by James Wilson
‘Mr. Hartright,’ said a soft, gracious voice; and, looking up, I saw a man descending the stairs towards me. At first glance he seemed immensely tall; but as he reached the hall, and stood level with me, I saw that in fact he was merely extremely thin, with a long, close-fitting blue coat that hugged his slender frame and emphasized all the vertical lines in his appearance. He was about my own age, or a little older, with a bright complexion, thick yellow hair and whiskers, and beetling eyebrows. There was something almost foppish – even feminine – in the way he moved, and in the evident care he had taken in arranging his watch-chain and tying his cravat; but it was entirely contradicted by his sharp nose and deep-set blue eyes, which gave him the wary, petulant look of a beast disturbed in its lair.
‘How very pleasant to meet you,’ he said, taking both my hands in his. His lower lip, I noticed, was slightly deformed; but his smile more than atoned for it, transforming his expression, in an instant, from bad temper to sweetness. He turned to the old people and said, with a courtly air:
‘Papa, Mama, this is Mr. Hartright. He’s here to talk about Turner.’
I had heard, of course, of the poor man’s marital difficulties; but the idea that in his middle years, and at the height of his eminence, he should have abandoned the part of a husband only to resume that of a son was strange indeed. I thought of what Davenant had told me of Turner and his father, and Marian had learnt from Mrs. Booth; and wondered if it was a mark of genius to be incapable of normal domestic arrangements.
‘How d’ye do?’ said the old man; and, as he and his wife stepped forward awkwardly to shake my hand, I at last recognized their odd mixture of pride and diffidence and concern for what it was, and felt suddenly – and quite unexpectedly – like a schoolboy invited to the home of a gifted but over-sensitive friend.
‘Will you indulge me, Mr. Hartright,’ said Ruskin, ‘and take a walk in the garden? I’ve been in the thick of it all morning, and can’t see for the smoke, or think for the noise of the guns.’
Without waiting for a reply, he ushered me quickly out of the front door again, as if anxious to make good his escape before his parents had time to forbid it.
‘In the thick of what, may I ask?’ I said, as we turned on to the carriage sweep. ‘A new piece of criticism?’
‘I am struggling to finish the last volume of Modern Painters,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve come to the wretched conclusion that all my critical and historical work up till now has been almost valueless.’
‘Oh, come .. .!’ I said.
‘It is a sad thought,’ he said. ‘Especially when you’ve devoted your whole life to a thing, as I have. But when I look about me, and see the burden of dumb misery in the world, and calculate what an infinitesimally small fraction of it I have managed to lift with my ruminations on Turner or Veronese or the Gothic …’ He shook his head.
‘But Modern Painters’ , I said, ‘has given delight – and instruction – to thousands. Millions.’ I confess that I was slightly abashed, when I reflected how little of it I had read, and how long ago; but not sufficiently to prevent my adding: ‘Myself included.’
‘You are kind to try to console me, Mr. Hartright,’ he said. He stopped, and turned on me a gaze of extraordinary candour. ‘But – forgive me – you do not look miserable – at least, not in the way I mean. When I speak of misery, I am thinking of that great mass of suffering humanity which surrounds us, and which we see – and yet do not see – every day; and which we barely touch with all our ideals and concerns.’
He rounded the end of the house, and ducked his head to enter a dark tunnel, pungent with the scent of damp leaves, formed by a dense old laurel bush pressing against the wall.
‘And that is why’, he said, the words – suddenly muffled now – floating back to me in the close air, ‘I have begun to turn my attention to the question of political economy.’
I was, I must admit, surprised that he should be so frank with me, and not a little flattered; yet mingled with my gratification, as I followed his stooping figure through the dimness, was a slight repugnance – although I could not, at the time, have told you the reason for it.
‘You may, of course, feel I have little enough reason to complain myself,’ he said with a laugh, as we emerged behind the house. He gestured languidly towards the lawn, dotted with trees and artfully laced with winding paths that stretched away below us; and at the kitchen gardens and orchards and a row of farm buildings beyond. ‘Our own milk and pigs,’ he said, ‘and peaches from the hothouses; and a meadow for the horses. Everything a mortal could desire, in fact, save a stream – and mountains.’ I glanced towards him, and saw that he was smiling, and that he had the grace to blush.
