Viper Wine

by Hermione Eyre

  The sadness, even distress, which she might ordinarily have felt after such a confrontation rose within her, and yet it did not blossom. It was blocked and disallowed by the new smoothness of her complexion, and having been denied expression, the sentiment withered and dwindled within her, so that standing there on the cobbles of the now-darkening New Exchange, Venetia experienced that phenomenon later observed by medical science, which tells us that those who cannot grimace feel less discomfort, and those who cannot frown, less vexation.

  Tears were more slippery, since those who cried were usually eased and purged, and yet tears could redouble a feeling, too – in fact, the very passage of wetness down the cheeks could make one feel sad, as Venetia knew from experience, because the droppers of almond oyl she applied under her eyes at bedtime left a maudlin track. So soft and suggestible are we, she thought – men and women both – and there is so much about us still unknown, and yet people adventure into foreign lands. I would sooner go to the edge of a woman’s tear duct, she thought, as to the great Cataracts of the Nile, to know the nerves behind a flayed man’s face, before I knew Madagascar, or the moon.

  Her serene expression allowing her thoughts to roam, Venetia smiled agreeably as Lady Aletheia Howard tapped her on the arm with her fan and bid her visit her at Tart Hall again, which pleased Venetia, and yet she still pondered this new, tight little alliance between Lettice and Pen, deciding it would probably last until Penelope recovered her strength. It was a passing inconvenience. Not a dram, not a scruple of guilt did Venetia feel for not tending to Penelope during her illness.

  Venetia curtsied to the good folk who were still waiting to talk to her, and gathered her footsoldiers for their departure, interrupting Olive, who was on the point of buying a sprigged garter, and causing Chater to break off his animated conversation with Aletheia Howard’s chaplain, and thus escorted, she sailed out of the arena, leaving the China Dogges with their eyes bulging and the caged canaries all agog. As candelabra in the likeness of a winged Athena were lit to keep trade turning into the night, Venetia quit the marketplace in triumph, all eyes upon her – and she had spent not one penny from her purse.

  ‘A clock face looks like magic – till I look on the other side and I see wheels, retorts, counterfoils . . . That every effect whatsoever must have of pure necessity some cause. We need not have recourse to a Daemon or Angel in such difficulties.’

  ‘A Late Discourse by Sir Kenelm Digby Made in a Solemn Assembly of Nobles and Learned Men at Montpelier, Touching the Cure of Wounds by the Powder of Sympathie’, 1664

  Kenelm was at his studies, drawing up a curriculum for his sons’ education: a simple list of topoi taken from John Dee’s Preface to Euclid. He did not want to be an overbearing father, like Montaigne’s, who had made a project of his son by talking only Latin to him, till his teens, and teaching all their servants Latin also so they might not break the spell. An irony: while Montaigne’s Latin was his first tongue, his writings in French are all one wants to read. To wit, a gentle course of study for his boys:

  Zographie – painting, sculpture, architecture, &c. and their symbolical signification. The story of Zeuxis, and his murals of grapes, so well done the birds pecked at them.

  The feather quill in Sir Kenelm’s hand fluttered lightly, longing to fly again.

  Trochilike – the properties of circular motion. Its use in wheels, mills and mining.

  Helicosophie – concerning spirals, cylinders and cones.

  Did all good fathers write a curriculum? Sir Kenelm had never had a father, so he could not judge.

  Pneumatithmie – the study of pumps, air or water.

  Hydragogie – or how to conduct water uphill

  To be sure, thought Sir Kenelm, his youngest son could not yet walk, quite, but he wished him to be native in these subjects – a child mechanician.

  Menadrie – the science of moving weights by means of pulleys.

  Hypogesiodie – underground measurements and surveys.

  But then the son must be a scholar, too – so why not inculcate him in lightning-writing at a young age?

  Brachigraphy – note-taking at speed, writing but one letter-sign for each word.

  Horometrie – the art of measuring time by clocks and dials. As a boy learns to read a clock, so should he learn its workings at the same time. Therefore he has no Occluded beliefs, no Superstitions about Clocks, and knows that the soul of a clock, its animus, comes from the manipulation of weights.

