My intense concentration had its own effect. When Geist capped the lens, I was weak with yearning. Geist seemed to understand, for after he’d removed the plate, he gave me his a handkerchief before hurrying off to his darkroom. “Find me when you’re ready.”
Curiosity dried my tears, and soon I had followed him to the tiny chamber off the parlor where he worked. Its windows are papered against the light, and the trapped air is sharp with chemical solution. I watch as Geist prepares to develop the plate by pouring a vinegar solution over it and then waiting for the image to appear. “Developing a photograph is chemically similar to rubbing the tarnish off silver,” he explains. “A scrub for the treasure beneath.” Geist pours water over the plate.
“And both processes leave blackened hands.”
“Indeed. Some even call photography the ‘black art.’”
“I like that.” But in my photograph I look grim and grainy. I’m not sure what we’re hoping to find, but I don’t dare ask Geist. Not while he is working so intently. He slides the plate into a wooden box.
“Fixer…to preserve the image.” He leaves it for a few minutes to bustle about, selecting from a distracting array of bottles filled with a sharp bite of chemicals before removing the plate and washing it again with water.
Geist holds the plate over an oil lamp. “The varnish adheres best when the plate is warmed.” He tips the glass this way and that. “I’ve used a Rapid Rectilinear portrait lens, a gift from Locke. I did sense a sharpened focus when I adjusted the aperture opening. But the proof of the pudding is in the eating.”
He warms the plate a few more minutes before returning to his worktable, where he unstoppers a decanter and flows a thin solution onto the plate’s surface.
“You added that liquid to the plate before you placed it in the camera,” I mention.
“Not quite. That was collodion a combustible blend of ether, iodides, bromides, plus a bit of my own magic.” He winks. “Collodion on the front. Then a bath of silver nitrate. Both compounds sensitize the plate before exposure. But we’re finished with exposure.”
“What are you pouring?” I sniff. It stinks.
“Varnish, to preserve the picture. It’s a delicate balance. Too much varnish destroys. Whereas too little will not protect.”
There are more steps to the process than in a Viennese waltz, and it requires such a mindful eye and steady hand that I feel shamed remembering how I’d dismissed Geist as a fraud and nothing else.
He is as skilled as a surgeon, but with his artist’s eye I’m reminded of Will, who would have found astonishing artistry in this process.
When Geist holds the varnished plate at arm’s length, my heart flutters.
“But I look…”
“Like a ghost? Not to worry, Miss Lovell; it’s only the negative image. Not the finished print. Let’s set it here until it dries. Meantime, there are some other things I want to show you.”
18.
After propping up my plate, Geist leads me to his photographic archives kept in the bottom drawer of the secretary in his darkroom.
Some of his models are posed. Others wear thick cloaks or the diaphanous gowns of angels. There are hazy, chain-dragging apparitions and crisply focused, hooded specters. Many models point into a far-flung distance. Several times I recognize Viviette.
“An ideal model,” Geist acknowledges. “She can turn still as a Greek urn for minutes on a stretch, and she never complains. An unearthly quality, wouldn’t you agree? I can never predict how she’ll hold the light. Go on, take some.” He hands me a small stack of photographs. “I have many copies.”
I accept his offering, but I feel uneasy all the same. Any business that looks to profit from death just couldn’t be entirely honorable. When I mention that I’d like to see what Locke has brought back from his travels, Geist agrees with reluctance.
In the foyer he unbuckles the satchel and pulls out a heavy stack of glass plates. “As I’d feared. The images are cracked, scratched, chipped. Some are ruined altogether.”
“The surfaces are dirty,” I notice. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
“These are ambrotypes. Underdeveloped negatives. To be seen, they need to be mounted on a black background. But indeed they are dirty. Locke used a portable darkroom, and he often worked out in the field. Not the most sanitized conditions. Let’s take these to the pantry. I shall see about restoring them at a later time.”
Entering, I see that Geist has converted his pantry into a storage room of prints and files, with shelves of cloudy glass beakers, labeled bromide jars, and wooden plate holders.
“Where do you keep your china? Your housekeeper must be at her wit’s end.”
“Truth be known, there is no china nor housekeeper,” Geist admits. “Though Viviette is handy at whipping up a frothy eggwhite solution for my albumen prints. She’s indispensable to me. Her illness has created a void in my work.”
“I hope she’s better soon.”
Geist’s hands close into tight fists. “And I hope the scalawag who’s got her into such a fix will make an honest woman of her,” he says. “If this is indeed what she wants. Whatever the solution, I’m hopeful that she’ll return to work as soon as possible. Make no mistake, it is Viviette who has the touch. She is indispensable to my practice.” And while I am surprised by all this news, I have no doubt that Geist’s agitation is sincere.
When we revisit the darkroom, I prickle with anticipation. “I’m a ghost,” I say softly.
“Indeed. But we print in the other room, in as much sunlight as we can find.” And now I am introduced to the printing process as Geist places the plate and a sheet of paper into a wooden printing frame. “Come with me.”
Back through to the dining room, Geist draws the curtain and sets the frame in the windowsill to absorb the wash of beryl-yellow sun peeking from behind the winter clouds.
“We must wait another five minutes for the image to print onto the paper. After toning and fixing, it will turn a rich shade, something between chocolate and eggplant.” But Geist’s energy is gone. His face sinks like a misbegotten soufflé as he checks the frame. “Alas, thus far the print and negative are alike as a pair of kidneys. For a moment I’d suspected we might have had another Du Keating on our hands.”
“Du Keating?”
“A story for another time.”