‘… no knowledge however extensive in the mechanic of colours can make the artist, without the scientific and sublime enthusiasm of genius; but it is certainly narrow to hold back assistance so far as it can be communicated, or to throw impediments in the way of an art which hath met with and merited the protection of the best and wisest men in all ages.’
William Williams,
An Essay on the Mechanic of Oil Colours, 1787
By the morning of 12 January the Academy is in revolt. Each artist has had a different reaction to the Provises’ visit, but as they discuss the problem among themselves the suspicions about West’s conduct become more substantial. It is as if clouds of dust on a dry London street have slowly mutated to grow limbs and horns until finally they become a stampeding herd.
John Rigaud, once the Provises’ greatest doubter, leads the accusations. ‘West brings shame on us all,’ he cries to anyone who will listen. ‘From henceforth a new President of the Royal Academy should be elected every year.’ Richard Westall silently mocks Rigaud’s outrage, but still cannot disguise his delight at the strength with which opinion has turned against Benjamin West. He himself has now carefully refashioned his account of Provis’s assault against him as the act of an innocent man driven to desperation. ‘If West has pushed him thus far without remorse,’ he has declared to Opie, ‘who can say what other transgressions our President has committed without our knowledge? I believe it is not safe to leave him in such a position of responsibility any more.’
Smirke, in a rare moment of indiscretion, goes even further at a late night meeting with Joseph Farington. ‘If the Provises are proved to be in the right, and Benjamin West has deliberately deceived us all, then it reflects very badly on the judgement of the King that he has not got rid of him earlier,’ he says, tapping his cane emphatically on the floor. ‘A few years ago, that would not have mattered one jot, but in these more turbulent times…’ He pauses. ‘I am not suggesting this might bring down the monarchy. But King George might well have to dispose of West in order to make sure that his Royal patronage continues to exert its full authority.’
Even John Opie, when he wakes that morning, is starting to feel the wretched seductions of the case against West. His room is filled with a strange yellowish light that indicates another early-morning fall of snow. As he lies and stares at a spider crawling slowly across his ceiling, he reflects, like the other artists, on the severity of the accusations. At the same time he ponders that it is not this that disturbs him most. In the last week he has felt his most intense anger when observing each fellow artist’s attempts to claim the Provises as their own. There is a stench of greed to all of this, he mutters to himself. Every single one of them harbours an agenda. The stench was particularly strong when he conversed with Farington. ‘We must secure the Venetian Secret so only the appropriate people may see it,’ Farington declared, holding Opie’s arm in a pincer-like grip. ‘The more people that discover it, the more its value decreases. We must ensure that the honest Provises go nowhere else with their manuscript.’
Opie’s own impression of the Provises is – as Thomas Provis has observed – somewhat more guarded. In the father he perceives an appetite for self-education and a dignity that convinces him he deserves to be treated with a certain respect. Yet there is something about Provis that disturbs him too, even though at this stage he is unable to say what. It is the same with Ann Jemima. He recalls the moment when she first sat down before him. The girl was so perfectly composed that he almost expected her silhouette to be cut into the air when she finally rose from her seat. His mind has reflected more times than he would like to admit on her silhouette. Yet the thought keeps recurring: ‘She was too composed. Too perfect.’ Why precisely this worries him currently eludes him. Yet his thoughts return again and again to the visit like a tongue prodding where a missing tooth has once been.
Mary Wollstonecraft picks up on his distraction within moments of receiving him at her house. They have gone into her parlour for the latest sitting for her portrait, and she has positioned herself by the window. The stark winter sun delineates the bridge of her nose and casts sharp shadows on her throat. Her white dress amplifies the sense of light. As she sits down, Opie reflects on how profoundly she has transformed from the severe female scholar whom he first met more than a decade ago. Then she seemed to absorb light rather than radiate it. She had just written her first book, and seemed torn between tempestuous emotion and over-earnest intellect. Yet he had liked her immediately, in a more straightforward manner than he had liked any woman before, even as he observed with amazement her crow-like disdain for female beauty and all its accessories.
