‘I must be honest with you, I am not personally inclined to using special methods,’ he continues. ‘When people ask me what I use to paint, my response tends to be my imagination.’ He smiles again. ‘West had done a version of the Crucifixion using the method, which I must confess did not impress me much.’ He looks directly at Provis as he says this, and Provis nods acknowledgement of the criticism. ‘But the Cupid Stung By A Bee…’
‘That is the one with which I assisted.’
Now Ann Jemima seems flustered, emotional.
‘That is yours?’
‘I assisted with it,’ she repeats precisely.
He pauses.
‘Which parts?’ Provis can hear in his voice he is testing her.
‘Cupid’s face. The details on Venus’s scarf…’
He frowns and stands up.
‘West has painted this subject before, but frankly I thought what he did was terrible. You could be forgiven for thinking he had never seen a mother with a young child.’ As he speaks more eloquently, Provis notices his West Country accent becoming stronger. ‘This time there was a greater directness of emotion in it, an altogether better use of colour…’
He stares at her as if he is seeing her afresh.
Now she looks down while he scrutinises her.
‘Has Mr West offered you no other opportunities to display your own work? I really did think what I saw there was extraordinary.’
He can see a mixture of emotions on her face that he cannot quite understand. A look of incredulity combined with surprised pleasure. Then she asserts herself.
‘It is the Venetian method that makes the painting what it is,’ she says briskly.
Provis, recognising the slight tone of grievance in her voice, concurs.
‘Ann Jemima could not herself believe how much the method had improved her painting,’ he says loudly. ‘It was one of the reasons we decided to take it to West.’
She swivels her head round quickly, and her eyes glint. Quickly she nods, and turns back to Opie.
He is silent for a moment and goes and sits back down on his stool. He looks at both of them hard. Provis is not sure what calculation is going on in his mind.
‘I think it is important to make sure there is no misunderstanding. This should be put openly to West. I fear he faces opprobrium from all sides, and I will not be party to an unnecessary accusation.’
Ann Jemima’s words from St James’s Park resonate in Provis’s head. He leans forward.
‘We have no desire to cause trouble for the sake of it,’ he says. ‘All we wish is to be paid in full for the method. It is most difficult to support a young lady on a modest verger’s salary.’
At first Opie seems to look straight through him. Then the artist’s eyes become luminous with agreement.
‘Of course the money is important. I hear that you hail from Somerset. Not so far from my part of the world. Though I can only hear it slightly in your accent.’
He looks at Ann Jemima, who seems a little taken aback by his assertion.
‘My grandmother was very keen for me to speak like a London lady. She always imagined that some day I would go and join my father.’
He shakes his head. ‘Those of us who grow up in the country must learn the hard way that the city is a beast. No matter how well prepared we may be, it will devour you if you give it even half a chance.’
‘It is a treacherous bear pit indeed,’ says Ann Jemima. Finally Provis sees her eyes light up, and in Opie’s returning gaze he is glad to note a steadily increasing warmth.
‘Never more so than in circles where men are supposed to be most refined,’ he replies.
The balance has tipped, thinks Provis. Out loud he says, ‘We are most grateful that you have received us, Mr Opie.’ He rises, and walks over to shake his hand. ‘We will consult with Mr Cosway on your most wise counsel.’
The final visit of the week is to Joseph Farington. They set out to see him as London is receiving its second covering of snow in seven days. The first fall has not enjoyed its triumph for long over the city’s dirt. Within a day or so, melted slush has gurgled grey and brown through the gutters, waiting for this new onslaught from the sky to fill the winter streets with light once more.
‘I believe I start to understand how an actress feels at a playhouse,’ Ann Jemima declares to Provis, as they climb into the covered landau carriage that will take them to Farington’s house. ‘We have told our story so many times these past few days, it feels as if it were a script – though the audience members grow ever more unpredictable.’
