Girl Reading (22 page)

Is America still making you happy?

It is home, even with its faults.

You are not in any danger, I hope . . . ?

Oh no, we will be all right. What a thoroughly despicable war! This is a nice shop, Rosie, it rather suits you.

This does not please Rosemary Featherstone; she does not respond.

And Jem—it is Jem?—how is he working out?

He has a natural eye and a steady hand.

No magnetism, though . . . ? Perhaps it skips a generation—or it is simply that none of the Gault menfolk has it. Have you heard from any of our kin? (Florence pauses long enough to realize Rosemary will not rise to that.) Come on, Rosie, don’t look sad. If you are sad, no good will come of it, except perhaps that people will be able to tell us apart.

Rosemary smiles at the truth of it, at the innumerable mix-ups and misunderstandings of the past. As girls, they encouraged the confusion, dressed the same, wore their hair the same, lied frequently to cover for the other.

I have also come to bring you business—don’t panic, not the kind you dislike. I have been in England for only five minutes, and people are swamping me with their
cartes de visite,
but I cannot reciprocate. So I wondered if you would oblige? I do not require a special rate, just whatever you would normally charge, but I will need several dozen, maybe a hundred or more if I am inundated. Would it be possible?

It is possible to oblige immediately, and Rosemary leads Florence up to the studio and hangs her bonnet and coat on the hat stand, revealing her twin’s black hair tightly braided and styled with oil.

The visiting sister takes in the room. What a marvelous place. What a pretty view of the city. If I were you, I should live here just to be able to see it.

I practically do.

Rosemary has Florence try out some poses in front of the camera. Initially Florence wants full-length standing portraits, but Rosemary can see that even with the aid of a posing stand under her skirt or a prop to lean on, her sister is too much of a fidget, so they agree upon a three-quarter-length seated pose. The Featherstone studio makes eight images of standard size to a plate. Florence is keen to experiment; Rosemary persuades her just two poses of four each will be sufficient variety. She makes Flossie practice, first sitting in the mode of reading a book for the duration of one exposure, fifty seconds at this time of day and in this weather—

Mrs. Beeton . . . ? Really, Rosie!

Don’t move, please, Flossie.

Florence holds her tongue and herself while Rosemary explains her lady customers are usually happy to be photographed with it, though the title on the spine will not actually be visible.

And then the switch to resting her elbow on the table and looking over her shoulder for the same length of time, for a second exposure. Rosemary angles some mirrors so Florence can see and maintain her facial expression.

Well done, Flossie, but I am afraid that was only the rehearsal. Are you ready for the real thing?

Without waiting for a response, Rosemary takes up the glass plate by one corner in her white gloved hand, pours some collodion into the center—yellow like castor oil—and begins flowing the plate by gently tilting to cover it evenly in the liquid.

The photographer says, You will have to bear with me, as I am doing this without assistance.

You haven’t changed.

Rosemary goes into the darkroom and places the plate upright in a bath of silver nitrate. She then brings the pocket watch up to her ear and starts counting. A few minutes later—

Rosie, what are you doing?

Prepare, please.

Florence gives herself a stretch, then opens Mrs. Beeton’s
Household Management,
affecting interest.

Rosemary comes out of the darkroom with the sensitized plate inside a wooden holder to protect it from light. Some of the solution leaks out of it. She slots the wooden plate holder into the back of the camera and pulls out the slide, saying she is about to make the exposure. Taking her twin’s silence and stillness for assent, she removes the lens cap and times it, counting down aloud. Florence breathes shallowly, does not blink, does not read a word of the page but stares quite through it. She could be mistaken for a waxwork. Then Rosemary replaces the cap, directs Florence to alter her posture, and adjusts the wet plate. The second exposure is taken. Florence has proved to be a good subject after all.

In the darkroom once more, Rosemary gently pours developer on the glass plate to make the image appear—silver and grainy. When her eyes were stronger she was able to discern the image materializing, halt it at the optimum second; now she must rely on her experience. Water stops the development of the negative, and at last Rosemary can take it out of the darkroom and submerge it in the bath of sodium thiosulphate fixer. She waits while the eight images become clear and vivid. They are not unsatisfactory thus far.

