‘It is a pleasure to see you, Miss Provis,’ he said shaking her hand.
‘It feels as if it has a been long time since we last talked,’ she replied. As she stared at him, she realised she was being consumed once more by the irrational anger that he had let her down. In all the turbulence of recent months, amidst the truths and untruths, it had not occurred to her that at the climax of the whole process he would fail to produce a painting that would be anything other than impressive. ‘Mr West, I have seen your painting of Cicero.’ She hesitated. ‘It is wonderful to see it hung here in its full splendour. Yet it looks different from how I expected it. Have you been entirely faithful to the method?’
West looked at her with some hurt and confusion.
‘Miss Provis, I can assure you I have expended every effort to be faithful to the method and to what we discussed together.’
His eyes held hers for a moment. For the first time she saw him faltering for what to say.
‘Indeed, I am now convinced that any serious artist would benefit from using the method. Who knows what a most promising individual like Mr Turner could achieve? Maybe I shall suggest to him that he buys a subscription.’*
He bowed angrily, then – it seemed – he was moved on by the swirl and eddy of the room. Assailed by feelings she could not understand, she studied the paintings intently, in the hope that she could collect herself before her next conversation. Smirke’s scene from Don Quixote, she was relieved to see, displayed the method somewhat better than West. Westall’s picture of the infant Bacchus was – while not one of his best works – certainly striking.
The room was now so packed that it was difficult to see who was standing even two feet away. As she surveyed the Bacchus she heard a conversation behind her that made her neck rigid. The loud pronounced Swiss-Germanic accent of the first speaker cut through the babble of the surrounding crowd.
‘From what I see this Venetian method diminishes the work of everyone who has dabbled in it,’ declared the voice. ‘Only you, Mr Farington, have achieved anything that is worthy of being displayed at an Academy exhibition.’
‘That is very kind of you, Mr Fuseli,’ concurred Farington’s distinctive tones. ‘It does have a lot of critics. Many have confided to me that they think it overrated. I myself have had my concerns. But the girl is charming, even if her father is an eccentric. And I think with the correct, methodical approach it is possible to do well from it.’
‘Which critics are here today?’ replied the first voice.
‘Pasquin is here – and some rather more human critics from The Observer and Bell’s Weekly.’
‘I predict the response will be a massacre.’
She stayed until she was sure the two had moved on. It felt almost as if she could not see any more. Her eyes could not fasten onto the details in the paintings or in individuals’ faces, while there was a humming sound in her head. She had always observed that Farington was a social weathercock, happy to modify his direction according to the winds of the strongest opinion in the room. The shift in the pronouncements he had made about West before and after West’s letter showed this markedly. But his concurrence with such an unremittingly savage attack on the method alarmed her.
She could feel her smile becoming more fixed, more desperate. It was clear to her that she had to escape the room as quickly and with as much dignity as possible. Yet the faster she tried to move, the quicker the current turned against her. As she first pushed through the crowd she saw Josiah Darton talking to John Opie. Opie in turn saw her and walked towards her.
‘Are you all right?’ The simplicity of the words made her want to throw her arms around him.
‘Mr West’s painting – it seems – has not benefited from the method on any level.’
Her words felt stiff, stilted, in front of him she could not conceal her distress. At the same time she rebuked herself. Why would he show any sympathy at this stage?
‘I have always held that most of the artists failed to see where your fake, but even so ingenious, method ended and your ability began. Maybe in your attempt to convince everyone else, you too failed to notice how much of the effect was due to your own talent.’
‘I do not need kindness,’ she gasped, ‘… not now…’
His eyes clouded with concern as quickly she moved in the opposite direction.
By now it felt as if every atom in her body was driving her from the room. She managed to make her way through to the ante-room and from there to the spiral staircase. For one perilous moment the stairs looked like a projection of her own dizziness. She took a deep breath and asserted herself. Then slowly she started to make the descent. She felt thankful that there were so many people now at the exhibition that her absence would not be noted. In just three or four minutes she would be outside and on her own.
It was when she was almost at the bottom that she heard the voice. She was at the point where she could feel that her composure would not last much longer, could feel the smile disintegrating on her face.
‘Miss Provis.’
She only half recognised the voice – it had a faintly sibilant quality, but she could not recollect where she had heard it before. So at first she counselled herself that she would ignore it. Then it came again, marked and much louder.
‘Miss Provis.’
Forcing a smile again, she looked up, but couldn’t see anyone.
‘Miss Provis,’ came the voice for the third time. She climbed a little way up the stairway and looked up again. Her eyes flared with brief alarm. Now she could see the man identified to her as the critic Pasquin. He smiled at her – a carrion crow waiting to swoop. ‘May I seek a word with you?’ he asked. ‘Now I could shout what I have to say down the staircase. But I suspect you would rather our conversation was quieter than that.’
So this is how it ends, she thought to herself. With an exhausted calm, she started to walk back up the stairs again.
‘I am not sure I comprehend what you are saying,’ she declared as she reached half way up. He continued to smile. But the look in his eyes was pinched by malice.
