Darkness Visible

by Nicholas Tucker

  This observation seemed to me to throw some light at last on the enjoyment he said he got from the marionette theatre, but I was far from guessing the inferences he would draw from it later.

  I asked him if he thought the operator who controls these puppets should himself be a dancer or at least have some idea of beauty in the dance. He replied that if a job is technically easy it doesn’t follow that it can be done entirely without sensitivity. The line the centre of gravity has to follow is indeed very simple, and in most cases, he believed, straight. When it is curved, the law of its curvature seems to be at the least of the first and at the most of the second order. Even in the latter case the line is only elliptical, a form of movement natural to the human body because of the joints, so this hardly demands any great skill from the operator. But, seen from another point of view, this line could be something very mysterious. It is nothing other than the path taken by the soul of the dancer. He doubted if this could be found unless the operator can transpose himself into the centre of gravity of the marionette. In other words, the operator dances.

  I said the operator’s part in the business had been represented to me as something which can be done entirely without feeling – rather like turning the handle of a barrel-organ.

  ‘Not at all’, he said. ‘In fact, there’s a subtle relationship between the movements of his fingers and the movements of the puppets attached to them, something like the relationship between numbers and their logarithms or between asymptote and hyperbola.’ Yet he did believe this last trace of human volition could be removed from the marionettes and their dance transferred entirely to the realm of mechanical forces, even produced, as I had suggested, by turning a handle.

  I told him I was astonished at the attention he was paying to this vulgar species of an art form. It wasn’t just that he thought it capable of loftier development; he seemed to be working to this end himself.

  He smiled. He said he was confident that, if he could get a craftsman to construct a marionette to the specifications he had in mind, he could perform a dance with it which neither he nor any other skilled dancer of his time, not even Madame Vestris herself, could equal.

  ‘Have you heard,’ he asked, as I looked down in silence, ‘of those artificial legs made by English craftsmen for people who have been unfortunate enough to lose their own limbs?’ I said I hadn’t. I had never seen anything of this kind.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, ‘because when I tell you these people dance with them, I’m almost afraid you won’t believe me. What am I saying … dance? The range of their movements is in fact limited, but those they can perform they execute with a certainty and ease and grace which must astound the thoughtful observer.’

  I said with a laugh that of course he had now found his man. The craftsman who could make such remarkable limbs could surely build a complete marionette for him, to his specifications.

  ‘And what,’ I asked, as he was looking down in some perplexity, ‘are the requirements you think of presenting to the ingenuity of this man?’

  ‘Nothing that isn’t to be found in these puppets we see here,’ he replied: ‘proportion, flexibility, lightness … but all to a higher degree. And especially a more natural arrangement of the centres of gravity.’

  ‘And what is the advantage your puppets would have over living dancers?’

  ‘The advantage? First of all a negative one, my friend: it would never be guilty of affectation. For affectation is seen, as you know, when the soul, or moving force, appears at some point other than the centre of gravity of the movement. Because the operator controls with his wire or thread only this centre, the attached limbs are just what they should be … lifeless, pure pendulums, governed only by the law of gravity. This is an excellent quality. You’ll look for it in vain in most of our dancers.’

  ‘Just look at that girl who dances Daphne’, he went on. ‘Pursued by Apollo, she turns to look at him. At this moment her soul seems to be in the small of her back. As she bends she looks as if she’s going to break, like a naiad after the school of Bernini. Or take that young fellow who dances Paris when he’s standing among the three goddesses and offering the apple to Venus. His soul is in fact located (and it’s a frightful thing to see) in his elbow.’

  ‘Misconceptions like this are unavoidable,’ he said, ‘now that we’ve eaten of the tree of knowledge. But Paradise is locked and bolted, and the cherubim stands behind us. We have to go on and make the journey round the world to see if it is perhaps open somewhere at the back.’

  This made me laugh. Certainly, I thought, the human spirit can’t be in error when it is non-existent. I could see he had more to say, so I begged him to go on.

  ‘In addition,’ he said, ‘these puppets have the advantage of being for all practical purposes weightless. They are not afflicted with the inertia of matter, the property most resistant to dance. The force which raises them into the air is greater than the one which draws them to the ground. What would our good Miss G. give to be sixty pounds lighter or to have a weight of this size as a counterbalance when she is performing her entrechats and pirouettes? Puppets need the ground only to glance against lightly, like elves, and through this momentary check to renew the swing of their limbs. We humans must have it to rest on, to recover from the effort of the dance. This moment of rest is clearly no part of the dance. The best we can do is make it as inconspicuous as possible.’

  My reply was that, no matter how cleverly he might present his paradoxes, he would never make me believe a mechanical puppet can be more graceful than a living human body. He countered this by saying that, where grace is concerned, it is impossible for man to come anywhere near a puppet. Only a god can equal inanimate matter in this respect. This is the point where the two ends of the circular world meet.

  I was absolutely astonished. I didn’t know what to say to such extraordinary assertions.

