‘For what avails it that the ingenious youth finds no difficulty, but rather an easy access to initiation in the advantage of a Royal Academy, that he labours there that he attains—if at last he finds a cold countenance his reward, the royal and gracious founder has done his part, he cannot do all, and the art must have the patronage of the many, to protect and support the plentiful crop of real genius that Britain abounds with, and the academy matures.’
William Williams,
An Essay on the Mechanic of Oil Colours, 1787
As ever at Wright’s Coffee House, the heat of debate could be felt from the moment a visitor walked in the door. Bodies swayed and hunched at wooden tables, coffee, conversation and smoke steamed up the windows, while the air was torn intermittently with shouts of derision or cries of assent. Here was an eternal blend not just of classes but of vice and virtue: clergymen could be found sparring with pimps, judges with fraudsters, and pickpockets with boot-menders. It was as if the coffee were a dark bitter oxygen for the nervous spark of ideas, which under its influence took little time to burst into flame.
When Richard Westall, Robert Smirke and Joseph Farington entered, they believed they were the first of their party to arrive. Then they spied their fellow artists in the corner. Amid the jabber and holler of laughter all around, it was clear even from a distance that the men gathering there were prepared to debate something more exclusive. So far Stothard and Rigaud were present, along with a wan hollow-cheeked man whom Westall recognised as the artist John Hoppner. The men’s movements were guarded, their glances opaque. Their eyes animated by the strange staccato light that often indicates that something of significance is about to take place. Sneeringly Westall thought to himself it was as if the bare wooden table around which they sat had become a pagan altar awaiting a high priest to reveal secrets of the occult.
It was the nature of the unremitting rivalry between the artists that none wished to discuss openly how preoccupied they were with the matter that had brought them to Wright’s. When Westall reached their table, he realised they were expressing their excitement in the manner of most Englishmen – by talking of other subjects. It was largely their hands that betrayed their true feelings: fingers tapped in agitation, beat out rough tattoos on coffee mugs, trespassed onto faces to stroke mouths or scratch noses. At certain points the whole table would fall silent, and the men would survey each other guardedly.
‘I heard a most unflattering report the other day about the prisoners the British have captured from the French navy.’ John Rigaud was sweating and slightly more red-faced than usual – the vulgar twitch of his mouth indicated that he was about to make a rare sideways leap into tittle-tattle. ‘It appears that they are often to be found stark naked.’
The laughter of Westall and Farington was splintered, as if they had responded to the cue to laugh but did not know as they did so what sentiment they were approving.
Smirke gazed at him as if slightly stunned by the observation. ‘What do you think that proves?’ he replied leaning forward across the table. ‘The barbarity of the French? Or the barbarity of the British that they keep them in such degrading conditions?’
Rigaud looked at him, clearly surprised by the challenge. ‘Barbarity is not the word, Mr Smirke. And I am the last to denounce the true French – pray don’t forget that my own family originates from Lyon. But it seems that the appetite of the Republic’s soldiers for gambling is such that they are willing, quite literally, to sell the shirts off their backs to raise money for it!’
Westall and Smirke exchanged glances. Farington watched them acutely, as if anticipating the nature of what was to come.
‘I do not know what I would do if I found myself in one of the hellhole ships that we currently use as prisons. Gambling is probably one of the more appealing vices in which to indulge,’ Smirke finally declared.
Westall nodded. ‘It is either selling the shirt off your back or watching your shoes be gnawed away by the rats,’ he said. ‘The stench of human and rodent faeces is so great, I hear, that in the hot weather the putrid Thames smells by comparison like a perfume fit for Queen Charlotte.’
‘Your sympathy is impressive,’ Rigaud replied sarcastically. ‘Maybe you believe that we should be entertaining our Republican invaders at St James’s Palace. Word is that there will be another attempted invasion before the spring is out.’
Farington, eager that there should be no more distractions from the matter for which they had gathered, rapped his hand on the table.
‘For whom are we waiting now?’ he asked.
