death;
Of languors rekindled and rallied,
Of barren delights and unclean,
Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid And poisonous queen.
‘Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?
Men touch them, and change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue For the raptures and roses of vice;
Those lie where her foot on the floor is,
These crown and caress thee and chain,
O splendid and sterile Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.’
Swinburne, Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)
James Rendall inhabited a curious circular house on the outskirts of Fenstanton. Alan thought it might be a converted windmill, but avoided asking the bookseller on such brief acquaintance, especially as he had not quite liked the man. He could not help being beguiled by the house, however: a dwelling of barely ordered chaos, full of books and bears; the paintings on the walls indicated an eclecticism leaning more towards the Renaissance than any other period.
Rendall led them into a room more full of books than any other, but it was not these which first engaged Alan’s attention: it was a small, dark, old painting of a woman in a gown with a plain lace collar. Out of the picture and across the centuries she confronted them boldly, her red lips curled in a knowing and not entirely pleasant smile.
‘That’s Roger Southwell’s “Dark Lady”,’ their host remarked. ‘You know about her?’
Alan shook his head.
‘No-one knows who she was, or even who painted her portrait, though some people think Southwell painted it himself.’
‘She’s - sinister,’ said Kim, with distaste.
‘What’s this verse?’ enquired Alan. He thought the painting’s current frame was probably nineteenth-century; attached to its base was a small, tarnished plaque on which were inscribed verses he had to squint to read: ‘ While she, in her garden of poison,
Weaves subtly the music of death To call to the halls of her master
The lovers who bring her their breath.
‘Though nothing as salt or as sanguine As blood doth she drain from her court,
Yet that which she takes is as vital And must just as dearly be bought.’
‘Swinburne?’ Kim enquired, looking at Rendall, who shrugged, and, turning to one of the bookshelves, began to pull out volumes for them.
‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Would you like coffee?’
Two hours and several cups later, they were very little further advanced. Although they had found an account of the bells which once had jangled from the tower of Fenstanton Abbey, neither their inscriptions nor their ultimate fate - or fates - were forthcoming.
For some odd reason which neither Alan nor Kim could figure out - unless, as Kim suggested, it was simply the fact that seven was a number of some mystical significance - the tower had housed seven bells, not, as would be usual, an even number: one a fifteenth-century bell cast by one Jeoffrey Belyetere and the remainder in 1658 by a Thomas Chandler ‘whose Kin were thought to be bell Founders in Buckingham shire’. The tower ‘fell down’ in 1699 according to one source, which also implied that the fall had not been spontaneous and opined that the bells had been removed some time prior to this.
Kim ran her hands through her cropped hair in exasperation.
‘This is driving me barmy,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we find out what happened to the bells? Oh, hold on, what’s this?’ referring to a tattered pamphlet which had just fallen out of the book she was holding. She unfolded it gingerly.
Meanly printed and not easily legible, it was entitled ‘An Account of the Worke of Removing the Bells from Rog. Southwell’s Tower ’, Printed by B.K. at his Shop mdcciii A.D. The initials F.S. were written under the title in ink. Inside the single fold the spread was numbered ii on the left and vii on the right, but Kim’s nascent groan of frustration was never given voice, because page vii read:
‘...neuer Hath been Safe sith it was Built.
The Belyetyre Bell was took to
Of languors rekindled and rallied,
Of barren delights and unclean,
Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid And poisonous queen.
‘Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?
Men touch them, and change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue For the raptures and roses of vice;
Those lie where her foot on the floor is,
These crown and caress thee and chain,
O splendid and sterile Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.’
Swinburne, Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)
James Rendall inhabited a curious circular house on the outskirts of Fenstanton. Alan thought it might be a converted windmill, but avoided asking the bookseller on such brief acquaintance, especially as he had not quite liked the man. He could not help being beguiled by the house, however: a dwelling of barely ordered chaos, full of books and bears; the paintings on the walls indicated an eclecticism leaning more towards the Renaissance than any other period.
Rendall led them into a room more full of books than any other, but it was not these which first engaged Alan’s attention: it was a small, dark, old painting of a woman in a gown with a plain lace collar. Out of the picture and across the centuries she confronted them boldly, her red lips curled in a knowing and not entirely pleasant smile.
‘That’s Roger Southwell’s “Dark Lady”,’ their host remarked. ‘You know about her?’
Alan shook his head.
‘No-one knows who she was, or even who painted her portrait, though some people think Southwell painted it himself.’
‘She’s - sinister,’ said Kim, with distaste.
‘What’s this verse?’ enquired Alan. He thought the painting’s current frame was probably nineteenth-century; attached to its base was a small, tarnished plaque on which were inscribed verses he had to squint to read: ‘ While she, in her garden of poison,
Weaves subtly the music of death To call to the halls of her master
The lovers who bring her their breath.
‘Though nothing as salt or as sanguine As blood doth she drain from her court,
Yet that which she takes is as vital And must just as dearly be bought.’
‘Swinburne?’ Kim enquired, looking at Rendall, who shrugged, and, turning to one of the bookshelves, began to pull out volumes for them.
‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Would you like coffee?’
Two hours and several cups later, they were very little further advanced. Although they had found an account of the bells which once had jangled from the tower of Fenstanton Abbey, neither their inscriptions nor their ultimate fate - or fates - were forthcoming.
For some odd reason which neither Alan nor Kim could figure out - unless, as Kim suggested, it was simply the fact that seven was a number of some mystical significance - the tower had housed seven bells, not, as would be usual, an even number: one a fifteenth-century bell cast by one Jeoffrey Belyetere and the remainder in 1658 by a Thomas Chandler ‘whose Kin were thought to be bell Founders in Buckingham shire’. The tower ‘fell down’ in 1699 according to one source, which also implied that the fall had not been spontaneous and opined that the bells had been removed some time prior to this.
Kim ran her hands through her cropped hair in exasperation.
‘This is driving me barmy,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we find out what happened to the bells? Oh, hold on, what’s this?’ referring to a tattered pamphlet which had just fallen out of the book she was holding. She unfolded it gingerly.
Meanly printed and not easily legible, it was entitled ‘An Account of the Worke of Removing the Bells from Rog. Southwell’s Tower ’, Printed by B.K. at his Shop mdcciii A.D. The initials F.S. were written under the title in ink. Inside the single fold the spread was numbered ii on the left and vii on the right, but Kim’s nascent groan of frustration was never given voice, because page vii read:
‘...neuer Hath been Safe sith it was Built.
The Belyetyre Bell was took to
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