  It seemed, he said as he took a pinch of snuff, that I hadn’t read the third chapter of the book of Genesis with sufficient attention. If a man wasn’t familiar with that initial period of all human development, it would be difficult to have a fruitful discussion with him about later developments and even more difficult to talk about the ultimate situation.

  I told him I was well aware how consciousness can disturb natural grace. A young acquaintance of mine had as it were lost his innocence before my very eyes, and all because of a chance remark. He had never found his way back to that Paradise of innocence, in spite of all conceivable efforts. ‘But what inferences,’ I added, ‘can you draw from that?’

  He asked me what incident I had in mind.

  ‘About three years ago,’ I said, ‘I was at the baths with a young man who was then remarkably graceful. He was about fifteen, and only faintly could one see the first traces of vanity, a product of the favours shown him by women. It happened that we had recently seen in Paris the figure of the boy pulling a thorn out of his foot. The cast of the statue is well known; you see it in most German collections. My friend looked into a tall mirror just as he was lifting his foot to a stool to dry it, and he was reminded of the statue. He smiled and told me of his discovery. As a matter of fact, I’d noticed it too, at the same moment, but … I don’t know if it was to test the quality of his apparent grace or to provide a salutary counter to his vanity … I laughed and said he must be imagining things. He blushed. He lifted his foot a second time, to show me, but the effort was a failure, as anybody could have foreseen. He tried it again a third time, a fourth time, he must have lifted his foot ten times, but it was in vain. He was quite unable to reproduce the same movement. What am I saying? The movements he made were so comical that I was hard put to it not to laugh.

  ‘From that day, from that very moment, an extraordinary change came over this boy. He began to spend whole days before the mirror. His attractions slipped away from him, one after the other. An invisible and incomprehensible power seemed to settle like a steel net over the free play of his gestures. A year later not
hing remained of the lovely grace which had given pleasure to all who looked at him. I can tell you of a man, still alive, who was a witness to this strange and unfortunate event. He can confirm it, word for word, just as I’ve described it.’

  ‘In this connection,’ said my friend warmly, ‘I must tell you another story. You’ll easily see how it fits in here. When I was on my way to Russia I spent some time on the estate of a Baltic nobleman whose sons had a passion for fencing. The elder in particular, who had just come down from the university, thought he was a bit of an expert. One morning, when I was in his room, he offered me a rapier. I accepted his challenge but, as it turned out, I had the better of him. It made him angry, and this increased his confusion. Nearly every thrust I made found its mark. At last his rapier flew into the corner of the room. As he picked it up he said, half in anger and half in jest, that he had met his master but that there is a master for everyone and everything – and now he proposed to lead me to mine. The brothers laughed loudly at this and shouted: ‘Come on, down to the shed!’ They took me by the hand and led me outside to make the acquaintance of a bear which their father was rearing on the farm.

  ‘I was astounded to see the bear standing upright on his hind legs, his back against the post to which he was chained, his right paw raised ready for battle. He looked me straight in the eye. This was his fighting posture. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming, seeing such an opponent. They urged me to attack. “See if you can hit him!” they shouted. As I had now recovered somewhat from my astonishment I fell on him with my rapier. The bear made a slight movement with his paw and parried my thrust. I feinted, to deceive him. The bear did not move. I attacked again, this time with all the skill I could muster. I know I would certainly have thrust my way through to a human breast, but the bear made a slight movement with his paw and parried my thrust. By now I was almost in the same state as the elder brother had been: the bear’s utter seriousness robbed me of my composure. Thrusts and feints followed thick and fast, the sweat poured off me, but in vain. It wasn’t merely that he parried my thrusts like the finest fencer in the world; when I feinted to deceive him he made no move at all. No human fencer could equal his perception in this respect. He stood upright, his paw raised ready for battle, his eye fixed on mine as if he could read my soul there, and when my thrusts were not meant seriously he did not move. Do you believe this story?’

  ‘Absolutely’, I said with joyful approval. ‘I’d believe it from a stranger, it’s so probable. Why shouldn’t I believe it from you?’

  ‘Now, my excellent friend,’ said my companion, ‘you are in possession of all you need to follow my argument. We see that in the organic world, as thought grows dimmer and weaker, grace emerges more brilliantly and decisively. But just as a section drawn through two lines suddenly reappears on the other side after passing through infinity, or as the image in a concave mirror turns up again right in front of us after dwindling into the distance, so grace itself returns when knowledge has as it were gone through an infinity. Grace appears most purely in that human form which either has no consciousness or an infinite consciousness. That is, in the puppet or in the god.’

  ‘Does that mean,’ I said in some bewilderment, ‘we must eat again of the tree of knowledge in order to return to the state of innocence?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but that’s the final chapter in the history of the world.’

  1810

  (Copyright © 1981 Idris Parry. Reproduced by kind permission of Idris Parry.)

