The Optickal Illusion Read online

  She stares hard at Mr Provis and he stares impassively back, the two of them like prophets at a poker game where only the future has the winning hand. What they, like everyone at the court, can sense is how, even though the King has not been physically hurt, rivers of unease have been sent running throughout the entire country. It is yet another reminder of how thin the line is between monarchy and anarchy. Yet another reminder that what seems to be the political status quo is just another ship on a storm-tossed sea.

  In the city coffee houses Provis has heard both sides of the argument. The pro-revolutionaries regurgitating Rights of Man, the anti-revolutionaries spewing back Mr Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France. Though he normally speaks in support of the King, he can be a chameleon when it comes to expressing his political views. London is filled with people with concealed agendas, and he knows that in these turbulent times a pragmatist is more likely to survive than an idealist. Here at St James’s Palace no one, of course, confesses to reading anything other than Burke. But Provis is a man whose ambiguous approach to life makes it easier to know other people’s secrets – and these he collects as assiduously as the possessions in his apartment.

  ‘The time approaches, Mrs Tullett. Have you almost finished?’

  It is half an hour later. Mrs Tullett’s needle continues to fly back and forth, Provis is reading The London Chronicle, and Ann Jemima is sketching deftly in a vellum-bound note pad. Now she shows her drawing to Mrs Tullett. The seamstress sucks in her cheeks before allowing a shocked laugh to escape her.

  ‘I had no conception of what you were doing.’ She takes the pad and studies it closely. ‘You have made a fair attempt at my likeness, there’s no denying it.’

  Provis stands up and walks across the room. He looks down at the pad to see how in a few swift pencil strokes, Ann Jemima has brought all Mrs Tullett’s quivering discontents to life. The sag of disappointment in the chin, the suspicion scored into the crow’s feet around the eyes, the disapproval ironed stiffly into the forehead are all there. At the same time he can see how the girl has calculated enough flattery to make the picture acceptable to her subject. The coarse wires of Mrs Tullett’s hair now whisper more sleekly around her face, so it has a softer aspect, while an unaccustomed smile tarries on the pinched lips.

  Your problem, child, is that you see too clearly, Provis thinks, but he does not say this out loud. Instead he declares drily, ‘You must be sure this does not fall into the hands of our debauched Prince of Wales. He will be banging on Mrs Tullett’s door nightly to gain admission.’

  Mrs Tullett’s laugh gives the impression of something broken inside.

  ‘I pride myself that I am one of the few who has not caught his eye. Ugliness has its own rewards.’

  ‘I do not think…’ begins Ann Jemima.

  ‘No,’ cuts in Mrs Tullett. ‘I am not such a gorgon here.’ She gazes at the picture again, her breathing slow and calm. ‘There is a kind of sorcery to your talent, young lady. I am not sure I altogether trust it.’

  The brief silence shivers around them. When Ann Jemima looks at Provis, he indicates she should put the drawing pad away. On her face he reads puzzled mutiny before she finally acquiesces.

  Mrs Tullett sits back and displays the almost finished headdress. ‘You must try this on now, Ann Jemima, if you are to be ready in time.’ She shoots a baleful glance at Provis. ‘Mr Provis, you are still most secretive with me. Will you at least tell me which of your associates found you this manuscript you are taking to Mr West?’

  ‘What mean you by associates, Mrs Tullett?’ he responds quietly.

  ‘Do not be coy.’ The resentment in her voice is thinly disguised. Until three years ago she was his chief confidante. When Provis started working at the palace, it was known his wife was dead. Ann Jemima had been living in the country with her grandmother, but after she too died the girl arrived in London, and everything changed between Mrs Tullett and Mr Provis. ‘Many have profited from the black market in art since the turbulence started in France. Your great friend Mr Darton is one of them, and you are another. You think me blind and stupid, but that small bronze bull that fetched you a pretty penny did not arrive in this country through honest means.’ She stabs a needle into the pincushion next to her. ‘Nor did that pornographic etching of a woman by a stove, which you seemed to set such store by.’

  Provis refuses to be hooked by her accusations.

