Kingdom Swann: The Story of a Photographer Page 2

  ‘Unwrapped beauties?’

  ‘Fine works of art brought to life with the camera.’

  ‘Photographs?’ growled Swann suspiciously.

  ‘Special photographs. Harlots of the Turkish Harem. Vandals Spoiling Roman Women.’

  ‘There’s no art in photography,’ said Swann.

  Cromwell Marsh shrugged and sipped at his beer. ‘I heard that Delacroix painted direct from the photograph,’ he said mildly.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ roared Swann.

  ‘It’s true,’ returned Marsh. ‘They found the albums after his death. Dozens of ’em. He never painted a man or woman that wasn’t first posed in a photograph.’

  Swann looked appalled. ‘He was a Frenchie,’ he said at last, as if that were the only explanation.

  ‘But he was an artist,’ said Cromwell Marsh. ‘He was an artist and no mistake.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion, sir.’

  ‘And don’t forget the Pre-Raphaelites,’ said Marsh. ‘They soon took to the photograph.’

  ‘Wicked rumours!’ exploded Swann. ‘Rumours and filthy gossip!’ He adored the work of the Brotherhood and would have nothing said against them.

  ‘I’m not saying they copied direct from the camera,’ corrected Marsh, ‘but old John Ruskin, rest his soul, used to think it a most convenient method of collecting studies of figures and costumes …’

  ‘Sketches from life,’ blustered Swann. ‘Fletcher-Whitby used pattern books. He kept hundreds of different mountains and trees.’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ said Marsh. ‘And if the painter trusts the camera’s eye,’ he continued slowly, ‘think what the camera might accomplish should it borrow the painter’s vision.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Swann, beginning to grow obstreperous.

  ‘Everything!’ laughed Marsh. ‘Paper prints into naturalist art, life into dreams, men and women into gods!’ He sat back and stared at the ceiling. A smile spread across his freckled face as he watched the phantasmagoria in the smoke of his paper cigar.

  ‘Why?’ Swann sieved stout through his big moustache. ‘Where’s the rhyme and reason to it?’

  ‘Reason?’ echoed Marsh. He looked at his companion in surprise. ‘Why, they’ll call it the new crusade for beauty. By the time we’ve finished every man will own a work of art, at a price he can afford, to study in the comfort of his own home.’

  ‘A very pretty speech,’ said Swann. ‘But I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Marsh. ‘Quite correct. And I’d agree with you if we was talking about Mr Nobody-in-Particular. It couldn’t be done by anyone. You’d need a proper painter from the old school to understand it.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time,’ insisted Swann. ‘They don’t want real works of art any more. These days it’s peepshows and waxworks.’

  ‘You’ve got to move with the times,’ argued Marsh. ‘Remember the Rossetti sisters.’

  ‘Who?’ frowned Swann.

  ‘Concubines,’ said Marsh. ‘They was Concubines of Babylon.’

  ‘We can’t sell them to the hoi polloi,’ protested the baffled Swann.

  ‘Similar,’ said Marsh, who had secretly printed and sold the sisters at least a dozen times.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘I’m waiting,’ said Swann.

  Cromwell Marsh wasted no time. He recruited models from the choicest brothels in Covent Garden. He built scenery, invented costumes and propped Swann behind the Winchester. It was simple.

  When whores dropped their drawers Swann saw The Daughters of Titan. He didn’t know that his Aphrodite was later sold as a Willing Wagtail. He didn’t ask questions. His days were a grand parade of strutting, naked strumpets. They came in every size and shape and were skilfully portrayed as nymphs and mermaids, sylphs and sprites, in scenes of gross indecency.

  Marsh sold the work, under the counter, as a series of popular novelties generally known as Gentlemen’s Relish. For the sum of five guineas, he wrote in the catalogue, the curious may marvel at the lubricity of plump, young beauties, surprised in their most voluptuous moments, providing such a feast for the eye that nothing shall be left to the imagination.

  4

  It was on the 12th March 1902 that they first received word from Lord Hugo Prattle. His lordship, exhausting the catalogue, wanted Jezebel in French Lace Drawers. He wrote to Swann on a sheet of gold-flecked paper, begging him to accept the commission.

