The Street Philosopher - By Matthew Plampin Page 0,192
the vulgar dignitaries of the factory city before the Royal group up on the dais; through the undeserved knighting of their fat shop-keeper of a mayor. What honour, he asked himself with growing impatience, could there possibly be in men of commerce?
The Brigadier-General had soon decided that he was best rid of any connection, however clandestine, with the sphere of business. It was supremely undignified for a man of quality. His severance from Norton, although somewhat inconvenient from a purely financial standpoint, could be seen in every other regard as a blessedly clean release.
Eventually, these ceremonials came to an end, and to the sound of more cheers the Queen and her court, attended on only by a few members of the Exhibition’s Executive Committee, made a rapid retreat into the picture galleries. The orchestra struck up, and a buxom Italian lady stepped forward and started to sing a soaring, swooping solo. Boyce did not recognise the piece. He had not the least interest in music.
His hour was growing close. He studied his moustache, on which he had invested an additional measure of time that morning, in the muted reflection of a display case. It formed a perfectly symmetrical white ‘W’, glowing in the drab light of its surroundings. He straightened his dress-jacket. All was in order.
An equerry, one of Phipps’ men, emerged from the vestibule and cleared his throat discreetly. Boyce nodded to Nunn, who stood by his side, his wounded arm in a sling, quite entranced by the singing. He thought it best to keep the boy close. Poor Nunn had a tendency to blurt out all manner of things, without warning–including fragmentary recollections from the Crimea that, if heard by the wrong ears, had the potential to cause his commander significant difficulties. This could be controlled; Boyce had learned that if sufficiently distracted, his aide-de-camp became as quiet and compliant as a well-trained hound. At that moment, the music in the hall was fulfilling this purpose admirably. Boyce peered into Nunn’s eyes for a second, searching for even the tiniest flicker of awareness of the events that had brought them to this point. They were quite empty. The Brigadier-General left him gaping at the orchestra and went through.
The gloom in the picture galleries exceeded even that of the great hall. Rain beat against the glass above, and could be seen sluicing across the sloping panes in long loops, the sky beyond only a shade away from black. The glorious assemblage of works of the ancient masters was reduced in these conditions to a pattern of dull greys and browns. It was hard indeed to discern any detail. Even the subjects of most of them were rendered unclear. Boyce located his painting though, in the very centre of the display. He noticed with some alarm that it was cloaked in obscuring shadow. The Queen would barely be able to see it.
Before he had time to protest, however, the Royal party strolled into view. The Queen led, with Albert by her side, dominating the group entirely. Everything in the saloon, in Boyce’s eyes, seemed immediately to rearrange itself around her progress. She was short, and the body beneath her skirts was undeniably a little rounded. The face framed by her bonnet and bow was long-nosed, also, and rather amply cheeked; but she has a radiance, the Brigadier-General told himself, a regal radiance that cannot help but leave her loyal subjects utterly enchanted.
The Queen looked relieved that the Royal party was removed from the thousands in the great hall. Then, surveying the paintings with obvious dissatisfaction, she asked for a lamp to be brought so that they might be viewed properly. Mr Thomas Fairbairn, bewhiskered labour-lord and chairman of the Exhibition, informed her humbly that no illumination of any kind was permitted in the building, due to the risk of fire. Ignoble dog, Boyce thought harshly; that is your monarch you address with such casual flippancy! If it were down to me, I would have you dragged from the hall and flogged, flogged before all of your wretched peers!
The Queen’s eyes, however, were shining with ironical amusement. ‘We have many pictures of our own, Mr Fairbairn,’ she said in her clear, authoritative voice. ‘We believe that we can prevent these from catching fire. Besides,’ she added with a glance up at the skylights, ‘it is not as if there is no water to hand, is it?’
The courtiers and members of the Executive Committee, who had gathered in a crescent around her,