The Children's Book

21

At Purchase House, things deteriorated. Benedict Fludd had always had swings of mood—there were days when he worked beside Philip with furious energy, and times when he sat for days together, motionless in his chair, snarling if Philip asked him for information or money, sneering at Seraphita if he spoke to her at all. After Imogen left for London he immediately went into a black depression, sitting and glaring at his picture of Palissy, or hunched with his head in his hands, as though it hurt. When the period of slump was over, he did not now return to work, but shambled rapidly, and without warning, out of the house and into the marshes, hatless and jacketless even on wet, windy days. On one very bad day he swept a whole tray of newly glazed pots to the ground, muttering that they were ugly abortions.

They were not, and Philip was almost angry at the waste of so much good work. But Philip was canny about what he could afford to feel, and he could not afford to feel angry with, or contemptuous of, his master.

He did say to Elsie, it’s getting worse and worse. They both knew what “it” was. Elsie said she had tried to talk to Mrs. Fludd, but had got nowhere. Mrs. Fludd had said that her husband had things on his mind, and had a difficult temperament, and that Elsie already knew that.

One day, at Dungeness, in mixed, squally weather, where achingly bright patches of light off the water were succeeded by whipping winds and draggled clouds streaming over the sun, Philip, on one of his solitary walks, collecting driftwood, shells, and odd stones, saw Fludd at the water’s edge, flailing his arms and roaring inaudibly at the sea. Philip thought he would give him a wide berth and hope not to be noticed. Then he saw that Fludd, in boots and cord trousers, was over his ankles in the rising tide. It is not easy to walk fast on sloping shingle. Philip changed direction and set off towards Fludd. The pebbles ground and whinged under his feet. Fludd shook his fist at the horizon, and took several steps forward, moving his arms like a windmill. He was now over his haunches in seawater, and splashing his hands in the blown crests of spray. Philip had never ventured into the water off this bank. He believed, without knowing why, that the steep slope continued, and plunged rapidly beyond a man’s depth, into treacherous currents. He began a blundering run down towards the potter, who took another two or three grinding steps forward, and was waist-deep. Philip could not swim. He began to calculate what would happen if he lunged at Fludd and fell over himself, into the sucking water. He scrambled down to where Fludd was, and howled into the wind “Come back, sir. Come back home now.”

For a moment they stood there, the old man swaying in the tide, and slapping at the surface with his great hands, the young man calculating furiously about balance and grip, moving forward always with both feet stable.

“Benedict Fludd—” he howled.

Fludd did turn round, his mouth snarling amongst his draggled hair, his torso lurching.

“Go home,” said Fludd, and fell sideways with a sluicing sound, onto the sea. He rose again, obviously on his knees on the shingle, and slipping down the slope of the beach, shouting at Philip that he was a pest and a fool. Philip walked forward, mincing safe step by step, and took hold of the sodden flannel shirt.

“You’d best come out now. You’d best come home.”

“Leave me be.”

“How can I?” said Philip, betraying crossness. “I’ve got to get you home. Help me.”

Benedict Fludd gave a kick—whether to help Philip, or free himself of him was unclear—and pebbles rolled thickly down under the water. Philip put his arms round the bulk of Fludd and pulled.

“You’ve got to help me,” he said with furious reason. “You’ve got to help yourself. Come on, now.”

And somehow they were scrambling together, and both on the dry land, which was not dry, but wet with the water that ran off them, and with the whipped water blown in the wind.

“You should have let me go on,” said Fludd, mildly enough. “I had the idea of just walking on and down and in. You did wrong to stop me.”

“Why?” said Philip. “Why are you like this? You are a great artist. You can do things most men can’t dream of.”

“It leaves me. I can do nothing. I think, I shall be unable—unable—unable for the rest of my life. And then I think, why drag it out?”

“That is just a mood. You’ve had it other times, the black mood. I’ve watched you. And then you’ve made amazing things. The sun and clouds pot, remember? And the one like flaming damask. Remember? Those pots wouldn’t be, if you’d drowned yourself.”

“You care more about the pots than about me.”

“And if I do, it’s because I’m like you. And this time, you nearly drowned both of us, which was unjust.”

It did not strike Philip as odd that he had made no appeal to Fludd to save himself for the sake of his wife and daughters.

