The Optickal Illusion Page 10

  She did not answer.

  ‘It is ambitious in the extreme. If he succeeds it means we will be even further beholden to him. And if we fail…’ He shook his head. ‘Now as you have seen this afternoon he is already trying to exact his price.’

  Still there was no response.

  ‘You think you are cunning enough to deal with anyone,’ he said more loudly. ‘Yet you are too young to appreciate the extent of the world’s wickedness.’

  ‘You cannot get rid of Cosway as it is.’ Her eyes were mutinous. ‘I hoped you would commend my audacity.’

  ‘If you were a young man I would give you a beating,’ he said as his rage increased, ‘and that would be the long and short of it. This is a truly regretful situation.’

  She looked as stung as if he had truly struck her. Suddenly she started shouting.

  ‘Speak not to me in this manner. It is you who do not understand the way of the world.’

  He was about to reply, but stifled his words – he did not trust himself to speak further. ‘You yourself spelt it out. Only a painter at the Academy would truly want a manuscript of this kind,’ she continued. ‘You have told me often enough that you can only make a good deal if you understand the desires of the person to whom you are selling.’

  ‘I was going to sell it myself.’

  ‘Yet the seller must understand its worth, and I still think you do not appreciate what we have. You would have received a paltry sum that would have changed nothing.’

  ‘Ann Jemima – sometimes this is about worrying what you might lose, as well as what you might gain.’

  She looked at him angrily.

  ‘What price are you thinking of asking?’

  ‘You told me that a Titian itself can sell for anything between £60 and £900. I thought we could begin modestly and ask for £300.’ His face darkened. ‘The President is in a position to pay that. But as you well know, Mr West will only give us his attention if we are recommended by somebody he knows.’

  Mr Provis remained quiet, recognising that her fury was as much at herself as it was at him. She has crept out on the ledge, he thought, and realises there is further to fall than even she has anticipated.

  ‘As for Mr Cosway,’ she said, regaining some calm as she perceived that now he was heeding her, ‘he is – in essence – a coward. A spent old ram who revels in the wretched games he plays. As long as I have a chaperone, I have more power over him than he does over me.’

  ‘That is one risk you have already miscalculated,’ he growled.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I cannot undo what I have done. If he is piqued by what we do now, then he can stop any chance of our getting the recommendation of the President.’

  He regarded her quietly.

  ‘Which is most likely? That Cosway genuinely believes that West will perceive the value of the manuscript? Or that he wants you beholden to him during the time that it will take him to investigate this remote possibility?’

  ‘I do not believe the possibility is so remote. Once Mr West purchases the secret, we will have more than enough money to make Mr Cosway go away, and give ourselves a new life.’

  He sighed and turned away.

  ‘I thought you had the wit to understand this. Never trust a seducer.’ He clenched his hands. ‘And never trust a blackmailer.’

  ‘Then help me.’ He could hear the tears in her voice, but refused to look at her. ‘We have nothing to lose.’

  The thought that ‘In time, we may have even less,’ whipped across his mind, but then he turned round and saw her face and realised the best course was to say nothing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mr West’s betrayal, January 1797

  ‘[We] often take the shadow of things for the substance, small appearances for good similitudes, similitudes for definitions; and even many of those, which we think, to be the most solid definitions, are rather expressions of our own misguided apprehensions then of the true nature of the things themselves.’

  robert hooke,

  Preface to Micrographia, 1665

  As the midnight chimes ushered 1797 into its hurried yet unremarkable birth, Provis found himself thinking of what Ann Jemima had observed about Robert Hooke. ‘She said that when he looked through his microscope,’ he recalled, ‘“he saw a whole new world”. We are surrounded by unseen forces – a drop of pond water can teem with life, while an insect can rival a great monster from mythology. All we need is the right instrument to see them. Oh that such an instrument were invented for human thought!’

  If such an instrument had been developed, he continued to think, what would have been observed just over a year ago when he and Ann Jemima had visited Benjamin West? He recalled, as he had so often, that when they had eventually walked in to the President’s drawing room, the American had looked at them with little enthusiasm. Yet what began as disdainful curiosity on West’s part seemed to change as Ann Jemima talked about the manuscript.

