Opie stared hard at him.
‘I can offer you this to show how much I value our friendship, Darton continued. ‘Tomorrow, I am being dispatched to the West Country to take messages to the coast. There are worries that the French fleet plans to attempt their next landing there.’
‘Why is that significant?’
‘I have various possible routes. One could take me through Somerset, which is where Thomas Provis lived. It will be easy to pass through the village he came from. No one in London is going to give us any direct answers on this matter. Since I am being sent in that direction, why don’t I go and see what the villagers have to say?’
Opie’s eyes widened.
‘You believe it is that important?’
Darton thought of the blood on Ann Jemima’s hand again.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘There are no secrets in villages.’
‘Indeed there are not. And I have many questions. About why Thomas Provis never visited his daughter while she was growing up, about the grandmother who brought up the educated, self-possessed young woman who tantalises us all. Someone there might well be able to illuminate some aspect of what is happening here.’
Opie started to whistle and pace back and forth.
‘This world feels more and more like a game of chess which one must forever play blindfolded.’
‘Forgive me, friend,’ replied Darton. ‘We live in dark times. I rebuke myself that you have seen my secrecy as a betrayal. Please do not.’
‘When do you think you will return?’
‘I hope to be back in a week and a half. In the meantime, can I trust you to keep your counsel?’
This last statement was less of a question than an instruction. Without taking his leave Darton ran swiftly down the steps and towards the top of Ludgate Hill. Opie watched him for a brief while, and then – lurching slightly from the red wine – made his own way down the steps. By the time he looked again, Darton had turned right into Ave Maria Lane and disappeared from view.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ann Jemima recovers
My Design in this Book is not to explain the Properties of Light by Hypotheses, but to propose and prove them by Reason and Experiments.’
isaac newton,
Optics, 1704
Over the next two days she wakes intermittently. Voices come and go in her bedroom, some jab at her sleep, some soothe. In her head the birds’ wings flutter. There is a sound of glass breaking, and screams of pain. At one point she sits up, looking wildly all around her, but there is no one there. She has a memory of the knife, of Cosway’s howl of outrage, of leaving his house in anger. Then she is in front of another house, holding a small suitcase. It looms in a Spitalfields alley, its front door open like a toothless mouth. A woman’s voice is heard. She walks into the passageway – the doors on either side of it are closed, but they are rattling as if beasts are trying to get out. She drops her case, and the rattling intensifies.
Then it is afternoon. The sun reaches into her bedroom, and a doctor with a dark beard and green eyes is sitting by her bed. Behind him Thomas Provis stands anxiously. The doctor tests her forehead for fever, then nods approvingly. Extra pillows are brought, she is sat up in bed. A glass of hot elderberry wine is offered to her – when she drinks it she can taste its tartness, its redness. After the days of sleep, it feels like the first sensation in a crisp new world.
She realises that she is being watched closely as she sips the drink. She regards the doctor, who asks her how she feels. Satisfied with her answers, he departs the room. Provis sits uncomfortably; she can see his distress has almost robbed him of his ability to speak. Eventually he finds the words.
‘What did the bastard do?’
‘I offered to pay him off.’
Her voice sounds unfamiliar to her – thinner, smaller. Provis offers her another sip of elderberry wine. She clears her throat and starts again.
‘I told him we were going to pay him to go away. But he will not.’ She shakes her head and the tears start to her eyes. ‘The nightmare will never end. He will always try to use what he knows to bring me as low as possible. You were right. You were all right – you, Mrs Tullett. It matters not one wit what powers of invention I use. He will never be gone.’
At what point will the fox ever build the escape route for the chicken? flashes across his mind. Out loud he says, ‘We were not right.’ It is an apology he has rehearsed to himself several times. ‘Everything has changed. The Academy is going to give us the money. I chastised you for your ambition, but see – again it has worked. I must ask your forgiveness. Your ingenuity knows no bounds. I was ever Thomas the Doubter.’
The small joke is delivered as an offering. In response she shakes her head. She feels the anger diffusing through her limbs – cold and deadly as a dose of arsenic.
‘I feel like the man who discovered phosphorous.’
Provis looks anxious. His head flicks towards the door, as if wondering whether to summon back the doctor.
‘No, I am not delirious,’ she says. ‘I have not felt such clarity for a long time. The man who discovered phosphorous was not looking for it. He fancied himself an alchemist, and filled a vessel with gallons of urine.’
Provis watches her helplessly – it is as if he can see the thoughts staggering, exhausted round her head.
‘Ann Jemima, I beg you…’
She holds up a hand.
‘He boiled it, and separated it, and recombined it. He was hoping for gold, but all he found was a substance that emitted a strange, cold light.’
Tears come into Provis’s eyes.
‘I comprehend you not.’
‘Is that not all we are doing? Selling these artists something we claim to be gold, when all it is is phosphorescence.’
He leans forward and grasps her hand.