  Lyra’s Oxford

  This short story allows readers one more glimpse of Lyra, two years further on and, to her teachers and fellow pupils, now a law-abiding and hard-working schoolgirl. She has changed in other ways too, with her cheerfully ungrammatical spoken English now a thing of the past. Since parting from Will, ‘the slightest thing had the power to move her to pity and distress’. No longer the tough heroine of former times, she continuously feels ‘as if her heart were bruised for ever’.

  This ready sympathy leads her into danger when she is persuaded by a witch’s dæmon to follow him into the back streets of Oxford on an apparent errand of mercy. When she and her faithful Pan arrive at their chosen destination, she is nearly murdered. She then meets the mysterious Mr Makepeace, described by others as an alchemist but in fact someone working on a vitally important personal mission. Although he refuses to tell Lyra what this is, he does say that she may find out more in time. It looks as if the ground is being set here for further books in the future. Or as Pullman puts in in his preface: ‘This book contains a story and several other things. The other things might be connected with the story, or they might not; they might be connected to stories that haven’t appeared yet. It’s hard to tell.’

  Designed to look like a bundle of documents that could have come from another world, like our own in some ways but different in others, Lyra’s Oxford also includes some spoof advertisements and postcards as well as a pull-out map of the city. On it, some pretend handwriting in brown ink shows where Mary Malone lives and points the way to the avenue of hornbeam trees where Will first spotted the near-invisible window through which he could pass into Lyra’s Oxford. Depictions on the map of steam trains and a Zeppelin station remind readers and the odd unaware tourist that this is not the real Oxford, however similar some of the buildings and the general topography.

  But, as always with Pullman, there is a serious point beyond his love of pastiche. Lyra insists twice in this story that everything always means something, and it is up to everyone to find personal significance in the day-to-day details of their ordinary existence. In this story, for example, Lyra and Pan conclude after the event that they were saved by the flocks of birds that attacked the witch’s dæmon. While the birds were trying to warn them of impending danger, the city itself also seemed to be giving them its protection. Or at least that is what it felt like, and, as Pullman makes clear, our feelings about things always become part of the meaning we attach to them.

  Yet, if everything does indeed mean something, it can still be very difficult to work out exactly what this might be at the time. It is easier instead to look back to the past to understand how exactly what then took place might influence the present. But what if the workings of the universe were so organised that our own futures might also be influencing the choices we make in our daily lives? How could any human expect to be let in to this particular secret? Perhaps Mr Makepeace and his attempts to discover the key to the whole cosmos will one day come up with an answer.

  In his preface to Lyra’s Oxford, we have already seen Pullman writing how it is never easy to tell what may or may not turn out to be important in the course of any particular story. All he can do is narrate the plot as it appears to him at the moment; other meanings, perhaps presently obscured, may become clearer with the passage of time. As in fiction, so also in life. Readers too, by implication, may never be entirely sure about what exactly is happening to them in their daily existence and why. Like novelists, they too must search for their own key to understanding as much as they can, always remembering that what may sometimes look unimportant now could turn out to be far more significant in the long run.

  Once Upon a Time in the North

  This novella and prequel, set some time before Lyra’s birth, features Pullman’s favourite character Lee Scoresby, aged 24 and flying the balloon he has recently won in a poker game. A difficult landing finds him in the imaginary harbour town of Novy Odense, set on an island in the Muscovy White Sea. Wandering into town Lee soon becomes aware of the hatred directed at a group of dispirited working bears, despised by some as ‘worthless vagrants’. There is also an unmistakable whiff of corruption surrounding a populist mayor seeking re-election and in the pay of Larsen Manganese, a ruthless and dishonest mining company.

  Things come to a head when Lee enables a Dutch skipper to rescue his illegally embargoed cargo. Lee is also by this time up against some local ruffians led by his old enemy and hired gun-man Pierre Morton, who had
tried to kill him some years before. A protracted gun fight around the city’s harbour follows, and Lee is wounded, losing part of an ear. But killing his man in return and now with the help of that great fighting bear Iorek Byrnison, another favourite character, he just escapes in his balloon, taking Iorek with him to pastures new.

  This little book, the same size and format as Lyra’s Oxford, contains more spoof newspaper cuttings and other examples of past printed ephemera. There is also a board game tucked in at the back with the title Peril of the Pole. Lovingly devised and clearly written as much for Pullman’s own pleasure as anything else, it has no higher purpose than general entertainment. Two intriguing hand-written letters at the end of the book, written as if from Lyra, now a mature student, reveal that she is currently at St Sophia’s College, Oxford, studying for a master’s course in the history faculty.

  The dissertation she has chosen is on: ‘Development in patterns of trade in the European Arctic region with particular reference to independent cargo balloon carriage (1950–1970).’ A newspaper cutting she refers to as one of her sources is included in the book on the previous page. It is a hugely biased account of the harbour fight, written the day after by the journalist Oskar Sigurdsson, still smarting from having been kicked into the sea by Lee Scoresby as punishment for his lying and dishonesty. Lee Scoresby, misspelled as Leigh Scroby, and his great bear companion in arms are also mentioned. So once again Lyra has managed to make contact, albeit at an academic distance, with two of her greatest friends and allies of before.