of brick, and
shaped like a medieval portcullis; above him, Elizabethan gables top
a series of 3 5 WHITE STONE DAY fieldstone facades, while before him
stands an enormous flower–bed, whose exotic blooms and greenery
culminate at the precise centre of the carriage–sweep. In
short, Bissett Grange is a queer, squarish ramble, which has
undergone so many renovations as to have lost all trace of its
original architecture. Standing beside the carriage, Boltbyn watches
anxiously while two uniformed footmen shoulder his precious camera,
lenses, and portable cabinet of developing materials, out of the
carriage, up the steps and through the front door. Before entering,
he pauses to admire the ancient quadrangle with its stables and
coach–houses, so picturesque with the late afternoon sun
illuminating the clock–turret and pointed roof. As always, the
reception room contains a magnificent array of hothouse plants,
arranged in bowers along the central hallway and in every recess of
the gallery – the duke's floral requirements are enor–
mous; like the house, the conservatory is under constant expansion.
As always, beneath the bouquet lurks the disconcerting scent of
rising damp – a faint, sweetish, rotten emission, a result of
inadequate ventilation in one of the renovations. (Within a half–hour
Boltbyn will have become insensible to the odour; he doubts that the
duke and his servants have smelled it in years.) The central hallway
is a rococo celebration of both European history in general and the
Industrial Age in particular, featuring mass– produced figures
worth the eyesight of a dozen tradesmen a half– century ago:
plaster angels, fish, flowers, tassels, trumpet–blowing cupids
against a painted sky, mirrors – alongside genuine marble and
bronze sculpture – creating a riot to rival baroque Italy. At
the end of the central hallway – lined with intermittent
shrines to former generations of Danburys – Boltbyn can glimpse
Danbury's library, in which a collection of pistols takes the place
of books; a queer, octagonal, room looking upon an immense lawn,
undulating upward as far as the estate's picturesque highlight: the
Roland Stones, a public landmark with a prehistoric legacy that might
as well have been created for the amusement of Bissett Grange.
Boltbyn follows the footmen up the staircase and down a narrow hall
(rendered tubular by Paladin arches, installed on a whim), until they
reach a rope, beyond which none may pass. Boltbyn does not find this
declaration of privacy especially odd: the Duke of Prescott is said
to have built a miniature railway underneath his house, open to none
but himself; the Earl of Bridgewater dines alone with his dogs. 36
BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE Turning left, he enters a room whose
windows are permanently sealed to banish exterior light, illuminated
by tallow candles in sconces. Towering above him, a series of tall
iron lamps of magnesium wire stand ready to flood the area with
momentary brilliance. Around the perimeter, a black curtain masks the
walls, which were painted years ago by one of the minor Orientalists
and may not be erased, having attained the status of art. Three men
apply finishing touches to the setting: chiefly the aforementioned
William Nixon Crede – languid and pale, whose paintings are
achieved by first photographing the subject, then transferring the
image to canvas by means of a camera obscura. (His trade secret is
safe with the Oxford Photographic Society.) Even in this dim light
Boltbyn can appreciate the classical perspective of trees, stripped
of leaves, branches silhouetted like the fingers of crones, receding
down a picturesque path, past the multiple jaws of Cerberus the
three–headed dog, all the way to Charon the ferryman, and the
River Styx. The foreground is dominated by an enormous dome made of
plaster, upon which Psyche will recline. (It was built by Thomas
Angley, the architect behind some of the more atrocious renovations
at Bissett
shaped like a medieval portcullis; above him, Elizabethan gables top
a series of 3 5 WHITE STONE DAY fieldstone facades, while before him
stands an enormous flower–bed, whose exotic blooms and greenery
culminate at the precise centre of the carriage–sweep. In
short, Bissett Grange is a queer, squarish ramble, which has
undergone so many renovations as to have lost all trace of its
original architecture. Standing beside the carriage, Boltbyn watches
anxiously while two uniformed footmen shoulder his precious camera,
lenses, and portable cabinet of developing materials, out of the
carriage, up the steps and through the front door. Before entering,
he pauses to admire the ancient quadrangle with its stables and
coach–houses, so picturesque with the late afternoon sun
illuminating the clock–turret and pointed roof. As always, the
reception room contains a magnificent array of hothouse plants,
arranged in bowers along the central hallway and in every recess of
the gallery – the duke's floral requirements are enor–
mous; like the house, the conservatory is under constant expansion.
As always, beneath the bouquet lurks the disconcerting scent of
rising damp – a faint, sweetish, rotten emission, a result of
inadequate ventilation in one of the renovations. (Within a half–hour
Boltbyn will have become insensible to the odour; he doubts that the
duke and his servants have smelled it in years.) The central hallway
is a rococo celebration of both European history in general and the
Industrial Age in particular, featuring mass– produced figures
worth the eyesight of a dozen tradesmen a half– century ago:
plaster angels, fish, flowers, tassels, trumpet–blowing cupids
against a painted sky, mirrors – alongside genuine marble and
bronze sculpture – creating a riot to rival baroque Italy. At
the end of the central hallway – lined with intermittent
shrines to former generations of Danburys – Boltbyn can glimpse
Danbury's library, in which a collection of pistols takes the place
of books; a queer, octagonal, room looking upon an immense lawn,
undulating upward as far as the estate's picturesque highlight: the
Roland Stones, a public landmark with a prehistoric legacy that might
as well have been created for the amusement of Bissett Grange.
Boltbyn follows the footmen up the staircase and down a narrow hall
(rendered tubular by Paladin arches, installed on a whim), until they
reach a rope, beyond which none may pass. Boltbyn does not find this
declaration of privacy especially odd: the Duke of Prescott is said
to have built a miniature railway underneath his house, open to none
but himself; the Earl of Bridgewater dines alone with his dogs. 36
BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE Turning left, he enters a room whose
windows are permanently sealed to banish exterior light, illuminated
by tallow candles in sconces. Towering above him, a series of tall
iron lamps of magnesium wire stand ready to flood the area with
momentary brilliance. Around the perimeter, a black curtain masks the
walls, which were painted years ago by one of the minor Orientalists
and may not be erased, having attained the status of art. Three men
apply finishing touches to the setting: chiefly the aforementioned
William Nixon Crede – languid and pale, whose paintings are
achieved by first photographing the subject, then transferring the
image to canvas by means of a camera obscura. (His trade secret is
safe with the Oxford Photographic Society.) Even in this dim light
Boltbyn can appreciate the classical perspective of trees, stripped
of leaves, branches silhouetted like the fingers of crones, receding
down a picturesque path, past the multiple jaws of Cerberus the
three–headed dog, all the way to Charon the ferryman, and the
River Styx. The foreground is dominated by an enormous dome made of
plaster, upon which Psyche will recline. (It was built by Thomas
Angley, the architect behind some of the more atrocious renovations
at Bissett
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