Rosie, we ought to go to Mama’s grave together while I am in London. You and I haven’t done that since we buried her.

Will your engagements permit it?

Will yours?

Rosemary gives the plate a wash in water and lays it out. The negative is extremely delicate. She lights the paraffin lamp for warmth.

Rosie, have you been to Mama’s grave since she died?

Rosemary’s face is hidden. She busies herself at the workbench.

You must stop being mad with her. She was doing what she knew, what she thought was best for us.

Mama was doing what pleased her most. If we had been born joined at the hip, she would have put us in a circus.

Florence cannot deny this. Didn’t you enjoy any of it? At times it seemed you did.

Rosemary sighs, pauses her activity, sits on the just-for-pretense sofa. It is not a part of my life I think about anymore, and I have forgotten a lot of it. I look at a city on the globe and realize I cannot remember if I have been there or not. Cities, and even whole countries, have merged together in my memory. Maybe it was because there were so many, and maybe it is because I do not revise them in my mind’s eye—and maybe it is just because one’s faculties tend to diminish. Anyway, it is history to me. Why should I dwell on my past when there is Jem’s future to consider? I really do not think on it.

You must know if you enjoyed it. Can you not recall a single minute of pleasure?

I don’t remember. I know that I did not enjoy the limelight as much as you.

I adore it. I mean the work, not the attention. Mama did right by at least one of us.

Then who am I to criticize? (Rosemary picks up the plate, practically dry, and gently warms it over the lamp flame.)

Her twin says, However, if I had to identify something I disliked about it—

Heats the bottle of varnish next until it is blood warm.

—It would have to be that it emphasized what was different about us.

I don’t know what you mean, Flossie.

Yes, you do. I liked it when we were as identical as two people can be, when we looked the same and spoke the same. I liked it when we were following the same road and having the same adventures and thinking the same thoughts. I loved sharing it with you as much as anything else, as much as the novelties and the trappings. You made me secure about my place in the world. I am very happy you got the family you wanted and the home you deserved. It turned out wonderfully for me, so I can’t complain. But it was a blow to find out we were not as alike as I thought we were—that one of us was fulfilled and one of us was not.

Rosemary holds the glass by the same corner, pours the tepid varnish—yellow like urine—into the middle, and flows the plate as before to coat the negative. She finally lets it rest.

You are putting on quite a show over there. Maybe it is not such a different vocation as you would have me believe . . . ?

This is not my vocation.

If you are doing it for Jem, which you are, then it is. You thought it was beneath you, didn’t you, Rosie? You thought it was degrading.

Public exhibitionism and parlor tricks are degrading. Affectation, performance, and insincere speech are demeaning for a lady.

The medium shrugs: And yet you have given a performance every day since, as a spouse and a mother. Isn’t that demeaning also? To pretend to be less than what you are?

Less?

Florence continues, Was our mother more than, or less than, what she once was after she married our father? It was not the attack that broke her spirit; it was what it reduced her to. Anyone
can marry. Anyone can bring children into the world. But you are unique, and you gave it up for the sake of dreary convention.

Rosemary stares at her twin. Florence has done exactly what Rosemary expected: found a way to spite her.

Well, Flossie, what you see as sacrifice, I see as freedom. What you call convention, I call stability. My greatest achievements are being obedient to my husband and setting a good example to my sons and daughters.

Florence is nonplussed. But you admit it is all for show? It is not what you really are. I do not mean to cause offense, Rosie, just to speak the truth. Being “mistress of a house” requires putting on an act, does it not? And dressing in costume. And speaking lines. And doing what is expected.

You would say that, Florence, because you have never had a family.

On the contrary, I have had a family. I have had more than one. I have never had any
children;
is that what you are referring to? I was merely pointing out that you have exchanged one role for another.

You disapprove.

No more than you disapprove of me.

I have never given you reason to think such a thing. (The photographer removes her gloves, businesslike.) I am afraid I cannot make you any prints until tomorrow because the negative is wet. And it will be better to do duplicates in stronger sunlight.