‘Cosway’s attack has rendered you melancholic. The manuscript is an extraordinary possession for these artists. Please do not relinquish hope.’ He looks around the room, as if seeking inspiration. ‘I say again, you were right about it, and I was not. At the meeting I went to at the coffee house, more than half the artists of the Royal Academy agreed they would sign a legal document to promise they will give us the money. I received it this morning. We have it in black and white.’
A small surprised smile comes to her lips at this, and for a second there is a spark in her eyes. ‘They have signed the agreement?’
He nods vigorously as he sits back.
‘Yes, they have signed the agreement.’
Her eyes dim.
‘Yet Cosway is the wolf who is always watching.’
She can remember the smell of him now, the bitter perspiration, the port wine on the breath.
‘He did not…?’
‘No.’ Her eyes glint. ‘I injured him and got away before he got what he desired.’
She bursts into tears.
Provis is quiet. He feels the circles of power that surround them as if they were trapped in an orrery. One band of influence represents the court, another the Academy, still another the perversity of Fate.
‘What was the injury?’ he asks softly.
She clenches her fists. ‘I grabbed a knife – it went into his thigh.’
‘It will take a while to heal?’
She frowns, unable to understand the question.
‘At least a fortnight…’
‘I ask myself how easily he would account for his injury if questioned.’
She looks at him disbelievingly.
‘We have no recourse to law. He will simply play his card against us.’
‘But if we have the money from the manuscript it will be of no matter.’ She inhales to reply and then stops. ‘It is just over a week till you must perform the demonstration,’ he continues. ‘The payment will be handed over there. After that, you and I can make him a different offer.’
‘And that will be?’
‘Two hundred pounds and our silence. I do not think Mr Cosway
is an animal who would tolerate prison well.’
She is silent for a moment as his eyes gleam.
‘He will never be sent to prison,’ she says.
But he can see something kindling in her eyes.
‘You are a most ingenious young woman,’ he replies. ‘We will not bury that in a grave just yet.’
Still he senses the circles of power swirling around them. Thinks back to the first visits to West’s house, to the months of terror and doubt that have ensued, to his quiet amazement when he saw the artists waiting to acknowledge his account of the affair at the coffee house.
‘I think I am ready to get up now,’ Ann Jemima says quietly.
He stands up and makes to leave.
‘Mrs Tullett is waiting. I will ask her to come and help you dress.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Benjamin West confesses
‘In our profession we have to use two kinds of brushes: minever brushes, and hog’s-bristle brushes. The minever ones are made as follows. Take minever tails, for no others are suitable; and these tails should be cooked, and not raw: the furriers will tell you that. Take one of these tails: first pull the tip out of it, for those are the long hairs; and put the tips of several tails together, for out of six or eight tips you will get a soft brush good for gilding on panel, that is, wetting down with it, as I will show you later on. Then go back to the tail, and take it in your hand; and take the straightest and firmest hairs out of the middle of the tail; and gradually make up little bunches of them; and wet them in a goblet of clear water, and press them and squeeze them out, bunch by bunch, with your fingers. Then trim them with a little pair of scissors; and when you have made up quite a number of bunches, put enough of them together to make up the size you want your brushes: some to fit in a vulture’s quill; some to fit in a goose’s quill; some to fit in a quill of a hen’s or dove’s feather.’*
cennino cennini,
The Craftsman’s Handbook, c. 1400
Winter sunlight splashed blindingly from a duck-egg blue sky – the day’s colours vivid, the outlines sharp. On Bond Street, the wealthy promenaded like exotic species in a social menagerie. Feathers soared from headdresses, wigs paraded in herds. Above the rattle of conversation, a commercial babble prevailed as jewellers, ribbon traders and bootmakers barked the news of their latest bargains into the street.
As they walked together along the street, Mr Farington and Mr Smirke paid little heed to what was around them.
‘Why has the confession been made now?’
Smirke could hear the disappointment in Farington’s voice.
‘We have all had our suspicions,’ Farington continued, ‘but I never expected to receive a letter of that nature.’
Smirke regarded him caustically.
‘I think it is outrageous. We should be extremely suspicious of the motives.’
Farington nodded.
‘I have no doubt that it was sent because of a desire to be forgiven, rather than any desire to be honest. It has put a huge strain on the lives of all of us. All those months without the truth being known.’
‘I find it is extraordinary that there is any question at all about whether a crime has been committed or not. In my eyes it clearly has.’
A young man with a toothpick between his teeth walked past them. His face was thin and drawn, while he walked with a distinctive swaggering gait. Farington gave him a quick glance.
‘Is that what is described as the Bond Street Roll?’ he asked Smirke.
‘No, I believe he is blighted by haemorrhoids,’ Smirke replied lugubriously.
Farington laughed. ‘You take a very black view of the world, my friend.’ He looked towards Smirke again, and Smirke suddenly observed the tiredness on his face. The normally faintly flushed cheeks were wan, while the skin beneath his eyes was grey.
He stopped for a moment. ‘I fear this business with the Provises has taken all your energies over the last week.’
Farington dipped his head. ‘There has been much to chronicle. It has been a difficult and complex business.’
A softer light entered Smirke’s eye. ‘It is one of life’s puzzles, is it not,’ he declared, as he started walking again, ‘that exhaustion often accompanies a successful resolution.’
