The Meaning of Night (29 page)

form, at once imposing and romantic.’ You will also learn from Verekker the bare

architectural facts concerning the house: the licence to crenellate granted in 1330; the

Elizabethan extensions to the fortified medieval dwelling; the Jacobean refinements; the

remodelling by Talman early in the last century; and the improvements lately effected in

the classical style by Henry Holland, who also worked on another of the county’s great

houses, Althorp.

What you will not find in Verekker, or in any other guide, is an anatomy of

Evenwood’s power to bewitch both soul and sense. Possibly, it is beyond human art to

convey the sense of something lost, but eternally present, that such places inspire. In

every light, and in every season, it possesses a transcendent beauty; but in summer it is

very paradise. Approach it if you can – as I first did – from the south, on a midsummer

afternoon. On entering the Park, you ascend a long incline, at the summit of which you

pause, to catch your first sight of the great house. To your left, over the low boundary

wall, light dances on the river curving gently eastwards; and then you catch sight of the

church – its delicate spire on such a day set against a cloudless sky of deepening blue –

facing the ivy-covered Rectory on the far side of a little field of graves.

Proceed a little further. The carriage-drive descends towards the river, crosses it

by a fine ballustrated bridge, then turns to the right, levelling out to give a fuller view of

the house and the swaying haze of trees behind; then it divides, to sweep either side of a

perfect oval of lawn, with a fine classical group – Poseidon with Tritons – at its centre,

before passing through a pair of massive iron gates into an enclosed and gravelled

entrance court.

Always your eye is drawn upwards, to a riot of gables and fluted chimneys, and,

dominating all, six soaring towers topped with arched cupolas. Behind the formality of

Holland’s frontage, the remains of earlier ages ramble in ravishing confusion: cobbled

alleys between high walls, a vaulted cloister opening on to gardens; Tudor brick mingles

with smooth ashlar; oriels and battlements oppose classical columns and pediments. And

in the midst, a sequestered medieval courtyard filled with urns and statuary, heavy in

summer with the scent of lavender and lilies, and echoing always to the sound of birds

and trickling water.

Evenwood. I had wandered its corridors and great rooms in dreams, collected

representations of it, greedily horded every published account of its history and character,

no matter how trite and inconsequential, from William Camden to the pamphlet

published in 1825 by Dr Daunt’s predecessor as Rector. For years it had been, not a built

thing of stone and timber and glass that could be touched and gazed upon under the light

of sun and moon, but a misty dream-place of unattainable perfection, like the great

Pavilion of the Caliphat described so perfectly by Mr Tennyson.?

Now it was spread out before me. No dream, it stood planted deep in the earth my

own feet were treading, washed by the rain of centuries, warmed by ten thousand dawns,

raised and shaped by dead generations of mortal men.

I am overwhelmed, almost choked by tears at the first sight of the place that I had

seen only with the interior eye. And then – it is almost like the sensation of physical pain

– I am certain I have seen it before; not in books and paintings, not in fancy, but with my

own eyes. I have been here. I have breathed this air, heard these sounds of wind through

the trees, and the music of distant waters. In an instant I am a child again, dreaming of a

great building, half palace, half fortress, with soaring spires and towers reaching to the

sky. But how can these things be? The name of this place held dim childhood

associations, but no recollection of ever having been brought here. Whence comes, then,

this certainty of re-acquaintance?

In a kind of daze, confused by the confluence of the real and the unreal, I walk a

little further, and the perspective begins to shift. Shadows and angles emerge to soften or

delineate; definitions harden, elevations extend and attenuate. A dog barks, and I see

rooks wheeling and cawing about the towers and chimneys, and white doves fluttering.

Between enclosing walls is a fish-pond, dark and still, overlooked by two little pavilions

of pale stone. Nearer still, and details of ordinary human activity begin to emerge: planted

things, a broom leaning against a wall, window-curtains moving in the warm breeze,

smoke drifting up from a chimney stack, a water pail set down in a gateway.

We know, from the account of his life published in the Saturday Review, that

Evenwood burst upon young Phoebus Daunt like Paul’s vision. It seemed – they are his

words – ‘almost as if I had not lived before’.

I do not blame the boy Phoebus for feeling thus on encountering the beauty of

Evenwood for the first time. No one with eyes to see, or a heart to feel, could be

unmoved by the place. I, too, felt as he did when I first caught sight of its cupolas and

battlements, rising up through the summer haze; and with greater familiarity came greater

attachment, until, even in memory, Evenwood assumed such a power to enthral that it

sometimes made me sick with a desire to spend my life within its bounds, and to possess

it utterly.

If Phoebus Daunt truly experienced such an epiphany on his first coming upon

Evenwood, then I freely absolve him. Remove it from the tally, with my blessing. But if

he believed the words he wrote in his public recollections, that Evenwood was ‘an Eden

made for me alone’, he was culpably wrong.

It had been made for me.

My travelling chest, containing my camera, tripod, and other necessary

equipment, had been placed on a trolley in a little yard leading off the entrance court. I

had brought with me a dozen dark slides containing negatives prepared according to the

process recently introduced by Monsieur Blanquart-Evrard.? For three hours I worked

away, and was satisfied that Lord Tansor would be well pleased with the results.

I had just finished taking several views of the Orangery and was stepping through

a little gate set in an ancient fragment of flint wall when I was brought up short by the

sound of someone laughing.

Before me was a broad sweep of close-cut grass on which four figures, two ladies,

and two gentlemen, were engaged in a game of croquet.

I would not have been aware of him had he not laughed; but as soon as I heard

that distinctive note, and the concluding snort, I knew it was him.