Though her appearance has softened in the interim, her powers of perception have not.
‘Mr Opie.’ Her voice is sharp. He starts guiltily. ‘You are not altogether present today. Pray tell me it is for happy reasons.’
His laugh jangles wretchedly.
‘Happy is not the word I would use.’
‘So what is it?’ Curiosity like quicksilver in her voice.
He puts his palette and paintbrush down, and picks up a rag with which to wipe his fingers.
‘My fellow artists are in a frenzy. Tonight they gather at Wright’s Coffee House to debate what Benjamin West’s punishment should be for keeping the secret of painting like Titian to himself, and how they themselves may gain access to the method.’ He hesitates. ‘If this report proves to be true, like all of them, I will demand some kind of justice is done. But the reaction of my fellow artists has been…’ he hesitates, groping for the words, ‘I don’t believe it is justice they want done… they are like dogs in a hunting pack – baying for West’s blood with such enthusiasm that it is as if they desire to tear him limb from limb.’
She rises from her chair and removes her black hat. Now the light falls across the skirt of her dress. Long elegant shafts like stripes on the cotton.
‘I take it that it is permitted for me to relax my pose.’
The tone of her voice indicates this is not a question. She walks towards the fire to warm herself. Opie laughs drily.
‘The portrait is utterly contrary to your nature, Mary Wollstonecraft – it does not talk, it does not move. It is the ultimate challenge for me to keep you still enough to complete it.’
‘But this time the fault is yours for providing the distraction. And, indeed, for being so distracted by it.’
He nods.
‘I am happy to accept the responsibility.’
She sits by the fire and indicates with a motion of the hand that he should join her.
‘You are disturbed by the other artists’ reaction. Even though you yourself are angry with Benjamin West?’
He takes a deep breath.
‘I am. If the facts are as they seem, the man has acted like a scoundrel. He should be made to apologise to the Provises, and acknowledge that the girl has helped him with his experiments. But I do not think my colleagues’ real concern is that the Provises should be recognised. I think they are using self-righteous anger to mask their jealousy.’
Her glance is abrasive, but as she absorbs the impact of what he says it changes. ‘Self-righteous anger is an ugly but powerful instinct,’ she concedes. ‘And there is a violence to it. They may not tear your Mr West limb from limb, but he will suffer damage from it.’
‘Indeed he will. They may not be murderers… but perhaps they are something worse.’
‘Hypocrites. Half of them want to deprive Mr West of his job for a crime I believe most would have committed themselves. If any member of the Academy believed he had discovered a method that would make him the greatest artist of his age, well you can imagine…’
He shrugs, then comes and sits opposite her. Reaching his hands out to the fire, he gazes into it contemptuously. Flames dance on the surface of his eyes.
She leans forward.
‘Why are the artists so interested in this formula?’ she says. ‘You and I have talked often about the importance of originality.’
He feels the jab of her provocation as strongly as if it were a needle.
‘Many manuscripts deal with these techniques. The question with all of them is how good the scholarship is. Some of them are like scientific documents, some – which are of course more common – are more like witches’ spells.’
‘And this is more like science?’
‘It is an intricate document of Venetian techniques, from a time when the Venetians were the most brilliant colourists known to history. All the evidence I have heard is that what the Provises have presented seems a most credible account from that time.’
‘Yet you are not interested in the document itself.’
He hesitates, splaying the fingers of his hand on his breeches as he looks back at her.
‘Mr Opie, if Ann Jemima is good enough to demonstrate the technique, why did she take the manuscript to Mr West at all?’
He reflects for a moment.
‘I looked at the painting of Venus and Cupid in which she apparently assisted West. When she first told me which parts she had assisted with, my thoughts were that she was clearly better than any pupil I myself have taught. But then, when I thought back to my first reaction to West’s painting, my conclusion was still more dramatic. I thought that it was better than anything he had done in recent years.’
‘Your conclusion is extraordinary. Are you saying that this young girl has greater ability than the President of the Royal Academy?’
