by David Haynes
The End
The Last Waltz
“What on earth are you tinkering with? It looks like some God-awful instrument of torture!”
Foulkes looked down at his work and adjusted the intricate workings. His son was right of course, it did look like a hideous medieval contraption but it was most definitely not one.
“Can you not leave an old man to his toys, Daniel? It pleases me to have a hobby, besides it would do you no harm to visit the exhibition for yourself. This man Muybridge is a genius.”
Daniel walked around the table and sat beside his father. “A genius he may be and I take no issue with your hobby. It is just... I wish you would get out a little more. This house is dark and cold yet you scarcely leave it. Why, anyone can see how thoroughly miserable you are.”
Foulkes looked up at his son. “I am not miserable, son.” He waved his hands over his creation. “I am simply too busy to involve myself in the idle machinations of modern society.”
“So I can see.” Daniel stood up and brushed his trousers. “Mother would not want to see you this way, father.”
A moment of silence passed between father and son. It was uncomfortable yet Foulkes was unable to look at his son, for his eyes betrayed the true nature of his feelings.
“Your mother would want me to be happy and this endeavour makes me as content as I shall ever be.”
Foulkes heard Daniel sigh. The exchange was over, at least for now.
“Well you must come for dinner this week and I shall not take no for an answer. Shall we say Saturday at seven?”
Foulkes stood up and followed his son to the front door. “I shall be delighted to accept.” He reached around Daniel and opened the door. He loved his son dearly but there was work to do and he wished to get on with it.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Daniel and stepped out onto the noisy street. “Do not think ill of me, father. It is only concern that I show. I found solace in my Bella and if you choose to console yourself with a contraption then so be it. I shall not mention it again.”
“Zoopraxiscope, Daniel. It is called a Zoopraxiscope.”
Foulkes bid his son goodbye and stepped quickly back to the parlour. Daniel had been right about one thing. Iris would not have wanted to see him like this. The room was a terrible mess and looked more akin to a workshop than a middle-class parlour in a fashionable suburb of the capital city. He sat at the table and started rubbing one of the lenses with his handkerchief. He had no use of a dining room any longer and the large mahogany table, which had been so beloved of Iris, made a wonderful space on which to lay out all his instruments. She would have wept at the scratches and marks he had made to the previously blemish-free lacquered wood.
He held the lens to his eye and looked to the window. Unlike Iris and Daniel, his eyesight had always been perfect, yet looking through the lens, it was as if he had been looking through a fog for his entire life. It magnified the light and focused his own lens in a dazzling display of clarity. He smiled and placed it carefully on the cloth. Yes, it was perfect and soon it would aid him to see his beloved Iris once again.
*
At first he had turned down the offer of an evening out. He no longer cared for the noisy theatres of the West End and he cared even less for the freak shows and the other forms of so-called entertainment. Yet The Royal Institution was an entirely different matter and as a gentleman interested in the sciences, he found himself unable, and unwilling, to excuse himself from the company of his peers again.
Once inside the theatre, his comrades had been captivated, and with equal measure amused, by Muybridge’s invention. On boards usually reserved for the sums of mathematicians, Muybridge projected lively animations of horses galloping over fences, of acrobats turning somersaults and of men and women waltzing. It was enthralling and beguiling. Had Muybridge lived in another age, he might have been put to death as a witch. But magic it was not. The audience were being treated to a show of pure science. They were being shown the Zoopraxiscope for the very first time.
Foulkes had declined the offer of drinks in the club following the display, preferring instead the solitude of his own thoughts. Not that he sought to be quiet for his mind was anything but. Magic it might not have been, but it was as powerful as any spell imaginable.
On the following weekend, he used his many contacts and found himself once again beguiled. This time the location was different for it was at The Royal Academy at Burlington House, but the intoxicating effect was the same.
On three more occasions, Foulkes sat in the audience to watch. Yet each time he watched the horses less and concentrated more on the instrument used to animate them. It appeared to be a camera of sorts and with each change of subject, Muybridge removed a delicate glass disc from inside before inserting another. The pictures on each of the discs were distorted somehow, devoid of life, but as soon as Muybridge turned the wheel, the images became as real as anything.
They moved and danced as any animal or human would. They rendered a portrait painted on canvas and photographs as nothing more than dull and lifeless. The animations were alive.
*
Foulkes was no inventor and he knew his limitations. Yet what he lacked in brilliance he more than made up for with determination, patience and of course, money. He had been a powerful man once; a man of influence. He still had only to snap his fingers and the supplies he required would be brought to his door.
There had been many mistakes, at first. He had quickly spent a small fortune and, with nothing to show for it, had grown frustrated. Yet his determination had won through in the end for that was the strongest element to his personality. He was determined to see Iris again.
