by Rachael King
Collins beams at him and rubs his hands together. Well, he says. Where to begin? I can’t sing the praises of our little community enough. I grew up, as you know, in Surrey and spent much of my youth in London. I was drawn here by all the talk of the ‘wool kings’ of the South Island, and the fantastic wealth they were accumulating. And I can tell you sir, I was not disappointed. There is money to be made here, if that is what you — here he hesitates, to find the polite word — desire.
Not need, Henry notices.
Collins continues. With the society that has been built here we have everything we want. All the money we need, and all the comforts. Servants, good food, fine clothes. A peaceful country life with plenty of social activity, and a positively energetic life in the city, with balls, opera, theatre, even a racecourse — and any manner of entertainment that a gentleman could wish for.
He flicks a sideways look at his wife but she seems to not have noticed his implication; indeed Henry is not sure if he has grasped it himself, though he thinks he knows what his host means. He has already helped himself to the services available to gentlemen, in a dimly lit wooden house in one of those streets named after an English county.
In short, sir, Collins continues, one can build a splendid life here, perhaps even more splendid than in England if one invests one’s money wisely, in the right kind of station. We have built a new version of England. I know that we all talk of Home and how we long to return, but I have heard of men going back there to live out their final years and yearning for the life here instead. They die dreaming of New Zealand.
While all the vulgar talk of money is distasteful to Henry — he has been raised to take the existence of money for granted and never to speak of it — Collins has given him plenty to think about. He retires for the evening. When he lies in bed, the semblance of a plan begins to formulate in his head. For if he could escape his father, create independent wealth for himself, he could stay here for a few years then release himself back into the wilds of the world, a free man in every sense.
Collins has had the crates assembled in the library on the south side of the house, where it is cool and dark. He hovers around, hoping to glimpse each treasure as it emerges, but Henry asks if he can be alone. As long as the crates are unopened, his life has not taken a turn for the worse. His collection is the one thing in the world that gives him a reason for living. To have it here, in New Zealand, feels like the sealing of this country’s status as his new home. It is not a moment Henry wishes to rush into.
He sits in the gloom for a long time, staring at the wooden containers — his life, reduced to a few boxes sitting on the rug in a foreign country. The room is encased in bookshelves; the books have uniform leather covers, no doubt bought by the yard to give the appearance of a learned household. He wonders if anyone even reads out here.
Finally he stands and moves around the crates, hammer in hand. The first plank makes a groaning sound and flecks of sawdust fall to the carpet. This crate is well packed at least. His cases of insects and small reptiles have all been included and it is with some difficulty that he pulls them out. He opens each drawer slowly, to check the state of the specimens and to enjoy them. Here is the rare Cithaerias aurorina, with its transparent wings and their spots of bright pink. He remembers how he twisted his ankle on a tree root and the pain didn’t register until he had the butterfly in his net. Here are his lizards — those big enough to mount but small enough to fit in the drawers. Any smaller and he would preserve them in jars. Arachnids both poisonous and harmless, hard-shelled coleoptera, suspended with outstretched legs, seemingly ready to crawl out and make New Zealand their new home. Everything is perfectly intact.
In another crate, one of his jars has broken and the sickening odour of formaldehyde greets him as he opens it. He lifts the clammy body of the adder and lays it on the floorboards next to the rug, then carefully unwraps the remaining jars, which he lines up on the floor beside him. He finds his squid, more lizards, and his more gruesome curiosities: the foetus and the baby’s feet, the other body parts. In the soft light of the library they almost look beautiful. He has never felt squeamish about them; he finds them fascinating, and was more than pleased when he persuaded his surgeon friend to obtain them for his collection.
He starts as the door to the library suddenly opens. He places his body between the jars and the doorway and glances back at the intruder. Dora Collins is halfway into the room before she even notices he is there.
Oh, forgive me, she says. I didn’t know you were in here. She shows him the books she has in her hand; three of them, all bound in the same leather as the others. I was just returning these. I can come back.
No, please, Henry says. Do come in. He hastily packs the human specimens back into the crate and closes it.
Dora walks around the edge of the room to the far side, facing him always, as though scared to turn her back. She is dressed in simple white muslin, and it gives her a freshness, emphasising her youth, as does the wildness of her blonde hair.
Please ignore me, she says, and finally turns her back to retrieve the library ladder, which she places and mounts.
May I help you? asks Henry.
No thank you. It is quite stable. She steps up three or four rungs and replaces the books in the gaps they have left.
Henry continues with his job, aware of Dora stealing glances at him as she moves about the shelves, browsing for her next book. He discovers quickly that his prized possession, the tiger skin, is missing. He lets out a sigh. Perhaps it would have been easy enough to miss on the floor, but he suspects his father coveted it for himself, and now all the sweat and pride Henry poured into it is lost. It is a final insult. At least he still has his tattoo as a reminder.
The false mermaid is there, hideous though it is, and Henry leaves it sitting in the crate. Truth be told, he prefers the one he has on his bicep; it is certainly more pleasant to look at, with its womanly curves, the hint of a breast beneath long golden hair. But he couldn’t resist having the hoax in his collection, even if just to celebrate the audacity of some people.
