‘Excellent, my girl. You have, as ever, worked hard – this is an admirable scheme.’
‘Westall’s response to your approach,’ she continued, starting to enjoy herself, ‘need not be of concern to us.’
He was about to answer, but decided not to blacken her optimism.
‘He is often inebriated,’ she continued, ‘and is not viewed seriously by the other artists.’
‘That is most interesting to hear,’ he replied, his heart lifting slightly.
‘You should not have expended your efforts on him to begin with,’ she continued. ‘The most important individual for us to seek out is Joseph Farington. He is a diarist as well as an artist, so he sees it as his personal duty to be aware of everything that is taking place in Academy circles. Not merely so that he can write about it, but so that he can talk about it.’
‘In short, he is a prattler.’
‘Precisely. Yet unlike Westall, people tend to credit what he says.’
Provis looked around him as he absorbed what Ann Jemima had just said. He felt, in more senses than one, the darkness lifting. He turned round to see that, just above the Queen’s house, there was still a crescent moon, while over towards St James’s Palace, a silvery sun was starting to make its presence felt.
‘I should have known you would not let us endure defeat on this,’ he said. ‘My visit to Westall made me despair…’
‘Yet your problem was that you did it in anger.’
She looked directly at him, and he frowned. Had she guessed – had she somehow heard?
‘We cannot allow ourselves to be ruled by our emotions any more on this,’ she declared firmly. ‘We must do this calmly, rationally. Use the surgical knife rather than the dagger.’
Two somnolent geese started honking.
‘I have never felt so betrayed as I have since that moment when Cosway told us what he had discovered,’ she continued. ‘But I allowed myself to become as vulnerable as a small animal – all I could feel was pain. Now I have collected myself. I am no longer the naïve young girl who went to Benjamin West’s, believing he would honour his side of the agreement.’
‘You never were naïve, Ann Jemima.’
She flinched slightly as he said this, and he frowned.
‘I genuinely believed him to be a good man. I genuinely believed…’ her words trailed off. Fell to the ground softly as snowflakes. ‘Well that was then,’ she said reasserting herself. ‘Now we have a plan. Are you prepared for this? Prepared even though, as Cosway says, it is a risk?’
‘I was prepared before now,’ he replied. ‘But then I lost heart. Yet it is better for me to proceed now, than not to.’
Again the memory of the punch ricocheted across his mind. He briefly closed his eyes, as if, ineffectively, trying to rid himself of the image.
‘Let us return to the Palace,’ he said finally. ‘We must act swiftly. I will leave the first calling cards this morning, and we shall start making our visits this afternoon.’
A thin ray of winter sun fell across her face. Now that the dark had receded he could see her as if she was painted in new colours. The blue-grey of her cloak brought out the pale blue of her eyes, while her skin had a peculiarly translucent quality as a result of her breathing the cold winter air.
‘It felt like the world had stopped turning,’ he said as he looked at her. She tilted her face to one side.
‘Well, now it is turning again,’ she replied crisply.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A dispute with Mrs Tullett
Ultramarine blue is a colour illustrious, beautiful, and most perfect, beyond all other colours; one could not say anything about it, or do anything with it, that its quality would not still surpass. […] Know that making it is an occupation for pretty girls rather than for men; for they are always at home, and reliable, and they have more dainty hands. Just beware of old women.’
cennino cennini,
The Craftsman’s Handbook, c. 1400
It is of some relief to Ann Jemima that when they return to the apartment, the Serjeant of the Vestry is standing outside with a restive air that demands Mr Provis’s instant return to his duties at the chapel. Thomas Hadwick has sent word that he is in bed with a fever, and extra help is needed to prepare for lunchtime communion. As a result, Ann Jemima is able to walk through the front door alone. For a moment she feels Provis’s presence in the small drawing room more forcefully than when he physically occupies it. She surveys, as she has so many times, the cartoons he has had framed, the carefully arranged antiques, the stack of London Chronicles next to the fireplace. Her hand raises itself, unbidden, to her forehead. She lets it stay there as she breathes slowly and considers their conversation. Then, hurriedly, she takes off her cape, hangs it on the coat stand in the small hallway next to the drawing room, and runs to her bedroom.