‘But enough of me, Mr. Hartright,’ he said, suddenly setting off again. ‘I have a lecture this evening, and fear I must leave at four o’clock. So, tell me, how fares your tremendous undertaking?’
‘It’s scarcely begun,’ I said. ‘But I have spoken to a few people who knew Turner.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Who?’
I told him. He made no response of any kind; so I went on:
‘And my sister has been to see his housekeeper.’
‘Ah, the good Mrs. Booth,’ he murmured. ‘Did she elucidate the mystery, or add to it?’
From his sharp sidelong look I deduced that this was a test of some kind, and that his good opinion of me depended on my making the right answer; but since I had no idea what that might be, I said lamely:
‘I don’t know.’
He did not reply, but nodded; and, stopping by a green gate in a wall, opened it, and led me into one of the kitchen gardens. Around the perimeter ran a pleasant grassy walk, lined with fruit trees and rambling roses, and broken here and there by an arbour with a wooden seat.
‘Peace,’ he said, looking round. ‘And the last blessed warmth of the sun.’
We sat on one of the benches, beneath a trailing rose that was still, even now, covered with flowers. Ruskin gazed silently at two apple trees near the opposite wall, as if gathering his thoughts. At length he said:
‘You do know, do you not, that you are not alone, Mr. Hartright? There is already another labourer in the vineyard?’
‘You mean Mr. Thornbury?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘What, if you will forgive my asking, makes you think that you are better qualified than he?’
This was delicate indeed, and I hesitated before answering:
‘I was approached by a friend of Turner’s, who expressed some confidence in me – and none whatever, I’m sorry to say, in Mr. Thornbury.’
‘And may I inquire which friend?’
‘That, I’m afraid, I cannot tell you.’
‘I see.’ He tapped his fingers and nodded, as if beating time to a tune in his own head.
I had chosen my words carefully, but I was forced to acknowledge that, even to my ears, they had sounded flimsy and unconvincing; and I was not entirely surprised when he went on:
‘Sometimes, Mr. Hartright, we may deceive ourselves, or allow others to deceive us, into thinking we are capable of some great task which is beyond us. I speak here as a friend, and from my own experience. I regarded Turner as my earthly master. I venerated him. I knew him personally for the last ten years of his life, and for much of that time, and for long after his death, I thought of little but him and his work. And yet in many respects I feel I did not know him at all.’
Anxious not to appear still more foolish, I said nothing. He reached out to touch a white rose which drooped above his shoulder. A drop of moisture broke free from the petal where it had taken refuge, and rolled down his finger.
‘Perhaps you know, Mr. Hartright, that the first volume of Modern Painters was intended as a defence of Turner against his critics. It was – as I am all too keenly aware – a youthful effort, full of a young man’s zeal and prejudices – but it did enjoy a certain success. Yet it gave Turner, I believe, not an ounce of pleasure. Cold and solitary though he was,
the flame of my approbation did not warm him. It was a year and a half before he even mentioned the book to me; and then, indeed, he did thank me, in his way – for he invited me in, one night after dinner, and insisted that I take a glass of sherry with him, in an under-room as chilly as the tomb, and lit by a single tallow candle. Yet he always made it plain that – though I regarded him, as I still regard him, as the greatest landscape painter in the history of the world – I had not grasped the meaning, or the purpose, of his work. And I fear he was right.’
A wiry, grizzled man in a white shirt entered the kitchen garden, pushing a wheelbarrow. He stopped when he saw us, and tipped his moth-eaten felt hat.
‘Good afternoon, Pearce,’ called Ruskin.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Please, don’t mind Mr. Hartright and me,’ said Ruskin; and the man continued on his way. Ruskin turned to me again.
