Manly Pursuits

by Ann Harries

  ‘But where are these pictures?’ I enquired, partly to forestall any confessions of this sort, but also out of natural curiosity.

  Like a politician Harris avoided answering my question directly, the better to construct his story. ‘For weeks Ruskin was in a state of torture, wondering what to do with these shameful likenesses. He could not frame them; he refused to classify them for fear of staining his hero’s reputation, as he saw it. Finally it came to him in a flash: he took the hundreds of scrofulous sketches and paintings and burnt them, burnt all of them. When he told me this, he insisted he was proud of what he had done. “Proud?” I cried. “I think it dreadful to kill a man’s work!” I was deeply shocked; in fact, I could not bear to see him again; and soon after he left London for his home in Cumberland.’

  Oscar was nodding and rounding his eyes; a playful smile twitched at his mouth, but I could sense his sadness at this destruction. ‘So you see, Ruskin is a villain after all,’ he said. ‘Far better to kill an animal than a painting, wouldn’t you say?’

  My head seemed suddenly afloat with champagne and I found myself speaking aloud the thoughts that passed secretly through my brain. ‘I have to say my sympathies are with Ruskin,’ I said in a voice that was thicker and stronger than usual. ‘The public visits the National Gallery to gaze at landscapes, portraits and still-lifes, not the private parts of a sailor’s whore, indecently exposed.’

  This response excited Harris very much. ‘But my dear Professor Wills, surely you will agree that there is nothing more beautiful on this earth than a woman’s c—t. Even more exciting than the sexual act itself is that moment when, having undressed the – preferably – young girl, and admired her little breasts, her tiny waist, her swelling hips, you plunge your head between her thighs and gaze upon those secret lips which often grow crimson with excitement in their nest of silken hair. And as I place my own lips against her bud of joy I feel an incomparable surge of ecstasy overwhelm my entire body: my tongue thirsts for the love-juices that pour from those rosy lips and – I say, old chap, are you all right?’

  I had sprung to my feet as a wave of nausea overcame me. Trembling, I ran to the window and pushed it open: the sweet fresh air and the orderly Fellows’ Garden revived me in an instant and I was able to turn to my guests and smile reassuringly.

  ‘I have no head for champagne, particularly in the afternoon.’ My firm voice did not betray the upheaval in my breast. ‘Now, Oscar, tell me about your book. I believe there are undergraduates here who have read it a dozen times. They now speak only in aphorisms. Some say you have single-handedly become responsible for the moral decline of the nation. Can this be true?’

  Oscar smiled, hiding his blackened teeth with his hand. ‘Dear Francis, I hope that you will agree with me that aesthetics are higher than ethics – they belong to a more spiritual sphere. I am simply teaching the nation how to live in style. I am teaching individuals how to become works of art.’

  ‘Style is something that seems to bypass the scientist. Perhaps it is because scientific research can never become a work of art, as science will not allow that fatal ambiguity which is the essence of artistic creation,’ I suggested.

  A lively debate followed, in which no mention of women’s pudenda was made, and Harris and I parted on the best of terms, though two men more different than ourselves would be difficult to find.

  Great Granary 1899

  Now I found myself not tucked up under the longed-for coverlets but perched on the edge of Frank Harris’s bed in a room further down the corridor, drinking his very fine Napoleon brandy.

  ‘And what on earth are you doing here, Frank?’ It was easy to address him by his first name although I hardly knew him.

  ‘Well, Francis, there are a variety of answers to that question. In the first place, I have come here in my capacity as editor and journalist to cover the imminent outbreak of war in this country. In the second place I plan to make my way up to the Zambezi and shoot a few crocodiles, if I have the time. My last expedition failed miserably, and I can’t tolerate failure.’ Harris busied himself with a large cigar. I waited patiently for it to take light. When finally the pungent odour of Havana filled the room he continued as if he had never stopped. ‘And in the third and most immediate place, I arrived from Durban late yesterday afternoon only to find every hotel full: I telephoned our host knowing he had many spare rooms – I know him well, fortunately – and he at once invited me to come and join the party for dinner, I hurried over in a Cape cart, met a number of acquaintances, enjoyed our host’s excellent wines (how does he get hold of them, I wonder?). I was less pleased to discover that Milner would be here as well.’

  ‘Oh, what do you have against Milner?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Well, in the first place, he is a perfect example of the modern German: he trusts only reason and what he has learned. The best type of Englishman, on the other hand, has an unconscious belief that there are instincts higher than reason, and though these immature spiritual antennae are what makes the Englishman the tragic creature he often is in practical life, they also make him lovable. Their absence makes the German supreme in the present but forecasts their failure in the future. More Cognac?’

  ‘And in the second place?’ I allowed him to pour an inch of brandy into a tumbler meant for water.

  ‘In the second place, and probably as a result of his complete absence of imagination, Milner will antagonise the Boers when it is essential to win them over by treating them fairly. If he quarrels with them, as he surely will, he is going to have a war on his hands that will tragically retard the development not only of South Africa but also of Great Britain. It will cost hundreds of millions and improve nothing, mark my words.’

  Little did Harris know that the unworldly ornithologist sitting on his bed had been entrusted by Miss Schreiner with the awesome task of averting this imperial calamity! I was fleetingly tempted to tell him of my assignation the next day: how he would enjoy such a meeting! Instead I took a deep breath and said: ‘I have another question.’ From the serious look in his eye, he knew what it was to be before I had asked it. ‘Have you seen anything of Oscar in France? I regret to say that I have lost all contact with him.’

  ‘Let’s say there is no beggar like an Irish beggar.’ Harris paused. ‘You know, I used to believe that Oscar was innocent of the crimes and perversions we heard about during his first trial. It was only when I visited him in Holloway that he broke the news to me himself that he – indulged in perverted sexual activities. I have to confess to total astonishment when he told me – I thought I had known and understood him so intimately.’

  ‘And did this knowledge make any difference to your friendship?’

  Harris blew out a stream of lazy smoke. ‘Not a scrap. I can never understand how anyone can prefer the hard straight lines of boys to the fleshy curves of the female, but each to his own.’ For a moment he studied my eyes briefly as if to discover my own preferences, then continued. ‘If only Oscar had agreed to cross the Channel in my friend’s yacht after the first trial … I was frantic, I knew two years’ hard labour lay in store for him … but he would not hear of it. Now he lives off hand-outs from his friends, and endures appalling humiliations at the hands of those who once would have wept with joy to have him at their dinner table.’

  ‘It is indeed extraordinary that he refused to accept your escape route. Perhaps – in some way – he wanted punishment – hell-fire, even – for the excesses of his life. He has dallied with Catholicism for years, of course.’

  Harris pursed his lips. ‘In all confidence – I have another theory that explains everything – his excessive behaviour and lack of control…’ He paused.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s mad.’

  ‘Mad?’

  ‘Constance always said he’d been quite mad for at least three years before his trial.’

  ‘On what do you base your theory?’ I frowned.

  By way of reply, Harris bared his front teeth an
d tapped one of them significantly. ‘The syphilis he caught at Oxford eventually affected his brain. You should know – you’re the scientist.’

  ‘I know nothing about venereal diseases,’ I said stiffly. ‘Oscar never seemed mad to me.’

  ‘Don’t take offence, old chap. It would explain a great deal of bizarre behaviour. Of course, he has long periods of lucidity.’

  ‘Has he –’ I hesitated. ‘Has he mentioned my name?’

  ‘Funny you should mention that. I last saw him about three months ago. He was in love with a little soldier who wanted nothing more than a nickel-plated bicycle out of life. Oscar, penniless of course, was determined he should have it. In the midst of trying to borrow a hundred francs from me for the purposes of pleasing his new young friend, he suddenly asked if I’d seen his cousin. I couldn’t think who he meant, until he reminded me of our visit to your rooms in Oxford: I had forgotten you were related. Oscar said, in a voice that was genuinely mournful: “I fear he has dropped me, Frank, like all the rest.”’

