The Optickal Illusion

by Rachel Halliburton

  He had gone one night to St James’s Coffee House to meet Richard Cosway. He had discovered a rare bronze, a miniature of Laocoön, and thought he might be interested. ‘Beware the Greeks bearing gifts,’ Cosway had quipped. He had regaled him with the strange story of the gawky little girl he had met at a brothel earlier that week. Provis had not wanted to listen. Shreds of words worked their way into his understanding. Then he heard how old the girl was. There was not one day when he did not think of how old his daughter might have been had she lived. Straight away he realised they would have been the same age.

  He heard himself, as if in a dream, offering to take her in. He said he would pretend she was his own. Mrs Tullett was his confidante those days, and he had told her his plan. Predictably she was outraged. But his idea was straightforward. The girl would not live with him, he would send her away to school. When the scraggy little thing turned up, he did not warm to her – he just thought of her as a soul saved and packed her off to Highgate in carriage.

  It had been, he remembered wryly, her ability to draw that awoke him to the idea there might be some affinity between them. He had visited the school one day, and flicked through one of her notebooks while he was waiting for her to put her cape on to go out for a walk. In it he found caricatures of Mrs Tullett alongside a grotesque’s gallery of her teachers and fellow pupils. If the name on the notebook were Gillray, he remembered reflecting, he would have been able to sell it for a few guineas.

  Intrigued, he had taken her to tea on the high street and had talked to her about her drawing. The cross little girl who had been too numb from grief and shock to talk to him properly suddenly opened up, and a friendship was born. In that first glimmering of affection between them, he now realised, lay all the ingredients that had finally led them to disaster. She had talked to him then of her painting master lighting a glass of brandy with static electricity from his finger. He had been beguiled, but that night he had dreamt of a conflagration.

  A Tuesday morning. The wind was making leaves dance in the air and reddening the cheeks of anyone who ventured out in it. She had announced she had something important to say to him.

  He did not know what to say when she had presented him with a sheaf of papers. She had asked, ‘What would you say if I told you I had devised the secret of painting like Titian?’

  ‘To what end?’

  Stupidity scrawled across his brain.

  ‘To sell it, Mr Provis.’

  Something inside him shrank, both at the nature of the address and its content.

  ‘You have given me so much. I cannot possibly ask for you to provide for me until I am married,’ she continued.

  ‘You will sell it… as your own work?’ he asked, his voice faltering.

  ‘No one with money will be interested in a text written by myself.’

  On that level, you see sense at least, he thought to himself.

  ‘I decided an anonymous text would have more…’ she hesitated, ‘allure.’

  He wanted to laugh – but the intentness of her expression forbade him.

  ‘You are a man of the world – you can help me.’ Something flared in her eyes – insolent and conspiratorial at the same time. ‘You sell objects you have discovered all the time – what makes people desire certain things and reject others? You have often told me that you believe it is the story behind a thing, as much as the thing itself that gives it its worth. What story might we tell to sell this?’

  He had promised her he would think on the matter, but in truth hoped that it would drop from her mind. That, he laughed to himself, was genuine self-deception. He had never known her let any intention go before it had borne fruit. After repeated goadings on her part, he had finally come up with a fiction that pleased her – his grandfather’s pursuit of esoteric secrets in Venice. She clapped her hands and danced around. ‘To say I have found it in family papers – why that is perfect.’ And so he had become her co-conspirator. Built up the image of his grandfather in her mind, taught her to evoke him just as powerfully as if she had known him.

  How many times does a story have to be retold till it becomes like truth? They had rehearsed it several times before approaching West. Ann Jemima had reported that Cosway was delighted on hearing it – he had declared it to be the apple that garnished the roasted hog. Provis had been nervous that West would see the artifice of the scheme within minutes. But as he saw the belief on the artist’s face grow, he found his own belief growing. His outrage when he had eventually realised that West was trying to cheat them was surprisingly authentic. It occurred to him his fury was inappropriate, but by this point there were so many fictions in his life he decided to play the lie’s logic to the bitter end.

  Over the weeks the starling flutterings became worse. Provis started to wonder if he was going to die. He would find himself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, gazing into the dark as he tried desperately to catch his breath, his heart hammering in his ears. He became grimly fascinated with where he was most likely to expire. In the drawing room of an artist he detested, or in the Chapel Royal during the last throes of Sunday communion?

  The madness reached its most transcendent moment a couple of weeks before the Royal Academy Exhibition opened. It was the start of April, and the sunshine was beginning to assert its dominance. The painters had delivered their pictures to the Academy, and the debate over who should be selected had been superseded by the bloodier quarrels about which painting should be hung where. In a rare moment of calm Provis stood alone in front of the fire in his apartment. Beside him was a bottle of claret, two-thirds emptied.

  Who cannot say this has all been for the good? he thought. Reality has caused so much unhappiness – to myself, to Ann Jemima. Through a few harmless falsehoods, on the other hand, we have made many individuals ecstatic. The artists have shown their admiration for Ann Jemima in a way that they never would have if they had realised it was she who had devised the method. Their belief that it is an anonymous work both satisfies their pride and allows her to receive accolades for her cleverness.