‘Opie should be with us momentarily,’ replied Westall. ‘Though he has spent the afternoon being tamed by Mary Wollstonecraft, so it is possible he will be delayed.’
‘Most excellent,’ declared Farington drily. ‘Apart from that,’ he consulted his notebook, ‘we of course have Mr Provis. He informed me that he was going to see Mr Cosway just before he came here, and hopes to have him in attendance.’
‘And what of the daughter?’
‘She will not be attending this evening,’ said Farington, looking down. ‘She has gone with Mr Provis to see Mr Cosway, and then she is returning home. I worry that it was thoughtless of me to arrange this meeting at a coffee house. Obviously it is not a place for ladies who value their reputation.’
‘There was no need for her to take that view.’ Stothard’s disappointment blurted itself out more loudly than he had intended – he flushed and looked down.
‘On the contrary,’ said Farington firmly. ‘From the little I know of Miss Provis, she is a young lady of exceptional taste and dignity, and is wise to stay away. Whatever we decide, she will witness our signatures to the agreement.’
It was not only Stothard who seemed to regret that Miss Provis was not in attendance. Sometimes disappointment can whisk its shadow across a group of people like a passing ghost. As the noise of conversation and eating clattered around them, that ghost seemed to touch all the gathered artists apart from Smirke, who signalled his amusement in a glance towards Farington. Farington, diplomatically, failed to observe it.
‘Gentlemen!’ Opie now approached their table. Westall noted that though his greeting was warm, his eyes looked warily between them.
‘Mr Opie – it is good to see you here,’ said Farington. The fondness in his voice was that of a father welcoming his profligate son. He held out his hand. After a quick sideways glance at Westall, Opie came and sat next to him.
‘Now where is Provis?’ Farington continued.
At his words, Provis came through the door. He walked towards them with a look of confusion.
‘Sirs,’ he said, as the artists rose to greet him. His voice came out slightly hoarsely – as they sat down he collected himself. ‘I am glad indeed to see you all here.’ He took another breath. ‘I was hoping to bring Mr Cosway, but he has told me that he wants to talk to Mr West first.’
Farington nodded, while Opie leaned forward, intrigued.
‘I thought it was Mr Cosway who had urged you to approach us without telling West,’ he said.
‘That is right.’ Provis’s face darkened. ‘As you all now know, I have not found Mr West to be straightforward in his dealings with me. But since Mr Cosway has realised how enthusiastically you have all responded to myself and my daughter, he thinks it might be worth approaching Mr West again.’
Opie looked at him in surprise. This is a change of tack, he thought to himself. Out loud he said, ‘It reflects well on you, Mr Provis, that you have decided to give Mr West a further chance to explain himself.’
Provis nodded, but his nod was the jerk of a wooden doll animated by a puppeteer.
‘It was always the aim of myself and my daughter to impart knowledge, not create rifts. If we had been dealt with straightforwardly,’ now his eyes glinted, ‘there would have been no need for going behind Mr West’s back at all. Mr Cosway now urges charity.’ He leant over and placed both his hands on the table. ‘However, I believe it falls upon me to present you with fresh evidence of what appears to me to be West’s deceptive conduct. If – and only if – he can defend himself against this, then I am happy to hear his arguments.’
Opie’s curiosity deepened. Around the table he felt the sense of interest heighten.
He looked once more at Provis, whose outfit was eclipsed by the bright yellow waistcoat he was wearing. It did not suit the man – it emphasised the sallowness of his skin and made him look as incongruous as a canary at a funeral. Rather like his new confidence, it seemed to illuminate the less attractive aspects of who he was. Whereas before he had come over as self-deprecating and intelligent, now there was a sense of festering anger and of his own thirst for blood. Opie’s eyes flickered quickly to Westall, whose expression at this moment was hard to read.
‘Would you like to take your place at the head of the table, Mr Provis?’
Opie could see Farington also registering the new aspects of Mr Provis’s appearance.
‘I thank you kindly,’ said Provis, as Farington moved obligingly to one side.
