White Stone Day (7 page)

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp
thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble–ivohble on the walls.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe
and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. Not far from the town of
Chipping Norton, the brougham containing Reverend William Boltbyn and
his photographic equipment pauses beside a one–storeyed
porter's lodge, nestled in deep ivy, before a set of heavy wooden
lodge–gates designed to convey the opposite of welcome. Nobody
in ten years has passed through these gates without a signed
invitation from the Duke of Danbury. Artists who ask permission to
sketch the house are refused without exception. A photographer who
managed to capture the manor by stealth had his negatives smashed, so
that the otherwise inclusive Homes of the British Aristocracy in the
Camera: Being Reminiscences of a Peripatetic Photographer contains no
chapter on Bissett Grange. This absence was of less consequence to
the photographer than the near–loss of a leg by
blood–poisoning, having stepped into a poacher's snare. An
exception to this forbidding directive are members of the Oxford
Photographic Society, which the duke has taken under his protection
since its founding a dozen years ago, and who roam the estate at
will. As the carriage clatters up the elm–avenue to the house,
Boltbyn admires the broad expanse of park; two grazing deer raise
their heads at the sound of carriage–wheels and hurry, at their
peculiar sling trot, into the shelter of a shadowed copse. Boltbyn
does not look forward to the afternoon. He had thought the society to
have progressed well past Sleeping Innocence pictures; moreover, he
does not welcome the opportunity to contribute further to the ceuvre
of Mr Nixon Crede. The entrance to the manor is made of brick, and
shaped like a medieval portcullis; above him, Elizabethan gables top
a series of 3 5 WHITE STONE DAY fieldstone facades, while before him
stands an enormous flower–bed, whose exotic blooms and greenery
culminate at the precise centre of the carriage–sweep. In
short, Bissett Grange is a queer, squarish ramble, which has
undergone so many renovations as to have lost all trace of its
original architecture. Standing beside the carriage, Boltbyn watches
anxiously while two uniformed footmen shoulder his precious camera,
lenses, and portable cabinet of developing materials, out of the
carriage, up the steps and through the front door. Before entering,
he pauses to admire the ancient quadrangle with its stables and
coach–houses, so picturesque with the late afternoon sun
illuminating the clock–turret and pointed roof. As always, the
reception room contains a magnificent array of hothouse plants,
arranged in bowers along the central hallway and in every recess of
the gallery – the duke's floral requirements are enor–
mous; like the house, the conservatory is under constant expansion.
As always, beneath the bouquet lurks the disconcerting scent of
rising damp – a faint, sweetish, rotten emission, a result of
inadequate ventilation in one of the renovations. (Within a half–hour
Boltbyn will have become insensible to the odour; he doubts that the
duke and his servants have smelled it in years.) The central hallway
is a rococo celebration of both European history in general and the
Industrial Age in particular, featuring mass– produced figures
worth the eyesight of a dozen tradesmen a half– century ago:
plaster angels, fish, flowers, tassels, trumpet–blowing cupids
against a painted sky, mirrors – alongside genuine marble and
bronze sculpture – creating a riot to rival baroque Italy. At
the end of the central hallway – lined with intermittent
shrines to former generations of Danburys – Boltbyn can glimpse
Danbury's library, in which a collection of pistols takes the place
of books; a queer, octagonal, room looking upon an immense lawn,
undulating upward as far as the estate's picturesque highlight: the
Roland Stones, a public landmark with a prehistoric legacy that might
as well have been created for the amusement of Bissett Grange.
