The Dark Clue (44 page)

The idea holds, I think, when we turn to the Royal Academy. Surely his concern for its affairs and traditions, and the deep (if eccentric) seriousness with which he took his obligations as a teacher there, suggest that he felt bound to it by ties far stronger than mere self-interest – as if it were his fellow-practitioners, rather than his parents and uncles and cousins, who constituted the body which most profoundly defined him, and which commanded his most abiding loyalty?

We know that – whether or not he liked them, and whether or not he admired their work – he refused to criticize other artists, and so inflict on them the pain he had suffered himself. Such heroic restraint – which must have been immensely hard to maintain in the gossipy, back-biting, hothouse atmosphere of the Academy – is surely consistent with the idea that he viewed them more as relations (the tiresome aunt we loathe, but must nonetheless tolerate for the sake of family unity) than as professional rivals?

To whom do we leave our possessions? To our families.

Did not Sir Charles say that Turner's will left his ‘children' to the nation, and his fortune to provide for his ‘brother' artists in distress?

Such despair. Such loneliness. Such bitterness. Such devotion. Such meanness. Such generosity.

Such hope that he might at length be understood.

To take such a man, at the end of his days, and by patience and kindness and devotion to overcome his suspicion, and penetrate the dark thickets that have grown up about his heart, and free the love imprisoned there – that is no mean achievement.

Poor Turner.

His poor mother.

Good Mrs. Booth.

Wednesday

An idle morning. Tired from yesterday.

This afternoon Elizabeth Eastlake called, to ask after my health. My mind was still full of Turner; and so eager was I to put my conclusions to the test that I thoughtlessly started to tell her about them over tea. By the time I realized how foolish I was being, it was too late to stop; and I blundered on, desperately hoping I could still somehow avoid the trap that I had created for myself.

But no sooner had I finished than she drew me into it. Giving no indication of whether or not she agreed with what I had said, she asked:

‘These are your views, or your brother's?'

‘Both of ours,' I said, having already decided that this was the lesser of two evils. ‘But predominantly his, naturally.'

In reality, of course, Walter has not even heard them yet; and – as I am only too uncomfortably aware – may well disown them when he has. But the only alternative would have been to claim them entirely as my own, and so risk suggesting that the book's central conception – if he
does
accept them – is more mine than his, which would be a devastating blow to his pride.

I am not sure, even so, that she believed me; for she searched my face intently, and there was a caustic edge in her voice as she said:

‘Well, he
has
certainly made great progress since we last spoke. Remarkable to think that it came merely from sitting in Cumberland, and reflecting. Something in the air, perhaps.' She smiled. ‘At all events, please give him my congratulations, and tell him
this is exactly what I had hoped for. Perhaps you and he would care to come to dinner with us next week, and discuss his ideas further?'

It cannot be helped – we must go, and he must make a good impression; or Lady Eastlake will lose confidence in him, and the whole undertaking will be jeopardized at precisely the moment we begin to make headway.

As soon as she had gone, I settled down and wrote to him, saying he must come back.

A small but disquieting epilogue. Davidson had taken the letter to the post, and I was heeding Dr. Hampson's advice by taking a rest after my exertions, when I heard the doorbell ring. It seemed late for someone to be calling, but I got up and readied myself to receive a visitor. After a minute or two Mrs. Davidson came in, and began making up the fire.

‘Who was that at the door just now?' I said.

‘A woman, miss.'

I waited for her to go on, but she merely busied herself making a good deal of unnecessary racket with the poker. At length I said:

‘What kind of woman?'

She hesitated, and swallowed noisily. ‘Not what you'd call respectable, miss. And nervous.'

‘What did she want?'

‘She wanted to see Mr. Hartright,' she said, so quietly I could scarcely hear her.

‘Why?'

‘She would not say, miss.' She turned, and her eyes briefly met mine, as if she hoped I would see the disapproval in them, and so spare her the necessity of putting it into words. ‘Except to Mr. Hartright.'

