by James Wilson
But two small points of interest, which perhaps go some way to explaining his son’s strange behaviour. On 15th May, 1814, he records:
A young artist named Eastlake called. He is still little more than a boy, but has more sense and judgement than many twice his age. He is but lately back from Paris, and as he stood before my Caesar, I could see what thought was passing through his mind: ‘At last! – an English history painting worthy to hang next to those of Italy and France!’
And on 1st June, 1828:
Dear God! how corruptible are even the seemingly noblest spirits! Eastlake called to ‘pay his respects’ – so he said – before returning to Italy. His true purpose became apparent when I asked him to commit himself to my cause; for while conceding that the Academy ‘is far from perfect’, he urged me to desist from publicly attacking it, on the grounds that ‘there is nothing to be gained from needlessly offending people’. ‘What!’ I cried. ‘Is the sacred name of Art then nothing! – and the war that must be fought to protect her “needless”!?’
When he saw he would not persuade me, he soon left, without even remarking on my Pilate. It would not do to concede the power of my work, when you are a newly elected Associate of the Royal Academy, and hope to become a member.
Oh, dear.
Friday
It is just past eight at night, and I have this minute closed Haste’s last volume. I knew I should find no more of Turner, for during his last years Haste had time and energy for nothing but the evergrowing inventory of his own sufferings – his imprisonment for debt; his desperate pleas for help; his rejections and increasingly public humiliations. I feel as if I have been sitting by a sick-bed, these last few days, helplessly watching the decline of some dear but troublesome friend, and that death has taken him at last.
He has gone, but the two last entries, in 1837, haunt me yet:
11th January. Called Arthur to me, and made him promise that, whatever may become of me, he will continue to fight for what is right, and to secure for my name that justice which, after forty years’ ceaseless struggle, is its due. He was like a boy again, weeping, and begging me to remember him and his mother, and for their sakes to do nothing rash. At eleven he left, swearing to return in the morning, bringing, if he could, some hope or promise of relief.
God bless me through the troubles of this night.
12th January. I am resolved at last. My hand has been stayed by thoughts of my poor family – but now I am persuaded that when the initial pang is gone they will live easier without this great burden that has so oppressed them.
God forgive me. Amen.
I do not like to think of what happened next, but cannot put it from my mind.
Saturday
I feared I should have nightmares about poor Haste, but – as so often happens – my sleeping mind took me by surprise; for in the event the only incident from his diary that found its way into my dreams was something I had considered entirely trivial, and already almost forgotten.
I was in a street, and saw two doors before me. One was the entrance to a dentist’s; the other, though it was unmarked, I knew led to Turner’s gallery. As I hesitated, wondering whether I should enter, the door opened of its own volition, and I went inside. I was not frightened – only mildly irritated that Turner had somehow contrived to admit me while remaining invisible.
The hall was dark, and completely bare. When I reached the end, I expected to find a door into the gallery before me; but instead there were only stairs down into an unlit basement. Again, I felt no fear as I descended; but I was vexed by the growing conviction that Turner was there, but would not let me see him.
At the bottom was a crude stone arch, and beyond it a kind of cave or grotto cut into the bare rock. It was suffused from above with a dim white light, which made the specks of mica in the granite glitter like a constellation in the night sky, and gave it an eerie, seductive beauty. It seemed no bigger than a cellar, but I soon realized that was deceptive; for when I reached what I took to be the end wall I found there was a small opening to the left, through which the cave continued. As I stooped to enter it, the figure of a man started from the shadows, as flittery and imprecise as a bat, and as quickly disappeared again, like a startled animal scuttling for shelter. I had barely seen him, but I somehow knew who it was: not Turner, but Walter. And my annoyance turned to outright anger: he had come here before me, and kept it a secret from me.
At length – after how many twists and turns I cannot say, and with the passage growing narrower and darker with every step – I saw a hazy yellow light before me, and a moment later found myself in an octagonal chamber. On each of the eight sides there hung a picture, but although they blazed with the familiar Turnerish golds and oranges and reds, I recognized none of them. Until, that is, I came to the seventh; for it was The Bay of Baiae.
