Grange.) In the meanwhile, Bracebridge Hemyng, the author
and critic, pores over a picture–book written by himself,
entitled Great Scenes From Antiquity, a favourite of householders who
wish to celebrate the classics without actually reading them. A
footman gently sets down the camera (two mahogany boxes, connected by
a detachable bellows for portability), lens and tripod; another opens
the cabinet containing chemicals, solutions, dishes, and glass; and a
third footman erects a small velvet tent in a corner of the room. The
photograph will be achieved by the Archer process, an enormous
improvement over the collotype process, whose sharpness of detail
rivals even the daguerreotype. Properly executed, it is like viewing
a scene with a magnifying glass. (Hence its value to Mr Crede and his
camera obscura.) The disadvantage is the method itself–
complicated, messy and accident–prone. First, the glass plate
must be polished to perfect cleanliness, for a speck of dust will
appear as a blot. Balancing the plate delicately on thumb and
fingers, the photographer must pour the solution so evenly that the
liquid evaporates into a smooth film. One slip, the slightest misstep
or miscalculation and the photograph is ruined . . . 37 WHITE STONE
DAY The door is swung open by an Irish servant and, after a short
pause, the Duke of Danbury enters. He wears an immaculate black coat
and a violet waistcoat; his wispy fringe of reddish hair has been
expertly combed and dressed. In his arms he carries the sleeping,
seemingly weightless subject, in a flowing white gown. Now for the
first time, Boltbyn wonders: Why does Danbury insist that they be
asleep? For while it may be true that, in the early days of the
society, confined to the old collotype process, a photographer would
be hard–pressed to achieve any degree of focus using a young,
sentient model; but with the introduction of the Archer process, such
a precaution became no longer necessary. Still, the Duke continues
the practice of giving the subject a mild sedative, in the interests
of 'realism'. As guests at Bissett Grange, the members of the society
do not argue with their patron. It is not the thing to do. Danbury
arranges the subject upon the rock, in a picturesque attitude.
Wonders have been accomplished with make–up, for the face is
magnificent, a most perfect, intelligent face, like painted enamel,
and . . . Oheavens! It is astoundingly obvious to Boltbyn why the
duke has chosen the subject, and whom she represents . . . Emma. The
likeness is sufficient to cause him to tremble; were he to speak, all
meaning would be lost in a spasm of stuttering. The Duke of Danbury
holds Boltbyn's gaze for a long moment, in which the two men engage
in a silent dialogue: Whatever can this possibly mean? I think you
know. What is it you expect from this? I think you know. With a
private nod to Boltbyn, Danbury faces the company as though
addressing a class of classics students. 'Gentlemen, for our Sleeping
Beauty on this occasion I give you Psyche – dispatched to
Proserpine with a bejewelled box so that the goddess might fill it
with her beauty. 'Upon her return with the box of secrets, Psyche is
overcome with desire to open it, to take a share of beauty for
herself. But when she opens the box, she receives not beauty but an
infernal sleep, which renders her as still as a corpse. Thus, a young
girl discovers the secret of womanhood, and the death of innocence. O
what a jealous goddess 38 BESSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE is time,
gentlemen – from whose sharp needle none can wriggle out of
reach!' The duke directs another knowing glance in Boltbyn's
direction, though the vicar is at a complete loss as to what it might
signify. 'And yet Psyche will be reborn, to be reunited with her
Cupid, and they will beget a child whose name will be Pleasure.
'Psyche is the Greek word for the soul, and the butterfly.' A ripple
of appreciative applause erupts, led by Crede and Hemyng. Crede takes
his place next to
and critic, pores over a picture–book written by himself,
entitled Great Scenes From Antiquity, a favourite of householders who
wish to celebrate the classics without actually reading them. A
footman gently sets down the camera (two mahogany boxes, connected by
a detachable bellows for portability), lens and tripod; another opens
the cabinet containing chemicals, solutions, dishes, and glass; and a
third footman erects a small velvet tent in a corner of the room. The
photograph will be achieved by the Archer process, an enormous
improvement over the collotype process, whose sharpness of detail
rivals even the daguerreotype. Properly executed, it is like viewing
a scene with a magnifying glass. (Hence its value to Mr Crede and his
camera obscura.) The disadvantage is the method itself–
complicated, messy and accident–prone. First, the glass plate
must be polished to perfect cleanliness, for a speck of dust will
appear as a blot. Balancing the plate delicately on thumb and
fingers, the photographer must pour the solution so evenly that the
liquid evaporates into a smooth film. One slip, the slightest misstep
or miscalculation and the photograph is ruined . . . 37 WHITE STONE
DAY The door is swung open by an Irish servant and, after a short
pause, the Duke of Danbury enters. He wears an immaculate black coat
and a violet waistcoat; his wispy fringe of reddish hair has been
expertly combed and dressed. In his arms he carries the sleeping,
seemingly weightless subject, in a flowing white gown. Now for the
first time, Boltbyn wonders: Why does Danbury insist that they be
asleep? For while it may be true that, in the early days of the
society, confined to the old collotype process, a photographer would
be hard–pressed to achieve any degree of focus using a young,
sentient model; but with the introduction of the Archer process, such
a precaution became no longer necessary. Still, the Duke continues
the practice of giving the subject a mild sedative, in the interests
of 'realism'. As guests at Bissett Grange, the members of the society
do not argue with their patron. It is not the thing to do. Danbury
arranges the subject upon the rock, in a picturesque attitude.
Wonders have been accomplished with make–up, for the face is
magnificent, a most perfect, intelligent face, like painted enamel,
and . . . Oheavens! It is astoundingly obvious to Boltbyn why the
duke has chosen the subject, and whom she represents . . . Emma. The
likeness is sufficient to cause him to tremble; were he to speak, all
meaning would be lost in a spasm of stuttering. The Duke of Danbury
holds Boltbyn's gaze for a long moment, in which the two men engage
in a silent dialogue: Whatever can this possibly mean? I think you
know. What is it you expect from this? I think you know. With a
private nod to Boltbyn, Danbury faces the company as though
addressing a class of classics students. 'Gentlemen, for our Sleeping
Beauty on this occasion I give you Psyche – dispatched to
Proserpine with a bejewelled box so that the goddess might fill it
with her beauty. 'Upon her return with the box of secrets, Psyche is
overcome with desire to open it, to take a share of beauty for
herself. But when she opens the box, she receives not beauty but an
infernal sleep, which renders her as still as a corpse. Thus, a young
girl discovers the secret of womanhood, and the death of innocence. O
what a jealous goddess 38 BESSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE is time,
gentlemen – from whose sharp needle none can wriggle out of
reach!' The duke directs another knowing glance in Boltbyn's
direction, though the vicar is at a complete loss as to what it might
signify. 'And yet Psyche will be reborn, to be reunited with her
Cupid, and they will beget a child whose name will be Pleasure.
'Psyche is the Greek word for the soul, and the butterfly.' A ripple
of appreciative applause erupts, led by Crede and Hemyng. Crede takes
his place next to
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