The Dark Clue (36 page)

‘And there they must stay,' said Mr. Haste. ‘Unless our fortunes mend.'

‘And is there any prospect of that?' I asked, conscious, as I did so, that I was weakening my own bargaining position, but unable to harden my heart and affect complete indifference, as perhaps a man might have done.

‘Not if … certain men have their way,' he said, with a grimace that was almost a smile, though a bleak and cheerless one. He waved towards the pile of papers on the table. ‘But they shall not take my hope, as they took my father's.'

‘What
is
that?' I said.

‘A new venture.'

‘A magazine?'

He nodded. ‘They will try to silence me, as they have before. But even if they succeed, it will not be for long. I shall merely start another. And then another, if necessary. And another.'

Was this madness, or the heroic fortitude of a wronged man? I could not tell; and was so curious that – fearful though I was that it might only provoke a torrent of imagined grievances and fantastical allegations – felt I must try to discover more.

‘What is the subject?' I said cautiously.

‘Oh, my subject! My subject is always the same, Miss Halcombe. Folly and dishonesty and corruption.' He gave a sharp barking laugh, more like a cry of pain than of merriment. ‘It is my destiny, it seems, to fight against them until I die.'

Mad he might be – and if, as seemed to be the case, he numbered Sir Charles Eastlake amongst his ‘foolish' and ‘corrupt' enemies, then mad he most undoubtedly was – and yet I could not but feel a certain admiration for his courage and determination in the face of adversity, as well as a natural sympathy for his unfortunate circumstances.

‘Very well,' I said, smiling as graciously as I could. ‘I agree to your terms.'

His face immediately relaxed, and took on a quite different demeanour, in which relief and triumph seemed equally mixed.

‘Where is the diary?' I asked.

He pointed to six uneven volumes on the top shelf of the bookcase. I calculated that it would take me about a day to read rapidly through each, and to place a mark where I found anything of interest; and then perhaps another two or three to transcribe the passages I had selected for Walter. To be charitable (and also, I confess, to avoid the embarrassment of asking for change) I took a sovereign from my reticule and held it out to him.

‘Here,' I said. ‘I will take them for ten days.'

'Take!?'
he said, suddenly reverting to his bullying. ‘You cannot
take
them, Miss Halcombe. You must read them here.'

It was outrageous – unreasonable – out of the question; and yet I knew I had brought it on myself by being kind to him, and so encouraging him to think he could take further advantage of me. It was time, however apprehensive and reluctant I might feel, for me to stand firm.

‘No,' I said. ‘Where would I work?'

‘I will find you a table and chair, and put them downstairs.'

‘You have scarce enough furniture for yourself,' I said. ‘And what' – I started to laugh, with a confidence I did not feel – ‘what if the bailiffs come?'

He shook his head, and made to protest; but before he could speak I went on:

‘Besides, how shall I keep warm?'

‘I'll buy coals – you must give me extra for coals,' he said; but the bluster in his voice was already being undermined by an edge of dreadful eagerness, which threatened at any moment to degenerate into outright pleading.

‘Mr. Haste,' I said. ‘I am not going to work in this house. I came here today in good faith, and have made what I believe is a generous offer. I'm afraid you must take it or leave it.'

‘They are all I have!' he said pitifully, snatching the handkerchief from his knuckles and winding and unwinding it frenetically around his index fingers in consternation. The back of his hand, I noticed, was covered in little scabs, as if he had scraped it with a brick.

‘What is it that concerns you?' I said. ‘You think this is some ploy by Sir Charles to get hold of your father's diary so that he may destroy it?'

He let out an involuntary gasp, as if he had been struck, from which I deduced that I had guessed rightly.

‘If that
were
Sir Charles's intention,' I went on, ‘and he were prepared to act so dishonourably – which I can assure you he would not – do you really suppose he would have no better recourse than to send me?'

He could not answer, but merely stood staring at me.

‘If you will trust me with them, I promise I will take good care of them; but if that is not good enough for you, then I am sorry, but I must leave empty-handed.'