‘If, like myself, you do not believe that a painting method – whatever its merits – could make a bad painter good, or a good painter excellent, then yes, that is the obvious conclusion.’
‘You believe she is better than the President of the Royal Academy?’
Her tone is stern.
‘She is certainly a better colourist.’
‘Forgive my stupidity. What precisely does that mean?’
He smiles.
‘A great colouring technique is one that manages to suggest something beyond itself.’
‘And still I am no wiser.’
‘Well then let us take flesh as an example. A person’s skin and complexion can tell us of so many things – whether or not they are in good health, what their age is, whether they are feeling desire, whether they are in pain.’ She studies him closely. ‘This is not to do with the intrinsic colour of the flesh – it is to do with a quality of translucence, of luminosity…’
‘Forgive me, Mr Opie. Now I am truly confused. Of luminosity?’
He shakes his head impatiently, recognising he is being teased.
‘People who are happy glow. You have seen this. You have demonstrated it. Since you and Mr Godwin became close, you glow. When you were sad…’ his voice becomes quiet. ‘When you were sad you did not.’ He moves on quickly as her expression changes. ‘There is a difference to the way light plays on a young man’s skin and on an old man’s skin. Someone in pain… it is as if something has been leached from them. All artists understand about the subtleties of light and shadow, but the great artists know how to make it convey an entire state of mind – not just what is happening now, but what has happened before and what may be yet to come.’
‘And beyond flesh?’
‘We divine much from shifts in colour in the natural world. The time of day, the season, the advance of good or bad weather. A great artist can go beyond this and infuse those colours with a sense of danger, or hope, or…’
He shrugs.
‘Yes, I believe I understand.’ Her voice is quiet. ‘And Mr West cannot do this?’
‘He is most skilful. Unlike the hyenas of the Academy I believe he deserves his position. But it is in the composition and detail of his paintings that he makes his mark. The face of the child that Ann Jemima painted lived… it lived in a way that I have never seen one of his figures live before.’
He looks directly at her.
‘Then she should be celebrated.’
‘Indeed.’ He hesitates.
‘Then what is the problem?’
He gets up and starts to pace around the room.
‘You will find this hard to credit. But it is she as much as anyone else who denies her ability. I complimented her considerably on the work. But she responded quite firmly that it is the method she and her father discovered that allow her to paint as she does.’
‘Do you think she believes that?’
‘I think it is easiest for her, and those around her, to believe that.’
Mary’s eyes narrow.
‘You mean that it is more acceptable that she has discovered something extraordinary, rather than that she is something extraordinary?’
‘She stands to make considerably more money at this stage if the version of the story she and her father are choosing to tell is perceived as the correct one.’
‘So her desire is for independence.’
‘It is for the certainty that money may or may not offer her. What she then chooses to do with that, you may guess as well as I.’
He comes and sits back opposite Mary.
‘I went to see her painting teacher, Mr Cosway, last night.’
She looks at him archly. ‘You have been assiduous in your research indeed. It is a credit to you,’ she says out loud. Quietly she thinks to herself: and are you also a little in love with her? Opie returns her glance.
‘No, Mary. I am fascinated, but I am not in love with her,’ he replies acerbically as he reads her expression. ‘Though I hope you will not find me vain if I say I had the feeling that she desired me to be.’
‘I’m afraid I do find you vain in that observation,’ comes her response.
‘Let me be more clear – my sense was that she would have found it to her advantage had I been attracted to her. That is something else that troubles me.’
He looks down for a moment.
‘How is the situation with Elizabeth Delfton?’ she asks.
‘There is no improvement,’ he replies curtly. ‘Let us talk not of it.’
Her face hardly changes its expression, but a sense of her concern pervades the room.
‘What does Richard Cosway think?’
‘When I made my observations about Ann Jemima, he was somewhat derogatory about her painting abilities, but not about her cleverness. He said rather than dwelling on such concerns, we would be better off to give her and her father the money and see what we could gain from the method ourselves.’
Mary looks at him closely.
‘Which means that he is either in collusion with the Provises to make as much money from this method as is possible. Or that he too is unnerved by her talent.’