She is back in a matter of moments. In her hands she holds a dark oak letter-writing box. She places it on the table and opens it, pulling out the drawers to get a piece of foolscap paper, a goose quill, and a small bottle of iron gall ink. After sharpening the quill deftly with a penknife she begins to write.
5 January 1797
‘St James’s Palace
‘Dear Mr Cosway,
‘Though the burden of what I wish to say weighs heavy on my heart, I believe it will take but a few lines to convey my Intent. I would like you to release Mr Provis – and by implication myself – from the Hold you believe you have over him.’
She is breathing fast as she writes the words, and realises she is holding back tears. She takes a deep breath, composes herself and continues.
‘Forgive me if there is a degree of Presumption on my part. But much damage has been done thusfar – and yet more may ensue if the Misunderstanding is allowed to continue. Scandal is a voracious beast. It seizes on what it does not know, and creates an Entertainment for the world that belittles all who take part in it. Yet in truth Mr Provis has no case to answer. He is an honourable man. Three years ago you believed you had little Stake in what became of him. Circumstances have conspired to make you change that view.’
She looks to her right, to catch a glimpse of a small mirror hanging on the wall. For a second she frowns, as if not recognising the person she sees there.
‘In truth, whenever we embark upon any course of Action,’ she continues, ‘it is impossible to say what we will beget. Bad origins may produce good Outcomes, and good origins bad ones. Nothing has proved that more than our dealings with Mr West. After a period of doubt, thanks in no small part to your advice, I believe that his Deceitfulness may be turned to good for all of us.
‘Beyond our expectations he has stepped into a trap that he has designed himself. It is for us to ensure that he is caught. As you yourself have pointed out this will require much Daring. Yet you said this to me knowing that I would eventually take the challenge. It did, after all, take much daring to approach him in the first place.’
There is a noise outside the apartment as if someone is about to enter. She looks at the letter in front of her fearfully and her hand hovers towards the lid of the writing box, ready to shut it. But no one comes in. After waiting a minute to ensure she is alone, she resumes her writing.
‘I wish you not to be under any Misapprehension. There is of course an extent to which we will always be indebted to you. You could have shunned and ridiculed us when West started to deny our part in his Discovery. As we have discovered in these last weeks, the relationship between the perception of power and the perception of truth is most intimate. Among the people who are of any account in this Situation you have power where we have none. Yet you have – quite remarkably – chosen to champion our discovery.’
She frowns and stares towards the fire. ‘And I do not trust you in the slightest,’ she whispers. ‘Please, God, I have found your price.’
She dips her quill in the ink once more.
‘I therefore propose that if we succeed in selling the method – with your backing – we wi
ll give you precisely half the money. I trust that you will accept it as a sign of our Gratitude.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I also trust that you will accept it as a Sign that our debts to you are discharged, and Mr Provis and myself can go about our lives without a whisper of what has happened in the past, for which, after all, not one of us is guilty.’
She sits back again. As she does so, the rattle of a key is heard in the lock of the door and Mrs Tullett enters. Ann Jemima quickly closes the lid of her writing box. After a swift suspicious glance, Mrs Tullett walks towards her.
‘What are you doing, my girl?’ she says quietly. ‘What are you attempting to conceal?’
For a second Ann Jemima regards her.
‘I am concealing nothing, Mrs Tullett.’
‘Then open the lid of that box.’
‘It is a foolish letter that would not interest you.’
‘We have all been foolish in our time.’
Doom starts to make its familiar imprint on Mrs Tullett’s voice. Her eyes narrow as she returns Ann Jemima’s gaze.
