The Dark Clue (33 page)

WH: Not magic, then?

HF: [
Laughing
] It
seemed
magic, that's all I meant, to a young man. On another occasion – I must have been twelve or thirteen – I remember him calling me to the window to see a thunderstorm. It was rolling and sweeping and shafting its lightning out over the Chevin; and he was saying, ‘Isn't it grand, Hawkey? Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it sublime?' and all the time making notes of its form and colour on the back of a letter. I suggested some better drawing-block, but he said: ‘No, this does very well.' Presently, when it was finished, he said: ‘There, Hawkey! In two years you will see this again, and call it
Hannibal Crossing the Alps.
'

And so I did. He had remembered it so exactly that he could reproduce every last detail.

[
Perhaps why we see the same motives again and again in his work? Once they were rooted in his mind he could not expunge them?
]

HF: My father, I believe it's fair to say, was Turner's closest friend
while he lived; and after he died Turner couldn't mention his name without the tears coming into his eyes. It's for that reason, I think, that he never came back here in later years, even though he was often enough invited. As a result, I only saw him on my infrequent visits to London; but up to the very last time, about a year before his death, he was always the same to me – addressing me by my boy name, and showing me the greatest kindness, as if in doing so he could continue to express his attachment to my father, and his glowing recollections of his ‘auld lang syne' here.

[
The official line again.
]

Yes, but that does not mean it is untrue.

Who is more likely to describe Turner accurately? A man who knew and loved him for fifty years; or one who glimpsed him once or twice in moments of weakness?

I have seen dragons where there are only rocks.

One more night at the Black Bull, to purify myself of my folly.

And then, tomorrow, home.

XXXI

Letter from Walter Hartright to Marian Halcombe,
22nd October, 185–

Limmeridge,
Sunday

My dear Marian,

You were right – I confess it (and when were you ever not?) – this was for the best. The quest for Turner
had
temporarily disordered my mind somewhat, and to be here with my darlings is the best cure possible. I feared they would not know me – that I should not know
myself in
the gentle light and domestic calm of Limmeridge, but would mope about the house like a spectre at the feast, carrying my darkness with me. But the darkness is gone, and the spectre with it. I am truly myself again – even Florence is happy now, and as sweet and natural with me as if I had never been away!

As for Turner: I am painfully conscious of how much time I
have wasted chasing shadows – and of all that, in consequence, remains undone. (I torment myself at night sometimes, imagining what Lady Eastlake would say.
Is this all you have discovered, Mr. Hartright, in almost five months? That Turner was a strange man?)
It chastens me that I must therefore accept your offer – but accept it I do, with a grateful heart, and the certain knowledge that man never had a truer or a more generous sister. You promise to write to me regularly with your discoveries; I, for my part, swear to treat them as judiciously and dispassionately as a palaeontologist treats the bones of a dinosaur. Like his extinct titan, mine shall be resurrected on the basis of facts alone. No more unruly imagination!

Your devoted brother,

Walter

XXXII

From the journal of Marian Halcombe,
October/November 185–

Monday

Nothing.

Tuesday

Letter from Walter. Sat down to answer it, but could not find the tone. At length overcome by such lassitude I could not keep my eyes open.

Tomorrow.

Wednesday

Another blank day. Tomorrow I
must
begin my work.

Thursday

This afternoon, at last, I found the courage to call. Or perhaps it was not courage, but merely foolishness; for I had finally persuaded myself, after a good deal of self-interrogation before the looking-glass, that I could carry off an interview without betraying either myself or Walter. Some part of me, I think, must have known all along that I was deceiving myself – it was Elizabeth Eastlake, after all, who drew from young Mrs. Ruskin the secrets of her unhappy marriage; and it was ludicrous to suppose that so penetrating a mind would have much difficulty in uncovering
my
misery; but without this pitiful little sop to my
amour propre
I should probably not have been able to force myself to go at all.

It was not long before I got my come-uppance.

