Girl Reading (21 page)

This is most unusual. I see a bold spirit-light taking on the form of a maiden, an Amazon princess made of white spirit-energy . . . wait . . . it is making a pathway for someone else, it recedes and is replaced by another female—I see her with total clarity—she comes forward with intention. She is drawn, disheveled, she has lost her good looks but has determination and an exceptional mind. She is adorned with a single precious stone that resembles the deep sea . . . and it is as if she is falling into it; the blueness swells up, it covers her head. She has turned her back on love. Poor, fragile lady, what a frightful waste.

No one present claims ownership of this woman.

Mrs. Solomon-Black persists. This vision is vivid. Will nobody speak up for it? There is nothing to be ashamed of.

When no reply is forthcoming, the medium suggests to the ghost that she allow a soul with a more urgent message to come forward . . . and concentrates.

A different spirit is attempting to communicate, a gentleman
called G, wearing a fetching waistcoat in bright colors, carrying a carved-bone-topped cane, and with him is— What is this? An exotic bird, if I am not mistaken.

The gasp of recognition comes from Mr. Thomas Hubbard, the cynic, here to pooh-pooh, here to call it all bunkum.

The medium senses a conquest.

Do not furnish any details, Mr. Hubbard, allow me: the G stands for Godwin, am I right? And in life, he was a great intellect, a distinguished man of letters. He may even have worked in the law, for I see justice and fairness are imperative to him.

Good gracious. Thomas Hubbard perspires in the darkness, unable to mop the moisture away without breaking the séance circle.

And so on. The spirits are willing and talkative, until all in the party but one have made contact with a friend or relative who has passed over—Miss Langdon fails to reach her late aunt Mildred but does not mind, as she spoke to her only last week.

Mrs. Solomon-Black’s style of clairvoyance is calm. Her job is, she says, to foster peace by aiding the spirits in their communiqués so they may be restful, and to reassure the living that they might live. Toward the end of the demonstration, she briefly loses control and the séance gets out of hand: the table levitates and turns, the participants feel spectral fingers on their faces, scratches, jabs in the ribs, tweaked knees, and yanked hair. An object flies from one side of the room to the other and smashes. (My poor shepherdess, says the hostess who has arranged the entertainment.) The medium is angry at the disruptiveness of those spirits who are trying to sabotage their civilized meeting; one enters her body and begins speaking through her to someone present: I know you, I know what you have done. You think you have covered your tracks, but I shall unmask you and ruin you, monster, fiend, wretch—

There is bedlam, during which the person who thinks this
warning applies to him is stricken with fear, relieved his peers cannot see his horror at being found out.

Mrs. Solomon-Black fights back, sends the wicked spirits away, is shaking with exhaustion afterward, and apologizes: When unfriendly spirits upset proceedings it is very draining, and even if my mind is able, my body is weak. I shall have to bring this evening to a close. I do hope you understand.

Her clients do not feel shortchanged; on the contrary, the excitement of the malevolent spirits has added flavor to the experience. All present are persuaded of Mrs. Mortimer Solomon-Black’s authenticity, all (apart from one) are extolling her extraordinary abilities for weeks afterward to any who will listen.

In the photographer’s studio, all must be done at the critical moment while the glass is dripping wet with light-sensitive chemicals. Not one of the steps can be blundered or missed. The paper print with which the client is presented, at which they exclaim out of pleasure and fascination, that is the easy part—the very last part, the sprint to the end. One can make dozens, hundreds of reprints with barely any skill. But the innumerable difficulties that arise before them, the inordinate potential for things to go wrong—being heavy-handed or hurried or less than systematic or simply unlucky—and behold: blemishes, ridging, specks, or possibly nothing whatever where the portrait should be. And when the entire intricate process has been conducted flawlessly to make an image that is as naturally near to perfection as possible, and the sitter
moves
during the exposure, it is enough to send one into a fit.

In the cramped darkroom, the photographer can do little more than arrange the bottles in order of use, labels outward, and lay the equipment in readiness so it can be accessed by the dimness of a single orange windowpane.