  ‘Prattle!’ crooned Marsh as he read the letter to his master. ‘The compliments of Lord Hugo Prattle.’

  ‘I never heard of him,’ said Swann.

  ‘I am surprised,’ said Marsh. ‘Lord Hugo Prattle is the biggest collector in Europe. He collects photographs like any other man might take to collecting etchings or books. They say he’s gathered a million studies expressing the undraped female form and shows ’em off in a private museum. They say he’s found examples of every race and colour on earth. Some of ’em are very rare species. He’s famous for it. Why, if he likes your work we’ll be famous ourselves. It’s like an appointment to royalty.’

  ‘The Queen, God rest her soul, was fond of collecting photographs,’ said Swann.

  ‘It’s a noble pursuit,’ said Marsh.

  Swann frowned. ‘But I can’t imagine Jezebel corrupting the land of Israel in a pair of French lace drawers.’

  Marsh opened his mouth and closed it again. The old man had a knack of asking difficult questions. ‘It’s the modern interpretation,’ he said at last, scratching his chin.

  ‘Is that right?’ said Swann.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ said Marsh, studying his fingernails. ‘You’re supposed to think of the fancy drawers as a mark of Phoenician decadence.’

  They chose a model called Alice Hancock for this important work. She was a large and classical beauty who liked to surround herself with scandal. It was rumoured she had once been mounted by the young Prince of Wales who had paid for the pleasure by filling her purse with pearls. No one knew the truth of it. She was certainly a handsome woman and because of her biblical proportions found regular work in front of the camera. She was fond of the old man and proud to flaunt her mutton.

  It was a cold, rain-sodden afternoon when she arrived at the Piccadilly studio. Her boots were so wet and her hands so cold that Marsh had to fill her with gin before she agreed to take off her clothes.

  ‘You call these drawers?’ she demanded when they gave her the costume. She held the confection against the light and hooted with derision. It was a curious little skirt hung with clusters of pink ribbon roses and divided with buttons made from mother-of-pearl.

  ‘They’re only for decoration,’ said Marsh impatiently. ‘They’re just to gild your lily.’

  ‘They’re symbolic,’ said Swann helpfully. He began absently slapping his pockets, in search of the aniseed balls he sucked for his concentration.

  Alice looked sceptical but she was too cold to argue with them. She forced her buttocks into the knickers and climbed aboard a pedestal that was bolted securely into the stage. She had rouged her nipples and braided her hair. She held a spear in her hands.

  ‘A picture!’ said Marsh, as he stepped back to admire the effect. He raised a hand to his face and squinted through a crack in his fingers.

  Swann crouched at the camera and managed, by chance, to expose a plate. ‘There is nothing so remarkable as the loveliness of women,’ he said, clicking an aniseed ball against his teeth.

  Alice grunted and tilted her head. ‘Have you finished?’ she said. She was trying to keep an eye on her boots that were starting to steam beside the stove. They were nearly new and she didn’t want them spoiled.

  ‘A fine performance,’ said Marsh. ‘A stimulating composition. But, none the less, I think we should take the posterior view to avoid any disappointment.’

  So Alice turned, very gingerly, and thrust out her copious rump. ‘How’s that?’ she called.

  ‘I never saw such a Je
zebel!’ grinned Marsh.

  The drawers protested and burst their buttons.

  ‘Can you smell burning?’ Swann said suddenly, pulling his face from the camera.

  Alice shrieked, swung on her heels and toppled from the pedestal. She plunged forward with her arms outstretched and knocked Kingdom Swann to the floor. She was bruised and dusty and frightened. She sat on Swann’s face and howled.

  ‘Quick!’ shouted Marsh. ‘He’s suffocating!’ He stared in horror as Swann gave a feeble kick and clawed at the mighty flanks with his hands. But Alice was too shocked to understand. It was left to Marsh to prise her open at the knees and fight to save the photographer. He delivered Swann’s head and was trying to drag him out by the ears before Alice recovered her wits.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she moaned, lifting her weight from the artist’s body. She was still clutching her spear.

  Marsh frowned and squeezed Swann’s wrist. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered anxiously. ‘The shock alone was enough to kill him.’