Philip was glad to see Arthur Dobbin, one day when he was in Lydd, buying provisions. He told Dobbin that Fludd was “very depressed” and this appeared to be a result of the departure of Imogen for London. He asked if Frank Mallett might call. Dobbin cycled back to Puxty, and told Frank, who got on his own bicycle and went to Purchase House. Fludd was not in—he was out tramping in the Marsh again—so Frank was able to talk to Philip, who described Benedict Fludd’s frightening behaviour, and said that he was at his wits’ end, for he could not watch the potter all the time—that might drive him to further extravagances—and moreover, he needed to work, or the household would have no money. Philip said Fludd couldn’t abide to see a doctor—that was no good. Maybe Frank could talk to him. He added, on a sudden impulse, that Pomona was sleepwalking. “Mostly into my bedroom,” said Philip. “It’s embarrassing. I know what you think, but she is deep asleep, deep. Elsie won’t believe me, but you might.”

“The family puzzles me,” said Frank Mallett. “You and Elsie have saved it, so to speak. Major Cain may well have saved Imogen, but he has deranged the others. How is Mrs. Fludd?”

“I never know,” said Philip. He said “Sometimes I see her, when I’m trying to get Pomona back to bed. She comes down in a dressing-gown, with her hair down, and drinks brandy. She looks like a washboard.”

“A washboard?”

“Sort of crumpled and ridged. With no expression on her face.”

“To be truthful, I am a little intimidated by Benedict Fludd. I shall speak to him, of course. I shall also write to Major Cain.”

“I had hoped you might.” Philip frowned. “When he is working, he’s dangerous—pots are slow things, they need calm, they need ease—and he does everything at double pace. But he does it well at double pace, better than I ever shall, Mr. Mallett—he smashed a whole batch of good pots I’d made and painted—he swept it away.”

“He makes you angry?”

“No-o,” said Philip slowly. “I love him, in a way. But he puts the fear of God into me.”

Benedict Fludd grinned evilly at Frank Mallett, and said he had no need of his ministrations—yet. “I am not long for this world, young man, and I shall need you to shrive me. But you may as well keep away till then. I did not ask you to come here. I require solitude.”

“You are not alone in the house, Mr. Fludd.”

“And what do you mean by that? It is my house.”

“I came to visit Mrs. Fludd. And Philip Warren.”

“Oh, get out, before I throw something at you. I am in an evil temper, and best avoided.”

“It is hard on Philip.”

“I know that.”

When Prosper Cain received Frank Mallett’s letter, he was planning one of several visits to the Grande Exposition Universelle de Paris, which had opened, with many of its palaces and pavilions unfinished, in April. There was a political frost between England and France, owing to the Boer War. The Prince of Wales, who was president of the British section and had overseen the construction of the British Palace, had refused to set foot in Paris in 1900. Several loyal British exhibitors had withdrawn, but the Victoria and Albert Museum was in constant communication with the experts in the decorative arts in France, Germany, Austria, Belgium and other countries where the “new” art flourished and was on show. Prosper Cain was interested in the new jewellery, both the French work of René Lalique and the exquisite Austrian work of the new Wiener Werkstätte and Koloman Moser. He had travelled to the new Museum of Decorative Arts in Vienna, and was excited by Jugendstil there and in Munich. He was due to make an extended visit in June, and conceived the idea of taking Benedict Fludd with him, to see the new styles of ceramics, and to take him out of his marshy desolation for a time. Some of Fludd’s great bowls and slightly sinister vessels were on display in Edwin Lutyens’s British pavilion.

Cain went to Purchase House and tempted Fludd with the sight of some of his “Paradise” ware, intricately covered with birds, beasts, fruit, angels, and naked humans, which he hadn’t seen for twenty years since they had been bought by a Belgian collector. He said Fludd would like to see Gallé’s work, and inspect the Art Nouveau. Fludd glared and grumbled, and said he hadn’t been to Paris for twenty years. It was a pother of a city which would be worse with the stinking crowds of garlic-eaters there would be. But a glint of interest appeared in his eye as he contemplated these horrors, and he agreed to come.

Prosper decided he would also take his son, as he hoped he might follow him into his profession. He told Julian to bring a friend, and Julian said he should like to take Tom, if Tom would come, which he imagined he would not. Charles Wellwood, it turned out, was intending to go. Julian asked Charles if he would ask Tom.

Charles walked over to Todefright to ask Tom in person. The Todefright Wellwoods were sitting in the garden, taking tea in the midsummer sun. Charles said Prosper Cain was getting up a party to go to the Great Exhibition, and Julian would like Tom to come. Tom opened his mouth to say without thinking that he’d rather not.

Phyllis said “He won’t come. He never goes anywhere anymore.”

Hedda said “Tom’s a recluse. Tom is growing odd, you know, Charles. I wish you’d asked me.”

