‘Had your specimens survived, I take it you would have spent a considerable time identifying and cataloguing everything—it would have been a considerable labour. Now I have in my outhouses—I am ashamed to admit it—crate upon crate I have enthusiastically purchased, from Mr Wallace, from Mr Spruce, from Mr Bates and yourself, but also from travellers in the Malay peninsula, in the Australias, in Africa—I had quite underestimated the task of setting these in order. There is something very wrong, Mr Adamson, in plundering the Earth of her beauties and curiosities and then not making use of them for what alone justifies our depredations—the promotion of useful knowledge, of human wonder. I feel like the dragon in the poem, sitting upon a hoard of treasure, which he makes no good use of. I could offer you employment in setting all that to rights—if you would accept—and this might give you time to resume your own path in whatever way seemed to you best on reflection …’
‘That is an extremely generous offer,’ said William. ‘It would give me at once a roof over my head, and work I am fitted for.’
‘But you hesitate—’
‘I have always had this clear vision—a kind of picture in my head—of what I must do, of how my life should be—’
‘And you are not sure your vocation includes Bredely Hall.’
William hesitated. His mind’s eye was occupied by a picture of Eugenia Alabaster, her white bust rising from the lacy sea of her ballgown like Aphrodite from the foam. But he was not going to say that. He even enjoyed the duplicity of not saying that.
‘I know I must find some means of fitting out another expedition.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Harald Alabaster carefully, ‘I might, at some future date, be of help in that regard. Not only as a buyer of specimens, but in some more substantial way. May I suggest that you make an extended visit here—and at least look over what I have in store—I would of course pay you some agreed salary for that work, I would put things on a professional basis. And I would not expect to take up your complete attention with these tasks—oh, no—so that you would have time also to set your ideas for writing in order. And then, in due course, a decision might be made, a ship might be found, and I might perhaps hope that some monstrous toad or savage-seeming beetle in the jungle floor might immortalise me—Bufo amazoniensis haraldii—Cheops nigrissimum alabastri—I like that, do not you?’
‘I do not see how I can refuse such an offer,’ said William. He was unwrapping his specimen box as he spoke. ‘I have brought you something—something very rare—which already, fortuitously, takes a name from this house into the virgin forest. Here I have a most interesting group of Heliconine and Ithomiine butterflies, and here are several very rich Papilios—some red-spotted, some dark green. I hope to discuss with you some significant variations in the forms of these creatures, which do suggest the species may be in the process of modification, of change.
‘But here—here is what I think will particularly interest you. I know you received the Morpho Menelaus I sent you; I went in pursuit of its congener, the Morpho Rhetenor—which is of an even brighter, more metallic blue, and over seven inches across. I do have one Morpho Rhetenor, here—not a good specimen—a little torn, and missing a leg. They fly in the broad, sunny roads in the forest, they float very slowly, occasionally flapping their wings, like birds, and they almost never come down below twenty feet, so they are almost impossible to catch, though exquisitely beautiful to see, sailing in the greenish sunlight. But I employed some agile little Indian boys to climb up for me and they were able to bring me a pair of a related species equally rare and in its way equally lovely, though not blue—here, look—the male is a lustrous satiny-white, and the female is a quieter pale lavender, but still exquisite. When they were brought to me, in such perfect condition, I felt the blood rush to my head, truly felt I might faint with excitement. I did not know then how appropriate they were to add to your collection. They are related closely to Morpho Adonis. And to Morpho Uraneis Batesii. They are Morpho Eugenia, Sir Harald.’
Harald Alabaster looked at the dead, shining creatures.
‘Morpho Eugenia. Remarkable. A remarkable creation. How beautiful, how delicately designed, how wonderful that something so fragile should have come here, through such dangers, from the other end of the earth. And very rare. I have never seen one. I have never heard tell of anyone who has seen one. Morpho Eugenia. Well.’
He pulled his bell-rope again, which produced, in the room, only a faint creaking sound.
‘It is hard,’ he said to William, ‘not to agree with the Duke of Argyll that the extraordinary beauty of these creatures is in itself the evidence of the work of a Creator, a Creator who also made our human sensibility to beauty, to design, to delicate variation and brilliant colour.’