  ‘That was a Rembrandt.’ He frowns. ‘It was not for titillation. I sold it not through the black market but through Skinner’s auction house, and received £59 for my pains. Its new owner values it highly, and keeps it well. As for how I acquired it, when the original owner is dead, and the etching in danger of being stolen or burned by vandals, I see not what the dishonesty is in receiving a painting to find it a safe home.’

  She is undeterred.

  ‘And this manuscript you are going to take to Mr West?’

  ‘It comes not from any of my associates, as you choose to call them,’ he replies with barely disguised vexation. ‘This is a piece of inheritance. It came to me through my grandfather. I have possessed it a while, but did not till recently realise its value.’

  ‘How to paint like Ti-ti-ern.’ The second ‘t’ is hard, the ‘a’ half swallowed, but her tone carries an implicit mockery of any who might dare to correct her. ‘I have not your understanding of art, Mr Provis. But I did not believe great artists took their inspiration from written instruction.’

  ‘I must confess I did not understand the manuscript’s full significance at first,’ he replies. ‘It was Ann Jemima who had the wit to awaken me to it.’

  Mrs Tullett’s scepticism hangs heavily in the air.

  ‘Oil paintings are built up in layers. Like humans, they owe more to what lies below the surface than what is visible to the eye.’ Provis’s stare goads the seamstress for a moment. ‘Any accomplished painter must understand the alchemy of the paints and materials they use.’

  His left hand frets at a button on his jacket. Swiftly he darts a sideways glance at Ann Jemima, almost, Mrs Tullett thinks with outrage, as if for approval. Mr Provis who has never once sought anyone’s approval in the two decades she has known him, a man who till now has operated entirely according to his own rhythms and humour.

  ‘It is science, not alchemy,’ the girl rebukes him.

  ‘That is enough, Ann Jemima.’ Mrs Tullett’s voice snaps at the air. ‘You know to talk in such a way is not ladylike.’

  A look she cannot read enters Ann Jemima’s eyes.

  ‘Have you ever seen a man light a glass of brandy using an electric spark from his finger?’

  ‘I do not believe such a feat is possible.’

  ‘It is a trick performed the length and breadth of Europe these days,’ Provis interrupts. ‘It is a popular entertainment for those who consider themselves devotees of science.’

  Mrs Tullett is about to respond, then thinks better of it.

  ‘The painting teacher my grandmother hired showed me the trick,’ says the girl. ‘He could see I was bored with painting flowers…’

  ‘And that’s where the trouble started…’

  ‘Science and art are not as separate as you might think.’ She comes closer to Mrs Tullett, looking directly at her so she must look back. ‘Once he’d lit the brandy he made me study the flame. Made me observe how the colour shifts all the time. You hold one image in your eye of what it is, but really it is several images – the reds, oranges, yellows and blues subtly change their position every second.’

  ‘I am surprised your grandmother retained this painting tutor when he asked you to indulge in such fancies.’

  ‘A flame takes this principle to the extreme.’ Ann Jemima ignores her. ‘But then he made me notice how the colour shifts in everything. If you watch a tree dancing in the sunlight, or a man walking down the street, you see that while the essential colours remain the same, light and shade play with each other to create different versions of that colour.
’

  ‘I do not understand what bearing this has on the document you want to sell.’

  The girl takes a deep breath.

  ‘Colour is not simple. People have spent centuries working out its secrets. Just making paint is an art. My teacher told me of crushed berries used to create certain reds, of metallic ores, insect eggs, tree resins, crushed lichens, semi-precious stones, powdered woods.’

  Mrs Tullett’s lips twitch. A sly humour comes into the girl’s eye.

  ‘He told me of a paint that comes from crushing Egyptian mummies. It is often used by painters to create flesh tones.’ Various emotions cross Mrs Tullett’s face, but she still will not commit herself to a comment.

  ‘There is also a rare pigment that is taken from the gallstone of an ox. Only a few private slaughterhouses supply it. When ground it produces a wonderful dark yellow.’