‘Mr Cosway is a strange wounded fox. I know his wife – he belittled her for many years, was flagrantly unfaithful to her, and then proclaimed it was he who had suffered most when eventually she left him.’ Seeing the fire has almost burnt out, he picks up a fat fresh log with tongs, and throws it into the hearth where it spits aggressively for a few seconds. ‘His motivations are always questionable. He has no reason that I can comprehend for helping the Provises altruistically, so it is likely that he too finds it easier to praise the method than his pupil.’
‘In other words the lie is easier to believe than the truth.’
‘You are right, though the degree of that depends very much on each individual concerned. To my mind it is the artists at the Academy who are least talented who seem to be most interested in this matter for the method itself.’ He looks down for a moment. ‘Benjamin West will never become a Titian, nor indeed will Rigaud or Farington. But it offers to them a chance as good as any of catching the Venetian light they all so desperately seek, and is therefore worth money – if not quite as much as they say.’
She stares at him for a moment.
‘Something still further is worrying you. What is it?’
He returns her gaze. ‘I had a sense that Ann Jemima was scared when she came to me.’ The word seems to surprise him even as he says it. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he repeats softly, ‘scared. On the surface she was extremely elegant and composed. She impressed me. But I also had a strong sense of her fear.’
Mary frowns.
‘Whatever the truth of the matter, she is a very young girl challenging an establishment supported by the King.’
‘Yes, but I felt that her fear went beyond that.’
He looks at his friend’s puzzled face, and laughs ruefully.
‘This is a complex enough matter as it is already. But I feel there is more to be known about both the Provises and the method before the final judgement is made.’
‘Yet Mr West is inescapably at fault,’ Mary says, ‘What should be done about that?’
‘He should be allowed to account for his actions before any decision is taken.’
‘So on the one hand you want to stop West being torn limb from limb for reasons that you think are hypocritical, even though he is at fault. And on the other you think there are important questions to be answered about what exactly the Provises believe about their method.’
‘I think that sums it up.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘My intentions, I assure you, are good ones. I would like to see this situation brought to a conclusion that preserves honour on all sides. Though who knows if that will be possible?’
She goes and sits down in her chair by the window again.
‘Shall we try again?’
She puts on her black hat.
He returns to his palette to mix his paint to evoke the precise shade of red in Mary’s cheeks. The bloom on her cheeks comes from somewhere profound – it gives a sense of troubles laid to rest, and an optimism of what is to come. It makes him smile to observe it.
‘I apologise for bringing these troubles to your door. You look more content than I have seen you in a long time, Mary.’
Her dark eyes gleam.
‘Perhaps I should not be. I am, it seems, with child again.’
Opie drops his brush in shock. Paint spatters across the carpet. She holds up a rebuking hand as he leaps down to wipe it with a rag. ‘The carpet is the least of my worries. As you can imagine this has made Mr Godwin rather nervous. I am discovering I need to tread carefully. We do not, after all, want to repeat my last experience.’
‘Mr Godwin is a good man. He will not abandon you like Mr Imlay did.’
‘It would be unfortunate if he did so.’ She smiles wryly. ‘But I have independent means, and Joseph Johnson is urging me to think of a subject for my next book.’
There is an uncomfortable pause. Opie shakes his head.
‘I know not what to say.’
‘Then say nothing. As you observed, I am happier than I was a year ago.’ She looks at him directly. ‘It is strange, is it not – in this city every few seconds a new connection is formed, every few seconds a new possibility arises. One moment it can seem there is more confusion and misery than joy in the streets around you. Then suddenly the coin flips in your favour.’
Silently he indicates that she should turn her head back so that she can resume her pose.
‘So many coins have been flung into the air in recent days. I know not what the sum of them will be when they finally land,’ he declares.
‘Then maybe you should cease to count them,’ she declares firmly. ‘There will be others of which you are not yet aware.’
The winter sunlight plays on her face again – he tests his brush on the palette. The clock beats its metallic pulse, and for the next half hour there are no more words.