The Great Concert of the Night
JONATHAN BUCKLEY
New York Review Books New York
This is a New York Review Book
published by The New York Review of Books
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Copyright © 2020 by Jonathan Buckley
All rights reserved.
Cover image: Robert Rauschenberg and Susan Weil, Untitled, c. 1950; © 2019 Robert Rauschenberg Foundation and Susan Weil / licensed by VAGA at Artists Rights Society (ARS), NY; digital image © The Museum of Modern Art, licensed by SCALA /Art Resource, NY;
Cover design: Katy Homans
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Buckley, Jonathan, 1956– author.
Title: The great concert of the night / by Jonathan Buckley.
Description: New York : New York Review Books, [2020] | Series: New York Review Books classics
Identifiers: LCCN 2019022197| ISBN 9781681373959 (alk. paper) | ISBN 9781681373966 (epub)
Classification: LCC PR6052.U2665 G74 2020 | DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022197
ISBN 978-1-68137-396-6
v1.0
For a complete list of titles, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright and More Information
The Great Concert of the Night
Biographical Note
For Susanne Hillen
and Bruno Buckley
January
Five minutes past midnight: a call from my sister. It’s not right that I should be on my own, she tells me. Nobody should be alone at New Year. She sends a picture of herself and Nicholas, glasses raised to the phone; in the background, some people I don’t recognise. They’ve had a really nice evening; Nicholas excelled himself in the kitchen, and there’s been enough champagne to float a dinghy. “Even you would have enjoyed yourself,” she says. I report that I too have had a nice evening. “Doing what?” Emma demands. A film, a book, a drink. “Sounds great,” she says. “Next year, you’re coming to us. No excuses accepted.”
I watched Le Grand Concert de la Nuit. Entranced again by Agamédé; entranced again by Imogen. The film transmits a presence that both consoles and torments.
•
Looking up from the book, I gaze at the chair in the corner of the room, the chair in which Imogen used to read; the lamp beside it is unlit. Gazing into the shadow, I make something like an after-image arise: turned to the side, with her legs curled up, she props the book on the arm of the chair, angled into the light. The presence is weaker than that of Agamédé. Often, when delighted or surprised by something she had read, she would read it aloud. One evening, I remember, she came upon the story of Blaise Pascal’s escape from death. “Listen to this,” she said. I can hear her intonation, the rise of her voice.
On the night of November 23rd, 1654, terror-struck by the storm that was then in full spate, the horses that were pulling Pascal’s carriage bolted and plunged from the Pont de Neuilly. The reins snapped, leaving the vehicle perched on the lip of the road. This narrow escape, so the story goes, occasioned the revelation that Pascal recorded in the document that bears this date, a document known as the Memorial.
The year of grace 1654
Monday, 23 November, feast of Saint Clement, Pope and Martyr,
and of others in the Martyrology.
Eve of Saint Chrysogonus, Martyr, and others.
From about half past ten in the evening until half past midnight.
FIRE.
GOD of Abraham, GOD of Isaac, GOD of Jacob, not
of the philosophers and scholars.
Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace.
So it begins. Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy, we read later. On Pascal’s death, in August 1662, this piece of parchment was discovered by his manservant, folded inside the lining of his master’s doublet. A “mystic amulet,” Nicolas de Condorcet called it. Pascal had spoken to nobody about the episode that was recorded in the Memorial.
•
On my desk, two photos from Stourhead. The first: Imogen play-acting in front of the temple—a nymph in flight from a savage pursuer, her scarf flying as she looks back in terror; her hands are raised in a way that I have seen only in paintings by Poussin. The other: she looks directly into the lens, and her face almost fills the frame of the picture; her gaze is acute and open, offering herself to be seen as fully as any lens could allow.
•
Only twelve tickets sold today.
•
It was some time in mid-June when I first saw Imogen, in room seven. This is where people linger, because of the monsters. Casts of aborted foetuses, fearfully misshapen, occupy one section: we have examples of phocomelia, sirenomelia, acrania, anencephaly and cyclopia. There are two terrible little skeletons, each a conjoined pair: Dicephalus dibrachius diauchenos and Cephalothoracopagus monosymmetros. And above the skeletons, suspended on wires, in a posture of crucifixion, hangs the stillborn child. Its torso has been excavated to expose the major veins and arteries; the limbs have been flayed, so that the musculature may also be studied. The muscles and blood vessels gleam like varnished wax, but this is not a model. Its head is thrown back and its teeth are bared, as if in a scream; its face is directed into the light that comes from the window; it has no eyes, but it stares back with its vacant sockets. This is where I first saw Imogen.
I took note because she stayed at the hanging child for a long time. No—this is not quite true. I took note because she struck me as an attractive woman, and she was alone. Not that she was a woman who might be approached. She was on her own; few people come to the museum alone.
I was in room seven to rehang the print of Claude-Ambroise Seurat, “the human skeleton.” Fussing with the spirit level, I observed her reflection in the glass that covers the print. She continued to gaze into the eyeless face. She looked steadily into it, as if in contemplation of its meaning. Frowning, she seemed to be moved to sorrow. When I left the room, she did not look up; she had not so much as glanced at me.
