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In a letter to Adeline, Charles Perceval quotes admiringly the writings of Thomas Sydenham (1624–89), the “English Hippocrates”: “The physician who earnestly studies—with his own eyes—and not through the medium of books—the natural phenomena of the different diseases, must naturally excel in the art of discovering what, in any given case, are the true indications as to the remedial measures that should be employed.” Writing in his journal after Adeline’s death, Charles Perceval cites Sydenham again: “Of all the remedies it has pleased almighty God to give man to relieve his suffering, none is so universal and so efficacious as opium.” And, five years before Charles’s death, another line from Sydenham: “The arrival of a good clown exercises a more beneficial influence upon the health of a town than of twenty asses laden with drugs.”
•
I have found certain materials and instruments conducive to this ritual: ivory high-grade vellum paper, manufactured in France, unlined, of optimal smoothness, absorbency and opacity; my grandfather’s pen; Italian ink, profoundly black. The words are produced more easily this way; perhaps too easily, sometimes. There is an element of fetishism at work here, one could say: the French paper; the antique pen; the Italian ink, in its elegantly functional bottle. That would be Emma’s analysis: fetishism and a wilfully eccentric devotion to antiquated technologies, akin to our father’s loyalty to vinyl records and his unreliable old watch. A mechanical watch is an absurdity nowadays, Emma insists, though she can appreciate that the elegant sweep of a mechanical second hand is more pleasing to the eye than the stuttering of a quartz-regulated item. Nonetheless, why squander money on something that tells the time less competently than a battery-powered watch that costs a fraction of the price? We discussed the subject in her kitchen, amid an array of high-end culinary equipment and appliances. The point, I tried to explain, was that the mechanism of the flatteringly costly watch had been manufactured and assembled with great care and precision, to impose a structure on the flux of reality. The divisions of the day are a human creation, and it is fitting that they should be measured by a hand-made mechanism, a compact and complex machine that functions by means of the precise interaction of extraordinarily delicate cogs and levers and springs, rather than relying on the mere quivering of a crystal. “But the fact is,” Emma answered, “mine is more accurate than yours. And that’s what a watch is for.” But she was impressed by what the gift represented. “She really must think a lot of you,” she remarked, on first seeing it; as I recall, there was some amazement in her voice.
•
The sense of sight—the insatiable philanderer of the senses.
•
Maston House, flagship hotel of the group that intends to create the Perceval House Hotel, offers “the perfect balance of authentic Georgian style and contemporary living.” In each of its rooms and suites, “classic antique pieces and stunning period features” are found alongside examples of “superlative modern design.” Discreet luxury is the keynote. In the Ridotto Bar of Maston House guests can relax with a bottle selected from the hotel’s “world-class” cellar of French, Italian and New World vintages, or a glass from the vast menu of spirits. The Ridotto Bar offers whiskies such as the Springbank 30 Year Old 1965 and the John Walker, of which a mere 330 bottles have been produced. “Crafted from specially selected casks to create a whisky as close to the nineteenth-century style as possible,” the John Walker represents “the epitome of exclusivity.” The mirrored room will be rebranded as the Silver Lounge.
•
Today’s attendance: thirty-seven. “Pricy for what you get, but a shame it’s closing down,” someone writes in the visitor’s book. “Loved the gross stuff,” writes another. A quick calculation: a single bottle of the John Walker costs four hundred times the admission charge for the Sanderson-Perceval Museum. Retail price, not bar price.
•
On the night before he was due to undergo the amputation of his cancerous leg, Peregrino Laziosi, the future Saint Peregrine, wonder-worker and patron saint of those afflicted with cancer, experienced a vision of the crucified Christ, who came down from the cross to touch the diseased limb. The following day, the surgeon could find no trace of any tumour. There have been many cases of apparently spontaneous recovery from cancer. In New York, in the 1880s, a man by the name of Fred Stein endured several operations to remove a sarcoma from his neck. The operations failed, but when Stein developed erysipelas, a bacterial skin infection that produces a severe fever, the tumour disappeared. Stein was interviewed by a doctor named William Bradley Coley, who reasoned that the sarcoma had been destroyed by the patient’s over-stimulated immune system. Coley went on to treat successfully a number of tumours using a mixture of bacterial toxins. Recently, researchers have examined cases in which acute myeloid leukaemia has apparently regressed of its own accord, and have found that the great majority of the patients in question had suffered from pneumonia or some other serious illness prior to the regression. Diphtheria, syphilis, gonorrhoea, hepatitis, malaria, influenza, measles and smallpox have all been associated with the sudden disappearance of tumours.
A fever was recorded in the case of Dinah Morley, who was examined by Cornelius Perceval in the spring of 1818. She presented with a goitre, for which the doctor may well have prescribed “blue pill.” Many of Perceval’s contemporaries prescribed this toxic compound for a variety of illnesses and disorders, a practice decried as “quackery” by one Erasmus Schütz, to whom Dinah Morley took her goitre when it became apparent that it was not responding to Cornelius Perceval’s treatment. Schütz was an acolyte of Samuel Hahnemann, the creator of homeopathy, and was thus, in the eyes of Perceval, an arrant charlatan. Mrs. Morley bought a phial of one of Schütz’s fraudulent liquids. The growth of the goitre seemed to stop. She bought more, then fell ill with a fever. And the goitre vanished, for reasons that—as Erasmus Schütz gloated—were beyond the comprehension of the city’s physicians. His triumph was temporary. A few months after Dinah Morley’s recovery, Schütz was obliged to flee the city, having been discovered in flagrante with the wife of one of his patients.
This might make a good story; even a book.
•
Imogen’s mother made mention of a woman who had lived in the village for five or six years, with her elderly sister, and who had only taken note of young Imogen, it appeared, on days when Imogen was on her bike or taking one of the dogs for an extended walk. On the basis of a few sightings, the lady had decided that this girl was a happy-go-lucky child, a description that she employed, without fail, every time she happened to encounter a member of Imogen’s family. It was as if her happy-go-luckiness were as incontrovertible as the colour of her eyes. “Every single time,” said her mother, who now found it more amusing than she had used to, though she still did not know, said Imogen, quite how inapposite the label was. “Who we are has so little to do with us,” said Imogen, as if quoting, and her mother considered the remark, and smiled, seeming to find in the observation some pertinence to herself.
•
Francesca has work to do: editing of the Domus Aurea book has to be finished before the end of the month. On her laptop, she has the images that will accompany the text. We look at the mighty brick pillars that are thought to have been supports for the coenatio rotunda, the circular dining hall, of which Suetonius wrote that its ceiling “would turn constantly day and night like the Heavens.” Archaeologists believe that it was in fact the floor that rotated, under a depiction of the night sky, and that the mechanism was powered by water. The book will include a diagram of how the revolving dining room might have functioned. Francesca shows me the diagram, and an animated film in which the viewer is taken on a flight over the lake and the vineyards of the Golden House, past the colossal statue of the emperor, before swooping into a courtyard, where our virtual tour of the interior begins.
Emma comes in. “Take a look at this,” says Francesca, beckoning. The camera slows down, so that we can appreciat
e a spectacular painted wall—the frescoes of the Domus Aurea cover more than ten times the area of the Sistine Chapel frescoes, Francesca tells us. Pointing to the hole in the centre of the vault, she tells her mother about the boy who, one day in 1480 or thereabouts, fell into a hole in the Esquiline hill and found himself in what he took to be a painted cave, but which was in fact one of the three hundred rooms of Nero’s Golden House. Within a mere forty years of the emperor’s death the palace had been built over so thoroughly that no trace of it was visible above ground. After the discovery, holes were cut into the hill so that people could descend into the fabulous grotto. Raphael himself had explored the ruins. “Can you imagine what that must have been like?” wonders Francesca. “Raphael dangling on a rope, peering into the murk.” I marvel with her. But water pouring in through the holes has caused great damage, as have the roots of the trees that were planted on the hill when the site became a park. When it rains, the weight of the soil and vegetation on top of the Domus Aurea increases by as much as thirty per cent. “It’s a big problem,” Francesca tells her mother. Emma takes her daughter’s word for it, but she is not convinced that all this work on the wreckage of Nero’s palace is the best use of however many millions of euros of public money are being lavished on the project. It might be better to just call it quits, she suggests. The old frescoes are pretty, but she’ll take the Sistine Chapel any day, she apologises. She leaves us to enjoy the pictures of ancient brickwork and rubble-strewn corridors. We hunch over the laptop; the incorrigible ruin-buffs.