Boltbyn follows the footmen up the staircase and down a narrow hall
(rendered tubular by Paladin arches, installed on a whim), until they
reach a rope, beyond which none may pass. Boltbyn does not find this
declaration of privacy especially odd: the Duke of Prescott is said
to have built a miniature railway underneath his house, open to none
but himself; the Earl of Bridgewater dines alone with his dogs. 36
BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE Turning left, he enters a room whose
windows are permanently sealed to banish exterior light, illuminated
by tallow candles in sconces. Towering above him, a series of tall
iron lamps of magnesium wire stand ready to flood the area with
momentary brilliance. Around the perimeter, a black curtain masks the
walls, which were painted years ago by one of the minor Orientalists
and may not be erased, having attained the status of art. Three men
apply finishing touches to the setting: chiefly the aforementioned
William Nixon Crede – languid and pale, whose paintings are
achieved by first photographing the subject, then transferring the
image to canvas by means of a camera obscura. (His trade secret is
safe with the Oxford Photographic Society.) Even in this dim light
Boltbyn can appreciate the classical perspective of trees, stripped
of leaves, branches silhouetted like the fingers of crones, receding
down a picturesque path, past the multiple jaws of Cerberus the
three–headed dog, all the way to Charon the ferryman, and the
River Styx. The foreground is dominated by an enormous dome made of
plaster, upon which Psyche will recline. (It was built by Thomas
Angley, the architect behind some of the more atrocious renovations
at Bissett Grange.) In the meanwhile, Bracebridge Hemyng, the author
and critic, pores over a picture–book written by himself,
entitled Great Scenes From Antiquity, a favourite of householders who
wish to celebrate the classics without actually reading them. A
footman gently sets down the camera (two mahogany boxes, connected by
a detachable bellows for portability), lens and tripod; another opens
the cabinet containing chemicals, solutions, dishes, and glass; and a
third footman erects a small velvet tent in a corner of the room. The
photograph will be achieved by the Archer process, an enormous
improvement over the collotype process, whose sharpness of detail
rivals even the daguerreotype. Properly executed, it is like viewing
a scene with a magnifying glass. (Hence its value to Mr Crede and his
camera obscura.) The disadvantage is the method itself–
complicated, messy and accident–prone. First, the glass plate
must be polished to perfect cleanliness, for a speck of dust will
appear as a blot. Balancing the plate delicately on thumb and
fingers, the photographer must pour the solution so evenly that the
liquid evaporates into a smooth film. One slip, the slightest misstep
or miscalculation and the photograph is ruined . . . 37 WHITE STONE
DAY The door is swung open by an Irish servant and, after a short
pause, the Duke of Danbury enters. He wears an immaculate black coat
and a violet waistcoat; his wispy fringe of reddish hair has been
expertly combed and dressed. In his arms he carries the sleeping,
seemingly weightless subject, in a flowing white gown. Now for the
first time, Boltbyn wonders: Why does Danbury insist that they be
asleep? For while it may be true that, in the early days of the
society, confined to the old collotype process, a photographer would
be hard–pressed to achieve any degree of focus using a young,
sentient model; but with the introduction of the Archer process, such
a precaution became no longer necessary. Still, the Duke continues
the practice of giving the subject a mild sedative, in the interests
of 'realism'. As guests at Bissett Grange, the members of the society
do not argue with their patron. It is not the thing to do. Danbury
arranges the subject upon the rock, in a picturesque attitude.
Wonders have been accomplished with make–up, for the face is
magnificent, a most perfect, intelligent face, like painted enamel,
and . . . O heavens! It is astoundingly obvious to Boltbyn why the
duke has chosen the subject, and whom she represents . . . Emma. The
likeness is sufficient to cause him to tremble; were he to speak, all
meaning would be lost in a spasm of stuttering. The Duke of Danbury
holds Boltbyn's gaze for a long moment, in which the two men engage
in a silent dialogue: Whatever can this possibly mean? I think you
know. What is it you expect from this? I think you know. With a
private nod to Boltbyn, Danbury faces the company as though
addressing a class of classics students. 'Gentlemen, for our Sleeping
Beauty on this occasion I give you Psyche – dispatched to
Proserpine with a bejewelled box so that the goddess might fill it
with her beauty. 'Upon her return with the box of secrets, Psyche is
overcome with desire to open it, to take a share of beauty for
herself. But when she opens the box, she receives not beauty but an
infernal sleep, which renders her as still as a corpse. Thus, a young
girl discovers the secret of womanhood, and the death of innocence. O
what a jealous goddess 38 BESSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE is time,
gentlemen – from whose sharp needle none can wriggle out of
reach!' The duke directs another knowing glance in Boltbyn's
direction, though the vicar is at a complete loss as to what it might
signify. 'And yet Psyche will be reborn, to be reunited with her
Cupid, and they will beget a child whose name will be Pleasure.