‘Marian!' she said, taking both my hands in hers. ‘What a great pleasure! Tell me you are here on serious business.'

‘I am, as it happens.'

She gave a gratified nod. ‘Stokes, I am not at home.' She touched my arm and began leading me towards the boudoir. ‘I was bracing myself for Mrs. Madison, or any one of a hundred other doughty matrons.' She waved, in passing, towards the drawing-room table. ‘What do you think of my
aide-conversation?'

I turned and saw a small unframed picture of a Madonna and child lying on a folded cloth. It was badly cracked and faded, but you could still see the graceful line of the Virgin's neck and the sweet simplicity of her expression.

‘Filippino Lippi,' said Lady Eastlake. ‘It came back from Italy with us. I shall be sorry when it goes to the Gallery, for it's been a social godsend. The dullest woman will coo at it for minutes on end, and then embark on an animated monologue about babies.'

I felt I was expected to make an amusing riposte; but my poor tired brain stubbornly refused to produce one. Lady Eastlake affected not to notice, and busied herself with clearing a pile of papers from a chair; but as soon as we were sitting down she looked at me steadily and said:

‘Are you quite well, my dear?'

‘Yes, thank you,' I said – aware, as I did so, that my words had a kind of leaden sluggishness that belied their meaning. ‘And you?'

‘Oh, yes! – I've been very blessed. Two months of mountains and buildings and pictures, and not a single dinner or at-home to irk us. But one tires eventually of all the dirt and the corruption. So it's a second blessing to come back again, and find oneself once more in a place where things are tolerably well ordered.' She smiled; but her eyes, never straying from my face, seemed to pin me to my seat, denying me the freedom to speak.

‘And what of your brother?' she went on after a moment.

‘He … he …' My voice was calm enough – I had rehearsed this speech again and again, to give it just the right air of nonchalance – but I could feel my traitor cheeks starting to burn, which flustered me, and caused me to lose my way. I quickly recovered myself; but it was clear from her unwavering gaze that Lady Eastlake had not missed my confusion.

‘He has had to return to Cumberland for a few weeks,' I said.

She nodded, as if she knew it already, and understood the reason without my having to say it.

‘I confess I did feel some anxiety about him – about both of you – while I was away. I couldn't help wondering if, after all, it was perhaps not a kindness to have asked him to undertake this book.'

‘Oh no! You mustn't think that!' I said. ‘He . . . he . . . he's very happy!' It was so obviously a lie (for I could not look her in the
eye, and my tongue rebelled, and made me stutter) that I thought she must challenge me; but she only said:

‘Well, I am glad to hear it. But I fear it may have demanded more than either of you suspected. No man should be separated from his family for months at a time, if it can be helped – even the best of them finds it unsettling. And there is undoubtedly – I should probably have warned your brother of this more clearly, but I did not want to prejudice him – there is undoubtedly something disturbing about Turner. There are few people who could come close to the details of his life, and not be affected by them.'

She paused. I wanted to deny it, but it would have been as unavailing as trying to halt an advancing army by throwing sticks.

‘Has that been your brother's experience?' she said.

‘Perhaps. A little.'

She nodded again. ‘Whom has he spoken to so far?'

I told her. She was silent for a while; and then, as it became clear that I had finished, a faint look of puzzlement crossed her face.

‘No-one else?'

‘Not so far as I know.'

Should I say more? Should I tell her the truth: that I could not be certain, because I had still not dared to ask Walter what he had done, or whom he had seen, on the evening of our visit to Sandy-combe Lodge? I had hoped (or half-hoped and half-dreaded) that he might volunteer it; but since he had not done so, I would not force him into a position where he must either lie to me, or else tell me something he would sooner I did not know.

‘And what of you, Marian?' she said. Her voice was so soft and solicitous, so removed from its usual bantering tone, that I knew at once she must somehow have looked into my very soul, and seen the desolation there. And suddenly it seemed to me that further pretence was futile – I had resisted as best I could, but the citadel had fallen, and all that remained was to surrender, and confess the secrets she had already guessed. Surely, indeed, it would be a blessed relief to do so – to share the burden of my wretchedness with another human being, and not merely with an insensible book?

