The Children's Book

Philip started to make a drawing of it. He had learned his dislike of pouting cupids and what he called “pottery frills” from Benedict Fludd. He thought he might be able to tempt him out of bed with this monstrous vision. The visitors jostled him, and occasionally asked to see what he was doing. A young man, about his own age, in a workman’s overall, came from inside the stand, and asked to see what Philip was drawing. He commented on Philip’s draughtsmanship in French, of which Philip understood not a word, but the tone was both friendly and admiring. Philip said, in English, that he didn’t speak French. He put down his pad and pencil, and demonstrated with mime that he was a potter, running his fingers inside the imagined cylinder of imagined clay on an imagined wheel. The Frenchman laughed, and mimed the painting of fine flowers with a fine brush on a close surface. Philip pointed to himself and said “Philip Warren.” “Philippe Duval,” said the Frenchman. “Venez voir ce que nous avons fait.”

He showed Philip soft-paste porcelain vases, with copper flambe glazes, and spindle-shaped, or pillar-shaped, vases, painted on biscuit, one with peonies, one with bellwort. Philip took notes and copied the bellwort into his sketch-book. There were all sorts of new uses of metallic glazes, making surfaces like a shot silk, or silk brocade— he mimed admiration of this, and Philippe said in French that these were fiendishly difficult, which Philip understood. There was also a very good attempt at the secret Chinese red—“Chinese,” said Philip. “Oui, chinois,” said Philippe. And crackleware in silver and gold. It was all very dressy, Philip thought.

And then Philippe brought out from a hidden corner some quite different pieces, the earlier and famous Gien reproductions of Renaissance Italian majolica, and Philip fell in love. He loved the colours—sandy yellow-gold and indigo-blue and a sage-green glowing on a black ground, or delicate on a white glaze. He loved the creatures who were entwined and climbing and gesturing on the surfaces, horned Pans with high pointed ears and pointed beards, whose shaggy hips below the waist ran into formal foliage, blue, gold and green. He liked the formal spiralling fronds of golden apple boughs and fine threaded tendrils and trumpets. There were lithe golden boys with wicked grins and blue dragons with fish-tailed children—not fat putti, laughing yellow-gold boys—and fauns, and dolphins, all swiftly done, all bright and glowing. He was put in mind of his sheaf of drawings of the Gloucester Candlestick, with the men and monkeys and dragons, and had the glimmering of an idea of a way he could make new patterns of his own, combining both on the branches of an eternal tree with space for everyone. He asked Philippe for time to draw one or two. “Arabesques,” said Philippe. He drew for Philip an image of a different clock, decorated with these creatures, and showed him the very interesting design on the base of this—a Greek wave-fret, a wild-strawberry hanging.

They took a cup of coffee in a small cafe and communicated by drawing, taking turns—Philip drew the patterns on his Dungeness tiles, the Old Man’s Beard and the fennel, and Philippe drew more creatures, and bowls with handles like dragons and harpies entwined with rinceaux. Philip drew Fludd’s tadpoles but couldn’t think how to explain Fludd. So he drew a master-potter at a wheel, and an apprentice with a broom, and identified himself as the apprentice, and with much pointing explained that he was going to find Fludd—he mimed snoring—and bring him to the stand. Philippe had black hair, and a very clean-cut, pointed face. “I’ll be back,” said Philip. “Au revoir, donc,” said Philippe.

23

Tom sat in the sombre library of the British Pavilion, in the late afternoon, when it was closed to the public. Guests of the Special Keeper of Precious Metals at the Victoria and Albert Museum were allowed in. Tom could imagine himself in the seventeenth century, surrounded by leather books and glowing tapestries of the Quest of the Grail. In front of him was Burne-Jones’s painting of Lancelot’s dream at the Grail chapel. The clearing in the forest was desolate and moonlit. The light was pale moony-gold, shining on the rump of the tethered horse, and the faces of the sleeping knight and watching angel. The knight was half-recumbent, his elegant mailed feet crossed like an effigy, his young, fine face expressing not rest, but absolute exhaustion. His shield was propped in a twisted, leafless bush: the moon glinted on his long sword and the helmet on the ground by his feet. The expression on the angel’s concerned little white face was almost one of terror or horror. Thorns grew round the foot of the chapel wall. Tom was deeply moved by all this. He wanted to go home. He took the latest instalment of Underground out of his bookbag, and wrote a letter.

My dearest Mother,

Thank you for sending the unwrapping of the Silf. It is one of the best things you have done, I think, very exciting and disturbing. I hope we shall see a lot more of the Silf—is it a “she” or an “it”—you seem undecided. I think you are quite right about the spelling. Silf is much more mysterious than sylph, and gets rid of all sorts of airy-fairy associations.

I am having a very good time here, seeing lots and lots of amazing things, some entertaining, some instructive, some beautiful too. I have been up the Eiffel Tower and on the Great Wheel and have ventured into the new Underground Railway, the Metro, which has gates like the gates of fairyland. Everything is driven by electricity—it all hums and buzzes—and there are forests of lights twinkling and glittering everywhere. I don’t know if it is more like Vanity Fair or Camelot or even at times Pandemonium. I am not very good at living in all this noise, I really am not, I think often of a quiet walk on the Downs in the early morning, with the dew on the turf and the sun rising. I really do wish you were here. You would make more of all this enchantment and artifice than I can. It is like that story you wrote of the palace inside the palace inside the palace. You could make stories out of almost everything.

Julian is very good to me, and I hope we are really friends. But he is so sophisticated and so—I can’t find a word—sardonic? Not quite—you will know what I mean—that I’m never quite at ease with him, and daren’t say what I feel, in case he thinks it’s silly. Major Cain has been wonderfully kind, and explains the art objects to us. You would love to see the jewellery. Mr. Fludd is a bit mysterious—he seems to stay in bed a lot— Philip looks after him, I suppose. We hope to see someone called Loie Fuller dance. I think there is all sorts of food for your imagination here. As for me, sometimes I really enjoy things like moving pavements, and sherbet in little glasses, and the Russian diorama. But sometimes—mostly I think—I do want to be at home and sit in the garden with lemonade, and read about the Silf.

Your loving son

Tom.

Prosper Cain came to the modest hotel where Benedict Fludd and Philip were staying. He found Philip, who said that Benedict Fludd was still in bed and had said he was not to be disturbed. Cain said he was to be disturbed, and immediately. He was to visit the Lalique stand, and he was to lunch with Siegfried Bing in the Pavillon Bleu, as he knew very well. Philip said drily that he did not think he dared disturb Fludd.

“I dare,” said Major Cain. He considered Philip. “How are you finding the Exposition?”

Philip detailed his visits to the ceramics exhibitions, and pulled out his sketch-book to show Major Cain the monstrous clock.

“Have you seen anything except the pots, Philip?”

“I’m finding my way around them, sir. I made a French friend at the Gien place. He doesn’t speak English. He’s a decorator.”

“You should be having fun and broadening your mind. Have you seen the jewellery? Have you seen the Bing