At last! I thought. I shall understand! I stood close and studied it carefully. It was just as I remembered it. There were the sea and the sweet-smelling hills and the great tree; there the serpent and the rabbit and the skull-like ruins. And there the figures of -
I stopped suddenly; for while the figure of Apollo was undoubtedly there, the Sibyl was nowhere to be seen.
I awoke, angrier than ever, unable to shake off the disagreeable sensation that Turner and Walter were both making a fool of me, and that I was abetting them by failing to see something that was before my very eyes. It was there, like a word you know perfectly well, whose shape hovers half formed on the air, whose rhythm you can almost hear, that yet somehow eludes you. Although it was not long after four, I determined to get up, and try to discover what it was.
It was too cold to sit at the table, so I gathered my diary and notebooks and returned with them to bed. I started by thinking about the picture, looking again at my original description of it at Marlborough House, and searching for some significance to the missing figure; but, try as I might, I could not find it. I set the question on one side, therefore, and turned my attention to Queen Anne Street.
Why had I dreamt of that? Was it just chance – or was it, as I still felt strongly, even now that I was fully awake, a clue to some riddle? In real life, of course, the gallery would have been quite different – on the ground or the first floor, and lit by windows. Was there a reason for my imagining it in the basement? Or had my mind merely somehow confused it – as is the way with dreams – with Sandycombe Lodge, and Walter’s experience there? Certainly, that might explain my sense of anger and frustration: for my unease with Walter dates from that moment, when – for the first time – he appeared like a stranger, and refused to confide in me. (And, if I am quite honest, I must acknowledge that it was the day, too, when I first discovered feelings in myself that I could not confide to him.)
I found the notes I had taken during my interview with Miss Fletcher, and laid them side by side with Haste’s account of his meeting with Calcott. On a first reading, I could see only one connection: the fact that – according to Miss Fletcher – Turner’s father had travelled from Twickenham to Queen Anne Street every day to take care of the gallery.
Why should that matter? I could not imagine. I read through it again, and was on the point of giving up, when I noticed the dates.
Miss Fletcher says Turner moved to Sandycombe Lodge in 1813.
Haste says that in 1813 Turner had only recently moved to Queen Anne Street.
So: he moved to two houses at almost the same time.
And then it struck me – with a sudden rush, like stones dislodged from a river-bank – that this was not an isolated incident, but part of a broader pattern. For when Turner died, had he not been living in Chelsea, but maintaining Queen Anne Street as well, and trying to persuade the world that he lived there? And as a young man – if the disgruntled engraver Farrant was to be believed – did he not keep a house in Harley Street, and another in Norton Street, to which he repaired in secret?
Of course, there are families that have a house in town, where they come for the season, an
d another in the country; but Turner had no family (save for his father), and did not live in that way. For most of his life, moreover, both the houses he kept were in town – for Sandycombe Lodge was the only one that might truly be considered rural.
What, then, of women? Is it not customary for a man to install his mistress in her own establishment? Might that not be the explanation?
For Norton Street, perhaps. And possibly for Chelsea, although it is difficult to see Mrs. Booth, for all that she and Turner were not married, in the character of a ‘mistress’. But not, certainly, for Twickenham; for there – Miss Fletcher was categorical on this point – there was no-one in the house but Turner and Old Dad. It is hard to avoid the impression that this tendency to live in two places at once was not merely a response to the particular circumstances of the moment, but sprang from some deeper impulse.
And what might that be? A desire to remain enigmatic – to prevent people from knowing precisely where you are?
Too fanciful? Think of Sir Charles’s story about Turner’s visit to Belgium. Would not his behaviour on that occasion fit perfectly with such an explanation?
I have no idea whether it is important, or even what it means, but I cannot deny a feeling of satisfaction that I have at last discovered something.
Sunday
At church this morning prayed for Haste, for his poor son, and for Lady Meesden. Nothing to sully the purity of my motives now.