'Psyche is the Greek word for the soul, and the butterfly.' A ripple
of appreciative applause erupts, led by Crede and Hemyng. Crede takes
his place next to the magnesium lamp, lucifer poised, while Hemyng
prepares an additional plate, infusing the room with ether as though
it were a hospital. Boltbyn's heart pounds upon his sternum as he
inserts a plate into the camera and bends down to peer through the
lens. Thus magnified, he is able to distinguish between the face
before him and the face of his soon–to–be–lost
friend; still, the likeness is sufficiently unsettling that his hand
shakes as he wipes his brow. Why has Danbury done this? When one
gentleman asserts such a confident acquaintance with the private life
of another, the question becomes: What does he know? Or, What does he
think he knows? The duke pauses at the door for a final word:
'Gentlemen, urgent business awaits me in London. I remind you that,
as with our previous subjects, the model must not be touched by
anyone other than Mr O'Day, for the shock of a premature awakening
might cause grave injury to the child. 'Good luck to you, Mr Boltbyn.
I pray that your work will be a fitting tribute to its subject –
and to your own unique sensibility.' As he leaves, Danbury pauses to
whisper to his Irish servant: 'She has an hour under the lights
before she begins to smell.' 39 7

Plant's
Inn For Whitty, as for most London clubmen, a visit to one's
drinking– place is the nearest thing to going home.
Straightening the collar of his plum coat, smoothing his new canary
waistcoat (retrieved from his tailor after settling the account), he
enters a wooden, airless space not unlike the interior of a cigar
humidor – worn, scuffed and beaten by generations of elbows,
buttocks and foreheads, and as familiar as his walking–stick.
Whitty pauses by the door. A silence descends upon the room, but with
no greetings to follow. Curious. Superficially, all is precisely as
it was a few weeks ago. There is Crocker of The Spectator, opposite
Meggs of the People's Friend – the former with a small bandage
covering the open sore on his cheek; and there is Cobb, who writes
social notes for Lloyd's – presumably by clairvoyance, for he
never goes anywhere. None, however, acknowledges his presence. As he
crosses to the bar Whitty can sense eyes watching him sideways like
egrets, necks swivelling this way and that. Above the counter floats
a thick cloud of cigar and pipe smoke, through which the face of the
barkeeper emerges like the genie of the lamp. 'A good day to you,
sir,' Humphrey says. His face does not brighten into a mesh of
wrinkles, nor does he automatically fetch Whittv's customary drink.
'Puzzled at present, Humphrey. My usual, if you please.' 'Which would
be what, sir?' 'What, has your memory failed you? Softening of the
brain?' 'Circumstances has changed since you was here last.' Whitty
leans over the gleaming mahogany bar, which remains disconcertingly
empty of drink. 'Speak plainly if you please, Humphrey. Am I out of
order?' 'Indeed, sir, that were the thrust of Mrs Plant's last
indication.' '1 am prepared to settle my account in full, if that is
the cause for complaint.' 'That would be welcome, sir, yet there
remain issues outstanding.' 40 PLANT'S INN 'What the devil is my
offence this time, Humphrey?' 'Word reached certain ears as to the
reason for your absence, which did not enhance madam's regard. Quite
the opposite, sir, I regret to say.' 'A curious phenomenon, the
modern woman, Humphrey. A terrier in the struggle for emancipation,
yet a bloodhound for keeping track of a fellow.' 'Afraid I must
remain mum in that regard, sir, for I have never owned a dog.' The
barkeeper's eyes dart sideways as though Mrs Plant might spring at
him from behind a bottle of Charleson's. Whitty casts his gaze upon
the empty space behind the frosted glass from which Mrs Plant
orchestrates the establishment. 'Where is the lady? I wish to pay my
respects.' 'Presently at confession, sir.' The barkeeper stares at
Whitty's canary waistcoat and will not meet his gaze. Whitty flicks a
bit of cigar ash from his waistcoat, pulls the silver flask of brandy
from his pocket and avails himself of a healthy swig: no doubt his
chilly reception is based upon the misapprehension that he had gone
over to a competing publican. That can soon be put right, he thinks,
and with a pinch of chemist's snuff up the nostril for good measure,
he focuses upon the door to the rear snug, a room shaped like a
tricorner hat, containing a long table, around which the upper caste
of public oracles gnaw one another's entrails for nourishment. He can
discern the Scotsman's odious brogue, dominating the discussion as
usual. The barkeeper watches Whitty's well–tailored back as it
heads for the rear snug: A canary waistcoat. Wouldn't you know. It
never occurred to Humphrey that Plant's might harbour a freak of
nature. How is it that he served the party for years and was none the
wiser? It required an intellect on Mr Fraser's level to fit the clues
together: Mr Whitty's fancy style of dress, his affected Oxford
accent; and a frequenter of Turkish baths, where the unnatural swine
do their beastly business. Shaking his head in a gesture of
helplessness common to simple men who have seen too much, Humphrey
fetches a dish–rag and executes a thorough wipe of the mahogany
bar, giving a good scrub to the section upon which Mr Whitty was
leaning. Were he a Roman Catholic, he would cross himself. Whitty
steps into the rear snug where Fraser captains his ship of fools.