‘Is she still there?' I said, moving towards the door. ‘Let me see her.'

‘I sent her away, miss. I did not think you should be disturbed.'

But I am disturbed. I cannot help it. Six months ago I should have assumed she
was
simply some poor wretch Walter had helped, and thought no more about it. But now …

But it is no use dwelling on it. We must get this book finished, and out of the way – and pray that we can do so without causing lasting damage to our own lives.

XLIV

Memorandum of a letter from Walter Hartright to
Mr. Elijah Nisbet, 1st December, 185-

1. May remember we met when locomotive broke down near Leeds.

2. Very kindly suggested might call to see your Turners.

3. Shall be passing through Birmingham
en route
to London next week. May I accept invitation then?

XLV

Letter from Walter Hartright to Marian Halcombe,
1st December, 185-

Limmeridge,
Friday

My dear Marian,

You are a marvel! To have made such astonishing progress, in less than two months!

Unfortunately, I shall not be able to return in time for the proposed dinner on Monday. I realize this may place you in a difficult situation, and I am sorry for it; but since I had not heard from you for so long (please do not take this as a criticism – I can quite see that it would have been impossible to write, when you have been so occupied), I naturally had no idea of what, if anything, you had discovered, and no inkling that you might have made plans involving me. I have, in consequence, been pursuing my own independent research, which I fear obliges me to stop in Birmingham on my way back to town. Would it be possible, do you think, to postpone our engagement with the Eastlakes for a few days?

With love from your devoted brother,

Walter

XLVI

Letter from Walter Hartright to Laura Hartright,
4th December, 185–

Heaven knows where,
Monday

My dearest love,

See! I am being as good as my word! – though with some difficulty, I must confess – the train lurches from side to side like a ship at sea – can only put pen to paper in half-second when it is equidistant between the two. But now or never – for when we arrive at Willenhall (shortly) must go directly to the inn, and thence to Mr. Nisbet's. So please forgive brief note. More tomorrow, I promise.

Meanwhile – don't be anxious about me. I am well. I have forgotten nothing. I love you.

Walter

XLVII

From the journal of Walter Hartright, 4th December, 185-

The rest can wait for my letter, but this, I know, would upset her.

When he came in from seeing the poor fellow, Nisbet was clearly shocked – his face pale beneath the smudges of soot, his left hand grasping his right wrist, as if for support. He looked out of the window at the vision of hell beyond; and then steadied himself, and shrugged, and turned back towards me.

‘The price of Progress,' he said. ‘Everything has its price.' He nodded, as if this catechism had restored his faith. ‘Turner knew that. Now, will you take a glass of wine, Mr. Hartright?'

XLVIII

Letter from Walter Hartright to Laura Hartright,
5th December, 185–

A little past Rugby,
Tuesday

My dearest love,

The North-Western Railway, thank God, is kinder to correspondents than the Birmingham and Derby. My writing-box stays on my knee (most of the time) of its own volition; the pen makes only occasional unauthorized forays across the paper; and my elbow even has the luxury of unimpeded movement, thanks to the seat next to mine being empty. All in all, in fact, aside from the cold, I'm almost as comfortable as I should be in my study at home. So here, at last, is a proper letter.

I had always supposed that the name ‘Black Country' was a kind of poetical exaggeration, but it turns out to be as bald and literal a description as ‘Canal Street' or ‘Station Road'. The ground is black with coal and cinders – the air with smoke – the very trees and blades of grass are black with soot, with just a flash of green here and there to remind you of their former state, like an old bright handkerchief glimpsed unexpectedly amidst the drabness of a workhouse. Mr. Nisbet, it transpires, is an iron-master; and while his house – a nightmare confection of gothic spires and Tudor windows, standing not half a mile from his works – is barely ten years old, it is already so caked with dust that you can only tell by the close-mesh pattern of the mortar that it is built of brick rather than stone.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, who led me into a large octagonal hall. The walls were bare, save only for a few sombre portraits, and a picture of Nisbet and his family on the monumental chimney-breast. In the centre of the room was a huge table that might have been intended for King Arthur and his knights, but otherwise it was sparingly furnished, with a few seats set against the sides, and three wing-chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of the fire blazing in the great stone hearth. A smoky light filtered down from a ring of small windows in the tower above, giving the place a kind of airy solemnity, like the interior of a church.