Tuesday
Last night I was too tired even to think about writing my diary, so this entry must serve for yesterday. A day, I have to say, that I have no desire to relive, for it evokes in me nothing but feelings of weariness and frustration and unease – but relive it I must, else I shall forget the details.
The Kingsetts live in one of those large, thick-porticoed new stucco houses north of Hyde Park that look as if they have been made out of icing, and will melt entirely away at the first sign of rain. Outside, everything square-edged and dazzling white; inside, by contrast, all drapery and gloom, and glum-faced servants tip-toeing about so quietly you would think they feared a sudden noise might bring Lady Meesden back from the dead, and provoke some unpardonable breach of etiquette. When at length Mrs. Kingsett appeared, and spoke to me in a normal voice, it sounded indecently loud.
I’ am glad to see you again, Miss Halcombe,’ she said simply, as we shook hands. The skin about her eyes was grey and swollen, and her black dress made her appear deathly pale, but she managed a small smile, in which there was a glimmer of real warmth – and even, I thought (though I could not then imagine why) something akin to relief.
‘This is very kind of you,’ I said.
She shook her head quickly, as if even so slight an acknowledgement of her distress might threaten her composure, and touched my arm.
‘I wasn’t sure where to put you,’ she said, starting to lead me back into the hall. ‘But in the end I decided you’d be most comfortable in the library.’
But she was wrong. I knew it the instant we crossed the threshold: this was a foreign country. The atmosphere was both chilly (for although the fireplace was the size of a small Grecian temple, the pitiful little heap of coals in it would not have heated a bedroom) and stifling, with a dense pall of stale cigar smoke that hung in a marble haze before the half-curtained window, and made it almost impossible to breathe. In the centre of the room was a square table covered in a baize cloth, and strewn with newspapers and cigar-boxes and an open copy of Punch. There were, indeed, books lining the walls, but they looked so stiff and formal and unused that it was difficult to avoid the impression that they were as much strangers to the real life of this gentlemen’s club world as I was, and that they had been kept merely for decoration, or to justify retaining the name ‘library’ for what was, in effect, now a smoking room.
Perhaps Mrs. Kingsett sensed my hesitation, for she said, almost apologetically:
‘It’s not ideal, I’m afraid – but you’ll understand, I know, that in the present state of affairs it’s difficult to arrange everything as –?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But shall I not be in your husband’s way?’
‘It is at his insistence,’ she said, so softly that the words came out as a startling snake-like hiss. I glanced towards her: the muscles in her jaw were tight and bulging, and she clutched at her own wrist, as if trying to steady herself. And then, in an instant, she relaxed again, and said more loudly:
‘I’m sure, though, that you’ll do well enough here.’
She guided me towards the far end of the room, where a small table and chair had been placed next to the window. Behind them stood a lit standard lamp, and on the floor beside them were two long drawers, filled almost to overflowing with papers, which had simply been removed wholesale from a large chest. As I approached, I felt Mrs. Kingsett falling behind; and when I turned I saw that she had stopped and was staring at the floor, as if she feared even the sight of her mother’s correspondence would be too painful.
‘I’ve made no attempt to organize them, I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘Would you like me to try?’ I said. ‘I could at least arrange them chronologically.’
‘That would be kind,’ she said dully. ‘Though it might be rather a waste of your time. Mauritius thinks we should just burn them.’
‘Oh, no!’ I cried, before I could stop myself. I should not, of course, have offered an opinion at all, for this was, in the eyes of the world, a matter for her family alone; but I was truly appalled at the idea of such wanton destruction, and no less so that such a spirited woman should feel – as the hopeless resignation in her voice suggested she did – that she must accept it merely because it was the wish of her husband. It was, after all, only three months since we had met at Marlborough House – and then it had been she who had seemed in control, and he who had been obliged to accommodate himself – however grudgingly – to her wishes. Had the death of her mother not only left Mrs. Kingsett grief-stricken, but also (in some obscure way I could not begin to understand) shifted the balance of power between them in her husband’s favour?