  Some had it that a child should not be loved, should not be celebrated nor encouraged, should be invested with no hopes, should be given no character, and no familial likenesses pointed out, no birthdays celebrated, no father–son matching outfits commissioned, and no astrological charts drawn up, because the risk was too great.

  Navimaturgike – the art of navigation.

  A child was not definitely of this earth before it was six. It could be recalled to heaven at any moment. But Kenelm did not believe in keeping his heart safely in a strong box . . .

  Stratarithmetrie – the disposal of armies and soldiers in geometrical figures.

  The boys would enjoy that study. It was important for them to be manly; scholarly, but not weak. Tomorrow young Kenelm was to be britched; he was six years old, full ready to cast off his baby’s coats. The tailor had put together his first outfit, themed like a page, and to be delivered on the morrow. Young Kenelm would sleep no more in the nursery and be no more a mother’s darling. He was now old enough to be out of danger.

  A book tipped off the corner of Sir Kenelm’s desk, and was drawn to its nearest soul-mate, which was the tiled floor, stand-in for the earth, to which the book, like all heavy things, longed to return. If it were a paper dart, and had more in common with the clouds, it might have gone upwards.

  Statike – demonstration of the causes of the heaviness and lightness of all things.

  The idea that there was an encircling and immanent power, a force called Gravity, by which God kept us bounded to this round and revolving world – now that, he knew, was fanciful talk.

  He shifted his papers together and put them under the dead weight of a new-plucked dandelion.

  Cosmographie – the whole and perfect description of the lunarie and sub-lunarie spheres.

  A baby bumblebee bashed into his window, causing the glass to shatter.

  Thaumaturgike – the art of marvels. The dove of wood, made to fly, peck and scratch. Vulcan’s self-movers (with secret wheels). The iron fly of Nuremberg. Fludd’s dragon.

  He paused, and crossed out the entry Thaumaturgike. He did not want his sons to study this topic. Marvels had fascinated men of his father’s generation, but their quality these days was so poor that they were now like trifling toys. Tools, plans, schemes – these were what his sons would take to Virginia and the other plantations.

  Nanobiotechnology –

  Sir Kenelm set down his pen, because he could hear a commotion in the hall. He went out of his study, and through the hall onto the stairs, where he found Venetia crying, because baby John had fallen on his head, and young Kenelm crying, and running around, angrily, protesting he had not caused the fall, and baby John howling his head off.

  Seeing that no visible damage had been done, and that everything was in reasonable order, Kenelm shut his door against the noise and went back to resume and complete his syllabus for the boys. But when he came back he could not remember what was meant by Nanobiotechnology. It was – it was . . . He looked in his book again, but even John Dee seemed not to have it clearly in his Preface to Euclid.

  Endymion confided once that he rarely went home, in order to avoid the constant havoc of family. Sir Kenelm felt that men should not be interrupted so much in times to come. Men would each have small marvels of perpetual motion in their pockets, like watches, which managed every interruption. These would replace the man in urgent communications, perhaps even impersonate him. Yes, in future times, men’s thinking would be respected as much as their sleeping. In tim
e to come, men would really be able to concentrate.

  MARY TREE: 217 MILES TRAVELLED

  IF I HAD not come to Gayhurst, I would not have met Annie Braxton, and if I had not met Annie Braxton, I would never have stood in Lady Venetia’s bedroom as I do now, looking at her glass gallypots and potions, her fine bed-drapes, her curling tongs. Annie goes in to dust and ope the windows once a week, and I have command of her dust-clouts today. The house is shut up, Sir Kenelm is abroad, the Lady Venetia is absent, all my long journey here was in vain, and Sir Richard is no more healed than before, and yet I feel strangely peaceful, as I wipe the motes off her bedposts, and shake out the sleepful hollows of her pillows. We can none of us do more than try in this world.

  Annie calls from the closet that I should lie on the bed, to feel the feathers, but I cannot do that. Nor can I lean and look at myself in the mirror that sits in front of her dressing stool. Once you know what you are, you should live according to that knowledge, not against it. Father Jonas told us that some are saved and some are not, and there is little one can do about it. I am not sure – but Annie is calling again. She says that I should paint my face like a lady with fucus from the blue glass gallypot.