He has forgotten that Dora is in the room until she gives a strangled cry and slips from the ladder into a heap on the floor.
Are you all right? He takes her hand, and she pulls herself up in her own time.
So silly of me, she says. I’m so embarrassed.
But you are unhurt?
Yes, she assures him, although she is limping slightly as she walks to a chair and drops into it. Would you mind …? She gestures to the books that have fallen to the floor. He glances at their titles as he hands them back to her: The Castle of Otranto, The Mysteries of Udolpho, Northanger Abbey. Sensational nonsense, filled with castles in foreign lands and imprisoned maidens waiting to be rescued.
You like to read novels, I see.
Dora blushes and tries to hide the books in her skirts. They are just a diversion, she says. I do read other things as well. It’s just that sometimes … sometimes I like to imagine I am somewhere other than New Zealand, with a life that is not all balls and picnics and the same people everywhere one turns. It can be quite suffocating at times. You can understand that, can you not, sir?
Oh, more than you can know. He chuckles.
We are so far from everything, she continues. It takes months to get to London by ship. Not to mention Europe, or other continents, which I can only dream of visiting.
I am fully aware of our geographical constraints, Miss Collins. In fact, I have just been dwelling on them myself.
Oh, but forgive me, she says. You have the world at your disposal I’m sure. You must tell me one day about your travels. Are they wonderful? Did you bring back wonderful things?
She is looking over his shoulder now, hopeful eyes scanning the crates until they alight on something.
Is that a snake? She puts her hand over her mouth. Oh, I long to see a real snake. But it looks so alive.
Henry has forgotten the snake, which lies coiled on the floorboards, lo
oking fresh and meaty; its scales glow in the muted light. He is impressed by her curiosity; any of the ladies he knows in London would have screamed and thrown themselves out the door sobbing at the sight of a snake, dead or no.
I’m afraid it may have started to decay, says Henry.
Dora has risen from her chair, her limp forgotten, and has begun to move towards it.
Do not come any closer, please, he says.
She stops, hovering.
Would you like to look at something else? asks Henry.
She nods. Henry can’t help thinking that her attitude towards him has changed since he saw her in the square by the cathedral. The fact that she did not appear for dinner seemed to confirm that she was avoiding him, but now she is all eagerness. He wonders if it is to do with his vast array of treasures, or, more likely, with the novels she has returned to the library, and the heroes within them.
Butterflies, he says. Jewels of the jungle. Just wait a moment.
He retrieves his drawers from the first crate and selects the collection of morphos he captured in the Amazon. They glisten behind their glass like sapphires.
Oh they are beautiful, she sighs. I have never seen such a creature. The only butterflies here are plain little things that are strangers to real colour. The Amazon, you say? Was it terribly dangerous?
Well, yes, actually, it was, he concedes. No more than your usual dangers, but they were plentiful enough.
Such as?
Let me see. The insects for one. Snakes. Crocodiles. Man-eating fish.
Dora’s eyes seem to grow wider with every description. He continues, warming to his role of gallant adventurer.
The natives weren’t always friendly. Then there were diseases. Cholera. Yellow fever. I caught malaria, and it plagues me still. Do not be alarmed, it is not contagious.
And why do you need so many?
I beg your pardon?
The butterflies. You have more than forty specimens here, and they are all the same. Why do you need to kill so many of them? Did you plan to sell them?
Well, I … He thinks for a moment before answering: The purpose of collecting is not to amass great numbers.
It isn’t? I don’t understand, given the evidence I see before me.
It’s hard to explain. It’s a hunger. Not for quantity but for different quality. To you, these butterflies all look the same. But I see forty very different creatures. One is not enough because collecting is all about the search for the perfect specimen, the specimen that represents the entire species perfectly.
And any number of these won’t do this?
Oh, one might think so at first. And then one sees another that is bigger, or more symmetrical, or brighter, and one realises that the search has in fact only just begun. You will understand for yourself one day, Miss Collins, if you ever find something that you are passionate about collecting. You will not be able to get enough of whatever it is.
I can only hope, Mr Summers, she says, and smiles somewhat enigmatically. But as for these butterflies … I am in love with each and every one, so perhaps I am on my way. Although I would far rather see them flying about in the jungle with my own eyes than see them dead and halfway around the world. But I suppose that is something I really can only dream of.
We can all have what we want, if we set our mind to it, says Henry.
Do you think?
Just then they are interrupted by Mr Collins, who has walked past the slightly open door and pushed his head in.
Dora!
His daughter jumps. He gestures for her to come to him and she obeys. Collins closes the door behind them but Henry can hear him chastising her. Most improper, he hears.
The door opens again a moment later.
I apologise, Mr Summers. I trust my daughter has not been bothering you with her idle chatter. I’m afraid she reads too many novels. I know you wanted to be alone.
It is of no consequence, says Henry. I was just finishing my work anyway.