Not all photographers are as meticulous. The sheer number of studios in the towns and countryside suggests that virtually anyone is capable of making a photograph, that there is no mystery to discover, no alchemy to master, no craft. Some call it sneeringly “a trade.” But see also how inferior their pictures are? Nasty. No doubt they employ a tout to browbeat passing customers, especially on Sundays, when people are dressed for church and should be observing the Sabbath. Let them part with their guinea, and may it bring them luck.

Featherstone of Piccadilly is a superior establishment. Mr. Amos Featherstone, a schooled painter, accomplished, gentle, genteel, maker of fine photographic portraits, was also the most amiable of companions to the end. On his deathbed he whispered to his wife, I deeply regret it is time for me to go. I wish I didn’t have to.

Amos Featherstone’s widow checks the workbench where her son has prepared some plates; he has smoothed the edges with the sharpening stone and polished the surfaces with tripoli. Jem has done it thoroughly, but each will need to be cleaned again with a soft brush, because any dust particles whatsoever will show as spots on the final image. Jem has been busy mounting albumen prints for collection in the morning, and has replenished the stock of collodion solution that will ripen next week. He is a good boy.

She hesitates, places her hand upon her breastbone. Heaviness, that dratted heaviness. The tightness of a vise. Pain in her shoulders and neck. In minutes it subsides.

Mrs. Amos Featherstone did not imagine having to take on the studio at this age—at any age. She was her husband’s helpmeet. Her role was at home raising their children. The moral paradigm, the pillar of virtue, the protectress of domestic order. Two sons and two daughters grew into adulthood, the girls safely married off.
It had been intended that their eldest boy, Robert, would run his father’s business, though his heart was never truly in it, though he longed to join the British Army, though he was clumsy and made errors and spilled and damaged. But it was a moot point because Robert was lost to cholera. This left Jem, whose delicate disposition was perhaps better suited to photography . . . but who did not have long enough with his father to learn the art, whose nervousness with the public and naïveté as regards money meant it would have been irresponsible to give him full control just yet. Therefore Mrs. Featherstone became the custodian of Featherstone of Piccadilly. It felt like a failure on her part. Her daughters believed as much; indeed, she has raised them to.

A lady of mature years, the decades have added bulk to her body. The wearing of a corset and crinolette provides a more fashionable silhouette, and her gowns are of the plainest, black or gray, and spattered with chemicals. Amos’s pocket watch on a chain pinned at her waist is entirely practical, for the timing of exposures and so on. Her hair, mainly still dark, has a straight parting at the front and is gathered in a net snood at the nape. By the end of the day wisps of it escape, reminding her when she looks in the mirror that she is not a dowager but a woman who must work. She has fat cheeks, a severe mouth, hooded eyes. Which episodes in her life have done this?

She could have sold the business as a going concern. It would be worth a small fortune, for the premises alone are ideal and neatly formed. On the ground floor is their shop, where clients may browse a gallery of glossy brown-reddish, brown-purplish portraits of ladies, gentlemen, children, families, couples—a testament to the quality of the company and the satisfaction of the clientele. The shop displays some of the choices on offer: the range of poses, the size of prints, the design of mounts. Here is the counter where the first consultation and final transaction are conducted. There is also a selection
of royalty, nobility, and celebrity
cartes
that can be added to a private album for a shilling apiece (the Prince of Wales and Princess Alexandra are doing exceedingly well, as is Mr. Charles Dickens). The first floor is the archive—some of it, at any rate—for the studio retains the negative for at least a year from last use; miscellany storage. The photographic studio itself is on the top floor, has a northern aspect and a roof the length and breadth of which are windows windows windows, the light modulated by curtains and blinds on a matrix of pulleys. And, as in a theater, there are backdrops and props: tables, potted plants, a section of a banister, a faux mantelpiece, chairs, a rocking horse, and so forth, used for creating the scene. These are muddled with the backstage equipment and tools, the various chemical jars and beakers, the posing stands, the wet-plate multiplying camera—a box of wood and brass with bellows for focusing affixed on a tripod, its various lenses and appendages—and the sectioned-off darkroom is here too. Amos spent years accumulating and perfecting this. Selling was never an option.

