The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [258]
Benedict Fludd and Philip came on together, to mild applause. Philip was cleanly clothed as an apprentice, in a linen overall, his bush of hair smoothed down. Fludd was wearing a kind of overall-robe, in midnight-blue, with gold piping, streaked with clay stains, including a ghostly handprint. His full Victorian beard also had clay in it. He wore small, round spectacles, which gave him the air of a scientific eccentric. He stood quite still, staring out at the audience, checking, and then began to speak. His family was in a row—Seraphita in floating embroidery, Pomona in innocent muslin, Elsie in a round shiny black straw hat, fastidious Florence in brown linen, Prosper Cain in a summer suit, and Imogen, under her flowers. He nodded to them, and began to speak.
“Potters, like gravediggers, are marked by clay. We work with the cold stuff of Earth, which we refine by beating and mixing, form with our fingers and the movement of our feet and then submit to the hazards of the furnace. We take the mould we are made of and mould it to the forms our minds see inside our skulls—always remembering that earth is earth, and will take only those forms proper to its nature. I hope to show you that those forms are infinitely more extensive than most people may imagine—though not infinite, as earth is not infinite. We are chemists— we must know metals and ores, temperatures and binding elements, weights and measures. We are artists—we must be able to be exact and flourishing together, with a brush or a cutting tool. We are like the alchemists of old—we employ fire, smoke, crucibles, gold, silver, even blood and bone, to make our vessels, our simulacrae, our fantasies and those containers necessary for daily functions, food and drink—which can be lovely, however plain, graceful, however simple …”
He went on. Everyone listened. He called on his assistant to demonstrate the mystery of the craft, and Philip silently, and skilfully, taking lumps of clay from baths and bins ranged beside him, made airless blocks, or rising coils, or, towards the end, a turning bowl, wavering up against gravity between his strong fingers.
There was much applause. Tea and sandwiches were served and Fludd made his way to his own family group. Prosper Cain told him the lecture was both earthy and fiery. He accepted the compliment. He moved step by sideways step to where Imogen stood, talking to Elsie in a self-consciously absorbed way.
“You came,” he said. “You have come back to us. We are fellow workers, fellow members of the crafts. My dear.”
He put his arms around her. Imogen stiffened. When he released her, she brushed down her dress, as though slivers of clay were on it. She said
“You spoke wonderfully. As always.”
Fludd was bustling and smiling. Members of the audience crowded him, all complimentary. Philip, on the platform, was packing the exhibits into crates. Geraint joined him. He said, “That went well.” Philip frowned.
“He’s excited. When he’s this full of himself, there’s always a reaction. You know that. I’m bothered. He has set so much on—”
“On?”
“On her coming back. But it won’t be for long. And then—”
When everyone else had gone, the Fludds remained. Benedict said to Imogen
“Come now. Everything is ready, Elsie has seen to it.”
“I’m staying—with Florence,” whispered Imogen. “Bring Florence. Come.”
“I’m going back to Rye.”
Her father caught her wrist. He gripped and ground it.
“You are coming home. I’m here because you agreed to come home.”
He stared, or glared, at her.
Florence took two or three little steps back, out of the group. Imogen said, inaudibly, “You know I can’t.” Prosper said
“Benedict, you are hurting her. Let her go. Let her come back to the Mermaid, and we