  Annie Braxton, you are a minks indeed!

  We both are laughing, and yet I think she has another purpose. I shake out the counterpane and watch the wingèd cavaliers of the air charging about. I think Annie wants me to cover my Mark, so I can see myself as I would be without it. Perhaps I should then learn to cover it with lead-white fucus every day, so it were only a slight raised welter on my cheek, not a liver-coloured botch where my Maker erred. But then I would still be botched, and only patched.

  Annie comes through holding very carefully a feathered hat from Lady Venetia’s wardrobe, that I might see the blue crewel work and the oily beauty of the dyed feather in the light, shining blue-purple. It must suit a lady such as her so well. And yet she has not taken it with her. Perhaps it is too good to take, I whisper, but Annie says it is more likely forgotten. When your life is full of splendour and love as hers must be, you take these things lightly, I suppose. I reach to stroke the feather but Annie pulls it away, for fear it spoils to my touch.

  For all my imaginings of Venetia’s life, I never expected she would have so many tools and instruments for her beauty – nippers, lotions, rose-and-sage-waters . . . Those globes that look like suet, Annie says, are Bologna balls, for the softening of her hands. I little thought her hands would be harsh! At the back of her bed where I am dusting I find a hidey-hole containing a little hidden looking glass – which I run the duster over carefully, holding its face down, so it does not bite me – and a thick-lidded pot, sticky with dribbles. I wipe it clean, then twist off the lid. Inside, the oil has pooled as from a marrow bone, but the pot is full of feathery-looking mineral twists, and the smell of vinegar and sulphur and metal – tin? – is harsh as a slap. My nose stings with the whiff of it.

  ‘Plume-alum, it is,’ whispers Annie. ‘Takes the skin almost off the back of your hand and makes your eyes leak. She wipes it all about her face, though, fancy.’

  We are sitting on my lady’s bed, and in the rich green and yellow light of the leaded casement, it is almost like being underwater, or in a shady dell. Annie looks at me, and for a second, I think that she is going to take a scoop on her finger and rub it into my cheek. Instead, I dash the lid on and screw it safely down. Better to keep the mischief in the pot than let it out to turn my head with hopefulness.

  I get up directly and fetch the clout bag. There is so much else for Annie and me to do, for chambermaids must be washermaids and waiting maids when the house is shut up, and if they are to tolerate me here awhile as I wait for the London coach next week, I must be helpful to the household, as I well know.

  NEWS from the Serraglio

  A discourse on the Foul Foreign habit, now affecting our Fine Ladies

  ‘Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity, and quicken thou me in thy way.’

  Psalms 119:37

  ‘They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.’

  Mark 16:18, King James Bible

  Eve was the first to be tempted, and Shee was not the last. It is common for Womenkind ever to be practising Washings, Annointings, Fomentations, Tinctures and Frictions upon their faces. Even a Godly Woman washes her Person. But some Women be now Painting, Colouring, Nipping and Applying False staining of Spanish Paper, viz. Beetle Paint, to Mislead Menfolk and affect a Modest Blush. Save yr. Opprobrious Cries, for there is WORSE.

  It is the Duty of this Author to report that many Ladies of a great age, often of almost thirty years, with Crump-shoulders, Crack’d Cheeks and Gobble-teeth, have lately appeared in a new form, as: Virtuous Young Maidens. Their Frontages unseemly Smooth, they Glide like Dancers from a Turk’s Harem. The Cause of this Scandal is none other than a Libation or Tonic dispensed by a Physician in Fenchurch Street, where his premises beneath the sign of the Star are discernible by the sight of many Fine Ladies going in and out of his door leading many to wonder what is the cause of his Popularity. Alas, perversions as, the Iron Bodice, the Bumbost that gives Shape to Withered Haunches, the Spliced Cuttings of Other Women’s Hair and all such False Representations – these dissatisfy our Finest Ladies who ought to be Serving their King and Husbands in Humble Duty, but are compell’d by Vanity to Please their Lords another Way and seek out a Drink which some say is made of the Entrails of Vipers, cook’d. Be warned, good people. So like the Creeping Adder the Ladies make themselves Unnaturally Anew. The Wine is feared to be a dangerous Intoxicant of the Male Spirit. Mark ye, all those who read, what is Here Expressed.

