Penguin no. 2533: The Last Tresilians by J.I.M. Stewart

He saw that two people falling in love might be falling in love with somebody who wasn't really there. Ever so neatly as you collared the ball when it came to you, it might be no more than a phantom ball that you carried triumphantly up the field. When they said love was a tragic thing they didn't necessarily mean deserted queens in caves or heroes compelled to seek another shore. They meant that it had its birth in illusion, and disenchantment as its end.

If it had occurred to me to establish a list like Simon from Stuck in a Book of the 50 books you must read but may not have heard of, then this would be the book heading it. It is a long time since I have read anything that captured my attention as this book did, and I am simply stunned that it seems to be completely forgotten. I feel as if I have mined my collection of Penguins and unearthed a rare treasure, as if what is perhaps an unusually constrained way of choosing what to read has been personally vindicated. How can there only be 11 copies listed on LibraryThing, and no reviews anywhere on the web? This is an exceptional  book which deserved a different fate.

 J.I.M Stewart wrote detective fiction under the pseudonym Michael Innes. And this too is a mystery novel, as intricately plotted as any of the Michael Innes' books but with the characters much more fully developed. However here the mystery is an intellectual one, and its solution is uncovered through research by an academic. The eminent English abstract artist Matthew Tresilian, hovering on the fringes of the Bloomsbury Set, had enjoyed a successful career as the painter of interesting pictures with a sense of fluidity, an illusion of movement. But in his final years he produced a series of paintings which were exceptional, and very unlike those he had painted before. They are disturbing, hinting at some darkness, sharply focused on the edges with an illusion of invisibility at the centre.These are the last Tresilians of the title, and they have the young and enthusiastic American professor Thayne Delver intrigued.

But Delver is interested in more than just these paintings. He's in England to pursue the hunch that Matthew Tresilian had other talents. His research interests are in the interrelations of the arts, and he hopes to find that Tresilian was also a writer, and to unearth any remaining letters and notebooks, and bring them to publication. He is undaunted by the lack of any evidence, he simply feels certain that he is right. He is carried forward by his buoyant American spirit, which is sharply contrasted with the reserve and conservatism typical of the British. And he is right. But it slowly dawns on him that he has uncovered something appalling, with terrible consequences for the other last Tresilians, the artist's surviving children. The subsequent events have a momentum of their own, and much of the tension and suspense in the novel comes from a sense of impotence, as nothing can be done to shield these Tresilians from the consequences of his discoveries.

But this is only the smallest part of what this book is about. It is such a rich novel: it provides a lesson in the analysis and interpretation of painting, explores the appeal of the modern art, exposes the small-mindedness and ruthlessness of University politics, reflects on  morality and its relationship with art, and explores the concept of illusion generally in many forms: in art, in dreams, in relationships, in self-perception, in what you can reasonably know about the world. It is not a book to be read passively, it demands something of the reader: he is arguing a case about art and its purpose and its interpretation. And he is revealing his understanding of the world: why things happen the way they do and how people are manipulated

And the writing: time and again I would find myself marveling at the mind that was capable of producing this book, and at the subtle and creative ways in which ideas were expressed. Even without the story, the characterisations, and the lessons on the interpretation of art, this book would be worth reading for the beauty of the prose alone, and right now I want nothing other than to continue reading more of it. Unfortunately , this seems to be the only Stewart I own, so I'll have to settle for Michael Innes. Fortunately two of his books arrived in the mail today.

By the same author:
Penguin no. 1299: Stop Press
Penguin no. 1577: Appleby on Ararat
Penguin no. 1578: The Weight of the Evidence
Penguin no. 1640: Hamlet, revenge!
Penguin no. C2201: Hare Sitting Up

Reviewed elsewhere:
Clothes in Books (first post)
Clothes in Books (second post)