by James Wilson
I gritted my teeth. ‘And what of it?’
‘You don’t know?’ he said, as if it were the first thing a biographer should have discovered.
‘Well, naturally . . .’ I began, trying frantically to recall what Marian had told me of her conversation at the Eastlakes. ‘Naturally, I realize he made things difficult. By being too mean to pay a competent lawyer to draw it up.’
‘And who is your source for that?’ simpered Travis. ‘Sir Charles Eastlake?’
I could have hit him. ‘In part,’ I said. ‘Why? Is he not to be trusted?’
He shrugged. ‘He certainly has an interest in promoting that view,’ He hesitated; and then, as if he had finally decided he had played with me enough, stuck his cigar between his teeth, and leant forward purposefully.
‘Look,’ he said, picking up the cigar case. ‘Here is Turner’s fortune. Houses, money, and so on. Mm?’
I nodded. He took the matchbox in his other hand.
‘And here are his pictures. Some unfinished. Some unsold. But also many of his most famous works, which he’s painstakingly bought back over the years, often at excessive prices.’ He opened the box, and spilled matches on the table. ‘See. There are hundreds of them. Thousands, if you include the drawings. Now’ – tapping the cigar case – ‘this, apart from a few small legacies, he leaves to charity. To build alms-houses for decayed or unsuccessful artists. While these’ – sweeping the matches to one side – ‘he leaves to the nation. On condition that, within ten years of his death, a “Turner Gallery” is built to house them. Do you follow me?’
‘It’s an undeniable challenge, for a man of my limited powers. But I think I can keep up.’
I had landed a small blow. He smiled and nodded – and even, if I am not mistaken, blushed slightly.
‘But the family – a gaggle of cousins and what-not, whom Turner hadn’t seen for years – contest it. First they claim he was mad. When that fails, they take it to Chancery, saying the wording of the will is too unclear to be understood. After three years there’s a compromise. The charitable scheme is overturned on a technicality. So the family get this.’ He lifted the cigar case. ‘And the nation gets these.’ He drummed his fingers on the matches, scattering them across the table. ‘Only it doesn’t want to go to the trouble of fulfilling his condition.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Why do you suppose? Money. Only conceive the unspeakable suffering of one of Her Majesty’s ministers obliged to stand up in Parliament and propose spending £25,000 on art! But Eastlake’s determined to hold on to them nonetheless.’
‘I don’t see how he can.’
‘By resorting to the most bare-faced sophistry. His argument – he actually had the audacity to say this, can you believe it, to an ex-Lord Chancellor! – is that, since the will was overturned, the National Gallery can keep the collection without having to do anything at all.’
‘But surely – it was only because of the will that he got them in the first place!’
‘Exactly. As the ex-Lord Chancellor did not hesitate to point out. So Eastlake’s in a ticklish situation.’
I nodded. ‘But I don’t see how blackening Turner’s name would help him.’
‘Don’t you, indeed?’ He absently swept the sticks together again. ‘Well, now. Just imagine – for a moment – that it’s not Turner we’re talking about, but the Duke of Wellington. He has made a munificent bequest to the nation, but the government refuses to honour its terms. What would be the result?’
‘A public outcry.’
‘Yes. Questions in the House. A resignation or two. Articles in The Times. Disgrace. Stain on the national honour. An Englishman’s word…
‘Yes,’ I said; for it was undeniable. ‘Go on.’
‘Of course, Turner was only a painter, which any patriotic Englishman knows is a far lesser thing than a soldier. But still – he was, by common consent, our greatest painter. So what’s poor Eastlake to do? How does he walk the tightrope?’
He gave me a moment to answer; but my mind was in such tumult I could not order my thoughts.
‘What view of Turner best serves his purpose?’ he prompted.
And then I saw it.
‘The flawed genius!’