  – The Author –

  Lancelot Choice turned over the handbill, shaking lightly. He daubed his eyes, which had put forth a crocodile tear.

  ‘My dear,’ he said to Margaret, ‘you are a mighty cunning woman, but this, this . . .’

  He was beside himself, convulsed.

  ‘How much did the writing and printing of this cost you?’

  ‘Nowt,’ she said. ‘The cover charge for readers is one penny, so the cost is eaten up outright.’

  ‘Ach,’ he said. ‘Such craft she has!’

  He put his hand over his belly, which ached from laughing. ‘We shall never want for custom now. “The ladies make themselves unnaturally anew,” indeed. The prosperity of our endeavour is guaranteed.’

  SYRINGES AND LEMONS

  When will you pay me?

  Say the Bells of Old Bailey

  As FOUR O’CLOCK struck, Venetia was leaning gracefully over the prie-dieu, thinking of all the combinations that made twenty-two when the ruff was at stake: two tens plus ace plus one; a Tom and two Queens; a Tom, a Tib and a Queen . . . It made her mouth water, yes actually water, to think of holding the cards.

  I do not know

  Says the great bell of Bow

  The bells made her conscious time was passing, and the day darkening, and yet Kenelm had not noticed how perfectly her pale bosom curved over the neckline of her dress, contrasting with the tightness of her waist. She sneaked a hopeful look at him, and even touched his foot with hers, but his eyes were so sweetly closed, and she knew this was his one moment of peace in a busy day, so she desisted, and said a little prayer for him, asking that he might be blessed with a better appreciation of her beauty, as Chater droned on, speaking so inwardly that she fancied the Holy Spirit lodged somewhere inside his nose.

  ‘Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .’

  Chater watched Sir Kenelm’s lips moving with the psalm. He was triumphant they still prayed together as a family, despite Kenelm’s conversion. As he spoke, Chater imagined leading Sir Kenelm, by the hand, through the vaporous vale, and then showing him where they might lie safely together upon green rushes, in the care of the Lord.

  Kettles and Pans

  Say the Bells of St Ann�
�s

  One by one, the churches of the city agreed the time, each saying their piece, like voices in a conversation. Only the Puritan bells sounded the hour plainly, without any pealing. Kenelm loved this multiplicity of bell-ringing in the city – the peaceful capital of the only peaceful country in the Old World. The bells spoke to him of religious toleration, not yet achieved, but not far off, he prayed. Let a thousand different birds sing God’s name.

  Brick-bats and Tiles

  Say the Bells of St Giles

  The peals reached Fenchurch Street, scattering the birds of the air, and telling the vipers in their pits that their prey was soon to be delivered. As the bolt of the cellar rammed home, disturbing their warm solitude, they readied themselves silently, flicking their mouse-decoying tails by atavistic instinct, as if they were still in the fields, while Margaret Choice trod unsteadily down the cellar stairs, bearing her tray of chopped rat-meat.

  Fillers and Needles

  Say the Bells of St Stephen’s

  Four o’clock arrived at Westminster, and anyone looking into the lamplit lower window of Tart Hall, as they were passing through St James’s, would have seen Aletheia Howard, sitting in her high-backed chair smoking her pipe with an inscrutable expression, and Olive next to her on the divan, rosy-cheeked and enraptured to the point of seeming idiocy, and both of them watching the figure of a gentleman, or at least a well-dressed man, who stood before them with his back to the window, gesticulating roundly, and holding up, for demonstration, first the delicate tubular slough of a snake’s skin, and then a vial that looked like burnt rubies.

  Olive was not given to betrayals, as such, but she was liable to forget old agreements that did not fit her new passions. Her intelligence, which was considerable, was firmly in the service of her feelings, which made her more dangerous than a less intelligent person. She was highly persuasive, utterly convinced by her version of events, and considered herself one of the most scrupulous people she knew.