‘Then you are an actress playing a lawyer,’ he replies. ‘You have built the case against Benjamin West with ingenuity – now every man of them is ready to convict him.’
She flushes, and laughs.
‘I have often heard you condemn lawyers as liars.’
‘That is not necessarily to condemn them – there is a great art to lying well.’
Her eyes glint.
‘So it is by that measure you acknowledge me to be an artist.’
‘You know that not to be true.’
He is suddenly serious. Unwilling to acknowledge his change in tone, she looks out of the window.
‘What a vast and strange menagerie of men the Academy contains,’ she declares.
‘Indeed. I would scarce credit that that oaf Stothard was an artist, had I not seen his work. He fell in love with you at once.’
‘John Hoppner was charming even though he seemed unwell,’ she retorts, ignoring Provis’s jibe. ‘They say he is the illegitimate son of George III, but I find it hard to credit – he is far more prepossessing than the Prince of Wales.’
Provis guffaws.
‘And all of them, apart from Opie, would walk over broken glass in order to see details of the method.’ He reflects for a moment. ‘Has it not struck you that the greater the artist’s greed is to see the manuscript, the more openly he expresses his concern for our wellbeing.’
‘Well, if you are to gain something from someone, you are always happier to see them well,’ she replies drily.
‘Unless you are West.’
‘Indeed.’ She adjusts the scarlet shawl she is wearing. ‘Now let us concentrate. This visit is one of our most important. If Mr Farington decides that he wants to take up our cause, then the other artists will look to him to organise what must be done and how we shall be paid.’
On this occasion, it seems as if the decision has been made before Ann Jemima and Provis have arrived. The moment they enter his house on Charlotte Street, he ushers them with alacrity into his drawing room. I feel like a tree, and he the beaver stripping the bark from it, thinks Provis as Farington surveys them. Ann Jemima also feels the intensity of his scrutiny, yet she cannot altogether discern the nature of it. He is the most courteous man I have met, she thinks as he greets them, yet I have never seen courtesy carry such menace.
‘I am delighted at last to meet the famous Provises,’ he says as they sit down. ‘I have had many reports of the beauty of the daughter and the…’ he hesitates for a moment, ‘impressive gravitas of the father.’
It is as if the unexpected compliment has gone the wrong way down Provis’s throat – for a few moments the room is discomfited as he is seized by a fit of choking.
‘My poor Provis, this has been a trying period for you,’ Farington says, frowning, ‘I want to do everything to remedy the injustices you have suffered. Pray, what can I offer you first? Tea? A little sherry?’
‘I am happy to take tea,’ replies Ann Jemima.
‘I will avail myself of some sherry,’ says Provis, recovering.
‘Of course you will, my good man.’ Farington comes over and pats him on the shoulder. His touch is light as gossamer – in it Provis thinks he can detect a slight distaste, even as Farington mutters, ‘It is an outrage what you have both endured, a veritable outrage.’
The verger stares around him in a faint daze at the duck-egg blue walls, the large giltwood mirror abo
ve the fireplace, and the cream sofa, which rests on six carved mahogany lion’s paws. The paws the only reference to the fact there might be a more feral world than that contained within these civilised walls. On the mantelpiece resides a small and tasteful bust of Apollo.
‘I think necessity demands that we plan in detail the way in which the truth of the matter can be revealed to all parties,’ declares Farington neatly. ‘I do not wish to chastise you for naïvety, but one of the reasons that Mr West has been able to take advantage of you in this brazen manner is that no written agreement was made before you began to demonstrate the method to him.’
Ann Jemima looks quickly to Provis.
‘We were naïve not to request written agreement,’ she replies looking back to Farington. ‘But in truth we did not anticipate that the President of the Royal Academy would stoop to an act of such monstrous cynicism.’
‘Till now we were not acquainted with the more insidious ways of the art world,’ concurs Provis.
‘No indeed. I profoundly regret that you have encountered such practices at the highest levels of our institution.’
