by Ann Harries
It turned out that we had dramatically misjudged the hour which would allow us entrance, for the queue already extended from the museum’s front door a good hour before the lecture was due to begin. I stood with my guardian in the bitter February wind, underneath a window arched in the Venetian Gothic style, the stone flowers and leaves at its edges ending half-way down, on account of the peremptory dismissal of the wild Irish stonemasons. While the queue inched forward my guardian pointed out to me the stone monkeys which had displeased the authorities (still sensitive about their ancestors) and which had been converted into cats – until we at last passed through the outer archway into that extraordinary edifice which was the museum. Some members of the public removed their hats. And in the diaphanous light of the glazed courtyard, as we enjoyed the skeletons of giraffes and dinosaurs and examined the oak cabinets of shells and stuffed birds, it occurred to me that we had entered a futuristic glass cathedral in which the bodies of animals replaced the body of Christ and his martyrs. Indeed, the filigree nature of the cast-iron ribs supporting the transparent roof seemed to me but an extension of the gigantic animal ribcages on display, the visitor thus being able to enter the very body of Science and becoming as much an exhibit as the butterfly pinned inside its display box.
I knew only too well that Mr James had visited the museum with my late father shortly after it had opened its unfinished doors to the public, ten years earlier, in order to attend a debate on Mr Darwin’s inflammatory Theory in the very lecture theatre we were hoping shortly to occupy. On that occasion the family gardener had accompanied the two men, in order to lift Mr James up the flight of stairs that led to the lecture theatre. Now it would be necessary to find a muscular gentleman who might help me transport Mr James in his wheelchair up the stairs, as I was of too slight a build to carry him over my shoulder, in the manner of the gardener, without a great deal of assistance.
We were by this stage at the bottom of the staircase, next to a glass box which, according to its label, contained ‘The Head and Foot of the last living Dodo seen in Europe’, which had been of especial interest to my father. Beside the remains was displayed a portrait of the flightless bird whose physical ineptness had resulted in its extinction. The doleful eyes were the same as those that stared at Alice in Wonderland in the Tenniel illustration, and attracted much interest from the members of the queue as they passed beneath it. It was rumoured that Charles Dodgson himself was present among the flurry of dons who scampered up and down the stairs in some agitation as it became increasingly apparent that the lecture theatre was not large enough to hold the ever growing audience.
A slender youth of my own age, but considerably taller, with a pronounced Adam’s apple, lounged against a door behind us, pensively fingering the fret-cut foliage of its brass lock. While the rest of the queue chattered and quibbled in a state of high animation, this young man seemed at ease with his own company, and made no attempt to communicate with the members of the public who stood on either side of him, locked in argument over the genius of the newly-appointed art professor whose inaugural lecture was about to commence within the half-hour. He raised his head abruptly as I addressed him: I felt a slight shiver as his large pale eyes focused themselves with appalling intensity upon my face, as though he were emerging from the solidity of some dream, and wondered if I was yet part of it. However, as he heard out my stammering request, and followed my gaze to Mr James, smiling encouragement from his wheelchair, the expression on his features relaxed and he nodded agreement. No doubt attracted by the weather-beaten, manly face of my tutor, so at odds with the lower half of his ruined body, the now-alert youth even abandoned his more advanced position in the queue and came to join us in readiness for the moment when it would be necessary for us to lift the chair up the steps. At once Mr James engaged him in furious debate about John Ruskin’s challenging political and social views. The youth, not much more than an overgrown boy, replied haltingly in a light, girlish voice which made me wonder if his vocal cords had yet undergone the rites of adolescence; I tested my own with a quick but reassuring growl, disguised as a contribution to the dialogue.
Mr James had been a disciple of John Ruskin ever since reading his slim volume on political economy some eight years earlier. I had thought Ruskin was an art critic who had rescued Turner from obscurity and abuse, but it seemed he also had strong views on social reform for ordinary working people enslaved by the factory hooter and living in miserable poverty; Ruskin’s solution was free education, fixed wages, and pensions. Mr James announced his support of these views in a voice booming with the confidence that everyone would agree with him. To my surprise, the dreamy boy had an opinion on these topics and dared to differ with my tutor over the issue of free wages.