I formed the words – I opened my lips – I closed them again. I
could not speak without condemning Walter, as well as myself; and that I had no right to do. Or so, at least, I told myself then; but now, as I write, it seems to me that my dominant feeling at the time was
fear -
fear, I suppose, that I should become an object of pity. Dear God! how tenacious is pride, and what forms it takes to deceive us!

‘It is easier for me,' I said. ‘I am only his amanuensis. I merely have to gather facts for him, without reflecting on their significance. He

‘Oh, what nonsense!' she said, laughing. ‘I don't believe it for a moment!'

‘No – indeed – that is why I am here,' I said (and was surprised to hear the animation suddenly returning to my own voice). ‘Inevitably, most of Walter's informants remember Turner from his middle and later years. He now has the difficult task of reviewing everything they told him, and forming it into a coherent picture. I, meanwhile, am to stay in London, and learn what I can of Turner's early life and career.'

Her eyes narrowed disconcertingly. ‘Personally, I should have thought
that
would have been
harder.'

‘Only in a practical sense,' I said. ‘Everyone who knew Turner then is presumably dead. All I am looking for is any scraps of evidence – memoirs, letters, private papers – that may have survived, and could yield a useful insight or detail. The only art will be in knowing where to search, and getting permission to examine them. The actual business of reading them, and noting down anything of interest – that's something any competent clerk could do.'

She was not convinced. She stared at me steadily, her lips set in a kind of sceptical half-smile that seemed to say:
Very good. Now tell me the truth.
I held her gaze, however, and at length she relented.

‘I am not the person to help you, then,' she said, ringing the bell. ‘You should talk to my husband. He knew Turner and his circle, socially
and
professionally, for more than forty years.'

I could not help wondering why, in that case, she had not introduced us to him before; but the next moment she gave me the answer.

‘I hate to trouble him, when he is so heavy-laden.' She shook
her head. ‘So many responsibilities – and they seem to grow more every day. He was at the palace this morning – dines with Lansdowne tonight – and tomorrow, I believe, goes to the House of Lords.' She suddenly seemed to lose her accustomed self-confidence, and turned to me with an almost pleading expression. ‘He is not a young man, Marian, and I confess I fear dreadfully for his health. But what can I do?'

I was spared the necessity of replying; for at that instant the footman arrived, and Lady Eastlake, immediately recovering the habit of command, said:

‘Ah, Stokes. Would you ask Sir Charles if he can spare the time to join us for a few minutes?' She was silent and thoughtful for a moment after he left; then – hoping, I fancy, that by convincing me she would convince herself – she said:

‘But perhaps it will do him good, don't you think? To lay down the burdens of office for a moment?'

And certainly, from the alacrity with which Sir Charles appeared, and the affability of his manner as he greeted us, and shook my hand, you would suppose that she was right – or, at least, that
he
thought so, for he managed to convey the impression that he had but been waiting for our invitation to release him from the drudgery of duty, as a prisoner may wait for the precious few minutes in the day when he is allowed outside and can feel the sun on his face. At first I assumed that Elizabeth Eastlake – with that superior understanding that sometimes seems to exist between husband and wife – had simply judged the right moment to interrupt him; but I soon came to see that the explanation lay not in her character, but in his. He is, I think, one of the most charming men (in a quiet, melancholy, English way) that I have ever met. Not, certainly, the most handsome – his eyes are too deep-set, and his mouth too wide, for that; and yet his whole face seems to glow with such intelligence and sympathy and gentle humour as to make mere physical perfection seem shallow and commonplace next to it. It is easy to see why he has risen to such eminence, and is so much in demand; for when you are in his presence he contrives to make you feel – be you the Prince Consort, or a Royal Academician, or merely his wife's spinster
protégée
– that at that moment he would sooner be with
you
than with anyone else on earth.