‘We look to you for guidance in how best to proceed.’
Provis can hear from Ann Jemima’s voice that she is trying to suppress her excitement that Farington is so clearly wedded to their cause without the need for her persuasion.
The artist nods.
‘A legal document needs to be created, so there is no further danger of misunderstanding.’
There is a knock at the front door. He raises one finger in the air, as if testing the direction of the wind.
‘If I am right, the person at the door this moment is my esteemed friend Robert Smirke.’ He waits calmly to hear the sound of the voices in the hall, and nods with satisfaction as Smirke’s voice is heard just before he appears in the drawing room. ‘In terms of organisation of Academy meetings and elections, Smirke is absolutely instrumental. If you want to get anything done, he is your man.’
The smart tap of Smirke’s cane can be heard just outside the door now. As he enters and sits down, a maid comes in with a trolley. Like everything else in the house, the Nankeen tea set upon it conveys a world tamed to be both ordered and picturesque – cups with fiercely pruned trees next to still ponds accompany a teapot decorated with pagodas and ornamental bridges. While the tea is poured and handed around, and Provis is administered with sherry, Smirke sets out his strategy.
‘Mr Farington and I have had some extended discussions on this. We can quite see why you are at the end of your tether. The incident with Westall was unfortunate.’
Here he glances quickly at Provis.
A chill wind suddenly assails Provis’s growing confidence. It is the first time in the week that the matter has been mentioned, and even he has started to wonder whether what took place was no more than a bad dream.
‘I was m-most remiss,’ he begins to stutter, looking down into his sherry.
But Smirke, he realises with some wonder, is not interested in his explanation.
‘In the light of what we have subsequently discovered, it is understandable. Obviously if such an incident were to occur again, we should be forced to reconsider our connection with you.’
Provis chokes back his words, and nods promptly.
‘We would like to propose what we believe to be the fairest way forward for everyone.’
Provis looks quickly at Ann Jemima. She is studiedly refusing to look at him, so he decides that it is for him to move the conversation on as swiftly as possible.
‘Fairness is what has been missing from this process up till now,’ he says loudly, after clearing his throat. ‘Both for myself and my daughter, and for you, the gentleman artists of the Academy. We are most eager to hear your proposal.’
‘Very well then,’ replies Smirke. He takes out a small notebook, which he consults briefly. ‘To commence, we must prove beyond a doubt that West’s prevarications are unjustified. He has not been fair to you, but we must be fair to him.’
‘Yet we have been fair to him, Mr Smirke,’ says Ann Jemima. Her tone is sweet even as her eyes gleam coldly. ‘We have spent more than a year awaiting his response. In recent months he has rebutted our attempts to talk to him on at least three occasions.’
‘No, no,’ Smirke laughs. ‘We are aware you have exhausted that route. No, Miss Provis, what we are suggesting is that you yourself provide proof of the effectiveness of this method by performing a demonstration in front of the artists of the Academy.’
She looks quickly at Provis. Fear and delight fight on her face.
‘Forgive me, Mr Smirke, I mistook your meaning. You wish me to paint in front of…’ Her words trail off.
‘All the artists of the Academy, bar Mr West. Yes, that is precisely what we desire. Would you be willing?’
Her glance flies to Provis once more. Of course I would be delighted,’ she replies, turning back to Smirke.
She is scared, Provis thinks to himself. But she will rise to this challenge, as she has before. ‘No one has studied the method more intently than my daughter,’ he says. ‘This would be a wonderful opportunity – for her as well as for you.’ He sits further forward on his seat.
‘That is most pleasing to hear,’ declares Farington. ‘However, the agreement which Mr Smirke and I propose must be drawn up before this demonstration. It is agreed, is it not, that the value of the secret will be reduced if too many people know of it.’
‘That is certainly what Mr West believes,’ declares Provis lugubriously.
To his surprise, his joke provokes loud laughter from Farington and Smirke.