A man who stood behind us with his wife, their eyes bright with excitement, interrupted the argument: ‘Ah, but they do say his brains is affected now – too many grand thoughts hammerin’ away inside them, I’ll be bound. I’m told he suffers from bouts of the madness quite regular these days.’
His wife giggled nervously: ‘He must have his brains addled to fall in love with a ten-year-old girl, I’d say!’ She lowered her eyelids and bit her smiling lip as proof of her own demureness. The couple, local innkeepers, had heard much about the celebrated Mr Ruskin’s performances upon the lecture podium: they hoped he would ‘rave like a loony’, as, apparently, was his wont.
Mr James rolled his head towards our new acquaintance, his mouth twisted with satire. ‘It seems we have all come to witness a different aspect of Mr Ruskin’s personality!’ he said cheerfully. ‘May I ask what you hope to gain from this afternoon’s lecture, young man?’
A slightly feverish light entered the youth’s eyes as he exclaimed in his soprano voice: ‘Sir, I seek my destiny!’
At this moment a pink and plump don in flowing academic robes clapped his hands in the middle of the courtyard, directly under the grinning jaws of a dinosaur skeleton, and begged for our attention. So many people would be disappointed of admission into the lecture theatre, he announced, that it had been decided to move the venue to the much larger Sheldonian Theatre, just down Parks Road. Professor Ruskin himself had volunteered to lead the way, and would be found waiting on the lawns outside the main entrance.
In the excitement we lost our young man, whose services by now were in any case no longer necessary, and rushed with the crowd to join the lean, stooped conger eel of a professor. Mr James pointed out to me the slight figure of the Reverend Dodgson himself, with whom he had corresponded on the topic of wet collodion plates. Dodgson, smiling with only one side of his mouth and walking with a quick unevenness that almost amounted to a hobble, led the way with Ruskin. So keen were the two men to arrive at the grand new venue that they soon broke into a run, which induced something of a stampede in the flock that followed them.
More snowflakes fell, but did not settle.
Cape Town 1899
On opening the side door of the Great Granary, one is immediately confronted by an acre of dead hydrangeas. I am told that in the summer this acreage becomes a lake of blue petals: the ladies call them ‘Christmas Flowers’ because December is the month when they are at the peak of their brilliance. Our host distributes a million blooms to the local hospital on Christmas Day, they tell me. And the poorest members of the community are allowed to come and pick one bunch each, also on Christmas Day.
Other than the shrivelled hydrangea heads, there is little to tell the English eye that we are well advanced into autumn. Certainly there is no sign of the reds and yellows that illuminate that glorious season in Europe. In any case, the only British trees immediately visible are oaks and pines. The oaks, about to drop their crisp leaves, have already pushed out the buds of spring. British leaves, I would venture to suggest, are more sensitive creatures altogether: more supple, more silken, more willing to tremble even when the air is utterly still. More green, too, and more of them. The equivalent Cape leaves are, by contrast, tough and leathery, as if
they will soon evolve into perennials and remain forever gripped on to their rugged twigs.
My feet dragged a little as I approached the aviaries. I have employed two small black boys to guard the cages with their lives, and have renamed them, their real names requiring a mastery of clicks in the throat that would choke my bronchial tubes. Chamberlain at once presented me with the corpses of two song thrushes and yet another nightingale, while Salisbury lay on his stomach in the sun, his preferred position for profound sleep. I cannot determine whether these birds are dying of a mysterious disease (they look perfectly healthy to my practised eye) or if the shock to their fragile systems has been too great. It is at moments like this that I am tempted to unlock the aviary doors and have done with the whole foolish business.