‘Yet when you are foolish, Miss Provis, it is not only you but everyone around you who must suffer.’
As she awaits Ann Jemima’s response, she seems to swell with her rage. A clump of fat fingers twitches, disaffected, against her skirt.
‘I do not comprehend your meaning,’ the girl replies with restraint. ‘To my knowledge I have made no one suffer. I tried to go away, and was brought back. I have no desire ever to see or talk of Mr West again.’
Quiet disbelief crosses Mrs Tullett’s face.
‘You do not stop suffering by disappearing. You did not see Mr Provis when he thought you had gone. He was like a bear that wanted to chew off its own head.’
Ann Jemima frowns.
‘I was wrong and I panicked. But then I returned.’
‘Yes, you were made to return.’
The seamstress glowers.
‘Most girls would be happy simply for the privilege of living at the court,’ she declares. ‘Yet even that has not proved good enough for you. Mr Provis may have brought you back, but he is the laughing stock of all who survey him. You have changed him into a different person.’
An unruly lock of hair snakes across her forehead – in irritation she pushes it back.
‘You talk riddles, Mrs Tullett. Whatever my transgressions, I have not turned Mr Provis into another person.’ Ann Jemima shifts uneasily.
Mrs Tullett’s voice becomes low and contemptuous.
‘A servant came to the Palace kitchens this morning, making enquiries about Mr Provis hitting a man. He was sent by a Mr Westall – an artist – who said Mr Provis punched him in the ribs when he went to talk to him about the manuscript. I never thought such a day would come.’ Mrs Tullett thwacks her hand on the table, glowering at Ann Jemima as if daring her to contradict her. ‘If it had happened a year ago, I would not have believed the story for a moment. Yet as I said, Mr Provis has changed. And it appears that he is in danger of losing everything, including his good name.’
Ann Jemima’s eyes flare at the sound of Westall’s name, and become yet wider when she hears about the attack. She stands up and walks away from Mrs Tullett. She puts her fingertips together, as if calculating how best to frame her reply.
‘Mr Provis is not a violent man.’ But though her voice is cool Mrs Tullett can see the fear racing through her eyes as she looks back at her.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘Do we know if anyone else saw this happen, or do we just have Mr Westall’s word for it?’
‘It was just Mr Westall’s word till his servant came to the Palace – but now it is going round all the courtyards.’
‘Do you really believe he did it?’ Now the fear enters her voice.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘He cannot have, he must not have…’ It is as if she is talking to herself. ‘If he has, he has jeopardised everything before we have started.’
Mrs Tullett shakes her head.
‘No, it is not he, young lady, who has jeopardised everything. It is you and always was you.’
‘I never told him to strike a man.’ Ann Jemima’s tone suddenly becomes sharp with outrage. ‘It is he who has pushed for revenge on this – till now I have urged caution.’
‘No, you never told him to strike a man. But when you ran away you made him discover he would fight to the death to protect you.’
‘I never asked for that…’ Ann Jemima shakes her head.
‘It is what any father would do.’ Mrs Tullett glowers again. ‘Why would Mr Provis be any different?’
They are both silent for a moment.
‘I have said it before, and I’ll say it again,’ declares Mrs Tullett eventually. ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing, especially in a woman. You should never even have approached West with that manuscript. It has released forces you cannot control that will ruin your reputation and Mr Provis’s. If you are not careful, you will not even have marriage to save you.’
At this last jibe, all Ann Jemima’s restraint falls away. She looks at Mrs Tullett, sees the years of disillusion in the lines beneath her eyes, the snipped creases of endless dissatisfaction around the mouth.
‘How you revel in the role of the doubter,’ she explodes. ‘You have never wished for anything other than my humiliation from the start of this. And you say that marriage could save me…’
She shakes her head. She feels she is shouting into a dark wood.
‘I remember shortly after I came here, a story that you yourself recounted to me,’ she continues more quietly. ‘You told me of the small boy who came to the court to play the piano for King George and Queen Charlotte. He was eight, his genius was renowned across Europe, and he was able to play the piano better than an individual three or four times his age.’
