The Fraud (55 page)

 

 

 

Mr Thomas Towers was bent over books in his room in Frith Street when a visitor was announced. Mr Towers hid a small sound of satisfaction when he understood the identity of the visitor: it was someone not entirely unexpected.

The visitor carried a large parcel of paper. His greying hair was tied back, in the fashion, his eyes were grey too, and sharp: but he had about him the look of a man who was fighting demons.

They bowed.

James Burke looked about the room, saw the rotund, oddly-dressed writer; the piles and piles of papers; and books, books: books of all sizes filling every space and cranny and shelf in the room. And on the walls another painting that he had never seen - his heart lurched in shock to see it here in this unknown room in Frith Street - for it was a Portrait of Angelica, so ill: it must have been painted just before she died. He stared for a long time at the beautiful, ravaged face, the bright, shadowed, coloured quilt. The fire burned and spat; carts and carriages rattled by continuously; a ray of cold April London sunshine tried to find a way in at the long windows as the two men waited in silence and it seemed as if a conversation might not begin at all. Finally James Burke spoke abruptly, almost rudely.

‘So you are the Friend, Sir, of whom she spoke?’

Mr Towers, wrapped in his usual waistcoats and shawls agreed that he was.

‘I thought—’

‘Of course you did.’ Mr Towers’ gruff answer was to the point. ‘But I have a Wife, Sir, of sorts, who nevertheless prefers to live elsewhere - and Grace Marshall only ever loved one person.’ And the room was suddenly very still.

After some moments James Burke spoke reluctantly, indicating the parcel of paper in his hands. ‘There is much - painful reading here,’ and then, the words dragged out of him, ‘I thought I knew her so well, but there was much that I did not know . . . the part about Bedlam was . . . for I know my own contribution,’ and Mr Towers had to lean forward to hear, the voice was so low, ‘
unbearable to me
.’

Mr Towers had the sense not to speak. There was another long silence. Then the visitor made himself continue.

‘And I did not know about her brother Tobias at all. I mean, that she had met him again.’

‘No.’

‘That is a - difficult part of the story.’

‘Yes.’ Mr Towers sighed then. After a moment he said, ‘There are many momentous changes happening in our World, Mr Burke, and not just in France. We live now in what they are calling the Age of Enlightenment and begin to learn much about ourselves. We understand perhaps that the Child maketh the Man: the story of Tobias Marshall - and of Grace and of Philip Marshall - began long ago.’ He sat pondering, among the papers and the books and the knowledge and then he added, ‘Tobias had his heroic moment, nevertheless.’ Carts rattled below, and dogs barked, chasing the wheels. ‘I hope for Claudio’s sake his own story will be different; perhaps the farm he has been sent to may - lead to other pathways. They attacked him quite viciously, I believe, the cock-fighting men, for they found him eventually and he was saved only by the intervention - and Money - of his Father.’

‘God’s blood! The boy Claudio caused very much trouble!’ said James Burke. ‘I cannot be sorry for him - I have to say I felt to attack him myself!’

Finally Mr Towers invited the visitor to sit, but the visitor did not sit, he instead fidgeted with his hat, ill at ease. ‘It was your daughter, then -
Girl Reading
?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know that Painting now hangs in the home of the Duchess of Seldon, who followed the story with such interest and was very glad to buy it.’

‘I heard so.’

Another long pause. At last James Burke put his hat upon a shelf on top of some books, placed the large parcel of paper he was carrying on the top of all the other piles of paper on the writer’s desk, and walked to the window. He stood there looking out.

They heard the clock ticking, and the sounds and calls from the street below: BUY MY MILK! and the clip-clop of horses passing.

Mr Burke turned back into the room reluctantly. ‘Why did you send this Manuscript to me, Mr Towers?’

Mr Towers sat back carefully in his chair. ‘I insist that it shall be published, Mr Burke. Her History must be told one day. I am well aware that there are many who consider a Life should not be portrayed in this way, with so much Intimacy, but how else can this story be told?’ The clock struck ten in the morning. ‘I thought you should know of my Intention.’

‘There are many things in those papers, Sir,’ the visitor answered brusquely, ‘that I would not care for the World to know.’