He nodded. ‘If not a genius, then why go to the trouble of keeping his collection? But if not flawed, then how can we justify disregarding his will? Sir Charles, after all, as everybody knows, is a gentleman, and would never do anything dishonourable. So the fault must lie in Turner.’
‘The problem, you mean,’ I burst out, ‘is not our meanness, but hisV
‘Precisely. And not just meanness, either. The man was depraved’ – here he dropped for a moment into a melodramatic whisper – ‘or even mad. So it’s quite legitimate for us to flout his wishes. Indeed, seen aright, it is surely our duty to do so, in the interests of public morality?’
He sounded so cruelly like Sir Charles – had captured so perfectly the gentle melancholy, the tone of pious, more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger pain at the folly of the world – that I could not help laughing. But even as I did so I felt myself starting to fall – as if a wall that I had assumed to be quite solid had suddenly given way before my weight.
’Ergo,’ said Travis, ‘Sir Charles, and his trustees, and the government all have a material interest in what you say in your book. If you present Turner -’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said.
He sat back with a self-satisfied smile, and a little flourish of the hand: VoilÀ.
I could barely speak. It was impossible to think while he was still there. I sat mute while he told me about Sir William Butteridge’s rapture at his swooning damsel; and Lady Emery’s commission for a fresco; and the favourable reviews of his work, by which, of course, he sets no store at all – could I imagine anything sillier than being called ‘the English Botticelli’? Eventually, having exhausted the catalogue of his triumphs, and drawn nothing from me in return but the occasional nod or ‘well done, I’m delighted for you’, he gave up, and left.
Since when
Since when I have been a battlefield.
At first it seemed irrefutable. I had allowed myself to be comprehensively duped. Even my own picture testified against me. It seemed to glower down on me, reproaching my foolishness and pride. In my self-loathing, I could not take my eyes from it.
But then, as I hesitated on the brink of complete despair, doubts began to set in. They started with Farrant. I had not naively accepted his word: I had tested him, quite ingeniously, and found him honest. I was certain I had not been deceived about that.
And then the prostitute’s story: it was unsubstantiated – but quite credible, surely, nonetheless? Did it not square with Hargreaves’ claim that Turner had wallowed in sailors’houses? Had not Gudgeon said that Turner sometimes used the name ‘Jenkinson’? And did not the use of the hood seem fitting for a man so anxious not to be seen, and so incapable of painting others?
And what if someone else had encouraged, or even paid, the informants? That did not necessarily make what they had told me untrue.
For two hours or more I debated – struggled – fought with myself. First one side, then the other, gained the upper hand; until at length my mind seemed to have been trampled into mud, and I could make out nothing distinctly in it at all.
But I must know.
Tuesday
This is a monster.
So I wrote yesterday.
But then I had only glimpsed the head. I had not penetrated the darkness, and made out the dreadful bulk of the body.
But which monster is it?
This morning I tried to work on the Accident, but could not concentrate. No sooner had I composed a figure, or attempted yet another new technique to make the furnace glow, than some word or phrase of Travis’s erupted in my head, and I would suddenly find myself again wrestling with the conundrum he had set me. I knew it was hopeless – that I could not resolve it without further information – and yet I could not leave it alone
. Finally I saw that I was simply wasting my time, and, bowing to the inevitable, gave up the pretence of painting altogether, and turned my full attention to Turner.
But what could I do? There was no point in returning to the woman in Wapping (assuming, that is, that I could even find her), or to Farrant. They would not say who, if anyone, had paid them. In any case, if it were someone of Sir Charles’s stature, they almost wouldn’t know themselves, since it was inconceivable that he would have failed to protect himself by using intermediaries.
What I needed, above all, was an accomplice: someone I could confide in – who would tell me if my doubts and suspicions appeared reasonable – who would help me to form and execute a plan of campaign. The obvious choice, of course, was Marian; and for one lunatic moment it did occur to me that I might tell her everything, and throw myself on her mercy. But a half-second’s reflection told me that it was impossible, and that – however painful it may be – I must accept that our easy relations are gone for ever, and I must act without her – for the events of the last few days have created a barrier between us that can never be penetrated.