‘At all events, I hope you will find them of some use,’ she said, in the same flat tone, edging towards the door, as if I had again raised an unwelcome subject, and she was anxious to make her escape. ‘Do ring if you need anything.’ And then, with a perfunctory wave at the bell-pull by the fireplace, she was gone.
I sat down, feeling suddenly alone and dreadfully exposed, like the girl in a fairy story who finds herself in the giant’s castle, and fears he may return at any moment. Irrational though I knew it to be – for had he not, according to his wife, proposed this arrangement himself? – I could not rid myself of the idea that he would be angry if he found me here, and angrier still if he caught me reading his mother-in-law’s correspondence. It must have been a full minute before I finally mastered myself, and reached into the nearest drawer (still, I must confess, with the uneasy sense that I was trespassing), and took out a thick sheaf of papers.
The next moment, my anxiety vanished – or rather, it was temporarily dulled, as diversion may dull a toothache, by more urgent emotions – for there, in my hand, was a note from Leigh Hunt; and another from Lord Alvanley; and three or four from people I had never heard of, but supposed to be equally eminent; and an order of service for the coronation of King William. Scattered among them, to be sure, was a good deal of duller matter, such as you would find in anyone’s effects – lawyers’ letters, and bills of sale, and a folded page from The Times, on which I could see nothing of interest at all – but it served only to show off the gems to better advantage, and make them seem all the more brilliant.
My fingertips tingling, like those of a child trying a lucky-bag at a fair, I put my hand in again, and felt, beneath the scattering of loose sheets strewn across the surface, three or four tightly bound bundles. These, presumably, were what Lady Meesden herself must have considered her greatest treasures. Trembling, I took one up at random, and set it on the table before me.
It was bound in faded red ribbon of the kind used on legal documents, and consisted of about forty letters, all in the same hand. The most recent, at the top, was dated 1823; the earliest, at the bottom, 1802. Those in between were not evenly spaced, but grouped in little clusters: 1804, 1806, 1809, 1811. It surprises me, now, that I did not pay more attention to this irregular distribution, and wonder what it might mean; but I was too occupied with trying to guess the writer’s identity. Most of the letters were signed merely ‘Caro’; but as I reached the last few I found two or three that bore the name ‘Caroline Bibby’ – and one, written in 1803, that ended: ‘I cannot tell you how eagerly I look forward to next week; when I may at last sign myself, not merely your true friend, but your loving sister.’ There was nothing to indicate what, exactly, had occurred the following week; but from that expression, and the solicitous tone of the rest of the letter, I could only assume that it must have been Lady Meesden’s wedding, and that Caroline Bibby had been Lord Meesden’s sister.
I took out my notebook, laid my pencil beside it, and picked up the first letter. It was my firm intention merely to cast my eye over each page in turn, and to pause only when I saw a direct reference to Turner, but after two minutes I had been waylaid into reading and relishing every word. Here, at last, was the breezy world I had hoped to find in Haste – of rides in the park and boat-trips to Greenwich; of breakfast parties and assembly-room balls; of soirees crowded with French emigres, and ageing macaronis, and noble bankrupts, and pinks of the ton so tightly squeezed into their breeches that they could barely sit down, and could only hobble away discomfited when their dress was criticized, or they were worsted in repartee – and all described with the most engaging simplicity and charm. Within the space of a single day, Caro (from the beginning, I could not think of her by any other name, and soon imagined that she was my friend, and all this written for my amusement!) plays whist with a countess who loves nothing but dogs and gambling, and will not go to bed, but sleeps wherever she happens to be when she dozes off, so the servants have no idea where they will find her in the morning; calls on an old man with a rouged face and diamonds in his wig, who collects snuff-boxes, and tries to persuade her to return that night for an assignation in his gargonniere; and then, on her way to the theatre, is stopped by a stone-throwing mob in Westminster, who think her carriage is Lord Castlereagh’s, and when they discover their mistake chalk ‘Liberty’ on the doors. And yet nothing seems to spoil her, or shock her, or ruffle her good humour.