‘My question is purely one about technique,’ he said. ‘Something I am sure you are well-equipped to answer.’
She hesitated. If his question is one of technique, then maybe this is not how it seems, she thought.
She smiled more confidently.
‘You of course understand that I can only talk to you about isolated details of the secret,’ she said. ‘The artists in possession of it and I have signed a document promising not to disclose the full formula.’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘So I hear.’
He was silent. She walked further up the steps so they were standing on a level.
Pasquin looked her in the eye. For what seemed like almost a minute he did not speak at all. As she shifted uncomfortably, finally he said, ‘Now the artists have paid you much money for this method. It sounded to me like it might have been a good investment. And indeed it would have been if it had genuinely contained Titian’s colouring techniques. But I believe I have proof that it didn’t. Now my great question is whether or not you knew too. Whether you are the deceiver, or the deceived.’
She wanted to say, ‘To whom have you been talking?’ But she knew this would be as good as a confession. Instead she repeated ‘Definitive proof? That is quite an assertion from someone who has only looked at the paintings for about twenty minutes.’ She mustered all the polite contempt she could. ‘Please, Mr Pasquin, tell me – what is definitive about your proof?’
‘Where did you get the document from?’ he asked. Each syllable enunciated like the beat of a drum.
She repeated the story as she had so many times of Mr Provis’s grandfather. ‘The method has, in addition, been thoroughly explored by the members of the Academy,’ she said. ‘If the country’s most eminent artists believe the document is valid, who,’ she concluded, ‘are you to disagree?’
Pasquin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who indeed am I to disagree?’ he
said.
A society couple emerged from the ante-room and came to the top of the stairs. They made their way past Pasquin and Ann Jemima. She watched with barely disguised longing as the clack of their footsteps spiralled them towards the outside world. Once they had disappeared, Pasquin started to talk again. His voice was even softer now – she almost had to stoop to hear him.
‘Miss Provis,’ he said.
‘Mr Pasquin, I really have nothing more to say on the matter,’ she began.
‘I was very curious about Mr West’s Cicero. It seems to me rather less admirable than many of his other works.’
She opened her mouth to reply, but he stilled her with a raised hand.
‘I asked him about some of the colours used in the method. He said a key colour in the evocation of shadow was Prussian Blue.’
‘He should not have said anything at all without consulting me,’ she replied with clipped rage.
‘As you yourself said, there is no harm in talking about elements of the method. It is hardly a revelation of the secret,’ he declared. ‘But it is of interest to me. I would like to ask you, is a key colour Prussian Blue?’
She felt as if she had been cornered by a snake. She heard the word ‘Yes’ escape from her mouth.
‘You concur – that is interesting,’ he replied. ‘So explain to me this.’ He looked closely at her. ‘Prussian Blue was only developed as a colour at the beginning of this century.’ It is a synthetic colour developed in a scientist’s laboratory. If that is the case, how can it have been so intrinsic to the work of painters three centuries ago?’
She took a step back, then clutched at the banister as she almost fell down the stairs.
‘That is only on your assertion,’ she declared, her heart beating hard.
‘It proves that the manuscript is a fake, does it not?’ he declared. ‘The only question is at what point the rot set in. When your great-grandfather was in Venice with Signor Barri?’ He paused. ‘Or at a more recent date than that.’
‘What you imply is outrageous calumny!’ she cried.
‘Well, something is outrageous,’ he said. His voice wheedling, malevolent. ‘I am not sure of many things here, but I am sure you have received rather more money than the method merits, Miss Provis. I could have told you that just by looking at their paintings, but after what Mr West told me – well, there is little doubt.’ Slowly, he clasped his hand on the rail of the staircase. ‘My review will be published in two days’ time and I think it will cause them all to survey their investment rather differently.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should start calculating how you can hand the money back.’
Now he began his descent of the stairs. She listened to the progress of his shoes on the cold stone. She was trembling with anger. For a moment she wondered whether she should throw herself into the stairwell and end everything. She took a few deep breaths. No, this situation is redeemable, she told herself firmly. Her mind whirred faster and faster. Even he is not certain that I am responsible for creating the manuscript. I do not have to lose everything. I will leave London this afternoon.
She waited till she was sure Pasquin had left. Then she made her own descent of the stairs. She stayed away from the bannister, pressed her hand against the stone wall as she came down. Then she heard the whistling coming from above her.
‘Miss Provis,’ came the call. This time she recognised the voice, but just as before she continued without looking round. ‘Miss Provis.’
Wearily she turned to see Josiah Darton coming down the staircase. The expression on his face was guarded.
‘It seems to have worked…’ he began to say. But then he saw her properly. ‘What has happened here?’ he asked swiftly.
‘I have been discovered,’ she declared angrily.
‘It was not at my instigation,’ he responded with puzzlement.
‘No, I know.’ Her voice dropped low. ‘I apologise. Do not misread my tone. I have betrayed myself.’ She shook her head. ‘I have betrayed myself.’
He came close to her, frowning.