  He looked with some satisfaction at the ivory sphinx on his mantelpiece. Then suddenly the fluttering in the chest began again, and he coughed. It would not stop this time, so he sat down and puts his head in his hands. ‘If this foretells the end of my life, then so be it,’ he said to himself. When he was sure it was safe to move again, he went to the mantelpiece and poured another glass of claret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The fate of a respectable woman

  ‘Take note that, before going any farther, I will give you the exact proportions of a man. Those of a woman I will disregard, for she does not have any set proportion.’

  cennino cennini,

  The Craftsman’s Handbook, c. 1400

  ‘So now you condemn her for not being a perfect, virtuous woman?’

  Her tone was satirical, accusatory. Opie felt discomfited. The air around them seemed dangerously combustible. That sense had been there from the beginning of the visit, but the sarcasm had only truly begun to ignite now.

  He looked at Mary, and saw something in her eye he had never seen before. The pallor of her cheeks emphasised the dark glint. It verged on the desire to annihilate. Quite how this would manifest itself he could not predict at this stage.

  ‘No, I do not condemn her,’ he declared.

  ‘The first thing you said was that she had defrauded your colleagues.’

  ‘I said she was brilliant, and could not have done it without significant talent. She is a formidable woman. Yet the fact remains that she has taken a lot of money.’ He looked around Mary’s study at piles of books that seemed to teeter more precariously than usual.

  ‘She attempted to take an honest path when she first came to London, and it landed her in the whorehouse.’ Her hand slapped the arm of her chair, and a small cloud of dust exploded in the spring sunshine.

  ‘But surely…’ Fragments of argument rattled through his brain. ‘Surely,’ he repeated, �
�the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman is not advocating that women who wish to advance themselves should take up a life of crime.’

  He attempted to throw her a playful glance.

  She gave him a look of contempt.

  ‘Girls without money or family are often at the mercy of the worst elements of our society,’ she declared. ‘Dishonesty is not the preferred path to take. But virtue all too often brings no reward. The poorhouse, prostitution, or life as a companion to some sadistic bully – these are all likely fates. Which of them would you pick?’

  The last syllable flew angrily through the air.

  ‘We have no intention of revealing to anyone what she told us. I was moved by her story and outraged by what she had suffered at Cosway’s hands,’ he said. ‘She has not committed the worst crime in this situation.’ His voice becomes quiet. ‘Yet the artists should have their money back, however we organise it.’

  ‘John – when you first talked to me about this you condemned the Royal Academy artists for their greed, now you pity them for their gullibility. You are blown back and forth by the winds of your conscience. It seems to me you never know precisely in which direction you are heading.’

  He felt utterly disorientated. It was as if the invisible contract that underlay their friendship had been suddenly ripped up. They were at Mary’s house for the final sitting for her portrait. But the anger agitating the face in front of him made it bear little resemblance to the woman on the canvas. True, he and Mary often argued. But there was always a sense that they were on safe territory, and that no matter what was said there would be a way for them to reconcile afterwards. Right at this moment, however, he felt that what he said was crucial to whether or not he would be allowed to return.

  ‘I think you are misreading me,’ he said steadily. ‘Of what precisely are you accusing me?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she declared, ‘you are no worse than any other member of polite society. This girl is clever, educated, and talented. Such women, as we know, can, if extremely determined, make something of themselves. Yet without the protection of her real father and an inheritance all her talents were to go to nothing.’

  ‘You have succeeded without an inheritance and protection from your family,’ he replied.

  ‘I have still battled debt and opprobrium. There are many who would not entertain me in their houses, even today.’ Now her voice became dangerously quiet. ‘Who deserves greatest praise in your estimation? Women who use their virtue to win approval from an unjust society? Or women who shun virtue in order to lead an existence that might give them greater happiness?’

  ‘The latter, of course.’

  ‘Then be careful whom you choose to rebuke.’

  He frowned. Felt her words scorch the dry air, realised he was finding it increasingly hard to swallow. He wondered whether it was best to depart now. It seemed there was little more he could say that would acquit him favourably in her eyes.

  ‘Forgive me, Mary,’ he said finally. ‘It seems as if we are discussing more than one matter… I…’

  As he searched for words, she got up. Looked out of the window. Let her fingers tap for a moment against the cold glass.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I too have had a harsh reminder that society often punishes women, even when they are supposedly virtuous.’

  He was silent, recognising that this was the best course. Grimly she continued.

  ‘William and I were married a week ago.’

  He started from his chair.

  ‘You and Godwin are married?!’

  He chided himself for the shocked tone of his voice even as he heard his words ring out. Her laugh clipped ruefully across the room.

  ‘You see. Even you are dismayed.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Dismayed is not the word. I am just… surprised… Part of Godwin’s philosophy is his opposition to marriage, is it not?’