‘And so,’ continues Smirke, looking questioningly at Farington, who nods, ‘we need to set up a form of legal contract. The artists who come to the demonstration must sign a document in which they swear secrecy on the nature of what is revealed, and agree to contribute to a sum of money for the Provises.’
Provis sips his sherry.
‘That is most generous of you.’ The responding silence indicates that a more complex response is demanded of him at this point, so he contemplates his glass for a moment. ‘If you do not mind my asking, the sum we demand is considerable, as indeed it should be. Would the artists pay myself and my daughter gradually in the form of an annuity, or just as one lump sum?’
Farington nods briskly at his point, and looks over to Smirke.
‘That is something to be debated,’ responds Smirke. ‘But you are right to raise this concern. We shall make sure the document is not undervalued, should the demonstration go well.’
‘Where would you like the demonstration to take place?’ asks Ann Jemima. ‘And upon what date?’
‘Now you have agreed to perform it,’ replies Farington, ‘we must move forward swiftly. It is clear that many more members of the Academy need to be present for us to agree the form of contract. So I would like to suggest that we meet at Wright’s Coffee House tomorrow night.’
The look of excitement vanishes from Ann Jemima’s face.
‘At Wright’s Coffee House?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ Farington dips his head.
‘But that means I cannot attend.’
‘Yes, it is unfortunate that ladies cannot visit coffee houses,’ says Farington, holding her gaze steadily. ‘But it is the only aspect of this process in which you will not be directly involved.’ He is smiling at her benignly. She is aware of a huge anger surging up inside her, but she realises that she must suppress it if she is going to keep him as an ally. ‘Your father will be there, and it is without question that he will be acting in your best interests,’ he continues. ‘We need somewhere that is large enough to accommodate all the artists who must know of this. My own humble house can hold but ten in the drawing room or dining room with any comfort. And we cannot meet at the Academy, because I fear – without wanting to be disloyal to Mr West – that we must engage in a little subterfuge in order to deduce the precise nature of his subterfuge.’
Ann Jemima looks rapidly at
Mr Provis. Smirke, discerning her agitation, coughs.
‘Mr Farington, Miss Provis is looking alarmed and with reason. We have not heard yet from Mr Provis whether he can attend. Far too much has already taken place behind their backs. Until he says yes, nothing is confirmed.’
Farington puts his hands together and rests his chin on them.
‘I must apologise. Mr Provis – can you attend?’
Provis looks over at Ann Jemima. ‘Do you trust me, my dear?’
She holds his gaze for long enough for them to sense the entire room going quiet around them.
‘Of course I do,’ she says in measured tones. ‘What girl wouldn’t trust her father?’
‘A thorny topic,’ says Smirke. The laughter round the room is fractured, uncomfortable. Provis continues to stare at Ann Jemima.
‘My girl, you have worked harder for this than anyone,’ he says. ‘I am not happy to come to this meeting alone,’ he says turning back to Farington and Smirke, ‘unless you agree that the legal document must be signed by my daughter as well as myself.’
She feels Farington’s stare on her again – coldly approving, intrigued.
‘Your daughter will be involved with every aspect of this,’ he says, as he continues to look directly at her. ‘I myself will take a detailed account of what is agreed, so she can read it. Do not worry, Miss Provis. None of us underestimates you, or your importance in this.’
A silence falls across the room for a moment. Ann Jemima sits there, absorbing what Farington has said. After a few seconds she seems to come to a resolution. Tightly, she smiles and says, ‘You are a true gentleman, Mr Farington.’ Farington walks over to her and kisses her right hand. Then he turns, shifting his attention to Smirke.
‘It is agreed, then, we shall set things in motion. Mr Smirke and I will call this evening on as many of the artists of the Academy as we can. Tomorrow we shall convene at the coffee house. And once Miss Provis has seen and approved the results of that discussion, we shall go to a lawyer.’
The Optickal Illusion Page 19