  ‘Titian loved the messiness of paint,’ he suddenly said. ‘He did not confine himself to brushes, sometimes he smeared the pigments on the canvas with his fingers, endlessly shifting and changing the image.’

  He leant forward and played his fingers on the table.

  ‘Many people were of the opinion that he wasn’t a very good draughtsman. He did not create many sketches.’ He paused. ‘But texture. Colour. His mastery of these commanded the attention of the most powerful men in Europe.’

  Provis cleared his throat. ‘A mixed blessing, I am sure.’

  ‘Indeed,’ West replied. The two men exchanged quick glances. ‘To engage with the characters of the wealthy and powerful is an art in itself. But Titian was adept at it. Emperor Charles V, then the most powerful man in the world, was his patron.’ West glanced sharply at Ann Jemima. ‘On one of his visits to Titian’s studio, the painter dropped his paintbrush. Such clumsiness in front of the Emperor would have been an embarrassment for anyone else. But the story goes that the Emperor got down on his knees and picked it up for him.’

  He motioned to Provis to bring the manuscript to the table. Provis felt a sudden tightness in his stomach as he watched the American read. In the corner, a mahogany grandfather clock ticked away the seconds of his nervousness.

  ‘So, according to this theory, there are three key points,’ West declared finally, standing back. ‘The first is the exclusive use of linseed oil to mix the paints? No walnut or poppyseed oil?’

  ‘Only the best quality of linseed oil,’ Ann Jemima replied. ‘It was favoured by Titian.’

  West nodded. Turned the wedding ring back and forth on his finger as he pondered.

  ‘The second is the preparation of the canvas. First you size it with a mixture of rabbit skin glue and Spanish Brown pigment.’

  ‘That is right,’ Ann Jemima replied.

  ‘Once that has dried for three days, you smooth the canvas with a pumice stone. Then you mix the colour of burnt umber with linseed oil and apply it on top.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Obviously the tone and absorbency is crucial,’ she replied. ‘If the canvas is not correctly prepared then you have little hope of achieving the richness of colour you are seeking when you paint on top of it.’

  He nodded impatiently at this latter point. Quickly she caught his meaning.

  ‘Mr West, elements of the method may sound like no more than common sense. But when you combine them, they promise something no artist has achieved for centuries.’

  Provis looked at West again. He saw the amused flicker on his face as he registered the boldness of her assertion, combined with a deepening interest.

  ‘And the third point is the use of this Titian blue to establish the form of the painting and emphasise the shadows,’ he continued.

  He paused, scrutinising her again. Provis watched anxiously for any glimmer of sexual predatoriness, but could find none. Felt the scratch of relief in his throat that West was not like Cosway, at the same time as his mind told him he was disappo
inted. The manuscript had enough merit to sell itself, of that he was starting genuinely to be convinced. But he also knew it to be the way of the world that if West felt even an element of desire for Ann Jemima the deal was as good as signed.

  Out of the corner of his eye he suddenly thought he saw two other people in the room, and quickly turned his head. He discerned, with a smile of relief, that it was the reflections of Ann Jemima and West in the large mirror above the fireplace. He realised, as the beating of his heart slowed, that they were still talking about the technical aspects of the method.

  ‘You say that to create Titian blue you combine ivory black pigment with Prussian blue and Indigo?’ Benjamin West was saying. ‘This does hold fascinating possibilities. He is a master of all colours, but to my mind no other artist has managed to work with blue as powerfully as Titian.’ He looked at Ann Jemima. ‘Where I come from in Pennsylvania there are lakes that on sunny days seem to embody the most intense shades of blue that nature has to offer. Yet they are as nothing next to Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne. The blue of the sky alone in that picture seems to contain several other colours, and yet it is the purest blue you have ever seen. He uses the most costly lapis lazuli as his dominant shade. As well as hypnotising the eye…’ he paused, ‘it displays the considerable wealth of the man who commissioned it. But it is through the sense of shifting colour, in the blue shadows on Ariadne’s dress, in the mountains behind Bacchus, in the modulations of the clouds that the painting truly comes alive.’