  ‘He’s too old for this game,’ said Alice. ‘The poor old sod should be home in bed with a good fire and an egg custard. I shouldn’t wonder if I broke his bones.’

  ‘No!’ cried Marsh in great alarm. ‘He’s an artist. He’s an old master. There aren’t so many left surviving. What will happen when he’s gone?’

  ‘You’ll think of something,’ said Alice.

  ‘He was like a father to me,’ sobbed Marsh.

  They knelt together in prayer and stared at the silent face.

  ‘Look, he’s breathing again!’ shouted Alice, at last, as Swann stirred enough to open his eyes.

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ exclaimed Marsh. ‘I thought for a minute we’d lost him.’ He took Swann by the sleeves and gently hauled him to his feet.

  Alice flung her arms around the old man and covered him in kisses. ‘Are you hurt?’ she murmured. ‘Shall we fetch a doctor?’

  Swann staggered into a chair and nursed his nose in his hands. His face burned. His beard had been split and wonderfully spiced. He pulled on his nose and peered around him. He was confused. What was happening here? He glanced doubtfully at the big, nude woman, sucked on his whiskers and sneezed.

  ‘No harm done,’ blushed Alice and hoicked at the French lace drawers.

  5

  The pains Swann had taken with Jezebel did not go unrewarded.

  Lord Hugo Prattle was so pleased with his purchase that he called a few months later to discuss a more ambitious venture. He was a short man with a big belly and a whiskered face. He carried an old-fashioned cut to his clothes and despite the fine weather wore a silk plush hat and an overcoat with a wilting buttonhole. He marched into the shop, doffed his topper and shook Cromwell Marsh by the hand. Marsh directed him through the studio and introduced the proprietor.

  It was his intention to commission The Rape of the Sabine Women in Fifty Stereoscopic Views and to feature himself as Romulus. The Swann Studio would recruit the Sabines from all the better London brothels. Fifty, female, all different, clean and healthy, pink and plump, no Irish, must be Christian. During the work, which he trusted would last no more than ten weeks, he would stay at his club. He would arrive at the studio each afternoon at three o’clock sharp. A fresh Sabine must be ready and waiting for his immediate attention. During the battle several plates would be exposed from which he would choose the one by which he wished to commemorate the conflict.

  ‘And might we be acquainted with those features thought to be most desirable in a Sabine woman?’ enquired Cromwell Marsh.

  ‘Tight titties. Heavy haunches. Large feet.’

  ‘The most noble proportions,’ toadied Marsh. ‘And might we humbly request the nature of the costumes to be worn as might heighten the effect?’

  ‘Romulus? Helmet with plenty of plume. Gloves for the ladies. Nothing more. Most particular.’ He smiled by grinding his teeth. The conversation and the warmth of his surroundings had worked him into a stupendous sweat. He felt forced to sit and open his coat.

  Kingdom Swann, too shocked to speak, found a notebook and pencil and scribbled down the order with the diligence of a good head waiter.

  ‘And the campaign fund?’ wheedled Marsh. ‘Might we beg leave to be informed of his lordship’s view to the cost of his military manoeuvres?’

  ‘No idea. Leave it to you.’

  ‘Rest in our prudence,’ slubbered Marsh. ‘And the engagement. When would his lordship find it most convenient to mount his first conquest?’

  ‘War declared!’ honked Lord Hugo Prattle. ‘Immediate effect.’

  It was the first week of June. London was celebrating the end of the war with the Boers and looking forward to King Edward’s coronation. The dusty streets were stuffed with bunting and flags flew from the rooftops. A triumphal arch had been built in Whitehall. The Empire theatre staged a special, patriotic production.

  Each morning, after breakfast, Kingdom Swann stepped from his house near Golden Square and walked into Piccadilly, enjoying the noise and the crush of the crowd. So much cavorting! So many young women in the world! And it seemed to him, walking in that sooty sunlight, as if all the beauties who bustled around might, at any time, be summoned by Marsh and sweetly unfrocked in the studio. Who knew how many of them had already had their buttocks blessed by the Winchester? He had grown to be the devil’s magician, painting with nothing but sunlight. At the flick of his wrist he turned maids into nymphs fit for Alma-Tadema. He lunched at a chop-house in Cork Street, sitting at a corner table with a pie and a glass of stout. In the afternoon, at three o’clock sharp, he was at the studio to watch his lordship saddle a Sabine. It was an art and no mistake. They were days of celebration.