Travis again? No – he would only take it as another occasion to demonstrate his superiority. And besides, I could not trust him to resist the temptation of gossiping to his friends at the Athenaeum about it.
Ruskin? For a minute or so I did seriously think of it. But it would be humiliating to have to confirm his low opinion of me by admitting that I needed his help. And would a man so maddeningly vague and discursive be willing, or able, to give me a straight answer?
In the end I concluded there was but one course of action I could take. After luncheon I must go and see Lady Eastlake.
Despite the cold, and the treacherous patches of packed, filthy snow underfoot, I decided to walk. The conventions of polite society, which had always seemed entirely natural to me, now appeared cumbersome and artificial, as if in the space of less than a week I had become a foreigner. I needed time to think myself into them again, and to rehearse what I was going to say. Even in the best of circumstances – and these were very far from the best – it would have been a difficult interview, requiring great tact and perception and mental agility. Somehow I must contrive to hint at the possible existence of a conspiracy, without either revealing my grounds for suspecting it, or naming its probable instigator. I made a little store of phrases: Delicate matter – you will appreciate – questions of confidence – felt I must apprise you. Undoubtedly, she would respond no more directly; but from her manner and appearance as she did so (angry or dismissive? blushing or turning pale?) I should be able to gauge whether or not she thought it likely there was a plot – and whether, if so, she believed her husband might be involved in it.
In the event, these preparations were in vain. Lady Eastlake was not at home. I was already halfway down the steps again, when a sudden thought struck me:
‘Stokes,’ I said, turning back. ‘Did my sister by any chance leave her notebook here last week? It’s small – about so big – red morocco cover?’
He pondered for a second. ‘I don’t know, sir, but I think I may have seen it. If you would just wait a moment?’
He was back in half a minute.
‘Is this the one, sir?’
In his hand was Marian’s notebook.
‘Oh, thank you, Stokes! Miss Halcombe will be relieved. Where was it?’
For a second he forgot his footmanly duty. Smiling, he said:
‘Where most things are in Lady Eastlake’s boudoir. Beneath a pile of papers.’
Beneath a pile of papers.
All the way back to Brompton Grove I wondered what it meant.
Perhaps there was an innocent enough explanation. Lady East-lake had found it in the drawing room – taken it to the boudoir for safe-keeping – put something on top, and forgotten it. It was, after all, a small thing, and she was a busy woman.
But then, when Marian had written, surely she would have remembered?
Very well. It was a servant who had found it and taken it to the boudoir, on the reasonable assumption that it was Lady Eastlake’s. It at once became part of the undifferentiated clutter on the table, and in due course was covered up. Lady Eastlake did not even know it was there.
It was possible.
But at least equally possible, surely, that she did know it was there. In which case, why had she not returned it to Marian? Had even, perhaps, gone to the trouble of hiding it – if not very successfully?
I could not immediately think of an answer, so when I got home I wedged the studio door shut with a chair, and then sat down and opened the notebook.
At first I was as baffled as ever. It seemed to contain nothing but Marian’s jottings about Turner – what people had told her, or facts she had gleaned from diaries and letters. But then, towards the end, I found a long summary of her conclusions. It was so full of false starts and crossings-out that in places it was barely legible, but I could make out enough to recognize the bare bones of the character sketch of Turner that she had sent to me in Cumberland. Eight words, in particular, caught my attention:
Poor Turner.
His poor mother.
Good Mrs. Booth.
Poor Turner. Good Mrs. Booth. If Travis was right, these were not judgements that would please Sir Charles. Too much sympathy. Too much understanding.
And then, suddenly, a whole torrent of thoughts, each more monstrous than the last, squealed and tumbled into my mind like rats loosed from a cage.
What if Lady Eastlake is not ignorant of the plot, but party to it?