‘But just how little I saw . ..’ He shook his head.’ That I only discovered this past winter, when I undertook to catalogue and preserve his drawings and sketches – which, naturally enough, this being England, were gathering dust and mildew in a basement at the South Kensington Museum.’
An electric tremor started in my stomach, and ran tingling to my fingertips.
‘What did you find?’ I asked.
He sighed. ‘I found such pessimism, Mr. Hartright. And such courage.’ He turned suddenly, and pulled the rose down so that it was close to my face. ‘He saw the flower, in all its beauty, with a truer eye than any man who ever lived. And’ – here he plunged his thumb deep into the petals, prising them apart – ‘he saw the canker within, just as truly, and did not flinch from it. Look at any of his pictures with discernment enough, and at its heart you will find a dark clue.’
There was something in his manner as he said this – a portentous quiver in his voice, his eyes as mournful as a bloodhound’s – that made me want to laugh. I mastered the impulse, however, and said:
‘Clue to what?’
He did not reply; but raised a magisterial finger, and gave me a sternly pitying look – like a schoolmaster correcting a particularly obtuse pupil who has once again failed to understand some simple point.
I tried to keep the irritation from my voice. ‘Are you speaking of any works in particular?’
‘There are more than nineteen thousand of them,’ he said. ‘You must see them yourself. I can give you a note.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Indeed, the best advice I can offer you, if you would hope to know Turner, is: immerse yourself in his work.’
‘But what of the man himself?’ I said. ‘His character? His tastes? His habits?’
He did not answer at once; but, raising his hand, called out to the gardener, who was passing with his newly filled barrow:
‘Pearce!’
‘Yes, sir?’ said the man, stopping, and squinting towards us.
‘Would you go to the house, and ask Crawley to fetch my Turner self-portrait, and …?’
‘Beg pardon, sir, but fetch your what?’
‘My Turner self-portrait,’ said Ruskin (a trifle peevishly, I thought). ‘And bring it here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What were you saying?’ said Ruskin, when the man had gone; and then, before I could speak, he went on: ‘Ah, yes, his character. Well, all I can do for you is what I did for Mr. Thorn-bury. And that is tell you what – in my view – were Turner’s principal qualities.’
‘That would be very helpful,’ I said.
He breathed deeply; and then, looking ahead, as if the words were written on a bill on some invisible hoarding, said slowly:
‘Uprightness. Generosity. Tenderness. Sensuality. Obstinacy. Irritability. Infidelity.’ He turned towards me. ‘And never forget: he lived and died alone and without hope, knowing that none could understand him or his power.’
And what, in heaven’s name, I thought, am I to make of that?
‘Forgive me,’ said Ruskin earnestly. ‘Have I been too cryptic? It’s a perennial fault of mine, I’m afraid – and what makes it all the worse is that I’m equally guilty, on occasion, of its opposite’ – here he suddenly laughed – ‘and drive my friends mad with my discursiveness.’
Again, the same boyish ingenuousness showed in his face; and I reflected that I had never before heard a man speak so eloquently, or with such feeling, about his own failings. Yet as I looked into the limpid brilliance of his eyes, I knew suddenly why I was as much troubled as disarmed by it; for behind the patina of openness and warmth lay a kind of reptilian coldness, which put me strangely in mind of those Arctic regions where the surface thaws in summertime, but the earth beneath is permanently frozen.
‘I must confess,’ I said, ‘I feel rather daunted.’
‘I am truly sorry if that is my doing,’ he said. ‘I meant only to point out the deserts you must cross and the peaks you must climb on your great journey.’
‘I fear’, I said, smiling, and endeavouring to make light of it, ‘that you think me unequal to it, and believe that I shall fall by the wayside.’
He did not (as I own I had expected) hasten to reassure me; but rather looked off into the distance again, and resumed drumming on his knee. After a few seconds he leaned towards me and lightly touched my arm: ‘I think perhaps it will be best’, he said, ‘if you continue your inquiries, and come to see me again at a later date. It may be then that what I have to say will seem less impenetrable.’
