by Ann Harries
I felt my face suffuse with colour as a feeling of most exquisite pleasure rose through my body. ‘Y-your tooth?’ I stammered, and then, controlling the swooning sensation, I said sternly, ‘Good morning, Maria.’
‘Mornin’,’ she droned. Her large brown eyes shone with a lustrousness I felt I could dive into. ‘They l-left me a tickey, that’s nice of them, hey?’
‘Oh I am pleased!’ I exclaimed in a jolly voice I could scarcely recognise as my own. ‘And what do you think they’ll do with your tooth?’
‘They’ll b-build they houses with it,’ she said. ‘They houses are built out of t-tooths, you see.’
‘How beautiful they must be! Have you ever seen one, Maria!’ (I found myself shamelessly imitating Dodgson’s whimsical cadences.)
She contracted her nostrils in disbelief at my stupidity, a gesture which raised the curtain of her top lip and revealed the delightful gap in her top row of teeth. ‘You can’t see fairies’ houses!’
‘What’s that you’ve got, Maria?’ Out of my depth, I changed the subject.
‘Look.’ She proffered me the cardboard box she had been clasping. Its lid was punctured with a number of slashes. I paused, conscious that a woman’s face was at the window of the house next to which we were standing. The child seemed quite unperturbed about this, her little mind now thoroughly engrossed in her new interest.
Hesitantly, I lifted the lid. Inside the box were a number of mulberry leaves which were being audibly munched by hordes of pale, naked caterpillars. Cocoons of yellow silk had already attached themselves to the corners of the box.
‘They my silkworms. They turn into silk.’ Her curious colonial inflections made the word sound more like ‘sulk’ than rhyme with ‘milk’.
‘And what will you do with the silk, Maria?’ Once I would have given the ignorant child a lesson on metamorphosis. But this was the wrong question.
‘I’ll keep it.’ She was beginning to have doubts about my powers of reasoning, I could see that, and extended her hands for the return of the box. I wished the woman in the window would move away. Maria showed no inclination to take me inside the house.
Studying my face with great intensity, she enquired with her usual suddenness: ‘What’s your bir-bir-birds’ names?’
‘My birds’ names? Do you mean their Latin names or their common names?’ (Alice Liddell would certainly have been able to answer this question.)
A small frown appeared between her dark brows. ‘What they called?’ she said patiently.
‘Well, I have some nightingales, some blackbirds, some chaffinches.’ I decided against the Latin names.
The frown did not disappear. She became helpful. ‘I got a canary called Cecil,’ she explained. ‘And a pussy cat called Chaka Zulu. What’s the birds’ names?’
‘Oh my goodness me!’ I exclaimed as understanding dawned. ‘Do you know how many birds I have, Maria?’
She stared down at her shoes.
‘I have – well, I did have – two hundred birds in my cages. That’s a lot of names to have to make up, don’t you think?’
‘Duzzen matter.’ (Only later did I realise the child had no concept of tens, let alone hundreds.) ‘Poor birds.’
‘Well then –’ I paused, as a delightful thought occurred. ‘Would you like to come up to the cages and name them for me?’
‘I been to the cages.’ She pouted. ‘The Kaffir boys chased me away. They shouted at me. I’m a bit scared of those boys.’
‘Are you indeed?’ I said. ‘I don’t think you need be any more.’
At this moment the woman threw open the window and called out angrily, in strong Dutch accents: ‘Maria, come in now! I’ve told you not to talk to strange men!’
Though I bridled at the deliberate rudeness, I realised action had to be taken at once. Stretching my pink lips into the most charming smile I could muster, I turned to the woman who challenged me thus at the window, and bowed with frigid politeness. ‘Professor Francis Wills, madam, from Oxford University.’
Thank goodness my face never registered my true emotions, for my eyes would have widened with surprise when they settled on the woman’s face. Without doubt this was Maria’s mother: the bright brown eyes, the pouting lips, the small round chin, the robust beauty. But the colour of her skin: Maria’s mother’s skin was nearly as dark as that of my Negro servant (at present thumping his way through minstrel music in preparation for my downfall), though her features were as European as my own. In the full glare of the morning sun which had escaped the feathery grasp of the pine trees, I now realised that Maria’s skin was a glorious golden-brown colour, not unlike that of a Spaniard who has been through a harsh Mediterranean summer.