  ‘No, no, no!’ I shouted. ‘I wrote to him in prison. I sent him money, through Constance, after his release. I want nothing more than to see him again and receive his forgiveness.’

  ‘Forgiveness?’ enquired Frank Harris in astonishment. ‘Good Lord, Francis, you’re weeping! Let me fill your glass. Now why don’t you tell me what you mean?’

  Great Granary 1899

  I was awoken the next morning by cacophony. My head raged with brandy; the sounds I was hearing seemed designed to torture a man suffering from overindulgence; and yet I felt strangely uplifted; almost, dare I say it, happy.

  I had not registered the presence of a pianoforte in the drawing-room, though it was hard to believe that the flatulent, dislocated sounds I was hearing could thunder from strings designed to vibrate with the inspiration of Mozart, Beethoven, Liszt. This music, if music I must call it, was utterly disobedient, straining like a dog at its leash: the left hand pounding out a relentless rhythm while the right hand took horrible liberties, the treble seeming to dislocate itself quite deliberately from the bass. As if this wasn’t extreme enough, a clarinet began to wail in blatant collusion with the hammering on the keyboard, followed by the impudent rattle of the banjo, the twanging of whose strings reminds me of a cat vigorously scratching itself for fleas. Could this be the Cakewalk, at present taking London and the Americas by storm?

  It has to be said that not even the dons and fellows of the Oxford colleges are safe from the pernicious influence of this so-called music. Well do I remember how my sacred evening hour in the company of the Senior Common Room was recently shattered by the triumphant entrance of a young history tutor bearing aloft a most hideously decorated cake, his prize for an unseemly display of leg-kicking and bodily contortions, produced with the energetic co-operation of a female partner. These antics are performed every Wednesday afternoon in a local dance house from whose windows issue the sort of sounds presently disturbing my fortifying slumbers; with what gusto did that young cake prize-winner proceed to demonstrate to his startled audience those very gyrations which had won him his honours.

  I lay in my bed, the image of the dancing don suddenly vivid in my memory, resurrected, it seemed, to strut again to the raucous noise from below. My own neat legs lay outstretched beneath a monogrammed blanket, while the upper part of my body sloped upward at forty-five degrees, with the support of four large pillows, still necessary after my bronchial attack.

  Reluctant to move from my warm bed in spite of the dissonance, I found my mind drifting back to the events of the night before. In the haze of alcohol that still made ordered thinking impossible, I remembered little of my conversation with Frank Harris, though the earlier part of the evening was vivid enough. Nevertheless, I was aware of a feeling of warmth towards Harris, a feeling that began to arrange itself into an urge to see him again, though for ill-defined reasons.

  Then I noticed something very peculiar happening to my nether anatomy.

  I could scarcely believe the evidence of my astonished eyes. The entire length of my left foot, from the ankle to the tips of my toes, was twitching under the blanket with a violent, rhythmic movement, as if it belonged not to my precise body but to the unseen players in the room below. I watched its gyrations, dumbfounded, as if betrayed by the insolence of an outer limb – but even as I watched, the realisation dawned that another part of my feeble frame had succumbed to the influence of the music: my head, the very seat of my accumulated wisdom and discipline, was nodding in an equally compulsive fashion, in frank collusion with my foot.

  And then, strangest of all, my entire body rose from its bed, as if pulled by the dancing don himself, and proceeded to wriggle and writhe in a most unseemly fashion, my legs even kicking out and upwards in an abandoned manner. (It occurred to me that I might have been bitten by a tarantula, apocryphal as the stories of its dance-inducing venom might be.) The ludicrousness of the situation was exaggerated by the fact that my jittering legs were entirely naked under my night-dress! Unwillingly, I observed the extreme pallor of my skin, and the veritable forest of black hair, sprouting to no purpose from the knees down.