He had loved her since the first moment they had been introduced. It almost seemed like he had always loved her, since he could not remember his life before that time. Even on her deathbed, as the shadows fell deep and long upon her once-smiling lips, he knew he would never love another as long as he lived.
As a wealthy widower he had attracted a number of suitors, but he had not the inclination or energy to take notice of their comely expressions. No, there would be no other; not even as a partner to see him through his later life. He needed none but Iris and it soon became clear to those poor women that this was the case.
*
Foulkes pushed the photograph across the table at the artist. “I should like the face to be exactly as it is here.” He paused before tapping the table with his forefinger. “Exactly.”
The young man slid the photograph closer. “I shall do my best, sir.”
Foulkes winced. He had not spent the last few months making his own Zoopraxiscope only for a lowly artist to ‘do his best’.
“I have been led to believe, Mr Hunter, your best is good enough for the Queen herself. If this is not the case, I may need to look elsewhere.”
The artist looked up; his pride had been stung. “I can assure you, Mr Foulkes, there are no finer portrait artists in London.”
Foulkes relaxed. “Good. I am pleased to hear it.” The man was clearly full of pride thus making sub-standard work unlikely. He lifted his case onto the table. “I should like the paintings to be done on this.” He removed a glass disc and laid in gently on the table.
The artist took the disc and held it up to the light. “The quality is astounding. There are no imperfections at all.”
Foulkes nodded. “Then it is a perfect match to your own work. Now if we can discuss my requirements again? I do not wish to be a bore but I feel the need to be quite specific.”
“Sir, you are paying for my services and handsomely. You are entitled to be as specific as you wish, as many times as you wish. Please tell me again.”
Foulkes removed a book from his case and opened it at the marked page. “See how this lady dances? You must paint my wife exactly like this. I wish her to dance as if she were dancing with the angels!”
“Quite stunning!” the artist replied.
Foulkes felt his heartbeat quicken. “Y
es, yes, stunning is the word! You must paint her in consecutive poses around the edge of the disc as we agreed. Now, how long do you suppose it will take?”
The artist scratched his chin. “A month. Perhaps six weeks.”
Foulkes felt his spirits drop. “A month? As long as that?” He reached inside his coat and withdrew a collection of bank notes. He laid one down on the table. “And would this shorten the time?”
Foulkes saw the artist’s eyes widen as he reached for the note. “Considerably.”
“Very good. Shall we say a week then?” He had no need to preserve his wealth anymore. Daniel was self-sufficient and earned a good wage, and as for his future needs, well, marriage had catered to that. With Iris gone, his wealth served only as a reminder of wasted time spent away from her.
The artist stood and took Foulkes’s hand. “A week it is, sir!”
Even though he could barely muster a smile himself anymore, it gladdened his heart to see joy in others. Although it seemed most smiled only when in possession of a bag of coins.
He left the studio and started the long walk home. A week was only a matter of seven days yet it already felt an eternity away, especially now the preparation was complete. He walked slowly along the quiet suburban avenues, glancing up occasionally to look into the parlours of the houses he passed. Inside each one was a glimpse of another life; a brief yet enduring image of a happiness he once shared. He turned his collar to the cold. In seven days he would taste that contentment again.
*
The week passed slowly for without the focus of building a Zoopraxiscope, Foulkes found it impossible to prevent his mind from idly falling into a haze of whimsy. He ate dinner with Daniel and his wife Elsa, but only two hours later while sitting alone at home, he found he could not recall what he had eaten, let alone the topic of conversation. He could think of nothing but Iris. He could think of nothing but watching beautiful Iris dance for him again.
When at last the waiting was over, Foulkes was unable to walk to the studio for he had paced his bedroom floor for the entire night. He took a Hansom cab and was at the studio by eight o‘clock. He banged impatiently on the door and when no answer came, he banged again and called out, “Hunter! Mr Hunter, it is Mr Foulkes. Open the door!”
Seven days had lapsed on the stroke of midnight but he had managed to refrain from coming then. Even in his anxious and excited state, he understood that was unacceptable. He banged on the door with his cane and stepped back into the street so he could see the windows on the upper floors.
When he could see no signs of life he picked up a handful of pebbles and hurled them at the first floor window. A moment passed and he was about to reach down for more stones when a figure appeared at the window. He recognised it as Hunter immediately and he looked annoyed. Foulkes waved cheerfully and touched the rim of his hat.
He could feel his heart beating like a drum as Hunter unwrapped the glass disc and placed it before him.
“I think you will find it to be most worthy.”
Now the time was here, Foulkes could barely stand to look at the work. What if Hunter’s credentials had been exaggerated and his work sub-standard? What if Iris had been turned into a Punch cartoon?
“Will you not look at my work, sir?”
