The Dark Clue

  The Dark Clue

  by the same author

  THE EARTH SHALL WEEP: A History of Native America

  The Dark Clue

  JAMES WILSON

  Copyright © 2001 by James Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  First published in Great Britain in 2001 by

  Faber and Faber Limited, London, England

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wilson, James, 1949-

  The dark clue / James Wilson.

  p. cm.

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9747-4

  1. Turner, J. M. W. (Joseph Mallord William), 1775-1851——Fiction. 2. Biography as a literary form—Fiction. 3. Biographers—Fiction. 4. Painters—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6123.I57 D37 2001

  823′.914—dc21

  2001045209

  Grove Press

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  For Paula

  and for my mother, Tom and Kit

  with love

  Limmeridge, Cumberland,

  21st January, 186-

  This is a book begun, but not finished.

  I could not finish it.

  Many times I have come close to destroying it, thinking I should have no rest while it remained to reproach me.

  I could not bring myself to do it.

  I have therefore given instructions that it should be sealed in a box, which is to remain unopened until I, my wife, Laura, our sister, Marian Halcombe, and all our children are dead.

  As I write these words, the man whose story I set out to tell has already answered for his life in the highest court of all. Before you read them, I shall have followed him there, and made answer for my own.

  Remember, as you judge us, that you shall stand there too.

  WH

  Book One

  I

  Letter from Walter Hartright to Laura Hartright,

  18 th July, 185–

  Brompton Grove,

  Tuesday

  My dearest love,

  I hope you’re sitting down as you read this, for I have strange news. (But don’t be alarmed – good news, I think!) I’ve no time to confide it both to you and to my journal, so please keep this letter – as you’ll see, I may have need of it later.

  First, though, a coincidence. You are, in a way, responsible for it, for it arose from my mood yesterday, when you left. I was so melancholy at the sight of your dear faces drawing away from me that it was all I could do to stop myself jumping on to the train, and I must own that, afterwards, I cried. Feeling unequal to explaining my tears to a cabman, I decided to walk home.

  As I started west along the New Road, I suddenly saw it, as I have never seen it before, as a scene from hell: the clatter of the horses; the stench of their ordure; a crossing-sweeper nearly knocked down by a brushmaker’s wagon; a woman crying ‘Stunning oranges!’, yet so drearily you could tell she had lost all hope of selling her handful of pitifully wizened fruit, and so providing something for her child’s supper; a boy turning carter-wheels, and the men on the roof of an omnibus tossing halfpennies and farthings at him, and then guffawing as he fell into the gutter. And everywhere a yellow, choking haze, so thick that, even in the middle of the morning, you could not see more than fifty paces. And all the while a stream of tilers’ carts and brick merchants’ drays rattling by with provisions for the armies of new houses which daily carry this new Babylon still further into the lanes and meadows of Middlesex. Even as I rejoiced that you and the children would soon be breathing purer air and seeing lovelier sights, I felt myself alone and trapped inside some great engine from which all beauty, all joy and colour and mystery, had been banished.

  This feeling so oppressed me that I quickly turned off and started to zig-zag through the maze of little streets and alleys to the west of Tottenham Court Road. My principle was simple enough: so long as I continued a certain distance west, and then a certain distance south, I must eventually come to Oxford Street, and avoid getting badly lost. And so it was that I crossed Portland Place (where, all those years ago, my journey to you so improbably began), entered a mean, dusty little court hung with dripping laundry that was already smudged with soot, and suddenly emerged into a street of handsome old-fashioned houses that seemed oddly familiar. But it was not the familiarity of everyday: rather the ghostly brilliance of some long-lost childish memory, or of something glimpsed once in a dream. I stood for perhaps two minutes, surveying the line of dark windows and blackened brickwork and heavy brass-handled doors. When and why had I seen them before? What was the original, of which they were such a plangent echo? Try as I might, I could not find it. All I noted was that my mind seemed somehow to associate it with feelings of powerlessness and smallness and a kind of awe.

  Still musing, I set off again. After fifty yards or so I noticed a boy of eight or nine skulking in the area of one of the houses. His cap was too large for him and his jacket too small, and he wore an odd pair of boots, one black and one brown. As I turned towards him, he shrank back against the damp wall and looked up at me with the terrified stare of a cornered animal. As much to allay his fear as to satisfy my own curiosity, I called down to him:

  ‘What street is this?’

  ‘Queen Anne Street,’ he replied.

  I was none the wiser: I recognized the name, but could not recall anyone I knew ever having lived there. I took a penny from my pocket and held out my hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He cowered like a dog, torn between hunger for a scrap of meat and dread of being kicked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

  He hesitated a moment, before scuttling up the steps and taking the coin. Then, instead of running off as I had expected, he gazed wonderingly at me, as if even so small an act of kindness lay entirely beyond his knowledge and understanding of life. His eyes, I saw, were unhealthily large, and the pale skin was drawn into the hollows of his cheeks, as if age could not wait to put its mark upon him. And suddenly I thought of little Walter, and of the horror I should feel if I looked into his face and saw there such a world of want and pain and sickness. So I gave the boy sixpence more, and without a word he was gone, as if he feared that in another moment the spell would break, and the natural order of things would reassert itself, and I would change my mind and take the money back again.