‘From our spontaneous response to them,’ said William carefully, ‘I feel instinctively drawn to agree with you. But from the scientific viewpoint I feel I must ask what purpose of Nature’s might be fulfilled by all this brilliance and loveliness. Mr Darwin, I know, inclines to think that the fact that it is very preponderantly male butterflies and birds that are so brilliantly coloured—whilst females are often drab and unobtrusive—suggests that perhaps there is some advantage to the male, in flaunting his scarlets and golds, which might make the female select him as a mate. Mr Wallace argues that the drabness of the female is protective coloration—she may hang under a leaf to lay her eggs, or sit in the shades on her nest and melt unseen into the shadows. I have myself noticed that the brightly coloured male butterflies wheel about in huge flocks in the sunlight whilst the females seem timid, and lurk under bushes and in damp places.’
There was a knock at the door, and a footman came into the study.
‘Ah, Robin, find Miss Eugenia if you can—and all the young ladies—we have something here to show them. Tell her to come as soon as she may.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The door closed again.
‘There is another question,’ said William, ‘which I ask myself often. Why do the most brilliant butterflies bask with open wings on the upper surfaces of leaves, or fly in a slow, flapping motion, not rapidly? The Papilios, for instance, are also known as pharmacophages, or poison-eaters, because they feed on the poisonous aristolochia vines—and they seem to know they may flaunt themselves with impunity, that predators will not snap them up. It is possible that their gaudy display is a kind of defiant warning. Mr Bates has even suggested that certain inoffensive species mimic these poisonous ones in order to share their immunity. He has found some Pieridae—whites and sulphurs—indistinguishable from some Ithomines, to the casual eye, or even the careful observer, without a microscope …’
Eugenia entered the room. She was wearing white muslin, with cherry-red ribbons and bow, and a cherry-red sash, and looked delightful. When she came up to Harald’s desk to be shown the Morpho Eugenia, William felt confusedly as though she carried with her an atmosphere of her own, a cloud of magic dust that at once drew him in and held him off, at precisely the distance of the invisible barrier. He bowed politely to her, and thought at once of his drunken, clear-eyed journal entry, ‘ “I shall die if I cannot have her” ’, and of a ship in flight, with the green water churning away from the bows, and the spray racing. He was not afraid of danger, but he was shrewd, and took no relish in the thought of shrivelling in a fruitless fire.
‘What a lovely creature,’ said Eugenia. Her soft mouth was a little open. He could see the wet, evenly milky teeth.
‘It is Morpho Eugenia, my dear. Not named for you, but brought to you, by Mr Adamson.’
‘How delightful. What a beautiful glittering white she is—’
‘No, no, that is the male. The female is the smaller one, the lavender.’
‘What a pity. I prefer the white satin. But then I am a female, so that is natural. I wish we could display them in flight. They seem a little stiff, like dead leaves, whatever you do to make them natural. I should like to keep butterflies as we keep birds.’
‘It is perfectly feasib
le,’ said William. ‘In a conservatory, if the larvae are cared for properly.’
‘I should take great pleasure in sitting in the conservatory in a great cloud of butterflies. It would be most romantic.’
‘I could procure you such a cloud, with the greatest of ease. Not, of course, Morpho Eugenia. But blue, and white, and golden, and black and red damask, native kinds. You would be Morpho Eugenia. It means beautiful, you know. Shapely.’
‘Ah,’ said Eugenia. ‘The opposite of amorphous.’
‘Exactly. The primeval forest out there—the endless sameness of the greenery—the clouds of midges and mosquitoes—the struggling mass of creepers and undergrowth—often seemed to me the epitome of the amorphous. And then something perfect and beautifully formed would come into view and take the breath away. Morpho Eugenia did that, Miss Alabaster.’
She turned her liquid gaze on him to see if she had detected a compliment, as though she had a special sense for those. He met her eyes and smiled, briefly, ruefully, and she smiled briefly back, before dropping her lashes over the blue pools of her eyes.
‘I shall make a special glass box for them, Mr Adamson, you will see. They shall dance together forever, in their white satin and lavender silk. You must teach me what to paint into their background, what leaves and flowers—I would wish to get it right, naturally.’
‘I am yours to command, Miss Alabaster.’
‘Mr Adamson has consented to stay here for a little while, my dear, and help me to organise my collections.’
‘Good. Then I shall be able to command him, as he suggests.’
Understanding daily life in Bredely Hall was not easy. William found himself at once detached anthropologist and fairytale prince trapped by invisible gates and silken bonds in an enchanted castle. Everyone had their place and their way of life, and every day for months he discovered new people whose existence he had not previously suspected, doing tasks of which he had known nothing.
Bredely was built like a mediaeval manor house, but with new money. In 1860 it had been completed only thirty years, and had been long in the building. The Alabasters were an ancient and noble family, who had always been very pure-blooded, and had never wielded very much power, but had tilled their fields and collected books, horses, curiosities and poultry. Harald Alabaster was the second son of the Robert Alabaster who had built Bredely, with the money brought to him by his wife, the daughter of an East India merchant. The house had been inherited by Harald’s elder brother, also Robert, who had also married a rich woman—the daughter of a minor earl—who had borne him twelve children, all of whom had died in infancy. Harald, a conventional second son, had taken Holy Orders, and had had a living in the Fens, where he had spent his spare time on botany and entomology. He had been poor in those days—Robert the first’s wealth was tied up in Bredely, which had gone to Robert the second. Harald had married twice. His first wife, Joanna, had borne him two sons, Edgar and Lionel, and died in childbed. Gertrude, the present Lady Alabaster, had married him immediately after his widowing. Gertrude Alabaster, too, had brought along a fat dowry—she was the granddaughter of a mine owner who was given to charitable benefaction and also to shrewd investment. She had survived maternity with repetitive complaisance. William had initially supposed that the five children he met were all there were but discovered that there were at least three more in the schoolroom—Margaret, Elaine and Edith, and twins in the nursery, Guy and Alice. Also part of the community were various dependent spinsters of various ages, relatives of the Alabasters, or of their wives. A Miss Fescue was always at meals, chomping her food very loudly, never speaking. There was a thin Miss Crompton, usually known as Matty, who, although not the governess—that was Miss Mead—nor the nursery nurse—that was Dacres—seemed to be in some way employed in the care of the younger members of the family. There were visiting young men, friends of Edgar and Lionel. Then there were the servants, from the butler and housekeeper to the scullery maids and boot and bottle boys in the dark depths behind the servants’ door.
His days began with morning prayers in the chapel. These took place after breakfast, and were attended by those members of the family who had risen, and a varying gathering of quiet servants, maids in black dresses and spotless white aprons, menservants in black suits, who sat at the back, men on the right, women on the left. The family occupied the front rows. Rowena came often, Eugenia rarely, the children always, with Matty and Miss Mead. Lady Alabaster came only on Sundays, and had a tendency to drowse in the front corner, purple in the light of the stained-glass window. The chapel was very plain, and not very warm. The seating was hard oak benches, and there was nothing to look at except the high windows, with their glassy blue grapes and creamy lilies, and Harald. In the early days of William’s presence, Harald would preach succinct little sermons. William was interested in these. They bore no relation at all to the threats and ecstasy of the religion he had grown up in, the red caverns of eternal fire, the red floods of spilt sacrificial blood. Their note was kindly, their subject matter love, family love, as was appropriate to the occasion, the love of God the Father, who watched the fall of every sparrow with infinite care, who had divided His infinity into Father and Son, the more to make His love comprehensible to human creatures, whose understanding of the nature of love began with the natural ties between the members of the family group, the warmth of the mother, the protection of the father, the closeness of brothers and sisters, and was designed to move outwards in emulation of the divine Parent and embrace the whole creation, from families to households, from households to nations, from nations to all men, and indeed, all living beings, wondrously made.