There is something different about the aviaries today, something which I do not know how to interpret. They are positioned on a patch of sand on the driveway, beneath the conifers. Until today, this sand was unremarkable, bearing only the footprints of myself and my two young helpers. Now there are lines and circles etched into it, with smooth stones from the forest dotted around upon the tracery. I know not if this design is some work of tribal art, or if it possesses more sinister, talismanic properties. It has certainly been devised by my helpers, who frown anxiously when my foot displaces a pebble or flattens a groove, but I feel it is wiser not to query its purpose. Nevertheless at the back of my mind I think of voodoo and black magic and wonder what other secret rituals might be performed on these well-groomed slopes.
Both boys speak a little English, being the sons of my upstairs manservant, who, I believe, once laboured in the diamond fields of my employer. (Orpheus has assured me that his son will never leave the cage door while in my employment, and brings food for the two children to eat on the site.) ‘Wake up, Salisbury,’ I command. ‘It is time for your lesson.’
I am a prim man, about whose behaviour people have certain preconceptions. So, even when nothing in my face moves but my lips, I am used to the incredulous stares I receive when I first begin to whistle – rather as if I were uttering obscenities, or speaking with a sudden provincial accent. I long ago mastered the art of speaking to birds in their own language, and it is true that neither bird flageolet nor flute can mimic their song better than I. I am aware, too, that the production of these sounds involves somewhat extravagant contortions of the lips and tongue in order best to regulate the passage of air between my teeth. It has been known for my (accidental) audiences – men, women, children – to have difficulty in holding back their mirth as my whistling grows more elaborate, though I know my facial expression is impassive, as always.
However, neither Chamberlain nor Salisbury laughs at my whistling. Instead they produce a very creditable imitation of my performance, even though the shape and inflection and rhythm of the blackbird’s song are clearly foreign to their ears. I am teaching them the art of duetting. Chamberlain must whistle the question, and after an appropriate lapse of time, Salisbury must whistle the reply. This is supposed to stimulate my birds into instant song but so far, as an exercise, it has proved quite useless. As we pipe and flute into the cages I am reminded of the lunatic George III in dressing-gown and night-cap, struggling to teach his caged bullfinches the popular songs of the day by means of a miniature mechanical organ. It is said that when they failed to respond he resorted to throttling them, snapping those little throats in each of which lay an obstinate syrinx. Pray God I am not tempted to do likewise.
After half an hour spent in futile singing practice, I examine the dishes of fresh snails, worms and insects which Salisbury and Chamberlain have gathered from the gardens for my birds’ gastronomic delight, and then order them to clean out all four aviaries from top to bottom.
‘Yes, baas Wills,’ they chant, sullen but obedient.
There seems no way one can prevent these Negroes from using the term ‘baas’. Even if they know no other English word (and I have come to think of the word as English, though it has a Dutch flavour to it) their speech is studded with the brutish monosyllable. It seems to me that a blatant irony is distilled in this word when uttered by a Negro: sometimes I have overheard a distant mocking harmonic in the British ‘sir’, even when on the mild lips of my dear scout Saunders, but this ‘baas’ slices through the air like an assegai: I find myself dodging.
Feeling somewhat stronger after this pretence of work, I elected to stroll along the woodland path which runs up a mountain gorge filled with the strangest assortment of flora, and into which the birds will be released in a matter of days. Champagne and minstrel music had disappeared into the nether regions of my conscious mind. Since my collapse I have trained myself not to think about matters over which I have no control, even if I am to be held responsible for their outcome. In among the oaks and pines standing side by side with banana and avocado trees it is possible to be diverted.
I opened the gate in the fence which runs around the perimeter of the garden, and began to walk upwards.
It is indeed a curious pathway that wends its way, I am told, to an old Dutch summerhouse, a mile or so along the mountain foothills. Just within the gate there is an arch of purple bougainvillaea, linking this southernmost tip of Africa with the brilliant flora of the Mediterranean. Then, a few yards further up grow a number of ancient trees, the likes of which I thought survived only under glass. But these cycads, no different in appearance, so the fossils tell us, from their ancestors of some hundred million years ago, thrust their palm-like branches across the path along with the oaks and pines and plumbago. Some are tall with heavily armoured trunks; others keep their trunks buried so that their crowns of compound leaves protrude from the ground like the heads of giant green feather-dusters. And in among this exotic flora scampers the familiar grey squirrel, introduced to this country only a few years ago by my indefatigable host. Already they have multiplied enough to make their presence felt wherever you go on this estate – whether on the open stretches of lawn where they quite fearlessly devour their acorns and run up to passers-by in the hope of a piece of bread, or in the forests which echo with the sounds of their harsh chatter.