Some time later, I returned. She was still there, examining the pages from Vaught’s Practical Character Reader. As if she had been waiting for an audience, she read aloud one of the captions: “The reason this man is an unreliable husband is because he is very weak in Conjugality and Parental Love and exceedingly strong in Amativeness. Young ladies, beware of such men as husbands.” She laughed, and looked at me. The laugh was light and small. “Now I know,” she said.
My favourite page, I said, was the one showing the woman with a white zone on the crown of her head; the white zone denotes “The Corn Faculty, or the Exact Source of Corns.” I introduced myself and told her that there would be a tour at four o’clock. The tour would encompass parts of the building that were otherwise out of bounds.
Imogen thanked me. I left her to continue her perusal of the Practical Character Reader.
•
After the tour, Imogen returned to room seven. Certain items required further inspection, it seemed; her demeanour was pensive. When, after several minutes, she did not reappear, I moved to a spot from which I could see her, obliquely. Crouched at the Auzoux models, she peered at the dissected head, and smiled. My first thought was that I, the spy, was the cause of the smile. Then it seemed that the smile signified appreciation of the finely crafted objects. I approached.
She did not look away, even when I was standing alongside. “Hard to believe this is just paper and glue,” she said
.
Auzoux’s papier-mâché was special, I informed her. Chopped rags and calcium carbonate and powdered cork—poudre de Liège—went into the recipe. That was why Auzoux’s models have lasted so well, I explained. But they have become very delicate. The models had been designed to be taken apart and reassembled, but this one would no longer bear handling. I paused.
She was scrutinising the piece as closely as a detective at a crime scene. “Go on,” she said.
I told her about the factory that Louis Thomas Jérôme Auzoux had founded in his home town. In the very first issue of Nature, Auzoux’s model plants and plant organs were recommended for study. French cavalry regiments kept Auzoux models of horses’ teeth for reference, I told her. This made her look up; I stopped.
“It’s interesting,” she said. Her smile did not suggest irony.
I confessed that I was curious. “Are you doing some sort of research?” I asked.
“In a way,” she said. Her gaze invited me to take the deduction a stage further.
I told her what I had guessed: that she was an academic.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” she said. Then she told me her profession and name. She was not flirtatious, and this was an enhancement of her attractiveness. “The name will mean nothing to you. And obviously the face doesn’t,” she observed, impersonally. “No reason why it should,” she added. She had been on TV quite recently, in something called The Harbour. “I was the snooty wife of the mayor. I’d been having an affair with the father of the first victim, it turned out.”
I apologised for not having seen The Harbour; in truth, I had not heard of it.
“You didn’t miss much,” she said, then she told me about the audition for Devotion. I already knew about this project: several months earlier, Marcus Colhoun had contacted me; he had visited the museum when he was a student, and had been “inspired” by it. We had exchanged emails.
The audition was a week away. I wished her good luck.
•
On the Sunday of the week in which the filming started, I met Samantha for coffee. Val was present, as was often the case at that time. She seemed to lack trust, though her victory was secure; the ostensible reason for her attendance would have been that she felt it was important for there to be no negativity between us. She was strongly opposed to negativity in all its forms, and still is.
“How are you, David?” Val enquired. She tended to employ my name at the outset; a boundary was thereby established.
“I am well,” I answered.
“You look well,” she said; et cetera. An exchange of niceties was all that was expected. I would have no news, she knew. In my world, every week was like every other. Val was then a student counsellor; her week, as usual, had been stressful.
I told her, not for the first time, that I could not do her job; this was sincere.
When Val excused herself and went indoors, Samantha eased back in her seat and levelled a diagnostic look at me. She stated: “Something has happened.”
“Things are always happening,” I said. “My life is a maelstrom.”
“Come on,” she said, rapping the back of my hand with a finger, as if it were an electronic device with a dodgy connection. “Something good, I mean. Tell me—quickly. We’ve got three minutes.”
I supplied the essential information. “Good-looking, is she?” she asked.
“She’s interesting,” I answered.
“I’ll take that as a Yes. Young?”
“Younger than me. Not young young.”
Stirring the spoon in her coffee, she looked at me askance. “Is she interested in you?”
“I doubt it.”
“That’s the stuff—embrace defeat.”
“Just answering honestly.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“Of course.”
“And you like her.”
“I do.”
“And she’ll soon be gone.”
“Yes.”
Samantha leaned forward, as if to reveal a secret. “Take the initiative, David. What’s to be lost?”
Nothing was to be lost, I agreed.
“It would be good for you,” she said. “An adventure.”
•
We were at a café near the Pompidou. An advertisement at a bus stop, for an exhibition at the Musée des Arts et Métiers, caught Imogen’s attention; it showed a close-up of a mechanism of incomprehensible complication, a thicket of golden cogs. In all the time she had been living in Paris, she had never been to the Arts et Métiers. Half an hour later, we were there. Three thousand items are on show at any time, from a collection of nearly one hundred thousand. We saw clocks, bicycles, phonographs and phones; steam engines, calculating machines, cars, aeroplanes, cameras; chronometers, gasometers, manometers, lathes and looms. Everything well displayed and informatively annotated.