Why talk you of Mozart?’ replies Mrs Tullett warily.
‘Because of what took place after the concert he gave. I have never been able to forget what you said to me. You told me that when all had gone, you were helping to make ready the drawing room for the morrow. You had been called away for a few minutes, but as you returned you heard the most beautiful playing.’ Her voice trembles. ‘You crept in, expecting to see the young Wolfgang. But it was not him. It was his sister – as you have said many times – every bit as brilliant as he.’ She starts to feel the white heat of her anger. ‘Yet we rarely hear of her. Why not?’ She looks at Mrs Tullett. Now it is the seamstress who has nothing to say. ‘Because as the time approached for her to be married, the family knew there was more to be gained from cherishing the talent of the boy,’ she continues.
Mrs Tullett will not be wooed.
‘Maybe she was simply not as good as I remember.’
Ann Jemima shook her head. ‘I have talked to others who were there. They recount the story the same way that you do.’
She can see on Mrs Tullett’s face a form of stupefaction. There is a kind of recognition in her eyes, but her mouth is locked shut against conceding any kind of agreement. The seamstress may be wedded to her predictions of an overturning of the world order, yet there are certainties that even she cannot bear to question. The light of recognition disappears, and the eyes glaze with outrage.
‘Why should it be so upsetting for the world to know that genius does not only wear breeches?’ Ann Jemima continues, with a quick laugh. ‘Blood flows through every human’s veins in the same way, we all have the same senses, the same eyes to observe, the same ears to listen. Why should any human – no matter what their sex – cause outrage by asking to be free to practise what they can do best?’ She steps closer to Mrs Tullett. ‘Talent is so often seen as something divine. The men we admire have all been kissed with a rare ability. Blessed with something that cannot be taught. There is a whole mythology to it. And maybe that’s right. Maybe there’s something about it we can never understand.’ Ann Jemima takes a deep breath. ‘But can you in truth tell me that at some point it is not to do with being encouraged, being recognis
ed, being believed in? Being given an education that lets air into your mind rather than stifling it?’
Mrs Tullett’s pupils dart back and forth as she considers her answer.
‘There are all kinds of unfairness in life.’
‘Indeed there are.’ Ann Jemima finds her voice is trembling. ‘Men must fight battles too. Misery, hypocrisy, fear of poverty and shame, illness and death – we must all combat these, it is our lot as humans. Yet there is a kind of conspiracy of silence which refuses to acknowledge that women can do this outside the parlour. Why?’
‘Sometimes we need encouragement, sometimes we need discouragement,’ Mrs Tullett replies darkly. ‘Can you not remember – it is but a year ago that your obsession almost killed you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were so stubborn, so single-minded when you were studying theories and working on your paintings, it was as if you had been gripped by a madness. Some of us were worried it was going to finish you off.’
Now she has hit her mark. Ann Jemima frowns.
‘Finish me off? In truth, all I had was a temperature.’
‘Ann Jemima – it was I Mr Provis came to when he needed to send for a doctor. You were in bed with a high fever. He wept when he talked to me. He believed you were going to die.’
‘I had simply found myself unable to sleep for a week…’
‘Because you were reading your books till all hours of the night. I came with the doctor, I saw you myself. You were delirious. Kept on crying out all kinds of nonsense. At one point you were so delirious you even told the doctor Mr Provis wasn’t your father.’ She fixes Ann Jemima with her gaze, and the girl’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘The doctor treated you with leeches. Your ravings increased, and then you went to sleep. It was two days till you were able even to rise from your bed.’
Her eye catches The Craftsman’s Handbook, which lies on the table next to Ann Jemima’s writing box. She picks it up and walks towards the fireplace. ‘I think you should burn your books. All they represent is misery for you and Mr Provis.’
The Optickal Illusion Page 17