The mother was unaffected by my charm. ‘What’s an old man like you doing with my little girl?’
Oh dear, these colonials and indigenes do speak their minds. Language here has clearly never developed beyond an unfiltered expression of simple needs and opinions. I cleared my throat in order to stimulate my vocal cords into mellifluous action.
‘I beg your pardon, madam, I fear there is some mistake. I was merely discussing with Maria the possibility of her giving names to the songbirds I have brought with me from England.’ Surely to God there’s no harm in that?
The frown on the woman’s face did not melt away. ‘Maria says you meet her up the Glen.’ Outright hostility was evident in the quick flare of nostril that accompanied this rejoinder.
I became even more magnanimous, more ingenuous. ‘We’ve been teaching each other to whistle. I work with birds, you see, at the University of Oxford.’ Clearly the implications of this hallowed name were quite lost on this harridan.
‘I don’t want my child meeting strange old men up the mountain.’ Though the hostility still flickered round the nostril, her eyes, previously weapons of destruction, now began a wary search of mine.
‘I quite agree,’ I said affably, storing up her unflattering description of me for later analysis. ‘Which is why I’ve come to pay my respects to you – and also to ask you about Maria’s magnificent bird-whistle. She tells me you made it yourself. May I offer you my congratulations? It is a superb instrument.’
My unctuous flattery seemed to be working. Drawing herself away from the window the woman said in resigned tones: ‘You better come in.’
Maria, who had been playing inside the laurel hedge during this exchange, now emerged looking dusty, her clothes and hair covered in leaves and twigs. Though I found her even more enchanting in this state – a leafy nymph escaped from some sprawling Renaissance canvas – her mother burst into a fit of scolding in kitchen-Dutch, which sent the child scuttling into the depths of the house, much to my disappointment.
The house was cool and dark inside, and sparsely furnished. Accustomed to the clutter of English homes, I found the bare walls and uncarpeted floors somewhat startling, though no doubt conducive to clear thinking. I could tell at once that the plain furniture was of the best: the favoured yellow-and-dark-wood combination in the table, bureau and chairs. The occasional stool and bench featured that curious leather-thong loose weave I have noted in the Great Granary. In fact, the interior of the house was a humble microcosm of that of the larger house, and more successful for its lack of pretension. The Great Granary was, in effect, not much more than a great hotel, while this simple house had the welcoming properties of a home.
My general astonishment was compounded by the full appearance of the woman herself. Whilst leaning in the window frame she had presented herself as a person of normal healthy physical proportions, but great indeed was my surprise to discover that from the ribcage downwards her girth expanded suddenly outwards, so much so that as she moved, her hindquarters, clad in fashionable European silks but clearly not encased in the usual stays or corsets, rose and fell in gigantic waves to the rhythms of her movements.
My final surprise awaited me in the room into which she then led me. It was not so much the pretty Broadwood piano and musical instruments
– ranging from violin to penny whistles of the type I remember seeing on a visit paid by my father and myself to our relations in Ireland – that made me stop short in the doorway. Over the fireplace, before whose empty grate stood a large, deep, indigo high-glaze pot filled with brilliant sea-blue dried hydrangeas, hung a formal portrait of the Colossus – a photograph upon which had been superimposed the original tints and hues of my host’s benevolent-looking visage; a photograph, I may add, taken some years back, to judge by the firm smoothness of the facial skin, the youthful glow in the grey-blue eyes, the golden streaks in the curly hair. Maria’s mother made no attempt to explain the presence of the portrait; nor indeed would she even have attempted polite conversation with me, had I not myself initiated a vestigial verbal exchange through formal questioning. Nor did she volunteer her own name, and I found myself lacking the courage to ask it.