‘I'll tell the master you're here,' said the woman.

But she had not gone three paces before Nisbet himself entered, talking animatedly to another man who – from his heavy boots, and coal-stained brown suit – I took to be his agent. Nisbet was red-faced, and repeatedly shook a sheaf of papers in his hand for emphasis; while his companion listened gravely, head bowed, occasionally nodding, and all the time casting his eyes about the room, like an animal searching for some means of escape. In due course, they fell on me, and settled there; whereupon Nisbet paused, and glanced towards me to see what he was looking at.

‘Ah, Mr. Hartright,' he said. ‘I shall be with you directly,' He turned back to the man in the brown suit. Tell him to think of his wife, Harkness,' he said. Tell him to ask her opinion. He must understand – they must all understand – I will not have it.'

Harkness flushed, and stared at his feet. I thought for a moment he was going to protest; but at length he nodded abruptly, and started towards the front door at such a pace that the woman had to scuttle behind him to keep up.

‘Now then,' said Nisbet, giving my hand a perfunctory shake. ‘How are you?' He did not meet my gaze, but merely looked about the hall, as if making an inventory of its contents. After a few seconds he sat down before the fire, indicating with a casual wave that I should do the same. ‘We'll do well enough in here for the time being, I think,' he said. ‘My father-in-law's dozing in the library, and I don't want to disturb him.'

His tone was pleasant enough, but there was no hint of apology, and he did not even pretend to consult my wishes, but simply assumed I should fall in with his. I was conscious, too, that he was looking at me in an odd way, staring at my legs and hands and at the back of my chair, with as little embarrassment as a farmer examining a horse he has been offered for sale. At length he sat back, with a faint air of puzzlement, and said:

‘So, did you work it up?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The locomotive?'

‘The loco-?' I began. And then I recalled the circumstances of our last meeting, and realized that he must be talking about my drawing of the broken railway engine.

‘No,' I said, without pausing to think. ‘I've been engaged in other things.'

‘Yes?' he said impatiently. His eyes started to search the area round my chair again.

And all at once I knew: he was looking for a portfolio. He had assumed I was a professional artist, and I had not corrected him; and now he supposed that I had come here to try to sell him something. Hence his off-hand manner towards me – a manner which I had last experienced, it suddenly struck me, as a young man, when applying for the post of a drawing-master, and which implied that while I was something more than a tradesman, I was certainly less than a guest.

How to explain the truth, without embarrassment to us both? Matter-of-factly, making nothing of it? Humorously, with an easy laugh at such a foolish misunderstanding? I was still trying to decide when he went on:

‘Anything in the same vein? Engines? Machines?'

‘No,' I said. ‘Not at the moment.'

‘Have you then nothing to show me?'

I shook my head. ‘I simply came to see your Turners, since you were kind enough to invite me.'

I had not meant to sound reproachful, but perhaps I did; for he at once said:

‘Oh, of course! of course!' He nodded and smiled. ‘Forgive me if I mistook your purpose, but men in your line of business seldom lose an opportunity to advertise their wares, I find.'

Perhaps, even now, I should have told him what my
real
purpose was, but having just disavowed one ulterior motive I felt I could not very easily admit to another; so I merely laughed, and said:

‘Even Turner?'

‘I knew him only as an old man,' he replied. ‘When he had no need to play the salesman. But even then he liked his money.' He frowned, and thrust out his lower lip, as if making some nice judgement, or recollecting some disagreeable memory. ‘If truth be told, he was something of a miser.'