  But at night, when the lights blazed and revellers sang in the streets, he returned to the house near Golden Square where Violet Askey, housekeeper, sat in the dark and mourned.

  Violet was thirty-four years old, a good-looking woman made narrow and pale with too many years spent standing in shadows. She had lived with Kingdom Swann since the death of his wife in the Great Frost. Having been introduced to the household through such a tragic circumstance she had felt obliged to make a career of mourning. She wore a dress of strong black cotton and her skirts, when she moved, seemed to spread the shadows from room to room. Her hair was black, her eyes were black and the only colour about her face was her nose which was pink and slightly damp as if she were constantly having the vapours. She was a queer and solitary creature and, although she could come and go as she pleased, she rarely ventured beyond the house.

  Swann had grown fond of this dismal nurse. When his wife had been alive the place had been full of servants. At night the attic was stuffed to the rafters. But when he looked now at his neighbours, with their jabbering colonies of parlour maids and kitchen boys, he pitied them. So much noise and commotion! An old man needed no such attention. He ate little, said nothing, raised no dust in the cushions and carpets. He was thankful for Violet Askey. He came home each night to silence, sat down in the gloom and let her serve him pork and potatoes.

  Two days before the great coronation the King was struck down with perityphlitis and his life was said to hang in the balance. The ceremony was cancelled but the celebrations continued. It seemed a pity to waste the beer. When the King was finally crowned, in August, his subjects were tired but not defeated. They lined the streets to watch the procession, waving little paper flags and roaring their approval. While, not far away, in Piccadilly Lord Hugo Prattle, short of wind and out of pocket, grinding his teeth in pain and pleasure, with his battered helmet moulting feathers, to shouts of encouragement from Marsh, managed to mount his fiftieth Sabine and fell to the ground, exhausted.

  6

  ‘They enjoy it,’ growled Swann defiantly.

  It was Christmas. The walls held wreaths of burnished holly. A goose dinner grew cold upon the table. The coals in the grate gave nothing but smoke.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Violet Askey. ‘No doubt they enjoy it as well as any woman mig
ht endure the invasion of her person if there’s pleasure to be found in humiliation.’

  ‘It’s harmless enough.’

  ‘Harmless,’ echoed Violet, nodding her head. ‘Innocent as milk. Driving men to behave like beasts, dragging women to despair, destroying home and family.’

  She was wearing one of her best black gowns, a crumbling crinoline embroidered with swags of faded roses. The gown was too large for her shoulders and drooped forlornly at the throat. It smelt of exhausted lavender.

  Kingdom Swann stared balefully down at the postcard propped against his plate. It was a lewd view of a fat girl wearing silk stockings and a straw hat. The name of the Swann Studio, Piccadilly, had been artfully embossed, in gold, upon its lower margin.

  The local cheesemonger’s wife had found the picture hidden in her husband’s wardrobe. She had cuffed the husband, removed the card and sent it over to Violet Askey, together with her compliments and a pound of Cheddar. Since the housekeeper had always believed that her master made money by taking portraits of grocers and parsons, the sight of this fat and friendly nude had come as a rude awakening. Her anger, fermented with hot fruit punch, erupted now into fury.

  ‘I take photographs,’ said Swann gently, struggling to explain. ‘It doesn’t hurt them. They earn good money. They get a cup of tea and a slice of cake. They’re the finest set of young ladies you’re ever likely to meet.’

  ‘God preserve me from the sight of them!’ cried Violet, giving the postcard a furtive glance. ‘We’re living in strange times when honest, Christian Englishwomen go out parading their sacred parts for a cup of tea and a slice of cake!’

  ‘It’s honest work.’

  ‘It’s the work of the devil!’

  ‘I suppose you have some experience!’ shouted Swann impatiently and jumped from his chair. His boots squeaked as he paced the room.