‘We were all prepared for a fight. But now that Mr West has confessed, no fight is necessary. It feels as if we have all been pushing at a door that has finally fallen in.’
‘When do you think he decided to write the letter?’
‘Much later than he should have done. He clearly judged that the method was authentic at least three months ago. The Provises have suffered greatly through his negligence.’
A vendor selling song-thrushes crossed their path. Birds swayed on stick legs, beaks jabbed in the air.
‘The more I think about it, the harder I find it to credit his audacity.’ Smirke’s tone became more severe. ‘And while he has given us a confession, there is no sense of an apology.’
Farington regarded Smirke. ‘You persist in calling it a confession. I think West would call it a resolution of a misunderstanding. He believes there are two sides to the story, and now the situation has been resolved.’
‘He is most lucky that more unpleasantness has not resulted from the affair. This has been a regrettable episode. The fact that he only made his admission after he became aware that half the Academy was championing the Provises is a disgrace.’
Farington was thoughtful for a moment.
‘What is in no doubt is the Provises’ generosity. I, like you, would find it hard to conceal my rage. But Miss Provis has thanked Mr West, and has declared herself perfectly content with this turn of events. Considering all the adversity she has faced, I think it incredibly gracious of her.’
‘The account he gave in his letter was very self-serving. I would even describe it as Machiavellian. Do you think still that it was right of us to conceal from Miss Provis his assertion that he had repainted most of the work she did with him.’
Farington’s cheeks become slightly hollower as he considered the question.
‘It was an ungentlemanly comment. Clearly designed to absolve him from the fact that he had signed the Venus and Cupid painting with his name alone. I saw no reason to cause further pain to Miss Provis by pointing it out.’
‘I also think it was a lie. What he next wrote was entirely inconsistent with that explanation. He asserted that many great artists had signed canvases painted by their pupils with their own names alone, which suggests that we can still see what she did.’
‘Did that not happen when the masters passed on the technique to the pupils rather than vice versa?’
Smirke’s disdain was discernible in the faint twitch of his lips.
‘No, he has not absolved himself at all,’ continued Farington briskly. ‘Hopefully that will become clearer when Miss Provis demonstrates the technique today. Our President has many questions left to answer about his behaviour. But his letter means we are in no doubt at all about the quality of the manuscript.’
‘No.’ Smirke’s voice went quiet. ‘He has said that the many, many months of experiment have convinced him that what the Provises brought him is extraordinary. He has said that nothing less than a new epoch in art would be formed by this discovery.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘Whatever West’s transgressions, he does not tend towards exaggeration,’ said Farington.
They walked on again in silence. Around them vendors’ cries pummelled the air. ‘I cannot imagine what I would do with Brussels lace or Dutch ribbons,’ Smirke said looking around, ‘but it is these people’s intent to make me believe that they are essential to my happiness.’
‘It is a veritable dawn chorus of useless desires,’ concurs Farington.
‘Though they would understand no better our excitement at what we are about to purchase,’ Smirke declared.
‘I hardly slept last night. Nothing could excite me in the way the promise of this m
anuscript does.’
‘I too found sleep difficult. Sitting in the dark, deprived of colour, it made me reflect on how wretched this world would be without it. When morning finally arrived I looked around me and thought that colour is the returning of the light. What could stir us more profoundly?’
Farington was suddenly distracted.
‘What is happening over there? It looks as if there has been some incident.’
Smirke looked towards where Farington was pointing further up the street. Human bodies were being drawn towards the area like iron filings towards a magnet. Some were immediately repelled.
‘It is a monstrosity – an abomination in the sight of God,’ said a man, pacing fast down the street towards them as if intent on escape.
‘Excuse me, my dear sir, what…?’ But it was as if Farington’s words were scattered by the motion of the man’s body as the stranger rushed past them.
Smirke and Farington started walking towards the cause of the disturbance. When they finally reached where the crowd was gathered, they found at its centre a man standing next to a large cage. The man’s dark brown hair stood on end, while a straggly reddish beard clung precariously to his chin. He was dressed in breeches and a jacket that seemed to have been tailored for someone smaller. As he spoke, he gesticulated to the crowd with long thin arms.
‘Do we have any explorers among us today?’ His blue eyes glinted. ‘Anyone who has just returned from the Indian jungle?’ He gave a smile in which all but three or four teeth were missing – it grew as he realised most of the crowd was too horrified to respond. ‘No we have not? Then you will never have seen what is about to take place before you. It is a miracle of nature, all the way from the subcontinent.’
‘Another miracle for a farthing on the streets of London,’ muttered Smirke to Farington. ‘Is “miracle” not the most over-used word of our times?’
Farington ignored him. ‘This is of great scientific interest. Forgive me. I would like to stay for one moment?’ He reached inside his pocket, and drew out an ivory leadholder and a calf-bound notepad. ‘I have never seen a snake in real life before. It is both horrifying and beautiful. The way it moves is quite hypnotic.’
The Optickal Illusion Page 27