It seemed that the invitation into her house automatically included refreshments. While she made a pot of tea, I ruminated over her position in the Great Granary hierarchy of servants: probably a cook in the hidden kitchens, as I had certainly never seen her cleaning or serving in the house itself, but then I had seen no female servant in the house. As I waited for her return, and, indeed, for Maria’s reappearance, I took care to preserve a gentle smile on my lips in order to counteract my habitually stern expression. This effort imposed considerable strain on the muscles of my mouth, with the result that a slippery sort of twitch affecting first one then the other corner of my mouth came into effect just as the mother re-entered the room bearing a large tea tray, of which burden I hastily relieved her. Once we were settled I re-introduced the topic of her bird-whistle as she poured me a very pleasant cup of China tea, which quickly subdued the nervous tic in my lips. There was still no sign of Maria.
‘I am a musician, you see,’ said the mother with undisguised pride. ‘I play all those instruments you see over there. Those instruments come from overseas, and cost a lot of money, but it is also possible to make your own musical instruments – that is what I learnt when I was a child.’ She leaned over the table and removed a beaded net cover from a bowl of confectionery. ‘Help yourself. There’s a serviette. As a child I made bird-whistles out of the clay we dug up from under the hill, but those whistles imitated the birds of Africa – the hoopoe bird, the hadeda, the bee-eaters, the laughing doves. Go on, eat.’
I stared helplessly at the little plaited cakes soaked in syrup and sprinkled with desiccated coconut. It appeared I was to pick one up in my fingers, holding the table napkin beneath it to catch any dripping syrup.
I do not like getting my fingers sticky. Now I felt myself break out in a cold sweat at the thought of handling this messy food.
My fear communicated itself to her. She said, less harshly, Tick one up with your serviette if you don’t want to dirty your fingers. It’s koeksusters, a local food. You can’t go back to England without eating koeksusters’
Wrapping my table napkin carefully round my hand I did as I was bidden. She could see my hand shaking as I reached for the syrupy cake.
‘You English are a funny lot,’ she remarked, filling my empty cup with tea. ‘Wash, wash, wash, all the time.’ She looked briefly up at the portrait and nodded her head. ‘He’s exactly the same. Even in the middle of the veld, miles away from anywhere, he’s got to be spotlessly clean and shaven. Yet for all that, he never brushes his hair.’
I nibbled at the koeksuster. It was too sweet for my liking and I did not care for the rather soggy texture, but good manners made me chew through it to the end. The woman’s familiarity with the private habits of the Colossus did not surprise me; by now I had decided she must be the widow of some deceased valet. I swallowed the last glutinous crumb with a sip of tea, and felt the moment had arrived for me to reveal the true reason for my visit. ‘Mrs van den Bergh,’ I began, but she interrupted me. ‘Fun!’ she exclaimed with a contemptuous smile. ‘Not “van”!’
My brain, so carefully prepared for the request I was about to make, swivelled on its axis. She began to explain: ‘In our language a “v” is pronounced like an “f”.’
‘Mrs fun den Bergh,’ I continued: ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’
All fun vanished as she tightened her mouth and prepared for refusal.
‘I am an amateur photographer. I have brought my cameras here in order to take pictures of the local environment and birds in particular. It would give me great pleasure to take Maria’s photograph – and yours, of course – to bring back to England, to show the colonial people in their natural habitat. I have had some considerable success with portrait taking.’ This was a complete lie, but nevertheless Dodgson’s famous portraits – Alice as beggarmaid et cetera – sailed before my mind’s eye as if I myself was responsible for their existence.
‘You want to take Maria’s photograph?’
‘Yes. And yours, if you were willing.’
At this moment Maria herself, now clad in a clean pinafore, sidled into the room and headed for the koeksusters.
‘I should be delighted to present you with such a portrait before I leave for England next week,’ I continued. ‘There are excellent dark-room facilities available to me in the big house.’
To my surprise, the woman addressed her daughter. ‘Would you like the Professor to take your photograph, Maria? She’s not looking her best, you know, she’s just recovering from measles, she lost a lot of weight.’
‘The Professor says I can go up to the cages,’ Maria replied.
‘Where would you take these pictures?’ continued the mother. ‘In this house?’
‘Well, ideally I’d like to take them outside – on the mountain slopes – among the wild flowers – that sort of thing.’
‘I tell you where’s nice,’ said Mrs van den Bergh. ‘There’s an old summerhouse up the mountain, with a rose garden and a fountain. That’s a very pretty place, isn’t it, Maria?’