  I am a man unacquainted with his body. I do not admire the exposed flesh of Michelangelo’s sculptures or Rubens’ overfed women. In particular – like Ruskin – I am repelled by bodily hair. I do not see the need for it. The late Mr Darwin could undoubtedly have explained to me how the unnecessary coils around my genitalia fit into the evolutionary process, but I doubt if such an explanation would lessen my disgust. I avert my eyes when bathing. I forget I am related to the ape. Now the sight of my pale hairy legs prancing about so absurdly filled me with acute embarrassment. I wrapped my dressing-gown about my limbs, and looked for warm water.

  The music stopped for a moment. Voices chattered and laughed. The players were speaking in their clicking tribal languages. I could recognise the throaty inflections of my valet … Which instrument did he play? Was it possible to perform upon the pianoforte with a missing little finger?

  Then a chill icicle of thought needled its way into the conflicting emotions stirred by the cakewalk. They are rehearsing for the day of the Release, less than two days away now! The day when my soundless birds will soar into pine forests, already fully occupied by winged predators. Something like pity stirred in my cold heart, whether for myself or my small charges I could not say.

  A gentle rap on the door interrupted these wretched thoughts. Impatiently I swung the door open, and was confronted by the radiant messenger, Joubert.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Another telegram for you, I’m afraid. He says he’ll discuss the contents with you this evening.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Joubert. I am glad to see your spirits are fully recovered.’

  ‘Thanks to you, Professor!’ the young man cried. ‘If I hadn’t met you on the bench yesterday … I might even have broken my engagement to Miss Pennyfeather!’ He cocked his head, listening to the sounds from below with obvious pleasure.

  ‘I can see you enjoy this music’

  ‘Oh yes, sir!’ he cried. ‘It makes me want to dance!’

  ‘There will be plenty of opportunity for that when the birds are released, I should imagine.’

  ‘Miss Pennyfeather is looking forward to meeting you then, Professor.’ The irrepressible young man bade me good morning and withdrew. I moved across to the bedside table to fetch my reading glasses. As before, only a few words were scrawled on the back of the telegram.

  ‘Thanks, Wills. You’re a good chap. But when are you going to get those damned birds to sing? Come and have a drink with me on the back verandah tonight 6 p.m.’

  After my late start, the hot water which Orpheus brought me had become lukewarm but strangely invigorating. I certainly had no thoughts of breakfast as I paid special attention to my toilet, even going so far as to extract certain facial hairs which detracted from the symmetry of my beard. Then it was time to embark on my quest.

  Down the avenue of monstrous stone
pines – quite the wrong sort of tree to have planted to line a road, in my opinion, with a top-heavy canopy of needles one hundred feet above and nothing but angular tree trunks at eye level – I strolled, in search of Maria’s house. A multitude of grey squirrels raced up and down these trees, undeterred by the total lack of branches from which to leap. The avenue led from the Great Granary down on to a kind of High Street which ran through the village of Rondebosch, yet to be visited by me. I have felt no impulse to move outside the perimeter of the Great Granary estate, though I am assured that a tour of the peninsula on which it is situated would be of great interest.

  A narrow-faced peasant of a man pushed his sharpening-stone up the road, flickered his eyes at me with intense dislike, and disappeared into one of the cottages which lined the lower end of the avenue. The redness of his skin and the blueness of his eyes suggested he was a recently arrived immigrant.

  I fingered the tiny tooth I had procured in the early hours of the morning. Its sharp edges bit pleasantly into my fingertips, a pleasure enhanced by the memory of the little mouth in which it had once lodged.

  Each of the cottages was provided with a large shady verandah surrounding the front door. Strong pillars held aloft the red-and-white-striped corrugated-iron verandah roofs which gave the otherwise gloomy houses a somewhat skittish appearance. One verandah wall was adorned with antlers, horns and stuffed animals’ heads with glassy eyes; another with dried fynbos bouquets hanging upside-down from the beams of the roof.

  In which did my Maria dwell? I hovered uncertainly before each front gate, feeling self-conscious; then spotted a large triangle hanging among the dried bouquets. At the same moment the child herself slipped out from behind a hedge of blue plumbago and chanted gleefully: ‘The fairies took my tooth! The fairies took my tooth!’ She was holding a small cardboard box.