He seemed to have grown taller, and was broader in the shoulder than I

remembered him; and now he had a dark beard, which, with the silk handkerchief he had

tied round his head, gave him a slightly piratical air. There he was, in the flesh: P.

Rainsford Daunt, the celebrated poet, whose latest volume, The Pharaoh’s Child, had just

been published, to great acclaim. I stood spellbound. To see him here, leaning on his

mallet, and to hear his voice paying gallant compliments to his partner, a strikingly tall

young lady with dark hair, seemed to twist the knife into the wound that had been

festering within in me for so long. I considered for a moment whether I should make

myself known to him; but then, looking down at my dusty boots, I noticed that I had a

tear in the knee of my trousers where I had knelt down on the gravel of the entrance court

to adjust my tripod. Altogether I made a rather sorry sight, with my dirty hands and high

colour, for it had been warm work pulling the trolley from one location to the next.

Daunt, by contrast, stood elegantly at his ease on the new-mown lawn, waistcoat

shimmering in the sunlight, unaware of his former friend concealed in the shadow of a

large laurel bush. I confess that I could not help feeling envious of him, which gave the

knife yet another little turn. He looked so assured, so settled in comfort. If I had known

then the full extent of his good fortune, I might have been tempted into some rash deed.

But, in my ignorance, I simply stood observing him, thinking of when we had last spoken

together in School Yard, and wondering if he still remembered what I had whispered to

him. I doubted it. He looked like a man who slept well. It seemed almost a pity to disturb

his peaceful slumbers; but one day my words would come back to him.

And then he would remember.

I remained out of sight behind the laurel bush for a quarter of an hour or more,

until Daunt and his companions picked up their mallets and returned to a small shaded

terrace, where tea had been laid out for them. He strolled back with the tall young lady,

whilst the other two followed behind chatting and laughing.

It was now a little before five o’clock, and so I returned to the entrance court. I

was beginning to pack up my things when Mr Tredgold appeared on the steps.

‘Edward, there you are. I trust you have had a productive afternoon? Very good.

My business with his Lordship is concluded, but there is one more thing you might do

before we leave.’

‘Certainly. What is it?’

He gave a little cough.

‘I have persuaded his Lordship that it would be a great thing, for his posterity, to

have an unmediated likeness of himself made. I urged him to consider what it would

mean for his descendants to have an image of him as he really is, at this very time. I said

it would be as if he lived again in their eyes. I hope it will not be too much trouble for

you? His Lordship is waiting for us on the Library Terrace.’

The Library Terrace was on the west side of the house; Daunt and his friends

were taking tea on the south. I quickly weighed up the risks of our meeting each other,

and decided they were small. Besides, the opportunity to study the man whom I believed

to be my father was irresistible; and if Daunt did appear, I was confident that my recently

acquired mustachios would prevent discovery.

‘Not in the least,’ I replied, as calmly as I could. ‘I have one negative left, and

will be very glad to oblige his Lordship. If you will allow me a moment to gather up my

things . . .’

When we arrived at the terrace, Lord Tansor was pacing up and down, the silver

ferrule of his stick clattering on the stones, the sunlight glinting off his immaculate silk

hat.

‘Your Lordship,’ said Mr Tredgold, advancing towards him. ‘This is Mr

Glapthorn.’

‘Glapthorn. How d’ye do. You have all your instruments, cameras, and what not?

I see. A travelling chest? Of course. Everything to hand, what? Very good. That’s the

way. Now then, let’s get on.’

I began to set up my tripod as Lord Tansor continued to walk up and down,

conversing with Mr Tredgold. But I found I could not take my eyes off him.

Now in his fifty-seventh year, he was a smaller man than I had expected, but with

a straight back and strong shoulders. I became immediately fascinated by his little

mannerisms: the left hand placed behind him as he walked; the way he tilted his head

back when he spoke; the gruff, staccato phrases and the barking interrogatives with which

his speech was populated; the impatient tic in his left eye when Mr Tredgold directed

some observation to him, as if his toleration were about to expire at any second. Above

all, my attention was held by the complete absence of either humour or vulnerability in

the heavy-lidded, close-set eyes, and especially in the small, almost lipless mouth. I

noticed the curious fact that one rarely saw Lord Tansor’s teeth. His mouth appeared to

be permanently clamped shut, even when he spoke, which naturally conveyed the

impression that here was a man in whom disapproval and suspicion of his fellow human

beings was instinctive and irreversible. Everything about him was tight, ordered,

contained. There was so much concentrated potency and will in the way he looked you up

and down, and in the stance of purposeful readiness he habitually adopted – shoulders

pulled sharply back, feet slightly apart – that you quickly forgot the shortness of his

stature. I have met many impressive men, but few have impressed me with the

completeness of their self-possession, born of the long exercise of personal and political

authority, as he did. I have strong arms and a strong body, and am a giant compared to

him; but as he approached to ask if all was ready, I could hardly look him in the eye.

Yet I believed he was my father! Could it be true? Or had I been deluding myself?

Perhaps his first wife had played him false; perhaps I had been the fruit of some illicit

liaison, which she had sought to cover over with the help of her closest friend. It had

sometimes seemed the likeliest explanation for her extraordinary action. But the

elaborateness of the plot, as far as I presently understood it, seemed to argue for a deeper

and more complex purpose, and left room for doubt to creep in. Say, then, that he was my

father, standing next to me in the bright June sunshine, and seeing only a stranger

busying himself with his camera and tripod. Would the day ever come when I would turn

and face him in my true self?

The sun had moved westwards and was now illuminating the far end of the

terrace, beyond which was a raised pavement, with a half-glazed door set in the return.