William watched Harald’s face attentively during these addresses. When Eugenia was present, he watched her face, when he dared, but her eyes were always modestly cast down, and she had a great capacity for stillness, sitting with her hands quiet in her lap. Harald changed aspects. At times, with his head up, and the white fronds of his beard catching the light, he had a look of God the Father himself, piercing-eyed, white as wool, ancient of days. At others, speaking quietly, almost inaudibly, and looking at the black-and-white chequered floor beneath his feet, he had almost a bedraggled look, to which the slightly musty, frayed quality of his gown contributed. And at others still, he reminded William briefly of Portuguese missionary friars he had met, out there, with feverish eye and ravaged faces, men who failed to comprehend the incomprehension of the placidly evasive Indians. And this analogy in turn would make William, sitting in the English stonelight on his hard bench, remember other ceremonies, the all-male gatherings to drink caapi, or Aya-huasca, the Dead Man’s Vine. He had tried it once and had seen visions of landscapes and great cities and lofty towers as though he were flying, had found himself lost in a forest surrounded by serpents, and in danger of death. Women were not allowed to taste these things, or to see the drums which summoned the participants, the botutos, on pain of death. He remembered the fleeing women, faces covered, sitting amongst the decorous English family, men on one side, women on another, watching Eugenia’s pink tongue moisten her soft lips. He felt he was doomed to a kind of double consciousness. Everything he experienced brought up its contrary image from out there, which had the effect of making not only the Amazon ceremonies but the English sermon seem strange, unreal, of an uncertain nature. He had smuggled away a botuto under blankets, in a canoe at night, but it was lost with all his other things, under the miles of grey water. Perhaps it had brought him ill-luck.
‘We must never cease to be thankful to the Lord for all his many mercies to us,’ said Harald Alabaster.
A workshop was set up for William in a disused saddle-room, next to the stables. This was half-full of the tin boxes, the wooden crates, the tea-chests of things Harald had purchased—apparently with no clear priority of interest—from all over the world. Here were monkey skins and delicate parrot skins, preserved lizards and monstrous snakes, box upon box of dead beetles, brilliant green, iridescent purple, swarthy demons with
monstrous horned heads. Here too were crates of geological specimens, and packs of varied mosses, fruits and flowers, from the Tropics and the ice-caps, bears’ teeth and rhinoceros horns, the skeletons of sharks and clumps of coral. Some packages proved to have been reduced to drifting dust by the action of termites, or compacted to viscous dough by the operation of mould. William asked his benefactor on what principle he was required to proceed, and Harald told him, ‘Set it all in order, don’t you know? Make sense of it, lay it all out in some order or other.’ William came to see that Harald had not carried out this task himself partly at least because he had no real idea of how to set about it. He felt moments of real irritability that treasures for which men like himself had risked life and health should lie here higgledy-piggledy, and decay in an English stable. He procured a trestle-table and several ledgers, a series of collecting cabinets and some cupboards for specimens that would not lie flat and slide conveniently in and out of drawers. He set up his microscope, and began to make labels. He moved things from day to day from drawer to drawer as he found himself with a plethora of beetles or a sudden plague of frogs. He could not devise an organising principle, but went on doggedly making labels, setting up, examining.
His saddle-room was dark, and stone-cold, except where the light came in from the window, which was high up, too high to look out of. He worked amongst the noise and smells of the grooms mucking out the stables, the steaming scent of dung, the ammoniac whiff of horse-piss, the plod of leather boots, the swish of hay on a fork. Edgar and Lionel were both keen horsemen. Edgar kept an Arab stallion, a gleaming chestnut with a silky-muscled, arching neck and eyes that rolled white in the half-dark of his box, where he paced, baring his teeth. His name was Saladin. Edgar’s hunter was Ivanhoe, huge, iron-grey, full of oats and a great leaper. Edgar was always accepting challenges to jump impossible objects on Ivanhoe, who always rose to the occasion. The two of them were in some ways alike, rippling with muscle, standing tall, somehow strutting with pent-in force, not flowing, like the confined Saladin, like the mares and foals in the paddock, like Rowena and Eugenia. William could hear Edgar and Lionel coming in and out from rides as he worked, the quick clatter of iron on stones, the scrape of horses wheeling and dancing. The young women sometimes went out with them too. Eugenia rode a pretty and docile black mare, and wore a blue riding habit that matched her eyes. William tried to manage to come out of his cavern to watch her mount, her neat little foot in the groom’s hands, her own gloved hands on the reins, her hair bound in a blue net. Edgar would watch William from the height of Ivanhoe’s saddle. William sensed that Edgar did not like him. Edgar treated him as he treated the intermediate folk between the family and the invisible, speechless servants. He offered him the time of day, a nod on meeting, and no encouragement to converse.