He looked so desperate that I feared for a moment he would snatch the money anyway, or strike at me in a rage; but he neither moved nor spoke. Seeing the dumb misery in his eyes, I almost relented; but then I steeled myself, and – with no more than a cool ‘goodbye' – turned and left the room.

Disappointment and relief – those, in about equal measure – were my dominant emotions as I began to descend the staircase, and both seemed to deepen with every step I took. But then, when I reached the last flight, I suddenly became frightened again; for above me I heard the sound of the padlock closing, and then the clatter of his footsteps following mine. What if he had decided to try to stop me? I quickened my pace, clutching my skirt in one hand and the banister in the other. I had reached the door, and was fiddling frantically with the chains and bolts, when he reached the first-floor landing and shouted:

‘Wait!'

But I did not wait. I let myself into the street, slamming the door after me, and then hurried to the corner and stopped in front of a house with brightly lit windows and a cheerful sound of laughter and voices within to catch my breath.

And it was there he caught me. I had thought I was safe, and did not hear him approach. I felt his hand on my arm, and almost shrieked in terror.

But when I turned I saw I had no reason to be frightened. His shoulders were sunk in defeat, and the heat and passion had left his face, making it suddenly deathly pale. He held the diaries towards me like a supplicant.

‘Here,' he said.

I gave him his sovereign, and hailed a cab.

I have not opened them yet. What if, after such an adventure, they prove worthless?

Sufficient unto the day. I shall look at them tomorrow.

Sunday

Bad news. A letter from Mrs. Kingsett: her mother is very ill. I may call when she is better, but that is not likely to be for some weeks – if, that is (I cannot help thinking, in view of her age), she
gets better at all. I curse myself for being such a prig at Marlborough House, and so failing to learn more then.

Prayed for Lady Meesden's recovery in church. Of course there is an element of selfishness in my prayers. I hope I may be forgiven.

Still could not bring myself to open the diaries. They are my only hope at the moment, and if they are disappointing I shall fret and be unable to sleep for worry, which will help no-one.

Tomorrow morning. I swear it.

Monday

Missing days – missing weeks – an entire missing decade – and little enough (so far, at least) about Turner. But I am not entirely despondent. Sir Charles is right: if nothing else, I am learning something of the art world fifty and sixty and seventy years ago, which can only be helpful.

And what a world it is! So different from our own! Here is the first mention of Turner's name, on 18th April, 1793:

Dined at the Old Slaughter Chop House with Perrin, then drew at the Academy from 7 till 8. Afterwards, Perrin, Hynd and Larkin came to tea, and we ended by talking half the night. Perrin was much excited by a ‘young genius', William Turner, whose work he had seen yesterday. The boy is not yet eighteen – has won the Great Silver Palette for landscape drawing – is ‘the bright hope of the British school', etc. etc. I said that in that case he must prepare himself for disappointment; for in a few years, when the novelty has gone off, he will find himself neglected, and another ‘young genius' sought to fill his place.

‘No matter!' cries Larkin (who I think was drunk, for he and Hynd had been drinking together; though it made him maudlin and reckless, not merry) – ‘in a few years we shall not want hope for a British school, or for a British anything; for history has set its seal upon us, and soon we shall have come to nothing, like Venice before us.'

‘Oh, what damned nonsense!' roars Hynd, like a red-faced bull.

‘The world's turned upside down, and you're blind if you don't see it!' rejoins Larkin, growing heated. ‘Twenty years ago, who'd have supposed that in so short a space we should have lost America, and the French king his head!'

‘As to that,' says Hynd with a grim laugh. ‘There's heads nearer to home might get the same treatment, and we should be none the worse for it.'

And if Perrin had not at that moment proposed a glee, and at once begun to sing, it might have come to blows.

For my own part (God forgive me!) – only grant me success, and the world may turn, or tumble, or fall about my very ears, for all I care!