Neither was installing a man to run it, not only because the halcyon days might be coming to an end, but because Amos wanted Featherstone always to mean Featherstone. Wanted it this way. He was a good father and provider, and so his wishes have been respected.

Jem is in his waistcoat and loosely knotted necktie, his sleeves rolled up like a grocer’s, his hair untidy as though he has just risen from bed. Humble by nature. Aware of what his mother is doing for him. Honored that one day he shall be Featherstone of Piccadilly, having believed for most of his life that it would be Robert. He asks if there is anything she needs.

Mrs. Featherstone has made a list. As it is quiet, he can run these errands for her, and she will see him at home for dinner. She can hold the fort for the last hour or so. As Jem puts on his jacket and derby, she tells him he has been a help today.

He then ventures, Mama, perhaps we can take a walk to Regent’s Park and visit the zoo? We might enjoy the aquarium and the hippopotamuses. What do you think?

Jem has made a suggestion for an outing nearly every week since his father died. Parks, museums, exhibitions, strolls to take in landmarks and monuments. Initially it irritated her; initially she rejected these trivial distractions from her duties and adjustment. Then she remembered how young he still was, took pity on him, thought she would humor him once, because he was in mourning as she was.

The lecture on electromagnetism was followed by an evening at the Haymarket to hear a comedy, an omnibus to Richmond for lunch, a day in Greenwich. She came to understand why he had persisted, came to acknowledge the wisdom of these trips, to see how they helped them both and restored normality of a kind.

When he had suggested taking the train to Brighton and staying overnight, his mother simply said what she is saying now: We will not know what it is like until we find out for ourselves. They had walked arm in arm along the esplanade, taking in the views. The sea air was cleansing after the effluvia and fetid vapors of London. Mrs. Featherstone found the illustrations exhibited at the Royal Pavilion especially diverting, charming, quaint. She bought a souvenir print very cheaply, telling Jem the figure in it was probably an allegory of poetry.

Hippos in Regent’s Park? She can manage them with ease.

Jem touches the brim of his hat to her and goes to his tasks, the shop bell ringing on his way out.

After watching him disappear down the road into the crowds and smog, she turns the sign over to read
CLOSED
and sits at the counter to peruse the
Morning Post
until—

The shop bell rings again, and a lady enters. She is dressed grandly, dramatically, in violet and black with stripes on the bodice,
crimped trimming, and a velvet coat. The voluminous silk ties of her bonnet make an enormous bow. She is adorned with jewelry in a way some would find vulgar: an enormous locket, lengths of beads over her bosom, earrings that glitter. Two spots of rouge make her look like a painted doll.

And she is, in every physical detail, the exact replica of the lady at the counter.

Hello, Flossie, says Mrs. Amos Featherstone.

Hello, Rosie, says Mrs. Mortimer Solomon-Black. You do not seem very surprised to see me.

The
Morning Post
announced you were in London. I expected you to drop by.

Really? Do go on.

Your profession means you still keep late hours and were therefore bound to visit in the afternoon. And I read that this evening you are to give a demonstration at rooms in the White Hart, which is close by. I said to myself, Flossie will come today.

Florence shakes her head in disbelief—her sister can tell what she is thinking.

The twins regard each other. It has been eleven years since they last spoke, an interval of four years before that, and an ocean between them. Yet it may as well be eleven hours. In a moment they have become the Gaults of Lancashire again, their relationship with each other longer and deeper than with anyone else—parents, husbands, children. Each was her twin’s first experience, what she first saw, knew, and understood about the world, a copy of herself.

Florence takes in the displays of photographs, turns a page or two of a made album, says, I am sorry about Amos and about Robert. How sad.

Thank you, and thank you for your kind letter. You are married
again,
aren’t you . . . ?

Yes. No need for that tone, little sister. I have been divorced only the once, don’t you know.

You did not keep your name.

Mortimer’s name carries weight in its own right. He is with me here, in London. We always travel together. You can meet him if you like.