Kris Waldherr - The Lost History of Dreams

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For Edward and Joyce Miller, with gratitude and love

Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?

Ovid, Metamorphoses

Every love story is a ghost story.

David Foster Wallace, The Pale King

*

February 1850

London

Excerpted from The Lost History of Dreams by Hugh de Bonne, published 1837 by Chapman & Hall, London.

Whilst the life inside her grew so round

The dream was lost as it was found.

Such was it thus : Aft their vows

Orpheus slept espoused

Silenced as the One Who Ends

Came mid Helios to transcend

Amors gilt clad arrow.

Yet in the morn, Eurydice found no sorrow :

Her eyes clamped mate, her devotion bright.

Cried she : Tis love, not sun, that draws the light,

And Thou, my Spouse, shall be my fame.

She knew not when her annunciation came

Amid Moon, not Sun. For no serpent smites

Along the ground. Instead, it bites

And leaves no sound.

*

Robert Highsteads workday ended with a letter thrust inside his pocket. Before that, it was spent in a second-story parlor in Kensington, squinting into a camera at a corpse.

Through the cameras viewing glass, Robert watched a young woman lying as if asleep, her hands cupped against her breast like shed been called to cradle a dove. She appeared upside down on the viewing glass as though floating. It was a pose Robert had witnessed hundreds of times in the past three years: the serene smile upon the lips, the closed eyelids, the awkwardly draped shawl across the shoulders that a loved one took upon herself to orchestrate. A last display of care before consignment to the grave. The only variant today was a small book, The Lost History of Dreams , by an author Robert had never heard of. The volume was splayed across the womans belly, as though shed just set it down to rest her eyes.

The thin cry of an infant revealed the cause of the womans demise. From the blood-stiffened linens thrown in a heap against a limewashed wall to the slack-shouldered midwife napping beside the wash basin, Robert understood the woman had labored long and hard. The noblest of sacrifices, hed told her sister and husband, to help them grasp whatever comfort they could. Their muffled sobs gave hint to the ineffectuality of language. The winter air inside the parlor was weighed with the tinge of iron despite the geraniums set on the window ledge, the ice beneath the coffin boards. Not that it matteredafter all, Robert had work to do. He needed to be in Belgravia in two hours for a thirteen-year-old consumptive whose family yearned for a last portrait while she could still acknowledge their presence.

Robert unlatched a long wooden box to remove the silver-coated copper plate for the daguerreotype. Hed already buffed it to a mirrorlike sheen before exposing it to iodine and bromine fumes. As he reached toward his camera, his eyes tripped to the clock on the mantel as he thought of his wife. She hadnt come home the previous eveninga not uncommon occurrence in their three years of marriage. Nor did it help that this was the third corpse hed daguerreotyped since breakfast. Though Robert was accustomed to such sights, today it felt too much.

The widower, who was dressed in the modest clothes of a merchant, approached Robert, the newborn in his arms bawling. She... she was lovely, he said, his eyes reddening.

Robert tutted between his teeth. Im so sorry. The more often he repeated the words, the less currency they seemed worth. He set the frame containing the plate inside the camera with a slide that felt as visceral as anything hed experienced of late.

Now the camera is ready, he announced, ignoring the slight stench already rising from the corpse; the ice wasnt helping. The process will take little time, sir. Less than a minute.

The widower pressed a palm against his eyes. I appreciate how quickly you arrived. Very good of you. My sister claims youre the best daguerreotypist of this sort.

I promise to use all the skills of my art, sir. Roberts heart lurched with sympathy; at least he still had his wife, wherever she was. She always comes back. If theres anything else I can do to offer comfort...

The widowers eyes fixed on Robert with a wet desperation. Can... can you make her look as she did when she was alive, Mr. Highstead?

Ah, I understand! The daguerreotype will record your wife so your daughter

Son. Were naming him Charles. After her. The widower indicated his wifes corpse with a tight nod. My wifes name was Charlotte. Those who care for her called her Lottie.

Then your son Charles will have something by which to recall his dear mothers life.

Robert next took out a thick binder from his satchel. If youd care to look at our Catalogue of Possibilities, he said mildly, setting it before the widower. The leather binding was gilded with the motto Secure the shadow ere the substance fade. The catalogue showed a journeymans ransom of items to spill shillings on. The silver-bordered frame bearing a capsule for a lock of hair. The velvet-lined glass mounts. The alternate views of the departed. Images of the family gathered around the corpse, faces pinched from the effort of not shifting for the camera. The stillborn babies supported by black-cloaked figures.

Are they alive? the widower asked.

Sometimes, Robert replied. He possessed little pride for his ability to pose an infant in a mothers lifeless arms without the exposure blurring. A few drops of Mother Baileys Quieting Syrup worked wonders, though he hated how it affected the child. Yet there was something about his employment Robert couldnt turn from. Something compelling. He told himself it was because he was offering comfort by transforming loss into proof of memory. Sometimes the daguerreotype seemed like sorcery itself, especially when he saw the image emerge from the plate like a ghost from the ethers. But it was more than this.

For an additional fee, the image can be hand-tinted, Robert added, pointing at a colored daguerreotype. Pink-hued gum arabic over silver foil. Flesh over bones.

Once coins were exchanged and bills of sale signed, Robert began the delicate process of daguerreotyping the corpse. He steadied his breath as he stared through the glass. He took the lens cap off with a flash of his palm, letting light record shadow on the plate. He ignored the widowers sobs, the tearful last confessions of love. After all, they werent directed for his ears, but to those who could no longer hear. As Robert counted down the seconds of exposure, he anticipated what he would find when he developed the daguerreotype. For he knew in each persons image he would discover the lost history of their lives: the scars, the wrinkles, the dreams never fulfilled. Or, worse, the lack thereof.