  And that is my coincidence. I already hear you saying: ‘Walter! I see no coincidence’; but you shall, my love, I promise, if only you will be patient and read on.

  I was in Brompton Grove again by three minutes to twelve. It was a sombre homecoming. The small things that spoke of our happy life here together looked already out of place, like a doll or a bonnet washed up on a beach. In the few brief hours since we’d left, the house had been occupied by an alien spirit, which now resented the return of the previous tenant. Whenever I entered a room, I seemed to feel its presence, like a silent wind, propelling me back towards the door.

  Marian was still out, and only the distant murmur of the Davidsons’ voices in the kitchen told me I was not entirely alone. I felt as lost and mopish as a child. I tried to draw, but could not settle to it. After ten minutes I l
aid aside my pencil and took up a book, only to set it down again ten minutes later. The lunch bell promised a welcome diversion, until I found myself sitting in solitary state in the dining room like an oriental despot, with Davidson hovering near as if I might need help raising the fork to my mouth. I sent him away, saying I could take care of myself and would ring if I needed anything, and then kept the poor fellow running up and down stairs with my demands for fresh water and more mustard.

  When I had finished, I went into the garden, where the workmen were marking the foundations for the new studio, and solemnly reiterated all manner of things – that I must have a north light, that the entrance must be sheltered from the weather – that they knew perfectly well already from the plans. And it was here that Marian found me when she came home, and saved them from me, and me from myself.

  ‘You cannot possibly come like that!’ were her first words, delivered in such a forthright tone that the three workmen started. But she was smiling, and her black eyes shone. ‘You look like a man who has walked across half London.’

  ‘Come where?’ I said.

  ‘Why, to Lady Eastlake’s,’ she said, more quietly, drawing me towards the house. ‘She was at the exhibition this morning, and afterwards I had lunch with her, and we talked of Laura’s going away today, and my staying. And so, by a natural progression, of you.’ She took my arm, and led me indoors. ‘And she asked most particularly that I should bring you to meet her this afternoon.’

  I was immediately struck by the notion that this might have something to do with my painting: Sir Charles is, after all, Director of the National Gallery, and I confess that for a wild moment I imagined him emerging from behind a screen in his wife’s drawing room and saying: ‘Ah, Hartright, I much admired The Artist’s Wife and Children at Limmeridge, in Cumberland at the Academy this year, and would like to buy it for the nation.’ I soon recognized this pitiable fantasy for what it was, however, and concluded that Marian, as good and kind as ever, was merely hoping to distract me from my separation by introducing me to one of her blue-stocking friends.

  As it turned out, neither explanation was remotely as strange as the truth.

  Has Marian ever described the Eastlakes’ house to you? It’s too late now for me to ask her (after midnight, and she must be asleep) – so, if she has, simply pass over the next paragraph.

  They live in one of those fine old stone houses in Fitzroy Square (here and there on the walls you can still see patches of the original honey gold peering through the grime), with lofty windows and a front door big enough to take a horse. As we arrived, a fashionably dressed woman in a fur-trimmed jacket and a tiny pill-box hat garnished with feathers flounced down the steps (in so far as you can flounce when you are imprisoned from the waist down in a giant birdcage) and into a waiting carriage. There were angry spots on her cheeks, and she barely acknowledged us as we passed.

  The front door was opened by a tall footman with grey hair and thick dark eyebrows. Marian addressed him with a natural ease which surprised me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Stokes. Is your mistress at home?’

  ‘She is, ma‘am.’ He led us through a wide hall lined with marble busts and upstairs to a large drawing room. It was furnished in the modern style, with a heavy Turkey carpet, a set of carved oak chairs, and rows of watercolours jammed together on the green walls like carriages in Piccadilly. Above the picture-rail ran a line of Japanese plates (really made in Japan, I fancy, and not in Stafford!), and over the fireplace was a large classical landscape which, from its treaclish colouring, I took to be one of Sir Charles’s own.

  As we entered, a strikingly tall woman rose from a chaise longue in the window. For a moment she was held in silhouette by the evening light, and the only distinctive feature I could make out was her head, which tilted oddly to one side, like a bird’s. As she came towards us, however, I saw that she was about fifty, wearing a soft green dress edged with braid, and with her still-dark hair pulled simply back into a net. She had a wide, uneven mouth that broke into a frank smile as she held out her hand.

  ‘Marian,’ she said. ‘You must have winged feet.’ Her voice was soft but clear, and I thought I detected a trace of a Scotch accent. She turned to the footman. ‘Thank you, Stokes. If anyone else should call, I am not at home.’ She touched Marian’s hand and smiled sidelong at me. ‘Did you have to rope him, and drag him to a cab, to make him come?’