Collins pours himself into the room. And is it all to your satisfaction?
Mostly, says Henry. Would you like to have a look?
Collins’ face breaks into a broad grin. It is just the invitation he has been waiting for.
Collins is an impeccable host. He asks few questions about Henry’s intentions and seems to enjoy having him there to show off to a string of visitors. Life here is very much as it is in the English countryside: the neighbours call on each other at all times of the week, families and servants often in tow, and expect to be entertained, fed and given beds. They spend their days in the manner of the leisured classes anywhere: with picnics, shooting, game-playing and idle conversation, centring mostly on gossip about what is going on in town.
He has encountered no Maoris, and in this he is disappointed. Schlau has piqued his interest, there is no doubt, and he longs to meet them, to trade with them, to gaze upon their famous moko. It is as though they have been driven from the South Island altogether. Perhaps in the north he will have more luck.
There is little sign of Redstream being a working farm — for the most part the stock and the workers are kept well away from the daily life of the house, as if the sight of an escaped sheep is likely to send the nearest ladies into fainting fits. Collins sets off on horseback for a few hours each morning, but speaks little of his business on his return: he has managers for every aspect of the running of the farm and its spoils. The only hint that Henry gets of any difficulty is when dinner conversation with neighbours turns to the plague of rabbits threatening to destroy the pastures.
But this is fascinating, says Henry. The rabbits have been introduced from England, have they not? And they have no native predators? So the colonials have upset the natural order of things in this country.
He intends to ignite a conversation about natural history but the gathering sinks into a stony silence around him until someone else changes the subject. Evidently one can complain about the rabbits, but not about the probable cause of the problem. It is ridiculous. Nobody will meet his eye. Nobody, that is, except Dora. She gives him a smile and a nod, as if to say I agree. The effect on him is instantaneous. His breathing slows and he feels the blood that had been rushing to his face subside. Amazing, that this woman, that any woman, has the ability to calm him with only a glance. He must pay her more attention; undoubtedly there is something special about this girl. He returns the smile and their mutual gaze lingers.
Dora is startled awake by her bed shuddering across the room. In the fog of sleep she thinks she is back on board the ship that she and her father took from England last year, but within moments she knows this is not so. The earth, which had been shrugging and sighing the evening before, has finally given in to its anger and heaves the wooden house from side to side. It creaks and groans; her washbasin falls from its stand and smashes. She curls into a ball and clutches her knees until it subsides.
The silence that follows seems to last forever. She finds herself wishing for her mother, a mother that she never knew, but it is her father who comes to her, bursting through the door, shouting, Dora Dora, are you hurt, are you all right?
He sits on the bed and she allows herself to be embraced by him as her feet find the freezing floorboards and she realises how cold the room has become in the night, with all her bedclothes shaken off by the earthquake. Her father holds her as he did when she was a little girl until her shivering subsides, while a dark shadow hovers around the door. Her stepmother.
She feels terrible then, that she is keeping secrets from him, but last night, when the last guests had left the ball, he had retired immediately and she and Henry had parted company, with him promising he would speak to her father in the morning.
Last night. At the ball, she watched Henry across the room as what seemed like all the women in the country paraded themselves past him. He spoke to a few of them, charmed them even, and they whispered to each other behind their fans as they walked away. But when it came to dancing he stood resolutely by the wall,
observing them all, like a man unsure whether to feast with his eyes or turn away in boredom.
He looked up and saw her, and she did not look away. He had been a guest at her father’s house for two weeks now, and she knew enough about him to be sure that he couldn’t abide coyness. She had avoided him when he first arrived, she admits it now, but she knows how stupid she had been, how foolish and proud, just because of one night when he had drunk too much. She had been listening too closely to her friend Kate Johnson. It was their encounter in her father’s library that made her rethink her opinion of him. After all, none of the men she had met in the neighbourhood or in town had impressed her. They all brayed on about Home, but half of them had never been to England and were happy to live their lives moving between country and town houses with their horsey laughs and their sunburnt foreheads, accumulating money and attending the same parties and races.
Mr Summers was very different from these men. For a start, he only spoke when he had something worthwhile to say. That day in the library she had watched him as he unpacked his wonderful collection, and instead of fidgeting and trying to make polite conversation about the weather with her, as so many of her potential suitors would have done, he ignored her completely. He seemed mesmerised by his work, as if each object he unwrapped transported him back to the time and place of its provenance. She felt infected by him, by his collection: it made her yearn to catch even a small glimpse of what he had seen and done to acquire such treasures. The sight of the adder lying so nakedly on the floorboards — her floorboards, in the house she had grown up in — made her want to kneel beside it, pick it up and wrap it around herself like a shawl.
Since that day, they had been spending more and more time together. Her father’s initial disapproval relaxed, and he allowed her to take walks with Mr Summers to show him the pocket of bush by the river, where he could crouch beside fallen logs and plunge his little shovel into the loam, looking for insects. Her father implied that she should count herself lucky — back in England, young ladies were expected to be chaperoned at all times.