When I was six, I went on a school trip to a museum. I don’t know where it was. I can remember only a set of steps leading round a corner. I ran down the steps and came face to face with an orang-utan. I wasn’t sure whether it was alive, but I shouted at the top of my voice and Mrs Copestakes told me off: first for running, second for shouting and third for pronouncing it “orange you-tang”. There’s nothing else I remember about the place, just the steps and the gingery tall creature (the first corpse I ever saw) looking down at me.
Since then, I haven’t been to many museums. I can’t help being depressed by the aloofness of things behind glass. There seems to be always such a deadweight of description of what is really just a long tradition (and I’m part of it) of eating and cleaning and killing and decaying.
But a few years ago, I stepped into the Corinium Museum in Cirencester. It had been recently refurbished, so that alongside its objects I found various waxwork people in Roman clothes. Corinium was an important Roman town and there (still there) was its butcher, stuck to his cleaver, hovering over a dead chicken; a soldier, depressed and paralysed on his bunk; a family of four at odds with each other in a sitting room. Upstairs, there were graves which started grumbling when I touched a screen: "Ah, citizen! I know what you’re thinking! How did one of the locals gain so much wealth? I put those hooded cloaks on the map. Just the thing in this dreadful climate..." And here and there, under huge floating paragraphs on red boards, and looking rather pale by contrast, there were things that had been touched by Romans: a buckle, a handle, a strainer, seven copper-alloy and silver spoons, coins, pots, weights, probes, a surgical hook, a pillar, a plough.
It’s very hard to look at things. Here I am, sitting in my shed remembering the Romans, not really noticing the hard-worked figure of my biro pushing at the page. I could pause and note down its yellowness, its inky beak, its self-reliant but friendly, exhausted way of leaning on the forefinger, but it would seem pedantic and anyway the pen would simply go on being densely itself alongside my adjectives. It’s the same with spoons and hooks and buckles. All day my hands understand them, but my attention is somewhere else, normally a few hours behind or ahead of what I’m doing. The fact is, it’s impossible (except by accident) to imagine the present, which is why it’s so frustrating trying to imagine the past.
So I stepped into the Corinium Museum and I was wafting around the place, filling up with facts and exchanging the occasional glance with a paralysed butcher or soldier; not really looking at anything (at least not in the fleeting and practical way it would like to be looked at), when I came across a water nymph. She was perhaps 30 times smaller than an orang-utan but every bit as compelling.
Just to put this in context, it was 2005: the year we moved from Devon to Gloucestershire. In Devon, we’d been living by the Dart, which is a 52-mile river of the kind that drowns people: as wide as a motorway and in places about 20 feet deep. In Gloucestershire, the closest river was the Dunt, a runnel no deeper than my boots, a mere glint in a field, mostly lost in nettles. For the first month after moving, that whole landscape made me thirsty, not just with a throat thirst, but with a thirst of the eyes and the ears; which is why I recognised instantly this two-inch creature of water sealed behind glass.
She had no accompanying information, only a number and a footnote saying “Roman bone figure of a water nymph”, so I had no option but to look at her very hard. What I saw was an Iron Age, slightly damaged pocket goddess, with left arm and both lower legs missing. She had tool marks on the breast. She was smiling, looking outwards, pouring water from a spilling vase held lightly under a long-fingered hand. Her shoulders had sheen but not shine. She seemed off-guard, in charge of water but not much concerned, curved like an old moon or question mark, crippled but making light of it, no clothes, even her flesh made of bone (whose bone?), very slim, as if her weight had been worn down by water but there was no water anywhere near her. Even the little slurp tipping from her vase was made of a bone and as dry as a bone.
A nymph is a shrunken goddess, a local land-spirit displaced by bigger, more abstract forces. This one took her form from Greece, her refinement from Rome, her material from Britain and was probably made by a Gloucestershire craftsman, working for a Roman, trying to give him power over a Gloucestershire river—perhaps the Churn, which flows through Cirencester, or the Dunt, which flows into the Churn.
In classical mythology, rivers are male but their sources female, or at least attended by females. The source of the Dunt is attended by brambles, hazels, elderflower and nettles. It has two stone ledges where a farmer could, if he wished, place a bone figure of a water nymph. Or he could leave her at his household shrine among other miniature gods and pray to her each morning. Or he could carry her in his pocket (apparently togas did have pockets) so that he could stand around talking while his hands kept in touch with water; just as some people jingle loose change while they’re talking, to keep the conversation profitable.
"In Java", according to Frazer’s "Golden Bough" (1922 edition), "two men will sometimes thrash each other with supple rods till the blood flows down their backs...in some parts of southern and western Russia...after service in church the priest in his robes has been thrown down on the ground and drenched with water by his parishioners...in 1868 the prospect of a bad harvest, caused by a prolonged drought induced the inhabitants of a village in the Tarashchansk district to dig up the body of a dissenter, who had died in the preceding December. Some of the party beat the corpse or what was left of it about the head, exclaiming 'give us rain!' while others poured water on it through a sieve."
I admire these extreme ways of invoking rain, just as I admire anyone who dares, by means of metaphor (and all language is rooted in metaphor), to communicate with something that isn’t human. If you’ve paid money for seeds or animals and you want to increase their worth by growing them on, then a water nymph is not some kind of a literary personification of water, nor is it a liquefaction of women, but it’s an effort, driven by absolute need, to make contact with something inscrutable. It goes without saying that water, because it is transparent and therefore only partially itself, is even more inscrutable than a buckle or a biro—and far more necessary.
I spent a couple of hours looking at the water nymph and bought a postcard in order to keep looking at her. Then I drove home and when I rounded the last corner into the Dunt valley, it had changed. The river was still small, but the energy of its water was visible everywhere: a kind of downward suction, like a long inhalation of the sea drawing everything towards it. What had happened, I suppose, was that the water nymph (like the orang-utan) had brought me back to the present. It had updated my imagination—and that, as far as I’m concerned, is the main function of the past and the true value of museums.
That all took place seven years ago, but when I was asked to write this article, my first thought was YES if I can HOLD the water nymph. I should perhaps have remembered the story of Actaeon, the huntsman who came upon Diana bathing with her nymphs in a woodland pool. Diana, enraged, turned him into a stag and he was eaten by his own dogs. You should never look too closely at a nymph or goddess.
Well I was allowed, thanks to the generosity of the Corinium Museum, to put on white gloves and hold the water nymph. She lay very light in the pool of my hand but I couldn’t really see her. I couldn’t concentrate. Having released her from her glass prison, I now found myself stuck in the glass prison of a camera lens, being looked at looking at a nymph. Here I am, sealed into photographic paper, just noticing the smile on the water nymph’s face—not so much the fleeting, bashful smile of a local river—more like the bone-dry smirk of an enraged goddess.
For opening times see coriniummuseum.org