‘Before we commence proceedings, shall we order sustenance?’ Farington asked, turning to Stothard. The latter beckoned across the room. A boy in a periwig ran over to take his request.
‘Eight oyster and kidney pies?’ said Farington turning to the table.
‘I have already eaten.’ Westall raised his hand.
‘Very well that will be seven oyster and kidney pies at a penny each, and seven dishes of coffee.’ The boy nodded and ran off.
‘I trust all will be happy with that.’
As a murmur of accord went round, Farington turned to a fresh page of his notebook.
‘I shall be taking notes. I know that Mr Rigaud was keen to make a point. If Mr Provis is happy with this, would you like to open the meeting?’
Provis dipped his head to indicate his assent. At his signal Rigaud rose. He clenched both his hands together, and formed a fist with them on the table.
‘I first saw an example of the Process two years ago.’ He looked round him. ‘I believed it was worthy of a great deal of interest at the time. As the first to notice your excellent daughter’s talents,’ he paused, looking at Provis, ‘I feel it to be my particular duty to make sure that she is honoured.’
‘Flatulent fool,’ whispered Westall loudly. Opie tried not to laugh. Rigaud’s glare strongly conveyed the desire to punch both of them. ‘I cannot hear what Mr Westall is saying, but I can imagine its tenor,’ he said. ‘If he does not cease, then I will be forced to ask Mr Farington to request him to leave.’
Farington raised his hand in the air to call for order.
‘Let us not descend into squabbling, gentlemen. Obviously we are all especially worried about the allegations in regard to Mr West’s conduct,’ he said. ‘Maybe Mr Provis should speak next, if he feels he has new evidence regarding this.’
Provis rose and surveyed them all. What does he think of us? wondered Opie as he looked at the resentment on his face. Does he perceive us as allies or view us as scavengers?
Provis cleared his throat.
‘Gentlemen.’ He clasped and unclasped his hands. ‘The first point I wish to make is new simply because it seemed an insignificant detail when I first heard it.’
Stothard bit into an oyster and kidney pie and cursed loudly as a piece of hot offal fell out and burnt him on the hand. His ears flared scarlet as some of the other artists started laughing.
‘Each time my daughter returned from a visit to Mr West,’ Provis continued, looking slightly more relaxed, ‘she would comment on how he often seemed not to be listening whenever she gave him details about the method.’ He looked down. ‘You have all met my daughter – she is a girl who is accustomed to an attentive audience.’
Opie noticed that even Westall went quiet when Provis mentioned his daughter. And he has not even met her yet, he thought to himself. Noting the nodding and the intensified silence round the table, Provis proceeded.
‘We laughed about West’s apparent inability to concentrate on the matter at hand, even though he had invited her over to talk to him about it. But then a pattern started to establish itself. Each time she returned to his house, he would announce to her something she had told him on her most recent visit as if it were his own discovery.’
He paused.
‘At the time she believed his conduct was that of an eccentric old man. We joked about it, I even used to quip “What has Mr West discovered today?” each time she came home. However, in the light of what we have recently found out, I think that you will agree that his conduct takes on a more sinister resonance. It was not absentmindedness but deviousness that informed him. I feel a fool not to have spotted it.’
‘Scoundrel, scoundrel,’ rumbled Rigaud.
‘This is shabby behaviour indeed,’ concurred Hoppner, shaking his head.
‘I say we go to his house now and challenge him,’ said Stothard loudly. At this suggestion, three or four of the artists stood up as if to go straight away. Opie leant towards Westall to comment ‘this is madness,’ but realised that he was one of their number.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ Farington said firmly. ‘It behoves none of us to become a lynch mob.’ He looked towards Mr Provis.
‘Mr Provis, you are right that this is of concern. Mr West must be given the chance to defend himself against it, but I am noting it down.’
‘We keep saying that Mr West must be given the chance to defend himself,’ said Provis, fired up by the artists’ reaction, ‘yet the problem is that he has lied repeatedly. What I have told you just now is just one small aspect of it. I now find it my duty to report a recent incident that gives even more definitive proof of his mendaciousness. It is of interest to you all – since it shows the lengths to which he will go to deceive even those close to him.’