This makes me think that perhaps I was right about Turner's
The Decline of Carthage
being intended as a warning to England. He painted it much later, of course; but the impressions made on a youthful mind stamp it for life; and perhaps he never lost the fear which comes from being born into a time of desperate wars and revolutions, when the very survival of your country seems in doubt.

Nothing more of note, then (save for the trials and disappointments of Haste's career), till we come to 1799:

1st December.
An idle day. Did not work as I should.

Met Perrin tonight at Lord Meesden's. He tells me young William Turner is elected an Associate of the Royal Academy, and has removed from Covent Garden to Harley Street, having been assured by his fellow-Academicians that it is a more respectable situation.

It is painful, as I close, to reflect on our respective ages, and on our different prospects; for Perrin says that Turner, though he is but four-and-twenty, claims he has more commissions in hand than he knows how to execute, while I, nine years his senior, and with a wife and children to support, have no commissions at all, and must make up the rent for this very wnrespectable lodging by painting my landlord's cat.

God grant me strength to strive harder, that I may succeed in my great task. And keep me from the sin of Envy. Amen.

Poor Haste. As I read these words, I cannot help seeing the image of his son, and that mean little attic, and the strange overblown painting of Lear, and concluding that his petition went unanswered.

But at least he mentions Lord Meesden! That is heartening – though only, of course, if Lady Meesden lives.

Should I pray for her again? Or do we corrupt our prayers, when we want what we are asking for too much?

I must ask Mr. Palmer next Sunday.

Tomorrow I accompany Haste into the nineteenth century.

Tuesday

All morning with Haste. Sometimes I can scarcely bear to read him, so relentless is the torrent of failures and accidents and misunderstandings. And, to make it worse, as often as not they are not merely dreadful, but dreadfully
comic,
so that I find myself laughing even as I cry, and end by reproaching myself for lack of feeling.

For some reason, there is nothing at all for 1801, save a short entry for 31st December:

31st December.
And what is left but once again to repent my vices, weaknesses and failings of the year past, and to pray for greater strength in the year to come?

Tonight I re-read Reynolds on Poetry and Painting. Poetry, he says, ‘exerts its influence over almost all the passions', including ‘one of our most prevalent dispositions, anxiety for the future'. It ‘operates by raising our curiosity, engaging the mind by degrees to take an interest in the event, keeping that event suspended, and surprising at last with an unexpected catastrophe'. Painting, by contrast, ‘is more confined, and has nothing that corresponds with, or perhaps is equivalent to, this power and advantage of leading the mind on till attention is totally engaged. What is done by painting must be done at one blow; curiosity has received at once all the satisfaction it can ever have

My pictures should rise to this sublime challenge – they should amaze – they should dumbfound – they should at a single unanswerable stroke attain all that a poem achieves in ten or twenty or a hundred pages.

But do they? Alas! I fear they do not. God make me worthier of the sacred cause to which you have called me.

Was not Turner, too, an admirer of Reynolds, and a lover of poetry? Might not those same thoughts have been in
his
mind?

In 1802, Turner himself reappears:

27th May.
This afternoon, just when I had given up all thought of seeing him again, Sir George Beaumont called. To my astonishment, he acted as if there had been no uneasiness or estrangement between us, and our relations were as cordial as ever. On entering my painting-room he stood a long while before Lear; and my heart beat so wildly as I awaited his judgement that, had he asked me a question, I doubt if I could have answered it. At length, however, he made no comment at all, but merely asked whether I had seen the present exhibition at the Royal Academy.

Scarce able to speak – for I was starting to wonder if he might have gone mad – I said I had not; and then, pointedly, asked if he would care to give me his opinion of
that.
He plainly did not understand me; for, in the politest manner possible, he said: ‘Indeed, Haste. There are some fine things there; but I don't like what I see of young Turner and his imitators. They lack
finish.'
(Was I to be denied a certain grim satisfaction at hearing this?)

And then, without a word about my work, he left, leaving me too dumbfounded to call after him.