  She laughed again and looked out of the window at the daffodils bending their heads under the attack of a stiff March breeze. ‘He has staked his reputation on his opposition it. But we had little choice.’ All the fire had gone from the room now. ‘Now I am with child again, even I recognise that the poor unfortunate child must be safeguarded legally.’ She sighed loudly. ‘So I have broken my principles and William has broken his.’

  He walked across the room and seized her by the hand. ‘Mary.’ Now he had recovered from his surprise, there was genuine warmth in his words. ‘Surely this is cause for rejoicing. His decision to marry means far more than to anyone who walks down the aisle because society tells them to.’

  ‘We have been most unkindly treated since. William’s great friend Mrs Inchbald snubbed us publicly at the theatre. She looked as if she was about to slap him, then restrained herself. She walked away without exchanging a word with either of us.’

  ‘I am most sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The letters he has received since news broke of our union have been even crueller.’

  She shook her head. Slowly she pulled her hand away from Opie’s.

  ‘Is life not extraordinary?’ she continued. ‘We have done the very thing most women and men do to make themselves acceptable in the eyes of society. And we have made ourselves even greater pariahs than we were before.’

  Now Opie came and sat down.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I should not have attacked you as I did. I have allowed the complications of my life to make me consider only myself. I have been through so much. I did not think emotional wounds could sting so much any more.’

  He raised his hand.

  ‘It is not important. I feel fury on your behalf.’

  ‘I am truly angry on Ann Jemima’s behalf too.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Perhaps not with you, but certainly with the other artists of the Academy.’

  He regarded her steadily.

  ‘Why do you think my colleagues – all educated, talented men have been deceived? West in particular?’ he asked.

  She frowned briefly as she considered the question.

  ‘Education is not always a protection against stupidity.’ A needling glance. ‘And it is certainly no protection against being deceived. The girl is clever because she has recognised an obsession. Whether someone’s obsession is connected to romantic desire, or personal ambition, it diminishes their capacity for reasoning.’

  ‘Yet education protects by making you ask more questions.’

  ‘Sometimes it does, sometimes it does not. When you think you are achieving something you have dreamed of for a long time, the desire to believe is stronger than the desire to doubt. In which case you use your education to build castles that have no foundations. Sometimes what’s needed is the simplicity of a child’s view. The Emperor’s New Clothes springs to mind.’

  ‘You believe that is what she calculated?’

  ‘I think she understands vanity and gullibility more than any of you. She has proved herself – if you will – an expert in people’s blind spots. But she also has a passion and an extraordinary ability for art.’

  ‘So she has managed to deceive us because she is like us?’

  ‘In as much as society allows her, yes. From what you say she is – both in talent and what she desires. Could she have begun to create a scheme like this if she did not understand your strongest motivations at every level?’

  He placed his little finger in the splash of Burnt Umber on his palate. Idly he traced circles in it.

  ‘I am sorry I have not had the chance to meet her,’ continued Mary.

  ‘She would not…’

  ‘Oh I am quite aware. She has no desire to make the acquaintance of anyone else who knows her secret – that is not her style. What do you think will happen with her once the exhibition is over?’

  ‘She and Mr Provis will find some device for returning most of the money to the Academy – possibly through the gift of a painting they have bought at auction. Then she will leave London.’ He wiped his hand ruefully on his cotton r
ag. ‘Farington told me she would like to travel across Europe to see Venice.’

  ‘Will you ever reveal her secret?’

  Her tone rebuked him.

  ‘No – she has nothing to fear from me.’ He grimaced. ‘It will all be over soon.’

  ‘Do you think someone else will be clever enough to tell all the Academy artists they are not wearing clothes?’ Suddenly her tone was lighter.

  He looked at her.

  ‘First you accuse me unfairly, now you taunt me,’ he declared drily.

  ‘It is nothing more nor less than you deserve.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Exhibition

  ‘prussian blue’

  ‘To make this Blue, first prepare a lixivium of blood, which is done by burning in a Crucible one part of Tartar Alkali to two of dried blood; preserve this mixture in a state of incandescence for a quarter of an hour—afterwards throw it into distilled water, and filter the solution. This lixivium being prepared is of a Yellowish Green. If you wish to make Prussian Blue, dissolve in clean water one part of Martial Vitriol to three of Alum, and pour it into the lixivium. This mixture becomes of a reddish Brown, and exhales a vapour of Liver of Sulphur; when filtered, it leaves a sediment whose surface is Blue, and the centre of a yellowish Green; but as soon as the surface comes in contact with the air, it becomes Green, and then changes to a fine Blue.’

  constant de massoul,

  A Treatise on the Art of Painting and the Composition of Colours, 1797

  The morning of the opening of the Academy exhibition dawned with a blue sky dirtied by wispy grey cloud. Larger white clouds swelled behind the grey, tinged an eerie orange by the rising sun.

  In Mr Provis’s apartment, Mrs Tullett delivered a dish of hot chocolate to Ann Jemima with a look of foreboding. The girl sat looking into the middle distance. She had awoken that morning only able to think of her real father. What would he think of what she had achieved now, she wondered. The thought that he would disapprove sent a faint frisson of excitement through her.