Foulkes swallowed and looked down. He could barely believe his eyes for the likeness was uncanny. “Exquisite,” he whispered in a trembling voice. “Truly exquisite!”
He clapped the artist on the shoulder and laughed. “You have surpassed my expectations, Mr Hunter.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew a bank note. “Exquisite!”
*
Foulkes had told the cab driver to wait when he arrived at the studio, yet as he stepped once again onto the street he found it almost impossible to climb into the cab. The same doubts gripped him again. What if his own work was inadequate? Now he had Iris in his hands once again, he could barely stand the thought of letting her down. Of letting them both down.
Nevertheless, he had waited too long and an interminable walk through the streets would only frustrate him more. With a sigh, he stepped up to the cab and sat inside. Every bump and lurch of the journey was met with an anxious pounding of his heart. The disc was carefully wrapped in several strips of fine linen, yet it would only take one drunken fool to send the cab swerving across the road and dislodge it from his circumspect hands.
Finally he was at his door and with shaky hands he turned the key. The house was as he had left it. The product of his labours sat silently in the parlour waiting for its creator to return. Foulkes stared at it for a moment and then looked at the bundle in his hands. Today he would witness Iris dancing again. He would see her dancing exactly as she had done when they had met. He felt tears sting his eyes and blur his vision.
“I have wept enough,” he said and walked quickly to the Zoopraxiscope.
Immediately after Iris’s death and throughout the mourning period, the curtains had remained drawn. Now they were drawn once again, only now it was to witness a birth.
He carefully slid the disc into the fitting and closed the drawer. He had not yet tested the instrument and now that decision seemed foolish for he realised he had no idea if it would actually work. It was wired to the electricity supply which had been a costly exercise since there were very few men who knew exactly what electricity was capable of.
Foulkes placed his sweaty hands on the Zoopraxiscope’s polished brass case and closed his eyes.
“Dance for me, my beloved.” He pulled the lever down and listened to the faint hum of power as it surged to meet the demand.
The instrument clicked and emitted a hiss before it too started to hum. Foulkes recognised the sound; he had heard it many times from Muybridge’s displays. Dare he open his eyes? Dare he?
He clamped his teeth together until a pain flashed across his eyes and forced them open. He gasped and fell short of breath immediately.
“Iris?” he whispered. “My love?”
Projected onto the wall before him was a miniature facsimile of his beloved, and late, wife. He reached out to touch her but snatched his hand away before his hand cast a shadow. She was bewitching as she moved with the ethereal grace she had possessed in life. Foulkes felt long-forgotten facial muscles used to display happiness begin to work freely again. Around and around she turned. Her back was arched in the perfect posture for their favourite dance. She had danced the Viennese Waltz tirelessly night after night after night and there were none who could keep up with her. Not even as the years had passed.
Foulkes had tried of course, my how he had tried, until eventually, exhausted, he was forced to concede to her greater stamina. He had never grown tired of watching her though and he knew he never would.
He bunched his hands together in tightly-made fists and laughed. “Dance, my beautiful Iris! You are free to dance again, my love!”
Not even the stinging pain in his white knuckles could dismiss the ecstatic beam painted across his face. “Dance!” he roared.
Foulkes was blissfully unaware of the passage of time until eventually he collapsed into one of the chairs in rapturous exhaustion. Over and over again he had watched her, as he had done all those years ago. Over and over he had marvelled at her slender waist and lightness of foot. Death had lessened her beauty not one bit.
“Once again my beautiful wife, your energy has proved boundless. I find myself exhausted just watching!”
Each and every night he had listened to the doleful chimes of the clock in the hall. Night after sleepless night he had waited for the hour to pass just to hear the sound of the clock strike again. Yet today he had not heard it once. Life was as it had been when she was alive. Before God had chosen to take her away.
He turned off the machine and stared at it. Was he now God? He had brought her back, after all. It was something which God had been unable or unwilling to do, even after the countless prayers and pleas.
He shook his head. He was clearly tired. There was no place in his life to b
e considering such foolish notions. And yet...
He took out his pocket watch. It was a little after eleven and although his belly rumbled loudly he knew he would not eat today, for he had fallen in love all over again.
“One last turn, Iris? I must go to my bed then.” He switched the Zoopraxiscope back on and watched as Iris spun her way beautifully across the wall. He sighed in admiration and tapped his foot. As beautiful as she was and as elegant as she swayed to and fro, her movements were somehow sad without the music she had once loved. They had entertained many times in the parlour and on occasion enjoyed the gentle ambience of a string quartet playing in the room. Why should he not bring music for her again?
He drummed his fingers on the instrument. “Goodnight, my love. Tomorrow there will be music to accompany you.” He blew Iris a kiss and switched it off. Her form faded slowly away yet her image burned brightly in his eyes.