The Colossus has installed magnificent teak benches at intervals about his garden and along this path for the pleasure of the public, and it was on one of these that I intended to rest after the particularly strenuous uphill gradient. In fact, one does not see many members of the public about as there is now some measure of security since the conflagration: I believe a hundred trustworthy citizens have been presented with keys to the gates of the estate, though it would be easy enough to enter the grounds from the upper mountain gates, which are not locked. (I have to confess that I am exceedingly grateful to the arsonists for ensuring a degree of privacy in these gardens which is much to my taste. I never could bear the push and shove of the Botanic Gardens in Oxford.)
The bench towards which I laboured was placed underneath tall Corsican pines, which by now had become the predominant tree on the mountain slope. (Strange to think that only ten years ago these slopes were covered by nothing but the aforementioned fynbos.) Although I do not much care for the appearance of this tree, I enjoy the warm, resinous aroma released by its needles, and remembering that pine fragrance is supposed to be good for the lungs, I inhaled deeply a few times, in an effort to control my breathing pattern. (One day some entrepreneur will find a way to capture and sell this smell so that people may create their own illusions of pine forests.) There can be few places on earth where Corsican pines grow side by side with banana and palm trees: a sudden grove of these specimens bulged out over the path I was following. It was possible to see my bench through the tangle of their great split leaves.
To my annoyance, the bench was occupied. The occupant evidently had very sharp ears, for a mere second after I had laid eyes on her, she rose to her feet and hurried up the mountain path. I had time only to register a cloud of dark hair round a small pale face which surmounted a shortish body, sombrely clad. A heavily laden hat seemed in danger of sli
ding off her head. Although her movements were quick, a certain heaviness, perhaps a weariness, told me that she was no longer in the prime of her youth. My reflexes had not been quite quick enough for me to catch her in the binoculars which I always hang round my neck while in the gardens in an attempt to look like a busy ornithologist. Assuming that she must be a citizen with a key, I dismissed the incident from my mind and hastened to the bench before anyone else should claim it.
It was indeed pleasant to be seated among clusters of blue plumbago and pink mountain lilies, listening to the rustle of assorted leaves, feeling the occasional shaft of sunlight warm my cheek as the foliage shifted in the morning air. In amongst the creaking pine tops, indigenous birds of prey squawked and howled but I did not allow them to disturb the growing mellowness which fresh air and exercise so often promote. The unpleasant sensation in my diaphragm had completely disappeared, and was replaced by something resembling pleasure. I have long reconciled myself to the fact that I feel happy only when alone, or in the company of birds. Even dear old Saunders back home, whose entire purpose in life is to attend to my creature comforts, has always caused me small spasms of irritation through his harmless personal habits, for example gulping, sucking his teeth, sniffing –indeed, even breathing.
My thoughts drifted randomly, lulling me to the point where the physical body with its aches and twinges seems almost to melt away, and the brain takes wing. (This surely is the purpose of the geometrically arranged Fellows’ Garden enclosed within the corridors and quadrangles of my college, wherein all the petty anxieties of daily life arrange themselves in perfect perspective and open the door to inspiration.) From my vantage point I could see across the terraced lawns of the Great Granary; beyond the banks of moulting hydrangeas; across the sweep of driveway leading to the colonnaded entrance, surmounted by a bronze cast of the first disembarkation of Netherlandish gardeners dubiously surveying a group of nomadic Aboriginals, some two and a half centuries ago, I believe. In a flurry of dust a Cape cart drew up before the entrance; Orpheus ran out of the front door and down the short flight of steps to unload the suitcases of a small, balding man, who bounded out of the coach as if fired from a cannon, at the same time extending his arms towards someone who awaited, unseen, inside the doorway.