‘You have confessed? After all we have done to preserve appearances for you? Do you know what this means for Thomas Provis?’
He grabbed her wrist firmly.
‘No, I have not confessed,’ she hissed, wrenching her wrist away.
‘Then how?’
‘The critic Pasquin.’ She was silent for a few moments. Darton looked around. Quickly he ushered her into the courtyard.
‘What has he said?’
‘I have made a terrible mistake. I cannot countenance my stupidity. One of the paints in the method… was not invented till this century.’
He regarded her with disbelief.
‘You did not know this?’ She shook her head violently. ‘Of course not. And nor did any of the gentlemen of the Royal Academy, it would seem.’
‘So the worst of our fears has been realised.’ She could see him making rapid calculations. ‘We must act straight away to make sure that neither you nor Thomas Provis end up in prison.’
Grimly she nodded.
‘We need to get you out of London as quickly as possible. I will work out something for Provis,’ Darton continued. ‘I have friends who live in Dover. We can commence by getting you to their house tonight, and thence you can go to France. Have you your two hundred pounds?’
She nodded.
‘Of course you have. I have admired your resourcefulness though this. We are very similar animals.’ Her eyes widened for a second, as she looked at him she detected a deep sympathy that she had not previously suspected.
‘I thought that by now you would have detested me,’ she exclaimed.
‘I have never met an individual so extraordinary as you.’ Before she could respond, his gaze suddenly hardened. ‘The money should be enough for you to survive on the continent for a while,’ he snapped, and she looked down. ‘I can also make introductions for you in Paris.’
Ann Jemima took a deep breath. ‘I can pay you for this. I do not wish you to do this as a favour.’
He shook his head.
‘Keep the money for yourself. I have just one payment I want from you.’
She regarded him warily.
‘I want you to say goodbye to Provis.’ She nodded. ‘Right now I wish you to return to that exhibition room and act as if everything is normal so that nobody’s suspicions are raised until the review comes out.’
‘You wish me to return upstairs?’ she said incredulously.
‘You are a strong and resilient woman,’ he said. ‘You can do this one last good deed for the man who has acted as your father for the last three years. Ensure you are back at the apartment for mid-afternoon so you can sort out your affairs. I will call for you at the palace gates at five o’clock this evening.’
* Turner is referred to in Gillray’s cartoon Titianus redivivus;–or–the seven-wise-men consulting the Venetian oracle; he appears on a portfolio of sceptics of the method attacked by a monkey. Later in his career, however, he did become obsessed by Venetian glazing systems, some critics say to his detriment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The critics’ verdict
‘Hee forgetteth his owne condition, and doth not remember himselfe a man, who will not beare with other mens errours.’
franciscus junius,
The Paintings of the Ancients, 1638
‘Is this what Hell is like?’
The question haunted Benjamin West in the weeks following the opening of the exhibition. Whether he was out in the City, or visiting people privately, there was a constant sense of irreverent whispers, scathing laughter, and mouths stiffening into smirks. Shame stalked him across town. It burned him up and down during his waking hours, and blasted great holes into his sleep. It was as if thieves had held rapiers to his throat and robbed him of gravitas, dragging it behind their horses like a corpse as they made off into the distance.
He had received compliments at the exhibition opening itself. But that, he had known, was the
way of such things. The effusiveness of compliments given directly to an artist who has just displayed his work bears no relation at all to how gently or savagely the critical post-mortem will be conducted. The assault had commenced in The Morning Post. He descended to the dining-room door at ten in the morning, two days after the exhibition, to be greeted by the usual display of eggs, kidneys, chops and fresh bread. To his surprise he found his son Raphael standing by the mantelpiece busily feeding a fire that leapt higher and higher the more paper that was fed into it. Chemical green flames mixed with the blue and orange. A stench of burnt ink filled the room. He rushed over and saw The Observer and Bell’s Weekly disintegrating. But The Morning Post was still lying on the table.
He seized it, almost ripping it as he did so. The newspaper shivered in his hands.
When he finally found Pasquin’s article it took him three or four attempts to read the first sentence. Once he started to make progress, he felt the blood slowing in his veins as he absorbed what the critic had said.
‘Thomas Lawrence’s Satan has suffered greatly, as I feared it would,’ he declared. His son waited – West felt something deadly in his stillness. He swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Now,’ he continued with empty jauntiness, ‘let us see his pronouncements on Cicero. There will be criticisms – there always are with Pasquin – but there must have been certain aspects he admired.’
His son remained motionless. As West’s eyes reached the words they blurred and then clarified before him. ‘“Some fearful delusion…”’ he began.
‘“Some fearful delusion”?!’ He looked up at Raphael.
‘Read on, father.’ The dreadful knell of that voice.
‘“Some fearful delusion must have seized the President of the Academy in embarking on this dreadful project”,’ he continued grimly. ‘“This is the latest technique seized upon in London for enabling artists to paint like the ancients. Yet what kind of spell was cast on him that removed his capacity for observation?”’
The Optickal Illusion Page 35