Tom closed his mouth, and his eyes. Then he opened them again, and said he would be delighted to go.

He was becoming odd. He did not want to be odd. He wanted to be invisible.

Charles said that Prosper Cain had persuaded Benedict Fludd to come with them. Tom said he supposed Philip Warren would be coming too—Philip needed to see all the new art.

It turned out that nobody had thought of taking Philip. When they considered the idea, they saw it was good. Philip was exactly the person who would be inspired by the new world of arts, crafts, and social hope embodied in the Exhibition. So Fludd told Philip he was going to Paris, and Cain bought him a new suit to go in.

On the deck of the packet-boat, midway across the Channel, Philip realised, with sudden shock, that he had no idea what France, or Paris, or Europe was. He had seen the French shoreline, on clear days, white cliffs with a difference, or vague solids melting into mist, which fascinated him. He was always fascinated by transparent films and substances that half concealed, and half revealed, other, different objects. He saw the French coastline as an analogy of glazes. He had been out on the Channel waters, fishing for mackerel—mackerel skin, like mackerel skies, was another endlessly fascinating structure. He tried to calm himself, when he realised he needed calming, by looking at the transient, repeated blades and arrows in the water ploughed back by the prow. Bottle-greens, greens chock-full of silver air, what cream and white, what a darkness under. Fludd was standing next to him, his arms on the rail, staring equally intently into the water. Philip knew they were seeing the same thing. Behind them, the three young men chatted and laughed. Julian was telling a story which entailed mimicry of a Frenchman. Charles was laughing. Prosper Cain was reading what appeared to be a catalogue. Philip realised he was both excited and afraid. Another country, other people, other habits, strange food. He was the only member of the party who had never travelled.

Julian had been to Paris several times before. He knew the museums and galleries: he had been in cafés, and ridden in a rowboat on the Seine. Charles had stayed in the best hotels, and ridden in the Bois de Boulogne. Tom had been on a family holiday, some time ago with Violet in charge, and had a vague recollection of Notre-Dame and aching feet. Fludd had spent time in attic lodgings in his misspent youth, drinking, smoking and exploring women.

Only Prosper Cain was at all prepared for the effect of the Grande Exposition Universelle.

The Exhibition could be seen as a series of paradoxes. It was gigantic and exorbitant, covering 1,500 acres and costing 120 million francs. It attracted 48 million paying visitors, took over four years to build, and included the elegant new Alexander III Bridge, arching over the Seine, the glass-roofed Grand Palais, and the pretty pink Petit Palais. But it had the idiosyncratic metaphysical charm of all meticulous human reconstructions of reality, a charm we associate with the miniature, toy theatres, puppet booths, doll’s houses, oilskin battlefields with miniature lead armies deployed around inch-high forests and hillocks. It had the recessive pleasing infinity of the biscuit tin painted on the biscuit tin. It was forward-looking, containing new machines and weapons, and images of craftsmen, clearly enjoying their work. It contained a reconstruction of mediaeval Paris, with troubadours and taverns, picturesque beggars, and ladies in bumrolls. There were new facilities—plentifully scattered different public conveniences, from the basic to the luxurious with running water and towels, telephone kiosks, moving staircases and a moving pavement, travelling at three different speeds. There was a palace of mirrors, and a complete fake Swiss village, complete with waterfall, peasants, mountains and cows. Along the left bank of the Seine were the palaces of the nations, some with mediaeval towers, some baroque or rococo. The USA provided telegrams, iced water and Stock Exchange prices for businessmen away from home. The Kaiser himself had supervised the napery, glassware, silver and china in the restaurant of the German pavilion. He had also sent a collection of the complete range of Prussian military uniforms. The Italians had reconstructed St. Mark’s Cathedral. The British had commissioned Edwin Lutyens to make a perfect replica of a Jacobean country house, which they then filled with paintings by Burne-Jones and Watts, and furniture and hangings by Morris & Co.

There was a Palace of Electricity, with a Tower of Water in front of it, a hall of dynamos and a hall containing hundreds of new automobiles, in every shape and size. The Tyrolean Castle was juxtaposed with the Pavilion of Russian Alcohol, the Palace of Optics and the Palace of Woman, next to the pretty sugar comfit-box Palace of Ecuador, which was to serve later as a municipal library in Guayaquil. In the Place de la Concorde, where you bought your tickets, stood the astounding and unloved Porte Binet—a monumental gateway, like something out of The Arabian Nights, decorated with polychrome plaster and mosaic, studded all over with crystal cabochons. It was flamboyantly artificial but was based on living forms in nature, the vertebra of a dinosaur, the cell-structure of beehives, the opercules of madrepores. On top of it stood a monstrous effigy of a woman—La Parisienne, huge-bosomed and fifteen feet tall, modelled on Sarah Bernhardt and dressed in a negligee or a dressing-gown designed by Paquin himself. On her head she wore the crest of their City of Paris, a prow, like a peaked tiara. She was generally disliked and jeered at.

The two largest exhibits in the whole Exposition were Schneider-Creusot’s long-range cannon and Vickers-Maxim’s collection of rapid-fire machine guns. The Kaiser had not been invited to his, or any other, sumptuous displays. His advisers and the French hosts were both afraid that he would say something disconcerting or incendiary. If British troops were killing Boers, the Germans were engaged in combat, in the outside world, with the Chinese. The Kaiser had reprimanded Krupp for equipping Chinese forts with cannon that fired on German gunboats. “This is no time when I am sending my soldiers to battle against the yellow beasts to try to make money out of so serious a situation.”

The Chinese, despite murder, rebellion and war, had nevertheless constructed an elegant and expensive pavilion in the shining Parisian microcosm. It was carved in dark red wood, with jade-green tiles and pagoda roofs, and an elegant tea-room. It stood in the exotic section, side by side with a Japanese pagoda and an Indonesian theatre.

Art Nouveau, the New Art, was paradoxically backward-looking, flirting with the Ancient of Days, the Sphinx, the Chimera, Venus under the Tannenberg, Persian peacocks, melusines and Rhine maidens, along with hairy-legged Pan and draped and dangerous oriental priestesses. Some of its newness derived from the deep dream of the lost past which informed both Burne-Jones’s palely loitering knights and porcelain-fine maidens, and Morris’s sense of saga-scenes and bright embroidered hangings. But it was radically new also, in its use of spinning, coiling, insinuating lines derived from natural forms, its rendering in new metal of tree-shapes newly observed, its abandonment of the solid worth of gold and diamonds for the aesthetic delights of nonprecious metals and semi-precious stones, mother-of-pearl, grained wood, amethyst, coral, moonstone. It was an art at once of frozen stillness, and images of rapid movement. It was an art of shadows and glitter that understood the new force that transfigured both the exhibition and the century to come. Electricity.

The American Henry Adams visited and revisited the Exposition whilst it was open, driven by a precise and ferocious combination of scientific and religious curiosity. He wrote a riddling chapter of The Education of Henry Adams and called it “The Virgin and the Dynamo.” He saw where the centre was, in the gallery of machines, in the dynamos. He began, he wrote, “to feel the forty-foot dynamos as a moral force, much as the early Christians felt the Cross.” The dynamo was “but an ingenious channel for conveying somewhere that heat latent in a few tons of poor coal hidden in a dirty engine-house carefully kept out of sight.” But he found himself comparing it as a force-field to the presence of the Virgin, the Goddess, in the great mediaeval cathedrals of France. “Before the end, one began to pray to it; inherited instinct taught the natural expression of man before silent and infinite force.”

The dynamo that drove the exhibition was on the ground floor of the Palace of Electricity. At first it failed to work. In front of it was a Château d’Eau, designed to be brilliantly lit by a rainbow of light. There were tiers of fountains, like the fountains at Versailles, and the palace was covered with stained glass and transparent ceramics, surmounted by a statue of the Spirit of Electricity, driving a chariot drawn by hippogryphs. When all this failed to come to life, there was an uneasy black cavern, a gaping hole, at night. But workmen attended to it, oiled it, polished it, stroked it, like a beast being urged out of inertia. Adams was right: a bunch of fresh flowers was placed on the back of the cylinder as an offering. Its pulse was felt as it shuddered into life. And when it worked, it transformed the façades of buildings into rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topazes, and the dark cloth of the night into a tapestry of shimmering threads. The Water Tower ran liquid diamonds, shot with changing opal and garnet and chrysoprase. The Seine itself became a heaving, dancing ribbon of coloured lava, where variegated threads intertwined, sank, and rose again, changed and relumed.

Wonderful illuminated portals, curving like the vegetation of an artificial paradise, led down to the flashing electric serpent of the new Métro. The whole exhibition was encircled by a moving pavement where citizens could travel at three different speeds, squealing with amazement, clutching each other as they moved from strip to strip. There was incandescent writing in magazines about the “fairy electricity.”

The Palace of Electricity was set about with warnings. Grand Danger de Mort. It was a death without tooth, claw or crushing. An invisible death, part of an invisible animating force, the new thing in the new century.