  Marian laughed. ‘Lady Eastlake, this is my brother – well, my half-brother-in-law – Walter Hartright.’

  ‘Half in-law,’ said Lady Eastlake, laughing. ‘How very complicated. I’m delighted to see you, Mr. Hartright. How do you do?’ As we shook hands, she glanced about her, as if suddenly dissatisfied with where she was. ‘I think we’ll be more comfortable in my boudoir’ – she gave the word an ironic inflection which made Marian laugh – ‘if you will forgive the clutter.’

  She walked to the back of the room and threw open a pair of folding doors. Beyond them lay a light, pleasant, informal parlour, with a tall window overlooking the garden. The immediate impression was more that of an Oxford don’s study than of a lady’s sitting room. A range of bookcases, some crammed with books, others with what appeared simply to be stacks of papers, ran along the walls. In the corner was a bureau, the lid wedged half open by a cascade of notes and letters; on each side of the fireplace stood a large cabinet containing rocks, shells, pieces of broken pottery and half an Etruscan head; while in the centre (strangest of all) was a large mahogany table, entirely covered with more photographs than I have ever seen together in one place in my life. Despite myself, I could not stop my eyes straying across them in search of a unifying theme or a familiar image. In the first I failed, for the subjects seemed as various as life itself – portraits, a country cottage, a great mill veiled by the smoke from its own black chimney – but in the second I was successful, for there, between a haystack and a blurred carthorse, I quickly recognized a picture of Lady Eastlake herself.

  She must have been watching me, for as I stooped to look at it more closely she said sharply:

  ‘Well, Mr. Hartright, what do you think?’

  ‘It is a fair likeness,’ I said, equivocally; for I feared that, like so many people, she might resent the camera’s merciless exposure of every blot and blemish, and feel it did her beauty less than justice.

  ‘I mean’, she said, ‘about photography.’

  ‘Well…,’ I began. I did not know how to go on, for, truth to tell, it is not something to which I have given much thought at all; but I did not wish to cause offence, either by seeming too cool, or by too warmly offering an opinion that might differ from her own. She spared me by continuing:

  ‘Do you practise yourself?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I still prefer pencil and brush.’

  ‘And why is that, Mr. Hartright?’

  This inquisition was so far from what I had expected that I was forced to consider for a moment. At length I said:

  ‘Because it seems to me that photography can merely record facts.’

  She gave me not an instant’s respite. ‘Whereas your pencil…?’

  ‘Whereas a pencil should, I hope – in the right hands – be able to hint at the truth. Which is not perhaps the same thing.’

  She fixed me with an inscrutable stare, from which I could not judge whether she thought me mad, dull, or fascinatingly original. Then she opened the bureau gingerly, to prevent the overflowing papers from spilling on to the floor, and took out a small notebook and pencil. ‘Do you mind if I make a note of that?’ she said, already writing. ‘I am doing an article.’

  ‘So,’ said Marian, with a teasing familiarity, which again took me by surprise, ‘prepare to see your words in the next issue of the Quarterly Review.’

  Lady Eastlake laughed. ‘Not unacknowledged,’ she said. ‘Whatever else I am, I am not a pickpocket. Besides, what makes you suppose I should want to claim Mr. Hartright’s thoughts as my own?’

  She put the notebo
ok away and sat in an armchair by the fireplace, gesturing Marian to the seat next to her. She sighed, shut her eyes and sank back, in a dumbshow of tiredness. I wondered if this were some further comment on what I had said, and, despite myself, felt the heat rising to my cheeks.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Lady Eastlake. ‘I’ve just had to endure a duty call from Mrs. Madison. Did you see her as you came in?’

  ‘There was a lady leaving,’ said Marian.

  ‘She can only have been here for a quarter of an hour, but it felt like three days. My stock of conversation on children’s clothes is soon exhausted, I’m afraid. I did try venturing on to the weather, but even that turned out too mettlesome for her.’

  Stokes entered, carrying a tea tray. He set it down on a low table by Lady Eastlake’s chair. She watched warily, her head cocked, until he was out of sight again; then she went on, more quietly:

  ‘She’s one of those women who believe that a member of her own sex should have no views on anything. And certainly never read a book. In which, I must say, she sets a splendid example.’

  Marian laughed. Lady Eastlake started to pour the tea, then put the pot down and touched Marian’s arm. ‘That’s why I so enjoy your sister’s company, Mr. Hartright. Someone to keep pace with me. She always has something fresh and interesting to say, no matter where my runaway mind has led me.’

  ‘I know how deeply she values your friendship, Lady East-lake,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid that in our house she must often feel the want of an intellectual companion.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not true, Walter!’ burst in Marian.

  ‘It is not what she tells me,’ said Lady Eastlake. ‘You write, do you not, Mr. Hartright?’

  I had just handed Marian a cup and was leaning down to take one myself. Lady Eastlake’s face was barely two feet from my own, and I felt the full power of her steady gaze. Again, it was impossible to avoid the sense that I was being interrogated – although to what purpose I could not begin to imagine.