The Journal of Dora Damage(38)

‘And deservedly so. The man was brave enough to risk imprisonment by stealing a corpse from the gallows itself, in order to dispute Galen, and prove that Barbary apes are not anatomical equals to humans.’

I looked aslant at him, for I was not sure how he was expecting me to react; it was not usual practice for intelligent men to talk to women such as me in such a way. And it was then that I spied the most disturbing item in the room, out of that cursed female corner of my eye. It fascinated and repulsed me, and I could not work out what I was looking at, and eventually I found myself looking at it head-on. I felt Sir Jocelyn leave my side, and creep over towards Diprose, but still I could not change the direction of my gaze. It was like a grotesque sculpture of a human torso, like the marble classical sculptures of old, with truncated arms and legs (which, incidentally, I never knew was deliberate or not; whether the sculptors had deliberately chosen to focus on the torso, or if the head, arms and legs had been knocked off over the centuries). But this one was different. The surface had been painted to resemble flesh, but in places the meat was missing. It had one beautiful, perfect breast, with a shockingly real nipple, but where the other one should have been was an orange, pitted cavity. Every separate hair on my own flesh stirred in horror, as I realised that what I was beholding permitted a vision of the interior of the body.

‘See how she looks so,’ Knightley whispered, and I tried to flash my eyes away from the hideous cast. I met Diprose’s eye, which felt uncomfortable too, so I dropped my gaze to the fire, which was lit, despite the heat in the room, and from there to the couch, and then back to the poor semi-form in front of me.

‘Indeed, Sir Jocelyn,’ Diprose hissed back. ‘Which is why, with all due respect, I advise we proceed with caution.’

I did not hear Knightley’s reply, but knew he was continuing to watch my struggle with placing my gaze. Eventually I determined to face them both and wait for them to address me, which I did for a while, but they continued to observe me, as if I were some scientific curiosity, so I dropped my gaze and found my eyes wandering back to that thing, where they could penetrate beyond the skin to the marvellous inner world of the body.

At length Sir Jocelyn went over to the statue, and put his hand on its shoulder. His other hand he held out to me. ‘Come. Would you like a closer look?’

I think I nodded, and my legs started to walk towards him. But I was about to step on a dead tiger. I hesitated, heard Diprose snigger, then planted my foot firmly on the skin. It yielded softly, and I felt as if I might slip.

‘I will warn you, Mrs Damage, that this is not usually considered a suitable object for women to peruse. Hitherto, I have not shown it to many. Indeed, have I shown it to any? Good lord, this could be a historic day. But I have been told by my advisers –’ here he smiled benevolently, ‘– that you show special qualities which prove that you are not like the rest of them; hence.’

And here, with his own finger, he pointed out to me what I was looking at. ‘I picked it up in Paris. It’s papier-mâché, made by Auzoux.’ He dug his hands right into her cold flesh, and pulled out pink cushions and tubes and curiously shaped lumps, and told me that this one was the liver, and these were the kidneys, and this the oesophagus, and I couldn’t follow it all and felt my insides turn right over several times in sympathy. He asked me if I wanted to touch it, but I shook my head.

At that moment, the door opened and Goodchild brought in a tray of tea and cakes. I felt the old familiar gnaw of hunger to which I had grown so accustomed. ‘Have you met my wife yet, Mrs Damage?’ Sir Jocelyn asked as we walked back towards the fireplace. ‘She was hoping to see you at some point.’ Again, I shook my head. ‘She was thrilled to find a bookbinder she can inveigle into her pet cause. Her charming Nigger philanthropy. Don’t take it too seriously. I don’t. Still, I should consider myself blessed that she did not choose temperance as her pet time-waster. Or the vote.’ Good-child left, and Sir Jocelyn himself bent down to serve.

‘Tell me, Dipsy,’ he continued, ‘does it strike you as strange that, having so benefited from slavery for centuries, our conscience should only stir when more profitable methods of sugar production are discovered? How happily we erase past shame with present virtue, as long as it continues to serve us. It is nothing but humbug. Humbug, hypocrisy, and self-interest.’

Diprose chuckled. He had nothing to add to the argument; possibly he had run out of foreign words to drop into his conversation. He simply nodded his concurrence with Sir Jocelyn’s assertion that it was market forces, rather than morality, that led to the abolition of the British slave trade.