The Edge of the Crowd. Ross Gilfillan
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calls for Mr Touchfarthing.’
‘Well, I hope he’s quick. I’m a busy man.’
‘I understand told that the whole process is accomplished in five minutes,’ said the driver. ‘He’s also uncommonly cheap.’
‘Pshaw!’ said the voice within. ‘If it’s quality I want, I think I can pay for it! Help me out!’
The crowd gathered close about the carriage as the driver extricated from the small cabin a large man in beautiful yet curiously ill-fitting garments. One or two of the shopkeepers touched their forelocks as the driver, crying out ‘Make way for his lordship, there!’, hurriedly assisted his passenger across the pavement and into the shop doorway. The door opened and closed and its bolt was shot. The crowd pressed against the window, where, above the brass rail of a half-curtain, the party just entered might be seen making its way to the rear of the premises.
‘Gorn to have ’is photograph made!’ hissed a bent and toothless cress-seller. The two young crossing sweepers who had wormed their way to the front of the crowd now extricated themselves with the same ease. ‘You’n see’t all at the back!’ said one and those with sufficient curiosity shuffled after the sweepers, who had scampered around the corner where a rickety fence enclosed an unusual addition to the photographer’s premises. This great glasshouse, the oasis of some forgotten city horticulturist, was now in poor repair, the branches of an apple tree having broken through one corner, and with many of the panes now whitewashed or stuffed with waxed paper and cloth, the annexe was a poor adjunct to the property for anyone but a photographer of limited means, for whom its abundance of northern light made it a perfectly serviceable and capacious studio. Through knots and gaps in the surrounding fence, the boys were commenting on the proceedings within.
‘’Is lordship’s stood agin a great pile of books an’ a bit of a pillar, it looks like. There’s a door behind ’im and trees and the sea.’
‘Sea? In the middle o’ London? Shift over an’ let me look!’
‘It’s a pitcher, I mean – what looks like the sea.’
‘And don’ ’e look savage?’ The boy rapped on the glass. ‘Like a reg’lar statchoo, aintcha, old feller?’ He knocked again and contorted his features so that his eyes bulged and his nose was flattened against the glass. The sitter, sensible of his audience, struggled to maintain his composure. He adjusted his pose, lifting his chin and stroking his luxuriant moustache before fixing his gaze in the far distance.
Shortly afterwards, the muffled driver opened the door of the shop and escorted the noble personage back into his carriage. As soon as the door was closed, he mounted his seat and flicked his whip. The carriage drew away. It turned a corner and then another and then it stopped. The door opened and its passenger alighted and hurried into a tradesmen’s entrance behind the glasshouse. The carriage itself turned into the yards of a livery stable where the driver jumped down.
After the great stable doors had been opened and the coach had been wheeled inside and the doors once more closed and locked, a sum of money passed from the hands of the driver into those of a cheerful man in a checked waistcoat and top boots.
The passenger meanwhile had hurried across a yard, through the glasshouse and into the kitchen door of the photographer’s premises. Throwing off his jacket in the partitioned kitchen that served also as dark-room, he prised off his shoes and pulled on his familiar stained jacket and trousers. Once reattired and having paused just long enough to catch his breath, he strode over to the front door. Here he stopped suddenly as if struck by an idea. Carefully, he stripped the moustache from under his nose and slipped it into a pocket of his trousers before opening wide the street door.
‘A good afternoon to you,’ he said to the still curious and bemused throng without. ‘I hope I haven’t kept anyone waiting. I was obliged to prepare a photograph for a most important client. But I am free now – I can see the first sitter in just a moment. Photographs can be made by my assistant Mr Rankin for sixpence or for only twopence more you can elect to be photographed by myself in person. Now, who will be first today? This little fellow’ – he addressed a woman with a baby wrapped in her shawl – ‘will make a charming picture. If his fortunate mother would like to take him through to the studio at the rear?’
II
Cornelius Touchfarthing, recumbent in the chair that had been warmed by a succession of sitters that afternoon, accepted the cup of tea that had been placed in his hand by John Rankin, without any sign of acknowledgement. ‘What a shabby business, John,’ he sighed. ‘I am defiled.’
Rankin drew up a stool and placed a plate of buttered toast on the box of chemicals that was between them. ‘Well, it ain’t as straight as I could want but it’s taken care of the rent.’
‘But the indignity of it all, John. I felt like a player in a pantomime.’
‘There ain’t no reason we have to do it regular. It won’t work for us if we do. But something like that will get us known. It’s you what said we needed the patronage of the nobs.’
‘Upon my word, we do, John.’
When the cups had been emptied, Rankin refilled them, fussing about a little spilt milk upon the tray and pouring the tea from the leaky pot with all the daintiness of a lady’s maid. ‘That’s all well and good if we gets enough of ’em to make a go of it. But as it is we’ve got a roaring trade in sixpunny portraits. We might get set up in that line alone.’
‘But do you look at our subjects, John. Shopkeepers. School-teachers. A chimney sweep and his family, for goodness’ sake! If we keep on in this way we’ll drive off the better customers. There will be no more well-to-do families, army officers and distinguished businessmen then.’
‘There ain’t any now. Or ’ave you forgot how you bought them pictures in the window?’
‘Only to encourage respectable business of our own, John. I didn’t set up here to produce penny keepsakes. We must establish ourselves in the right circles as quickly as we can. There are not more than a dozen commercial photographers in London today but in only a few months it will all have changed, mark my words. I can see them coming now, swarms of little men with their cheap cameras and poor pictures. And by the time they are here we must be the concern that society connects with the art of photography.’
‘Art?’ Rankin snorted. ‘What’s art to do with it? This here’s a new trade and one what’s alive with opportunities.’
‘Trade? Heaven forbid, Mr Rankin! We might as well be scissors and card men making silhouettes. Do you know what they’ve called photography, John? Painting with light. A skilled photographist is not a tradesman but an artist. And his aims must be the same as other artists – that’s the only way he’ll achieve a similar standing.
‘In its ideal form,’ the older man continued, as John Rankin knelt before him and tugged off a shoe, ‘photography should aim at the grand style. I can see no reason why what has been achieved by Rubens and Titian with paint cannot be made with modern methods. That’s the stuff to put photography on its proper footing.’
‘If that’s all we’re about we might as well sell the camera and buy brushes and paint,’ Rankin said. ‘Ain’t it obvious that cameras should be doing all that brushes can’t? Anything else would be a wasted opportunity.’
‘To occupy the position of a modern Reynolds would hardly be that, John.’
‘Well, I’m blessed if I can see the point of it all,’ Rankin muttered. ‘Here we are using painted backcloths and properties to photograph what’s outside for free. It ain’t natural.’
‘You are a good fellow, John, but ill-equipped to follow an argument such as this. Art isn’t a mere representation of life. It ennobles and elevates. And that is what will distinguish us from the common picture-taker.’
‘Pardon me,’ Rankin