  ‘Mr Cosway showed me a copy of the painting,’ Ann Jemima replied. ‘He was not as eloquent as you on why it beguiles so much. It felt to me as if I needed new eyes to appreciate it.’ Provis could sense her mind racing for more terms with which to flatter him – she knew that at this moment West was most susceptible to her persuasions. ‘And ears too, for it resonates like a note played on a ’cello. I could have sat in front of the painting for ever.’

  Provis coughed with embarrassment. She has gone too far now, he thought to himself. Only a mad person would talk about hearing a colour. But while her head flicked round nervously at the sound of his coughing, to his surprise, West was nodding approvingly.

  ‘You are right, sometimes one sense does not seem enough to appreciate a painting. Many of the Venetian artists were also musicians, and debated how colour, like music, could influence mood.’ The gleam in his eyes was that of a teacher who had suddenly realised his pupil to be more precocious than he suspected. ‘I very much appreciate your bringing this to me, this has been a most informative session, most…’ he paused, as if weighing up the words in his head, ‘valuable. I know you said I cannot keep the manuscript, but can we meet again to talk about this. Believe me when I say I am not casting any aspersions on you, but the crucial issue for me at this point is to prove that this discovery is authentic. Certain experiments need to be performed based on what I have learned today. Will you be kind enough to grant me a few weeks before I come back to you with my answer?’

  Provis did not admit to himself straight away that the visit had gone better than he had anticipated. He was too distracted by his concerns about Cosway’s role in the success. Though once we receive the money… he thought to himself. Then he shook his head in disbelief? £500?

  He had been as surprised as anyone else to find himself standing in West’s drawing room. His initial instinct had been to write to the American and distance himself from Ann Jemima’s approach. To ask indulgence for her over-eagerness, and say that these were worthless family papers that should probably have been buried along with his grandfather. To suggest that they should be returned, with nothing more being said of the matter. Yet the more he reflected, the more he realised that no good could come of such a gesture.

  Instead, his keen perception of human nature had led Provis to resolve on another course: to avert disaster by becoming Ann Jemima’s greatest ally. He would develop an expertise in this strange subject, would learn to see and appreciate the document in the way she saw it. He had shared Mrs Tullett’s astonishment at the sum on which Ann Jemima had finally decided. Yet he had resolved it was part of his pact with Ann Jemima that they should charge it as an appropriate amount. ‘If we receive that money…’ He shook his head again. ‘No, the old seamstress was right, though I will never confess it to her.’

  Now that the visit had gone well, each day of waiting for West’s response chiselled away at Provis as if it were a knife. It was two weeks before that first Christmas that he finally arrived on their doorstep.

  Sleet whistled in the door as they let him in. Yet already Provis noted that where at his house he was friendly but removed, now he forbore to show his teeth when he smiled. West asked if he and Ann Jemima could spend a few hours together while she took a prepared canvas and demonstrated the technique in the way that she understood it. He revealed he had spent much time reflecting on what she had told him, but was not quite sure he had grasped the essence of it.

  Yet still he did not offer payment. Provis’s mind was thrown into turmoil. ‘What is his motivation?’ he asked himself, ‘what is his intent’? Yet even viewed through the eyes of suspicion, West’s visit to their tiny apartment seemed to bode well. Provis marvelled at how Ann Jemima talked to West like an equal, and at how charmed once more the President of the Royal Academy seemed to be by her cleverness. Observing the progress of their friendship, Provis suddenly realised that it might be reasonable to expect at least two or three hundred pounds. He informed Mrs Tullett with uncharacteristic optimism that he expected an agreement to be struck by the end of January at the latest.

  But it was not.

  Weeks and yet more months progressed, and still no money came. The bare, shivering arms of the trees along the canal in St James’s Park became covered with spring blossom, which in its turn yielded to a triumphant ensemble of summer foliage. As the sun climbed ever higher in the sky, Provis began to develop aches and pains accompanied by an increasing rigidity in the jaw. West had made his interest clear. What, now, was the delay?