What if she is the instigator? What if, knowing how principled her husband is, she resolved to do what his scruples would not permit him to do himself? She is, after all, famously devoted to him, is she not – and jealously protective of his interests?
When she hears Marian’s views, then (which she naturally supposes to be mine as well), she is thoroughly alarmed by them. So that when fate presents her with the notebook, she decides to keep it, in order to see the evidence on which they are based, and so be able the more effectively to counter them.
Or perhaps, if she was that determined, she hadn’t left it to fate. Until now, I had assumed that Marian’s reticule had been snatched merely as a decoy, to lure me to a place where I could be safely captured. But perhaps it had served a double purpose. Marian has always insisted that she would not have left the notebook behind; and certainly there were several occasions when the thief was lost to my view, and he would have had the opportunity to pass it to an accomplice.
At this point, the clamour of the rats abated for a moment; for I had seen an objection. Neither Lady Eastlake nor any of her intimates could possibly have known my abductor or his wife, or any of their intimates; and while it was easy enough to imagine Sir Charles using his power and connections to discover them, and buy their compliance, it was hard to see how she could have done so without running the risk of exposure. Whom could she rely on to act on her behalf, who …?
And then another rat appeared:
What if it were Mr. Kingsett?
Perhaps that is why he and his wife were there; and why Lady Eastlake tolerated his appalling behaviour.
Perhaps that is why he touched Marian, and said Please, Miss Halcombe, the moment before the thief appeared – so that he should know which reticule to take.
I am giddy. I had hoped for resolution. All I have got is more perplexity.
Davidson has just brought me another letter from Laura. I have put it with all the others. I cannot face it.
These distractions are my enemies. They keep me from my work. I must drive them from my mind, and take up my brush.
Wednesday
Perhaps the monster is what I see when I look in the glass.
Two hours last night I tried to paint, but to no avail.
I went to bed, but could not sleep. I felt myself hemmed in on every side. Disarmed. The will and energy draining from me.
I thought: You must act, to regain your po
wer.
So I got dressed again, and went out. I assumed I was entirely alone and unnoticed, but from what came later I wonder now if I was observed.
There was no wind, but the cold took my breath away. It paid no heed to coat and skin and flesh, but straightway touched my bones, as if they were already in the grave, and it were merely claiming its own.
But death at least is certain. Better to walk with death inside you than nothing.
My first thoughts were of the Mars ton Rooms. I should find my musky whore, and get what I had paid for.
But as I neared the lights and crowds of the Haymarket I began to falter. It wasn’t so much the fear of being seen that deterred me -I didn’t think anyone would know me in my present state, and no longer cared greatly if they did – but a horror of the dreadful charade of artifice and politeness. She wouldn’t say: Fuck me for five bob - not in Piccadilly. In Piccadilly there would still have to be preambles: sly glances, giggles, arch comments, drinks and waiters, an exchange of names, a pretence of personal interest. The very thought of it filled me with weariness, and something close to disgust.
Without pausing to consider, I turned south again, and then east into Trafalgar Square. The great blank facade of the National Gallery and the Royal Academy looked as grim as a mausoleum, and as unlikely to yield up its secrets. I raised my hat in passing to Sir Charles, and crossed into Duncannon Street. Ten minutes later I was entering Maiden Lane.
It was impossible to be sure, for the two or three half-hearted gas-lamps did no more than fray the edges of the darkness, but so far as I could tell it was completely deserted. Slowly, slowly, I picked my way over the piles of frozen detritus, looking left and right for any sign of life: a movement, a crack of light in a shuttered window.
Nothing. The gate to Hand Court was shut. The pawnbroker’s locked and unlighted.
More slowly, then. More slowly. Give fate time to meet you.
There was a sudden noise behind me. My heart was battering in my ears so loudly I could not tell what it was. I looked back, but there was nothing to be seen. A cat or a rat, probably, I decided, scuttling for safety.