Farington went very still. He pretends not to enjoy this, thought Opie to himself, but he is in his element, presiding as the man of reason over the destruction of a rival. His quill was poised with lethal precision above the page awaiting the new evidence, while his eyes fixed themselves intently on Provis.
‘I question how successful Mr Cosway will be in his visit to Mr West’s house tonight because only two days ago I took it upon myself to visit your President,’ said Provis. Farington’s eyebrows shot up as if suddenly caught by a gust of wind. ‘I can see that some of you are surprised,’ Provis continued, ‘that I myself was at pains to settle this disagreement between us, and hoping much that it would prove to be a misunderstanding. Unfortunately,’ he paused, ‘what I observed made me conclude that my suspicions were right.’ He reached down for his coffee cup, and took a sip of the bitter brew. Grimly surveyed the waiting faces around him. ‘While I was there,’ he continued, ‘he showed me a portrait he had been working on of his son Raphael. It plainly used techniques from the Venetian Method. But when I asked him how long it was since he started working on it, he said three and a half months.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, you may ask, why is three and a half months significant? It is significant, because it dates back to before the time he last received instruction on the Venetian Method from my daughter. I thought he had asked her back because up till that point all his experiments had been failures. If, however, he had painted the portrait before the middle of October, it would have shown that he had already mastered it without her additional help.’
Opie studied his face as he said this. The case against West is beginning to look very black indeed, he thought. Provis had the look in his eye of a man who was about to deliver a killer blow. He looked across the table. Even Smirke was stroking his chin with disquiet.
‘Before leaving the house,’ said Provis, ‘I talked to his servant about the length of time he had been working on the painting. I have learnt from my time at the court,’ he coughed, ‘that it is often entertaining to listen to the different versions of the same events reported by servants and their masters.’ The table was still. Provis took a deep breath. ‘He said it was but ten days since Mr West had started the portrait. Why would he bother to tell that lie?’
The silence was like a hole into which they had all momentarily fallen. Smirke was the first to climb out of it.
‘Well, clearly the lie would be to show that your daughter had no influence on it. Yet we all know that she gave him lessons more than a year ago too. So the lie is ineffective.’
‘That is right,’ said Provis. ‘But until she created the Venus and Cupid painting together with him, there was no proof that they had had anything other than a few interesting discussions. It is their most recent experiments that provide physical proof of how important her – how important our contribution has been. The fact that he denies her help in that painting too compounds the evidence that he is determined to leave her out of his the story…’
There was a surge of conversation around the table.
‘I think it demonstrates beyond doubt that he is trying to take the credit from you both,’ said Smirke loudly.
‘It is proof for me, too.’ Stothard’s basso profundo resonated across the group. ‘What form should our agreement take?’
‘With respect,’ Westall interrupted. ‘How do we know…?’ He hesitated as everyone looked at him.
‘Mr Provis – first I must apologise. I was most remiss in not inviting you in when you came to visit me…’ Provis reddened at the memory of his own behaviour, but contained himself, nodding deferentially. ‘Despite being told much about the method,’ continued Westall, ‘not all of us have seen its wonders.’
He gave Provis an irreverent smile, yet there was an element of pleading in his gaze. It confirmed to Provis that despite Westall’s outward scepticism, he too was a man who would be happy to be convinced. The Chapel Sweeper acknowledged the smile before nodding gravely. This he was prepared for.
‘You have every right to be doubtful, Mr Westall. My daughter and I are strangers to you, and we have come to you saying that inheritance has dropped this document in our laps. A potentially ridiculous story. It is no surprise that all true artists should want to see the proof of its worth for themselves.’ He looked to Farington. ‘I have agreed with Mr Farington and Mr Smirke that once an initial agreement has been signed, my daughter will demonstrate an application of the method in front of all of you.’
Talking resumed among the artists, this time much more loudly.
