana. The strength of their bond was the stuff of legend – an example to us all. Our Ned, though, crafty chap, had another lady love as well, a Greek beauty of some renown, whose features made repeated appearances in his works. To the point of eeriness, in fact. I need not go into the details of the affair. You are men of the world, I’m sure. Suffice to say that it was a sorry business. Poor Ned was obsessed – both with his Greek muse, and with keeping his infatuation secret from his dear wife.’ Owl leaned forward. ‘Yet it so happened – purely through the vagaries of fate, you understand – that one afternoon these two ladies were in the same drawing room at the same time. A confusion of dates it was. You know how these things have a way of coming about. I was on hand – again, strictly by chance – and resolved to avert any awkwardness by making an introduction. And I have to say that we were all getting along rather splendidly until old Ned appeared in the doorway, to see his saintly white and his sinful black quite mixed up together.’
‘Why Owl,’ asked Jim, ‘whatever did he do?’
‘Jimmy, my friend,’ Owl replied, ‘he fainted. The scrawny little wisp fainted dead away. It was a test, I’d say, of his resources – his manliness, if you like – and he fell insensible to the hearth. Knocked his bonce on the way down as well. Cracked it hard against the mantelpiece.’ He pressed a forefinger to his temple. ‘When it rains, he still feels it here.’
Jim let out a high, derisive laugh. The legal types stayed quiet, however – either containing their mirth or unamused. Dear Reeve, now Jim looked at him properly, actually seemed a mite embarrassed, almost hiding behind those papers of his. Honestly, these Englishmen and their codes – what one was permitted to say and what one wasn’t. Jim would never understand, nor would he care to. The sense of a faux pas, in fact, served to enliven him, to bring him really to himself for the first time that afternoon. He asked Owl for a cigarette. Once this was lit he strolled over to the fireplace and studied the coals, poking one on the periphery with his cane; then he turned on his heel to face his team. He felt himself growing before them, filling up like a sail.
‘So this is the calibre of our opponents,’ he declared. ‘How the devil can we possibly lose, gentlemen? Ruskin shall be brought before us and we shall trounce him. We shall strike a blow for art.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Owl. ‘Absolutely right.’
‘Once again, Whistler,’ said Reeve, his voice rather small, ‘I must tell you that I cannot promise that Ruskin will be present. His lawyers will not confirm that his health is sufficiently restored to enable—’
Jim held up a hand. ‘Do what you can, mon cher,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask. Do what you can.’
*
25 November 1878
As a battlefield, Jim supposed that the Court of Exchequer would serve well enough. Arranged around a large square table stacked with the lawyers’ papers and books, the bench was set at the far end, with the witness box off to one side. The ceiling was ecclesiastically high; the windows, set above oak panelling, held dim panes of stained glass – coats of arms and other such things. There was an aura of ancientness, of authority, and a marked absence of light. Rembrandt – yes, it was all rather like one of the later etchings of Rembrandt. The chamber was rather smaller than Jim had envisioned, however; and if these two facing groups of legal men and witnesses were armies, then one, the enemy’s, was missing its general.
Too unwell, the weaselly lawyers had said. Too frail still to submit to the ordeal of the trial. The courtroom was full, crowded with personalities most varied in their stripe and hue; but John Ruskin, the noble author of Modern Painters, The Stones of Venice et cetera, was made conspicuous only by his goddamned absence. Before they’d begun, before the first bewigged gasbag had risen to speak, there was a very real sense that the entire undertaking had been a confounded waste of time.
‘Hang it all, Reeve,’ Jim murmured, casting a look of subtle disappointment in his solicitor’s direction, ‘why in thunder didn’t you do something?’
Reeve, deep in his papers, didn’t notice. After so long a wait, after so many delays and obstructions, it was shaping up to be a day of such disappointments. The witnesses, for instance. Jim had secured William Rossetti, a decent and responsible critic, to counter the damnable Ruskin; the painter Albert Moore, a real brick, with whom he’d once shared a studio in Bloomsbury; and one other who was rather less easy to account for, a strange, malodorous specimen named Wills. This fellow was an artist, supposedly, unknown to Jim – another client of Reeve’s, subpoenaed by him only two days before when it had become clear that no other option remained. Jim was thankful, for Rossetti and Moore at least, but he couldn’t help thinking of these men as offcuts. As last resorts. His witnesses should have been a parade of the great and good. Frederick Leighton had been unavailable, though: at the palace being knighted, the word was, an excuse so absurd and impossible it simply had to be believed. Tissot and Boehm – friends of many years’ standing, and true allies he’d thought – were rather harder to explain. Indeed, neither man had explained, not in any adequate manner, merely displaying a deep and unswayable reluctance to become involved. Something else was at work here. Jim was certain of it.
And then there were his paintings. With much expense and fuss, a small exhibition had been prepared in a room at the Westminster Palace Hotel, just over on Victoria Street, using pictures wrested from the hands of Mr Graves and others – the Carlyle and the Mother among them. This had been done to provide a full demonstration of Jim’s gifts, properly lit and displayed; of his irrefutable right to call himself an artist. Yet already, at the outset, the judge had ruled that it could not
be visited. Escorting the jury across the street, he’d said, would cause too much disruption. The Grosvenor paintings were there in court, it was true, stacked off to the side, to be produced as evidence, but the enemy was surely ready for them. Waiting with knives sharpened.
One element that Jim had known he could rely upon was his audience: the fashionable, the artistic and the gentlemen of the press. He’d recognised many of those who’d filed into the courtroom. These were people he’d dined with, and laughed with; and there was an air of levity right then, as the trial began. Everyone seemed to be expecting an entertainment. This was all well and good, in a way; Jim liked to entertain. But rather a lot was at stake here. He was beginning to suspect that this was not very widely appreciated.
Overall, therefore, it could be said that Jimmy Whistler was feeling at a definite disadvantage. This had not been helped particularly by Serjeant Parry, his champion down there on the courtroom floor, whose opening statement had included a full reading of Ruskin’s review, in all its bludgeoning, plug-ugly efficacy. The ill-educated conceit of the artist. Wilful imposture. Flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face. There’d been an intake of breath, of course – shock at the wickedness of it, the sheer baselessness of it – but also titters. Jim had heard them distinctly, off by the doors. Titters.
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