  ‘Let us go and see Mr Cosway,’ Ann Jemima had said. ‘He will have a strategy.’

  Provis’s hatred consumed him like molten lead.

  ‘You know Mr Cosway has done enough. You know that he is more likely to cause problems than solve them,’ he said.

  ‘As long as you are with me, there will be no problem,’ she had replied crisply. ‘West has clearly shown his interest. We have every right to expect the money. There is something beyond our comprehension that is causing a delay. Mr Cosway will be able to explain it.’

  Provis’s hostility increased as he realised during their visit that Cosway could hardly be bothered to look at him. His eyes either locked with Ann Jemima’s as she talked, or lazily roved up and down her figure as Provis put forward his concerns. ‘If Mr West is taking a while to make any payment, I would not concern yourselves,’ he said. ‘He is highly occupied. Not only must he oversee the Royal Academy, he is also in negotiations to buy paintings that have been smuggled out of France. I know, Mr Provis, that you as a connoisseur are well acquainted with the extensive market for art that has sprung up in England since the French Revolution. Some of it reputable, some of it not.’ He sniffed. ‘It is astounding quite how many London residents are happy to display stolen artefacts in their reception rooms as trophies that have been saved from the mob.’

  Finally he looked directly at Provis – Provis stared directly back.

  ‘A particularly interesting collection arrived a few years ago on these shores,’ Cosway continued. ‘It is no exaggeration to say it contains some of the most important works in the world. Titian’s Diana and Callisto, Tintoretto’s Deposition of Christ, a Raphael Madonna.’ He rubbed dry fingers together – with a flinch of disgust, Provis saw flakes of skin falling to the floor. ‘Negotiations to buy these works are of course above board if complex,’ he declared. ‘Benjamin West has made various attempts to secure them for the nation, but there are other powerful buyers who are interested, an
d he faces a difficult task. In truth, you should take heart from the fact he has shown enough interest in the method to make time to come back to your apartment to talk further. In my opinion that shows he has a strong intent to give you the money.’

  ‘The deal is still alive,’ Provis announced to Mrs Tullett. Outside the palace, summer leaves danced in the sun. Yet autumn would steep the leaves in red and orange hues before West finally became more overt about his interest.

  ‘He has asked me to go to his house to create a new painting with him,’ Ann Jemima declared that October. Suppressed excitement in her voice like packed gunpowder.

  Surprise took Provis’s own voice away – he stood there shaking his head.

  ‘He wants us to paint Venus and Cupid,’ she continued. ‘The President of the Royal Academy wishes to create a painting with me so that I can demonstrate afresh those aspects of the method we have chosen to reveal to him. He is becoming obsessed.’ She laughed. ‘It was you who said that anyone selling to connoisseurs thrives on their obsession. You see, I truly have taken your lessons to heart. Now we see that our buyer is truly captivated, there is no limit to the deal we can drive. Our faith in this manuscript has proved justified.’ Her voice became quieter and more intense. ‘The knowledge it contains is every bit as valuable as we suspected it to be.’

  By this point Provis had allowed himself to think that maybe they might receive £400 for the method. Yet October gave way to November, which in turn abdicated – along with its cold wet nights – for the snowy reign of December. West had still not paid a guinea, and now even Ann Jemima’s optimism was dissipating. After her encounter with Darton, she had become especially struck by the way the President of the Academy slipped like an eel in lard away from the question of what he should pay them. ‘He says he must perform yet more experiments,’ she declared with impatience when she returned home to Provis after her third visit. ‘Sometimes he claims he is not satisfied with the colour of the canvas, sometimes he is not convinced that the glazing technique is truly that of Titian.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘It is most vexing. Whenever I refer to the matter of what we should be paid, he either changes the subject entirely, or looks at me in a way that implies I am being vulgar. When all the while it is he who is being vulgar by assuming he can take the manuscript for nothing.’