I am grateful.

Would you like me to have Jem deliver them?

No need, I will send someone to collect them. By the bye, where is my nephew?

Doing errands for me.

The spiritualist replies, Strange . . . you guessed I was coming today . . . and when I arrive, he is out running errands.

Life does go on, Flossie.

I tell my clients exactly the same, Rosie.

The carriage of Mr. and Mrs. Lennox, a young couple, pulls up outside Featherstone of Piccadilly, and Jones the valet enters the shop, presents Mr. Lennox’s card, and speaks to Jem. His employers require some
cartes de visite
of their daughter, Edna, as a matter of urgency. They are waiting to be received.

Jem smothers his nerves, affirms it can be done this instant, and while Jones returns to his master to convey the acceptance of the commission, Jem calls to his mother.

Rosemary Featherstone greets Mr. and Mrs. Lennox, both pinched and dressed head to foot in refined black tailoring. Mrs. Lennox, a blonde, watery woman, wears crêpe and an exquisite jet brooch. Mr. Lennox carries his top hat, occasionally touches his moustache as he speaks. This type of portrait is always problematic. The photographer assesses the couple, and it is as she fears—he is exacting, suspicious, has expectations, is enumerating them.

Mrs. Lennox is mute until she spies a portion of the display set discreetly in one corner. Mrs. Featherstone, you have done child
cartes
of this kind before? These are they?

Mrs. Featherstone replies, Yes, Mrs. Lennox, we have plenty of experience and testimonials from parents pleased with the outcome. A photograph of a child is a highly cherished possession.

Mr. Lennox examines the pictures himself, nods.

Jones loiters outside, awaiting instructions, and Rosemary sends Jem to assist.

The sofa and a selection of satin cushions are chosen for the little girl to rest on. Edna turns out to be blonde like her mother, dressed in white, piously holding a crucifix in her fragile ivory hand. A pale cherub. But it is not an easy photograph, not nearly as easy
as it ought to be. The parents are anxious, determined to supervise, obstructive. Jem has yet to acquire the skill of diverting unwanted onlookers and keeping them at a distance; his attempts to assist Mrs. Featherstone are a hindrance. Jones the valet serves no purpose, none, gets in the way. And the child herself . . .

It is down to Rosemary Featherstone to manage the situation tactfully without making any errors. It will be disastrous if she has to take the portrait a second time. She must patiently accommodate the patrons’ needs, lead assertively and diplomatically, trust in her abilities, ignore the distractions.

Tiny footsteps across the floorboards—investigative fingers—a shrill giggle.

Rosemary prepares the wet plate, laments not for the last time how many things can go wrong.

When the picture has been taken, the Lennox party leaves. Mr. Lennox carries Edna in his arms.

An hour later, and Rosemary is able to make the proof in solitude. She puts the glass negative into the printing frame in contact with the albumen paper and exposes it to sunlight. The eight identical pictures emerge; she watches it to arrest the exposure and fix the print. Here, then, is the first proper sight of the Lennox child’s
carte.
She looks carefully. It seems to be all right.

She will have Jem make the duplicates. No need for her to do it herself. But—

She takes out her magnifying glass because she does not trust her weakening vision and examines the paper proof again, each eighth, carefully, looking not at the girl on the sofa but around her, in the background, on the curtain, for imperfections, for—

Edna Lennox, you naughty child.

Rosemary scrutinizes now the plate negative. She sighs with exasperation, puts the magnifying glass down with a clunk. She cannot face having them back in the studio for a second attempt,
and even if she wanted to, it is probably too late. It will just have to be retouched.

Amos Featherstone was a purist, outwardly opposed to retouching. But in private he, like the majority of his colleagues, would paint out unwanted spots and markings that detracted from the finished result (but, unlike some of the less scrupulous studios, he stopped short of improving the sitter’s personal appearance). Amos, a trained artist, used watercolors or India ink on the negative. Rosemary uses instead a soft lead pencil. She makes the corrections using the magnifier, bends over her task; her hand trembles with concentration.