The effects of the chemotherapy persisted. But the Arts et Métiers would have been fatiguing in any circumstances, she said. The scale of the Sanderson-Perceval Museum was one of the things she liked about it; the incoherence was another. Many of the items in the Sanderson-Perceval—the porcelain, the musical instruments, the crystals, the velvet mushrooms, the glass jellyfish—belonged together only because they had been collected. There was no insistence that the visitor be instructed, but instruction might proceed from pleasure and confusion. “A bit of a mess—but a nice mess,” someone once wrote in the visitors’ book.
•
Museums are places of contemplation; they are places of poetry; they create constellations of images in the mind. We behold a spectacular artefact or relic—an Aztec mask, the skull of an immense prehistoric carnivore, an Athenian goddess—and we marvel. Various means are employed to enhance the effect: jewellery and glass might be displayed under spotlights in a darkened room; sculpture arrayed in a white-walled hall of church-like ambience. Not every museum possesses items that are marvellous, but all objects in a museum emit some sort of charge; they have a resonant presence. Isolated for our inspection, they have an aura of significance. Having been collected, they now belong to themselves; they are untouchable.
•
Amateur dramatics at university had been the full extent of her acting experience until Antoine Vermeiren had cast her in Les tendres plaintes, Imogen told me, in answer to my question. Marc Vermeiren, Antoine’s brother, had been a colleague of her boyfriend, at the University of Tours. In my teens, I had gone cycling in France with a friend, I told her. We had stopped overnight in Tours. Imogen and I talked about the city—the giant cedar; Fritz the stuffed elephant. I learned the name of the boyfriend—Benoît—and that the relationship was over. Imogen’s manner did not suggest that the ground was being prepared for a new relationship; or rather, I saw nothing from which to take encouragement. But Imogen would say that this conversation was the start; something about my description of the silent lightning storm, watched from the little square in front of the cathedral, with the barely remembered friend, apparently.
•
The local paper sent a reporter to talk to the director and cast of Devotion. He interviewed Imogen in the garden, and was duly charmed. She was unpretentious, approachable; her gestures were expansive and urgent; “vivacious” is the obvious adjective. I could see that she was telling the reporter a story. Tumbling from head to midriff, her hands conjured a costume in precise quick movements—a wide-brimmed hat; a cravat at the throat; a jacket, fastidiously buttoned; a flower in the lapel. With her fingertips she smoothed a moustache of air; her hands came together, one cupped over the other, on the handle of an imagined walking stick. She was being Mr. Dobrý, as I later learned.
Asked if she could remember when she had realised that she would become an actress, Imogen would sometimes answer that her career could be traced to a story that a schoolfriend had told her, about an elderly man from Czechoslovakia. This friend’s family had moved to London when she was twelve years old, and she and her brother had soon come to know Mr. Dobrý.
Near their new house there was a small park, and Mr. Dobrý could be seen there almost every afternoon, feeding the birds and the squirrels. He was an old man, but smartly dressed, always, with a white scarf around his neck on all but the warmest days, and a black three-piece suit that was never unbuttoned. In winter he wore a thick black coat that gleamed. Mr. Dobrý had a hat that made him look like a character from a black-and-white film, Imogen’s friend had said. His walking stick had a lion’s head for a handle, in real silver. His hair was white, and cut in an old-fashioned way; he had a lovely white moustache.
Local shopkeepers knew a few things about this refined old gentleman, but not much. He had come to England from Czechoslovakia a couple of years before the war, with a wife, who was no longer living. Mr. Dobrý’s home town was a place called Karlovy Vary, where he had worked in a hotel that was owned by his family. It was an expensive hotel. His parents had remained in Karlovy Vary, but a sister was believed to have emigrated with him. It was not known what had become of her; the inference was that she, like the parents and the wife, had died. Nobody was ever seen with Mr. Dobrý. He did not seem unhappy, however, and he had money, as one could tell from his clothes. Someone had heard that Mr. Dobrý owned a hotel in London.
It was not known where Mr. Dobrý lived. “Not far from here,” he told anyone who asked. He would let the children help him to feed the animals. But there was nothing creepy about Mr. Dobrý, Imogen’s friend insisted. The parents all liked him. He was friendly to everyone, and he had wonderful tales about his life in Czechoslovakia. Sometimes he would show the children photographs: of hotels that looked like castles; of churches with shining domes that were onion-shaped; of ladies with parasols standing in front of colonnades and fountains. The photographs were the colour of tea. He brought coins and letters and postcards that were covered with unreadable handwriting. In the Dobrý family’s hotel there was a piano on which Chopin had played; he explained how famous Chopin was, and showed them a picture of the piano, which stood between palm trees in a room with a glass ceiling. Mr. Dobrý would point to the faces in the photographs and recite all the names. Though he had left Czechoslovakia so many years before, his accent was strong.
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