Lacking an original thought, the man from Dodd's endures by means 41
WHITE STONE DAY of an affected posture of cantankerous populism and a
Celtic willingness, lacking any other weapon, to bite the throat out
of an enemy. 'Och Whitty, just my man, absent far too long, guid
show!' Clearly, Fraser has not progressed in his effort to form
civilised vowels, but he has not lacked for meat: he has gained a
stone since they last met; as well, he sports the complexion that
goes with good drink and mutton – a deep, ventricular shade of
red, a sign of prosperity and good health. 'Mr Fraser. Delightful, to
see you flush with the good things in life.' 'Fruits of the work
ethic, Mr Whitty. A life spent seeking truth, and forgoing the sport
of backgammon.' Unaccountably, Fraser's reference to a common
gambling–game elicits a merry response from the three other
gentlemen at table: Gosse of the Yokel's Preceptor (a guide to London
for immigrants from the country), Home of Bentley's Journal, and
Ambrose of the Morning Chronicle. 'A guid cut, would you not say,
gentlemen?' Fraser says to the company. Home and Ambrose scratch
merrily upon their notebooks in reply, plagiarism being the truest
form of flattery. 'I am at a loss as to the connection between your
capacity for drudgery and the playing of a board game.' 'I should
think it would be clear to you, sir. Think of it as a case of East
meets West.' Another round of snickering. 'By a remarkable
coincidence,' Fraser continues, 'we were just a moment ago
reprehending the outbreak of immorality in public places – in
particular, the proliferation of unnatural acts, occasioned by the
Canning affair. D'ye recall it, Edmund?' 'Ah yes, Canning, poor
fellow. Surprised with his breeches unbuttoned, with a soldier –
named, appropriately, Flower – whose dress was in similar
disarray.' 'Your empathy is most Christian, Edmund.' 'Did you read
about the infant skeletons that lined the walls when Maxwell's on
Betty Street was pulled down? The consensual antics of two adults
seem trivial in comparison.' 'Trivial, Edmund? May I remind you that
a generation ago, uranism – unnatural conversation between men
– was punishable by death.' 'And so it remains in your country,
a tradition which has provided a charter for blackmailers.' Whitty
bites his tongue, unwilling to join 42 PLANT'S INN further in the
argument and thereby contribute to Fraser's newspaper, gratis.
'Gentlemen, this is not London, it is Sodom!' pronounces Ambrose. 'I
am told that the public houses now must post signs – Beware of
Sods –while at the Hundred Guineas, the odious creatures are so
flagrant as to take on the names of women!' 'The Hundred Guineas, do
you say?' asks Gosse, writing as quickly as he can. 'Where are the
stocks when we require them?' asks Home. 'Why has the pillory been
abolished? Why are these perverse creatures not in irons?' 'Because
it would occasion a surprising emigration from Eton to Newgate,'
replies Whitty. 'A guid cut, sir, a guid cut – and from one who
should know!' Whitty hears the scratching of pencils on notebooks,
like little teeth gnawing the table–legs. Why does Fraser's
flaccid cliche merit recording and not his own, far superior, cut?
And why the reference to 'backgammon' – used among ruffians to
describe certain sexual acts? 'I should think,' says Fraser, 'that in
cleansing the city of this outrageous conduct, the first measure
would be to abolish the Turkish baths – which are little more
than dens of uranism, as I am sure Edmund will agree.' Another round
of chuckling. Whitty has had enough. 'I say, gentlemen, there seems
to be an amusement going of which I am ignorant.' 'Not at all,'
Fraser replies, turning to the barkeeper hovering in the doorway.
'Humphrey, fetch ye a hot gin for Mr Whitty, who has advanced such a
spirited defence of sexual inversion. And a guid argument for
bestiality as well.' Then he rises from his seat and exits the room
winking at the barman as if to say, What did I tell you? 43