Westall cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me for pursuing my point. I truly am as anxious that you are rewarded for your discovery as anyone. But would we pay you our money before or after the demonstration takes place?’
Mr Provis drew himself up to his full height. ‘Once again I congratulate you, Mr Westall, on your shrewd line of questioning.’
Farington raised his hand. ‘May I intervene here?’
Provis nodded.
‘Mr Smirke and I have determined’ – Farington turns his head towards Smirke, who nods, ‘that we will sign our agreement with the Provises before the demonstration, but will only put down payment after it has taken place. I take it you are content with that, Mr Provis.’
A look of faint wariness crossed Provis’s face.
‘The payment will come immediately after the demonstration?’
He tried to deliver the question with levity, but Opie could sense the white heat of the words.
‘Once the agreement has been signed,’ said Farington firmly, ‘there will be no delay in the handing over of the money.’
‘The demonstration can take place at my house,’ said Opie loudly. It was his first contribution to the discussion, but one he had decided on before entering the coffee house. Amid the growing hysteria he felt that it would be better for the Provises to make their case at his residence than, say, at Farington or Rigaud’s house. Allow them to keep some distance from the salivating wolves.
All heads turned towards him in slight shock.
Provis, however, nodded firmly. ‘That would suit us very well.’
He stared directly at Opie. Among the other artists there was a feeling of discomfort, like pins and needles in the air.
‘Well, I am perfectly happy with that if Mr Provis is,’ said Smirke briskly, to break the awkward atmosphere. ‘Are we all happy?’
A grudging ‘Aye’ rose up from round the table.
‘Have we arrived at the stage where we are all ready to move forward?’
The ‘Aye’ rose up again, more loudly this time. Smirke caught the eye of the boy in a periwig and indicated that he should bring more dishes of coffee to the table.
‘The proposal is that the Academy will provide an Annuity for you and your daughter,’ said Farington.
‘That would be the most desirable way to proceed,’ said Provis. ‘But if the Academy as a whole does not vote for the Annuity, we would consider handing over the manuscript in return for your each paying a subscription.’ He looked quickly towards Farington, who nodded approvingly. ‘It has been indicated to me that this might be the most profitable way forward,’ he smiled, ‘for everyone’.
As the conversation round the table started up again, Farington raised his hand to indicate he wanted to speak.
‘The sum, gentlemen, we want to convey to Mr Provis and his daughter, howsoever it may be reached, shall be £600.’ He looked towards Provis, who nodded gravely. ‘I know there was a time when the proposed figure was £1,000. Much as I would love to be able to give that money to the Provises, I feel that this is a more realistic figure, and I am pleased that following an earlier conversation, Mr Provis has agreed. In return for our money, not only will Mr Provis give us the secret, but he will also assure us that he and his daughter will not communicate its details to anyone who has not paid their share.’
‘Hear,’ called out Stothard and Westall. The others applauded.
Farington sat back. ‘Do I have everyone’s agreement then that I shall go to the engraver and charge him to draw up a document that shall incorporate all of this?’
Another chorus of assent.
‘Then for now our business is concluded.’
But it is just beginning, thought Opie to himself as the surge of noise signalled that the formal part of the evening was over. He watched the artists taking it in turns to go up to Provis, slapping him on the back and complimenting him, and noted how Provis was somewhat overwhelmed by their obsequiousness.
‘They are like impatient pups on an old bitch’s teats,’ Westall laughed to him as he watched.
‘And you are as an impatient a pup as any of them,’ Opie returned.
Westall raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t claim you are entirely insensible. A beautiful girl. The promise of a technique that might actually work.’ A wicked grin grew across his face as he stared at Opie. ‘You are as tantalised as any of us. Why else are you offering to host the demonstration?’
‘You know not of what you speak,’ replied Opie, staring at Westall. ‘You play the wise man and sound like a fool.’
He looked to the other end of the table and saw that Farington had now got Provis’s hand firmly in his grasp.
‘Shall we bid farewell to Mr Provis before he is devoured,’ he continued wryly. ‘Then we can repair to the Globe Tavern?’