  As Provis swings round to observe more closely how Mrs Tullett is reacting, he thinks of other sketches Ann Jemima has made of the seamstress that she will never see. In one she rises, with crow’s wings, so that her shadow is scored against the sun, in another she is a vampire, sucking the happiness from a young married couple. Now he sees that vampiric glint enter her eye.

  ‘Crushed Egyptian mummies, and ox’s gallstones? And you call it science? A century ago, a young lady might have been burned at the stake as a witch for talking of such things.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ The girl looks swiftly towards Provis. ‘But no painter could put brush to canvas without such practices. The best colourmen vie to produce their paints from the rarest sources. And great artists will willingly pay the price for their expertise.’

  She takes Mrs Tullett’s hands. The seamstress is startled but does not resist.

  ‘When I saw the manuscript that we had inherited, I realised quickly that it was extraordinary. It contains knowledge of the science of colour that many thought had been lost to history.’

  Mr Provis clears his throat. ‘In all my dealings in art, I have never encountered this before. But it turns out there is a whole literature on how to combine colour to achieve the most powerful effect.’ A satirical edge enters his voice. ‘It promises miracles – though it does not always deliver them. There is the Roman technique for those who want to paint like Caravaggio, the early Flemish technique for those seeking to copy Van Eyck.’

  The girl laughs. ‘You were my greatest doubter,’ she declares. ‘Yet now you are convinced.’ She holds his gaze for a moment. As he nods, Mrs Tullett imagines puppet strings. ‘Amid all the manuscripts that have been published,’ says the girl, ‘no one claims to know the precise details of the paints that Titian used, or how he used them. It is a kind of Holy Grail for today’s painters.’

  Her eyes blaze as she looks back to Mrs Tullett. Her face in repose is not remarkable – the skin sallow, the eyes small, the nose an upturned bird’s beak. Yet now she is engaged in what she is talking about, the pale blue eyes take on a hypnotic quality – glinting like small seas in the early morning sun.

  ‘If the manuscript is genuine, it provides a key to understanding a genius who many believe has not been surpassed to this day.’

  ‘If the manuscript is genuine. How can you prove it is not mere forgery?’

  Mrs Tullett relinquishes the girl’s hands and steps back.

  ‘I was not altogether certain – my judgement is of course not enough.’

  The force of Mrs Tullett’s contempt is entirely destroyed by the humble answer.

  ‘But I have shown the manuscript to Mr Cosway,’ continues Ann Jemima.

  ‘That man is a scoundrel! I would not trust his judgement on anything.’

  ‘Yet he is a painter of note, and he has judged that it is authentic. It is he who has urged me to show it to Mr West.’

  ‘Whatever his motivations,’ mutters Mrs Tullett.

  She asks no further questions, but gestures to the girl that she should sit down at a small table on which a mirror is placed. Swiftly she deploys a regiment of hairpins, and alongside them the three ostrich feathers that will complete the headdress.

  ‘If you truly do intend to proceed with this venture,’ she says flatly, ‘then we should finish dressing you now.’

  The girl acquiesces. As an act of decorum Provis removes himself to his room to continue reading The London Chronicle while the fitting is completed.

  It is a full fifteen minutes before he is summoned back into the drawing room. ‘There we are,’ Mrs Tullett says as she stands back. ‘Now make sure you don’t catch the feathers in a chandelier.’

  When he had left the two women, the two ostrich feathers already in the girl’s hair were leaning over to the left as if swooning from opium. But now he has returned, he sees that the addition of the third has introduced a symmetry that for reasons he can’t understand has reinvented both Ann Jemima’s face and her silhouette.

  ‘She is…’ he laughs uncomfortably as the word escapes him, ‘perfect.’

  At the pronouncement of his verdict, Ann Jemima gets up from the table and parades in front of him triumphantly. Her high-waisted dress, in the latest fashion, swoops down over a slim figure. Indian-woven flowers climb with abandon across the muslin, while a demure pale green caraco jacket completes the ensemble. From beneath the dress, matching green kid shoes put the finishing touches to this portrait of a lady.