•
It’s ridiculous how little Francesca is earning at the moment, Emma protests to me. It’s insulting. “She’d be better off working in one of our shops,” she says. Francesca shouldn’t have to be working at Christmas. Nicholas has to do a few hours, of course, but that’s to be expected: his company depends on him; he’s well paid, as he should be. “It’s a waste of her intelligence,” she tells me.
“She enjoys what she does. Many people can’t say that,” I answer.
“She could enjoy what she does and get paid properly,” Emma counters. The discussion follows its customary course, to resignation. “My daughter is an economic invalid, and it’s your fault,” says Emma, administering a whack with a towel. The course of Francesca’s life, my sister pretends, was diverted into its present unlucrative channel by my influence. “All those afternoons with you in the British Museum,” she says. “You and Mr. Martin,” she curses, clamping her teeth on the name of the teacher who had escorted young Francesca around Pompeii, turning the girl’s head, while her classmates improved their tans.
•
Emma and Nicholas at work in the kitchen all morning, preparing the two Christmas feasts: one for the meat-eating seniors, and one for Francesca and her husband and their child. Every now and then, Emma tells me, her daughter makes some sort of attempt to convert her to the cause of virtuous eating, but not with the zeal of earlier years. The turkey is no longer lamented as the “murdered bird.” Today is a domestic carnival; all tribulations are set aside. Emma will make no mention of the current state of the retail environment, nor will her husband refer to the impact of recent political developments on his company’s business; Francesca’s dwindling income will not be a topic; likewise the closure of the museum. We are fortunate people. The food is sumptuous, and the wine is special—and, I am sure, unconscionably expensive.
We withdraw to the living room. A corner has been set aside as Jack’s play area; assisted by his father, he assembles a wooden train track. Emma’s gift from Francesca is a set of nature documentaries, her favourite genre. When she needs to unwind, she gives herself up to the spectacle of the natural world. In keeping with the season, she selects a winter-themed programme. We follow an Arctic fox on the hunt, then a polar bear. The camerawork is remarkable, as is the definition of the new TV set. Crystals of snow glint like diamonds on the fox’s whiskers. After fifteen minutes we’re off to the Southern Hemisphere, to observe a flotilla of penguins endeavouring to ride ashore on the waves. Geraint brings Jack over to watch the comical birds as they skid on the ice; they waddle through blizzards in their thousands. When things take a violent turn—seals ambushed by killer whales—Jack is carried back to his trains. The black water, the luminous ice, the spray of blood—the colours are sumptuous. State of the art, as the blurb on the box proclaims. Back in the Arctic, a polar bear waits at a breathing hole. It has been waiting for hours; sooner or later, a seal will put its head up. The tension is high. Emma, anxious for the seals, takes her husband’s hand; they have been married for more than thirty years, and still they hold hands. Contentment and prosperity; there is a vein of envy in my affection.
When the programme is over, Emma takes Jack in her lap to read to him. With one hand she turns the pages, and with the other she holds her grandson; her fingers are spread on his chest, and he places his hands over them, as if to secure their protection. “Giraffe,” says my sister, and Jack tilts forward to touch the page. “That’s right,” says Emma; she kisses the top of his head. “Gorilla,” she says, and again Jack puts a finger on the book. “Very good,” she says, and she angles her head so that he can see her smile of praise, which becomes a gaze of adoration, which is returned. At risk of embarrassing myself, I withdraw to the kitchen. Pans have to be scoured.
•
Geraint has brought a sample of the material with which he’s working: a tangerine-coloured square of sponge, a quarter of an inch thick. Inserted into clothing, it will protect people whose occupations entail a risk of severe impacts—oil rigs, demolition, motorbike racing. Non-Newtonian fluids are the key to the technology, he tells us. On Francesca’s laptop we watch a video of students messing around in a pool of cornstarch and water. Two of them run across the surface of the mixture again and again. Their footprints vanish within seconds. Then one of them stops running, halfway across, whereupon he slowly sinks. It’s the same principle, Geraint explains. Emma inspects the fabric, turning it over three or four times, as if checking a magician’s prop; she crushes the square in her palms. “Sweetheart, if you’d be so good,” says Geraint, and Francesca passes the mallet to him, then places her hand on the table, forming a fist. He lays the square over the back of her hand. “Ready?” he says, and at Francesca’s nod he brings the mallet down. It bounces off, as if it had struck wood. “Nothing,” Francesca assures us. The demonstration is repeated. “Can I have a go?” asks Emma. She invites me to place my fist on the table. She puts some effort into her second blow, like a medieval agent of the law maiming the hand of a thief.