It seemed that the mother was content with this arrangement. We agreed to meet at ten o’clock the next morning; I was given elaborate directions; and finally got away, feeling triumphant. Maria ran after me.
‘M-my mommy says I can come with. To the cages.’
And to my indescribable joy, she placed her small trusting hand inside my own contaminated one.
Oxford 1895
To rear in total isolation; this is the only way to corner Mother Nature. Only then will she unwillingly reveal those secret mechanisms which our forefathers attributed to Divine Planning: how, why, when, where do birds sing? The human race deserves an answer.
A young German half-wit, standing entranced in a village square, caused a sensation in both the scientific and literary worlds earlier in this century. The boy, deathly pale and hideously unwashed, appeared not to register his whereabouts; he held one hand over his eyes to protect them from the pale winter sunshine. In the other was a letter. On being approached, it was discovered that he could neither speak nor understand any human language, but merely used his larynx to grunt, howl, whine. It became apparent that Kaspar Hauser had grown up in absolute isolation from the human race: never having heard speech, he could not produce speech, although fitted with the organ which most immediately distinguishes man from all other species.
I had no need to vivisect. Nevertheless, posters bearing the image of a dog, the left side of whose brain had been sliced away, began to appear on college walls and noticeboards. Looming over the dog with a bloodstained knife was the silhouette of a scientist, the outline of whom was remarkably similar to my own.
Unfortunately the Poet, too, has a more potent weapon than the Scientist.
‘A Robin Redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.’
Self-righteous twaddle! But a convenient emotionally-charged slogan seized upon by my opponents.
My experiments: The isolates, enclosed in miraculously soundproof boxes made by a carpenter friend of dear old Saunders for a very reasonable price, had produced predictably abnormal song. If onl
y I had stopped at this point of the initial experiment: a clear result, elegant in its simplicity, uncontaminated by the scientist’s ruinous need to eliminate variables. Wild nightingales learn to sing their songs by imitating one another; isolated nightingales produce only a song template, in which features of the wild song are only partially present. Nothing for Keats to swoon over, I’m afraid. But then, of course, we must ask the question: what of the nightingale who has been allowed to remain in the wild for nine months, and is then placed in the soundproof chamber. Removed before it starts to sing or after? Hear its own song or not? One can go on indefinitely, and one does. On behalf of the human race we scientists probe and dissect reality till we come up with a single, often ugly but unquestionable truth, unlike our literary counterparts who consider truth is beautiful only when it adorns a Grecian Urn.
I mentioned to Saunders that my further experiments into the song of the nightingale required me to employ young energetic persons who were able to perform protracted repetitive actions that would influence the behaviour of my trapped birds. It would be advantageous if at least one of them could play the whistle or flute. It is possible that Saunders, normally the most discreet of servants, was not quite discreet enough in his advertisement of my needs. There is, after all, no law against caging animals, nor subjecting them to experiments that will lead to a deeper understanding of the contradictory behaviour of the human race. I believe he discussed the matter with the landlord of a public house in the insalubrious east part of Oxford, where men and youths are used to factory work of numbing repetitiveness, and are glad to be paid a pittance to turn themselves into machines for ten hours at a time. As a result, a steady stream of illiterate males of all ages, and even one or two women of the franchise disposition (Saunders had asked specifically for men), trailed up my stairs to be interviewed by me.
I would have nothing to do with the females, of course, whose contempt for me and my experiments (and, I suspect, my comfortable bachelor’s den) was expressed through their folded arms and pursed lips. The boys – some of whom had pretty, slithering faces under the grime – I deleted from my list at once, knowing that high spirits would soon overcome the disciplined approach that was required. In the end I appointed a rota of six young men, none of whom appeared to be otherwise employed. My criteria for employment were two: rude health and some musical ability. My six young men were perfect specimens of manhood, with biceps and callused hands that would have shamed the Hinksey diggers. Five of them asked no questions, their faces frighteningly impassive as I outlined to them their unusual duties. I should have been warned by the momentary flicker of sharp interest in the otherwise cool eyes of Desmond Philips when I mentioned the cymbals.
