Mr. Turner Page #7

in a position of impecuniousness?

Impecunity? Turner, that has been

my constant state these 30 years.

You are most well-appointed here.

I do not recall the last time

we had as much coal in our scuttle as that.

I fear we shall be burning

our furniture this winter.

Does Mrs Haydon

find herself faring well?

She does not.

She has not recovered.

I fear that she may never do so.

What ails her, sir?

We have buried five children.

- Indeed'?

- In Paddington old churchyard

they remove the soil,

extract the coffins,

dig the hole deeper,

then reinter the coffins

with another atop.

Five times

she has had to suffer that indignity.

- 'Tis pitiable.

- It is pitiable, Turner.

You have never had to endure

the loss of a child.

I have not, sir.

A dying child,

'tis a potent subject

for a painting, is it not?

And what is your present endeavour, Turner?

- Er... marine piece.

- A marine piece?

Do not you tire of boats

and the fiery firmament?

I do not, sir.

Sometimes I consider

it might make a better course for me

were I to set light to the house

with my wife, my surviving children

and myself within it.

Then they would no longer

be saddled with me.

Your pain is your own, sir.

Do not inflict it upon your loved ones.

Will you take my ten pounds?

I will not, sir.

You are free of your debt.

- Free'? How so'?

- 'Us expunged.

Er... no, sir. I do not come here

a seeker after charity or pity.

You have neither charity nor pity nor debt.

I do not wish it

in such a circumstance.

Mr Haydon, I am much preoccupied.

Me damsel, be so kind

as to escort the gentleman into the street.

Good day to you, sir.

This does not sit well with me, Turner.

Damn his eyes.

Oh...

- Turner and Jones.

- Mr Turner, Captain Jones.

- It's a pleasure to see you.

- Mr Ruskin!

Good evening to you.

I trust

you had a pleasant journey?

Indeed. You find yourself well, sir?

I do indeed, thank you.

Pride of place, Mr Turner.

Ah, splendid.

As though the house

was built around it.

- Please, come through.

- Jonesy.

Er, my good husband is of the opinion

that the gooseberry

prefers the colder climate,

whereas I consider

that all fruits benefit from the warmth.

My dear late mother always insisted

that both the gooseberry and the rhubarb

favour the colder climes

of our victorious isles.

I do not doubt that the gooseberry

for its preference may enjoy the warm,

however I am convinced that a cold start

promotes the more vigorous specimen.

Are we not to take

as empirical evidence

our many expeditions

to the warmer climes of the Mediterranean

where we do not exactly encounter

an abundance of gooseberries?

- Ha! Indeed.

- Exactly so.

I did not myself savour

many gooseberries in Jerusalem.

Ah, the holy city, Mr Turner.

And yet we do enjoy

fine gooseberries in Scotland,

do we not, Mr Ruskin?

Aye, and no better a cold start

than a good Scottish sun.

Exactly that.

Surely, regardless of how cold the start

of the life of the gooseberry might be,

it is almost certainly destined

for a warm ending.

To which we have all borne witness

in Mrs Ruskin's excellent gooseberry pie.

I thank you, Captain Jones.

May I propose

as a topic for discussion

the question as to the depiction

of the seas and the oceans

in pictorial art?

Now, I appreciate

that I am honoured

to be in the presence of two

of our most distinguished marine painters,

Mr Turner and Mr Stanfield,

not to forget Captain Jones

and Mr Roberts, of course,

whose realisations are confined

to mere naked terra firma,

exemplary though they are.

My point being that, alas,

I find myself harbouring

a perhaps rather controversial opinion

regarding the long deceased Claude.

- Indeed?

- I am afraid so, Captain Jones.

I must confess

that I find his rendering of the sea

rather insipid, dull and uninspiring.

That is an extremely bold statement,

young Mr Ruskin.

Thank you very much.

Claude was a man of his time.

My point exactly, Mr Turner,

but that time is now long past.

When I experience

a modern masterpiece such as yours,

I am struck by the clarity

with which you have captured the moment.

Take, for example, your slave ship,

"Slavers Throwing Overboard

the Dead and Dying - Typhoon Coming On",

by which I have the good fortune

to be greeted every morning

on my way into my meagre breakfast.

The impact of the foaming brine incarnadine

consuming those unfortunate Negro slaves

never ceases to quicken

the beat of my heart.

Yet when I gaze

upon a work of Claude

I find myself enduring nothing more

than a mere collection

of precise brushstrokes

which instil in me

no sense of awe whatsoever,

let alone the sea.

Preposterous!

I do beg your pardon, Mrs Ruskin.

- Claude Lorrain was a genius.

- Quite so.

I sense an excess of modesty in Mr Turner

and there is no need for such humility.

Mr Ruskin, sir,

to conjecture upon the matter

of seascape painting is one thing

but to stand amongst the elements

and to experience

and to interpret what one sees

is something quite other.

- Hear, hear.

- Quite.

That is as it may be.

Claude painted from the land,

looking at the sea becalmed by the harbour.

- Oh, indeed.

- "Bless the Lord, oh my soul

"Who layeth the beams

of his chambers in the waters

"and walketh

upon the wings of the wind."

How apt, Mother.

Thank you, John.

Oh...

When my son was but a small boy,

he was overheard to remark that...

"waves of sea

are indeed lovely to watch

"but they are always coming or gone,

"never in any taken shape to be seen..."

- For a second.

- "...a second."

I find myself marvelling

at my own wealth of perception,

even at the early age of four.

Quite so.

Mr Ruskin, can I pose you

a somewhat conundrous question?

Ah, please do, Mr Turner.

To which do you find yourself

the more partial,

a... steak and kidney pie

or a veal and ham pie?

I must confess, Mr Turner,

that I find myself quite unable

to answer your question

with the precision

that I would wish.

Your Majesty.

Terribly flat.

- Dull.

- It's rather dark, isn't it?

- Sir Martin.

- Sir?

- Who is the artist?

- I believe, sir, it's...

Mr John Ferneley, sir.

- Oh, Mr Ferneley.

- Hm.

Ah...

Turner.

He is clearly losing his eyesight.

And this one is vile.

Unbelievable.

- What it that?

- I don't know.

A dirty, yellow mess.

It is a truly frightful piece.

It is indicative of mental disease.

It is wretched and abortive.

Sad.

Mr Turner seems

to have taken leave of form altogether.

He has on former occasion

chosen to paint

with cream or chocolate,

yolk of egg or currant jelly.

But here he uses

his whole array of kitchen stuff.

- Eggs and spinach.

- No, soap suds and whitewash.

Jam tarts! Jam tarts!

Fresh jam tarts!

Oh!

Where is that wretched baker's boy?

His fate, I fear, he won't enjoy.

He will indeed the lad destroy!

Aha!

I have an inspiration.

- What's that?

- We're filled with fascination.

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