  He, she can now see with some satisfaction, is bemused by what he sees before him. Unable to express sarcasm – the emotion with which he is most at ease – it is as though he’s struggling to learn a new language to express his thoughts. When he opens his mouth next, the words are incoherent – and with a clearing of the throat he stops himself and begins again. ‘I am proud to call you…’ he pauses, ‘my daughter.’

  Mrs Tullett’s scepticism briefly deserts her.

  ‘I do not wonder that Mr Provis is proud. In truth you could have any man you want. You are quite the picture, my girl. You should marry a duke and be done with your talk of painters and gallstones.’ She walks up to her and carefully adjusts a hairpin, with the precision of a sculptor putting the finishing touch to a statue. She stands back again. ‘Or if you must frequent with artists, you could present yourself as a model. Look at Emma Hamilton.’

  ‘What of her?’ Ann Jemima replies.

  ‘She started out as a maid. Then she realised she could make more money by taking her clothes off. She ended up marrying an aristocrat more than forty years her senior. Now she is the toast of Europe. I believe she understands what true cleverness is.’

  Something flares in the girl’s eyes, but she chooses not to respond. Instead she makes an almost imperceptible nod to Mr Provis, who disappears quickly from the room and returns with a red morocco leather briefcase. No word needs to be said for Mrs Tullett to know that it is in this that the manuscript is contained.

  She picks up the remaining hairpins.

  ‘Let us hope Mr West will prove more perspicacious than I about your discovery.’

  She takes pleasure in delivering this in mordant tones – as she speaks, the pins clatter loudly into the small tin box she has brought with her. ‘Maybe he will give you a couple of pounds for your troubles. It will reflect badly on him if he ridicules you to your faces.’

  Provis eyes her caustically. ‘In truth if he offers us no more than a couple of pounds, we will see that as ridicule,’ he declares. ‘We are going to ask him for five hundred.’

  The seamstress’s eyes become millstones.

  ‘Five hundred pounds?’ She looks towards Ann Jemima. ‘Five hundred pounds?’ Her voice soars into a shriek. There is a flurry in the courtyard outside, and a sense of eyes at the window. Provis swiftly moves to close the shutters.

  ‘Surely you jest,’ she says more quietly, looking furtively from one face to another.

  The pair of them are silent.

  Her voice trembles. ‘Enough to rent a good house in London for ten years – enough to feed a family for twenty. Who in their right mind is going to pay you that
amount,’ she gestures to the manuscript, ‘for this, no matter what is written in it?’

  Provis puts on his overcoat. ‘As we explained to you, this is no less than the secret technique of a genius, an extraordinary piece of scholarship,’ he says calmly.

  ‘I know little of such things, but I did not think you could pay for genius itself,’ Mrs Tullett retorts.

  ‘Genius is a more earthly quality than most will admit,’ he replies. ‘There are many who have not been granted the divine gift who will go to considerable lengths to be described thus.’

  Mrs Tullett’s mouth opens, but it cannot give birth to the angry half-formed thoughts in her head. As Provis makes to open the door Ann Jemima goes and gets her cape. The older woman swiftly gathers her own paraphernalia together, starting to jabber under her breath. Then they are out in the cruel, cold air, making their way to where a carriage awaits Provis and Ann Jemima at the guards’ entrance to the palace.

  The low sun of the winter afternoon turns father and daughter into black silhouettes as they climb into the landau that will take them to Benjamin West’s. For a second, it looks as if the ostrich feathers are about to fall out of place, but then Ann Jemima puts her hand to her head and the operation of entering the carriage is performed without mishap. Briefly Mr Provis looks back in Mrs Tullett’s direction, yet the light means it is impossible for her to read his expression. She shakes her head as the carriage starts off, and the click of horses’ hooves marks their progression inexorably into the distance.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The environs of Somerset House, December 1796

  ‘The moon’s an arrant thief,

  and her pale fire she snatches from the sun.’

  william shakespeare,

  Timon of Athens, Act 4, Scene 3

  The full moon hangs fat-bellied over the city. In its light the new Somerset House looks like some great piece of confectionery designed by Newton. White, edibly beautiful, a miracle of geometry. Shadows so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Columns, domes, porticoes and unblinking windows standing sentry to the night.