‘There are many things in these papers that others than yourself would not care for the World to know, Mr Burke. However, as I say, we are told that we live in a new age where Knowledge, and the pursuit of Truth, is paramount.’

James Burke suddenly laughed abruptly. ‘I wonder that you philosophise quite so calmly, Mr Towers. This is the real World we live in, Sir - most people’s Lives would perhaps not stand so microscopic a looking-over!’

But Mr Towers did not smile. ‘I am a student of other Lives, Mr Burke. That is my Employment.’

‘Some might call you a Leech.’

‘As some might call you a Fraud, Mr Burke, and a user of other people’s Talent but -’ he raised both his hands in a gesture of peace ‘- let us not quarrel. I am not talking of rushing to the printing press at once, I merely put it to you that such a life as Grace Marshall has lived should not be unknown, and it will be unknown if we do not take steps to rectify the matter.’ He picked up the manuscript, ruffled absent-mindedly through some of the pages, put it down again. ‘When I asked her to tell me her whole story she was at first much disquieted. But once she started I think she was glad to tell it all at last. I tried only to write as she told me - but you will have seen that she sometimes got exasperated that I did not perhaps properly grasp her meaning, and so she added her own words.’

‘As I saw.’ James Burke smiled slightly. And then again, almost to himself, ‘As I saw.’ He cleared his throat, turned back to the street.

‘Shall I order coffee, Mr Burke?’

The visitor did not answer, perhaps he did not hear, but something about the fall of the shoulders at the window made Mr Towers think that coffee was advisable and he rang for the maid. Coffee was acquired, Mr Burke seemed to revive.

‘I am very glad that she is painting so - ferociously, Mr Towers. From her Letter to you, Sir, which you kindly attached to the Manuscript, I would think, extraordinary as it may sound, that although she has at last found a style quite of her own with her new interest in Colour and in the way she is endeavouring to paint
feelings -
yet the thing is, Mr Towers, she appears to be - once again - in the vanguard of a new Movement. Fuseli moved things in that direction whether one likes his work or not; and there is a precocious young man - a boy almost - Turner, is his name, who the Academy has admitted to the School and his Genius is already understood in the development of a new, different kind of Art by the younger Academicians. I heard one say he paints
coloured light
- I think Grace would understand that meaning. Turner is painting in watercolours meanwhile, but I would gamble my Life that as he develops he will turn to oils. The art of Painting is changing. Sir Joshua Reynolds was important in his time but—’

‘—is it true,’ Mr Towers interrupted, ‘that the last uttered word of Sir Joshua Reynolds, on his resignation from the Royal Academy, was
Michelangelo
?’

‘So it is recounted,’ answered James Burke, smiling very slightly. ‘All I mean to say is that times have changed and the younger Artists may perhaps recognise what Grace is doing now, remarkable though this may seem.’

Mr Towers nodded. ‘I too have heard of the work of young Mr Turner.’ The carts and the carriages still rattled on outside. ‘Grace is a quite extraordinary Painter and I do believe she will be recognised one day. But perhaps not in her Lifetime - unless I publish this Manuscript.’ He glanced across at James Burke who stared out again at the street. ‘Of course many people say that it is Posterity that counts, Mr Burke.’ His fingers lay upon the papers, drumming slightly. ‘And yet, knowing the difficulties of her Life, I am not so sure. Lucky indeed is he, surely, who - as well as being recognised by Posterity -
is affirmed in his own Lifetime
. Grace was affirmed by her Peers in private of course whether they knew it or not but . . .’ He let the words hang in the room, unfinished.

The old clock told the time, on and on. Mr Towers now stood also and walked towards one of the long windows, looking out over the busy London street as his visitor did. But Mr Towers also observed the Art Dealer: conflicting thoughts flew across the handsome face and the grey eyes stared out, unseeing, troubled.

The clock chimed the half-hour; dogs barked, a pieman and a knife-sharpener began to call their wares, almost in unison: BUY MY PIES, KNIFES SHARPENED, BUY MY PIES.

Mr Towers pulled his numerous shawls about his shoulders and went back to his desk. An altercation suddenly arose from below, very likely between the competing pieman and knife-grinder; the voices rose, and fell, and then drifted away.