•
Scenes from Devotion have been put online. Beatrice’s therapeutic orgasm, of course. Would be a lot better if she wuz nekkid, someone has remarked. In those days did people do sex with all there clothes on? someone else enquires. The death of Beatrice has also been excerpted. Whats wrong with that fucken baby??? Looks like a squid or something. The most frequently viewed scene, and the one that has attracted most comments, is the discovery of Beatrice’s body, many years after her death. The corpse has the appearance of Beatrice alive, asleep. The flesh is pallid but pliant, as if death had occurred that very hour. The doctor draws the scalpel across the skin of the forearm, releasing a flow of clear and oily liquid, like glycerin—the embalming fluid concocted by Julius Preston, a compound of unknown composition. Some are not wholly impressed by the fakery:
So obvious it’s a rubber arm.
Lame effects, lame movie—not horror, not anything. Ninety minutes of boredom and a pickled chick. YAWN. Dont waste your time.
Further comments:
Never heard of this movie before. Some mad shit. Cool.
Wow, this made me get very emotional. She was perfect for that roll.
If you like Frankenstein you will like this.
Frankenstien is classic. This is bollox.
Sooooooo slow. An hour and half of my life I wont get back.
Did they make up the story or is it real?
The movie is OK.
Interesting and not to graphic.
What’s the song??? Love it. So sad.
Victorians were sick. Show’s how wrong we are in what we think about history. Darkness everywhere, in every one.
There is some place in italy with a girl who died 100 years ago and it looks like she is asleep. They have put her on the bed in the church and you can go and look at her. I think that is where they got the idea.
Does the dude take her out the box to bone her or what?
your a retard
She is cute I would do her dead or alive. I’m an animaaaaaal.
No tits
I like this movie there is beauty in death though but I’m defiantly not turned on by it in sexual ways.
•
Should the opportunity arise, I shall bid for a print: the picture of Sequah, the Native American medicine man, pulling teeth by lantern light, on a stage in Chester, in 1890. Purveyor of such “world renowned remedies” as Sequah’s Oil and Sequah’s Prairie Flower (“a boon to suffering females”), Sequah was so successful that there were as many as twenty-three Sequahs on the road at any one time. On the night of the Chester tooth-pulling, Sequah was simultaneously bringing succour to the people of Manchester, Norwich and Cork. The original Sequah, founder of the brand, was born in Yorkshire, c.1857; real name—William Henry Hartley.
•
At the end of Brock Street a sudden noise—a roaring rush of air—made me look up, and there was a huge white balloon, low enough for me to read the faces that were gazing down. It was overtaking me, drifting over the park. Everyone on the grass looked up; and ahead of me, at the railings, I saw the carmine coat and silver hair, and Bianca, also looking up. My approach was noticed and acknowledged with a raised hand; the woman turned her attention back to the balloon, which was rising with another blast from the burner. “Have you ever been in one of those things?” she asked, still watching. “I went up in one once,” she went on. “Years ago. In Mexico. The City of the Gods. Terrifying experience. Never again. How are you?” Now she looked at me. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” It was a very lovely day, I agreed. Bianca had raised a paw. “She really does seem to like you,” her owner remarked. “I’m flattered,” I said. And I remembered Francesca, after a boyfriend had let her down, taking consolation from the fidelity of the family dog. Then I heard myself repeat the line that Francesca, in self-parody, had quoted: Mentiri non didicere ferae. “Animals have not learned to lie,” I translated, regretting that I had not kept quiet. But the woman looked at me as though I had said something profound, and intriguing. “On the whole,” she agreed. “Though this one isn’t entirely straightforward,” she added, directing a quizzical gaze into the eyes of her pet.
The Great Concert of the Night Page 24