He spoke with such ineffable condescension that I bridled, and could not entirely keep the irritation from my voice as I replied:
‘And how, in the meantime, do you suggest I proceed?’
‘Proceed?’ he said, as if his mind were already elsewhere, and he had to force it back again. He pondered a moment, and then went on:
‘Few people, you will find, had even a faint inkling of Turner’s true nature. But you might write to Colonel Wyndham at Petworth, whose father knew him well –’
‘You mean the Third Earl of Egremont?’ I said, anxious to show that I was not entirely ignorant, and remembering – from my researches at the library – that Turner had spent some time at Petworth in the Third Earl’s day. Ruskin responded with a weary blink, which perfectly conveyed that he found my interruption tiresome, and resented having to pause, even for a second, to accommodate it.
‘The colonel may yet preserve some family traditions about Turner,’ he went on. ‘As, too, may Hawkesworth Fawkes of Farnley, the son of another patron, and himself a true lover of art, and a true friend of Turner’s.’
‘May I mention your name?’ I asked, with some trepidation.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And go to Maiden Lane; for to know Turner you must see where he was born, and brought up,’ He frowned, as if a new thought had struck him. ‘Are you returning to London at once, Mr. Hartright? When we are finished here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I can take you, if you wish; for I am going to Red Lion Square.’
‘Thank you.’
He took his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, nodded, then hurriedly slipped it back again.
‘But I must warn you that I have a great deal of preparation to do,’ he said, rising, and brushing a petal from his sleeve. ‘So I shall act as if you were not there; and you must promise not to be offended.’
We started together back towards the house, each occupied with his own thoughts, and had reached the lawn when we saw a manservant hurrying towards us, carrying a slim package wrapped in white muslin.
‘Good heavens, Crawley!’ cried Ruskin. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘Pearce said you wanted this, sir,’ said the man gravely, holding out the package.
Ruskin stared at it for a moment, and then said: ‘So I did, so I did. Put it in the carriage; and it can help Mr. Hartright to while away the time.’
He had not exaggerated: all the way there we sat as if in different worlds, he taking objects from a box – pieces of crystal, an apple, a ball on a chai
n – and consulting a notebook, or drawing (most beautifully, I have to say) a rose, on the margin of a page, as he thought; I, opposite him, at first looking out of the window, as we made our way up Vauxhall Road, and across the bridge; and then taking up the Turner picture, and unwrapping it.
To my surprise, it showed not a man, but a boy, with intense eyes looking out directly – and with something approaching insolence – from beneath dark eyebrows. The nose was long and fleshy, and there was a hint of wantonness in the full, unsmiling mouth. He was fashionably dressed in the style of sixty or seventy years ago, in a brown coat, with a white stock carefully tied at his throat, and his hair neatly parted in an inverted ‘V’. On the back was a handwritten label which read: ‘Turner, aet c. 24 years, by himself. Given by Hannah Danby.’
‘Who was Hannah Danby?’ I said.
‘His housekeeper. At Queen Anne Street,’ murmured Ruskin, without looking up.
I turned the picture over again. As I stared at it, I found myself – already unnerved by my conversation with Ruskin – thrown into turmoil; for, yet again, instead of deepening my knowledge of Turner, I seemed merely to have discovered a different version of him. This was not a portrait of Travis’s buffoon, or Davenant’s good fellow, or Ruskin’s misunderstood martyr: it seemed to be of someone else entirely – and someone who, in the enigmatic image he had left of himself, challenged me to find him out, and declared that I should fail. For a moment, I felt something akin to panic; and only finally succeeded in bringing myself under control by reasoning that, in view of the young age at which he had drawn it, it was perhaps not surprising that it bore no resemblance to the man remembered from later life.
As we drew up in Red Lion Square, Ruskin at last looked up from his work, and closed his box, and said:
‘Well, Mr. Hartright, here, I fear, we must say goodbye.’
I wrapped the picture up again, and handed it to him.
‘I shall show it to my working men,’ he said. ‘To inspire them.’
The coachman held the door; and, as I followed Ruskin out, I said: