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“ A NASAL SUCCESSION”
On a visit to a stately home, which will remain nameless, we were shown endless
portraits of the ancient and noble family. Each generation had had their likeness
recorded by the best artists that money could commission. Styles, fashions varied and
were beautifully rendered, but each and every one had THE NOSE!.
How can one describe such a prominent olfactory organ, a sawn off branch, a throw
back to some pachyderm who mysteriously entered the blood stream, or just a plain
protuberance?. No matter how skilled the artist, any picture in which there was the
slightest incline to right or left of the head, one side of the face was thrown into
shadow.
One can only speculate on possible nicknames this well beaked family may have
acquired over the years, not just the male line sadly, but the females as well we were
told, though they were not in evidence. Presumably the dowries offered were
sufficient that any daughters would have their likeness on some other stately wall. But
what worries too about the adornment meeting with a mishap. Small boys will fight,
small girls look out of a window too abruptly and encounter hard glass panes. History
does relate some of the trials encountered over the years, so if I remember
correctly.,…..
The portrait from the Middle Ages was a case in point. One of the family having had
a change of allegiance from the then ruling monarch, was being hunted down by
avenging pursuers. In order to escape he dressed himself in clothes of an old woman,
of the lower classes. He forgot for a fatal moment his new role, and strode away with
large manly steps, whereupon one of his enemies tripped him with his sword. His
oaths uttered in a deep growl, together with his hilarious entanglement in
unaccustomed skirts gave the game away.
“How now, this is no comely lass, but with a blot on the visage such as this (the nose
was tweaked), she must surely be a witch.” Obviously his disguise having been found
out, they were determined to combine trial and entertainment.
He was led away to the ducking stool & strapped in. Sadly his family for all their
wealth preferred to spend gold on expensive perfumes rather than soap and water, so
he was unused to being immersed. The nose expertly funnelled water rapidly into his
lungs.
If you look carefully you will find the family added to a picture painted some time
before, a tiny broomstick to remember the sad day.
Move on a few years to the reign of Good Queen Bess. To match her fiery hair she
had a strong will and short fuse. To displease her Majesty could lead to severe
consequences.
Despite her love of dancing in such energetic prancing dances as La Volta, legend has
it that any fidgeting during an audience, or even within her view in her presence
would cause ‘much displeasure’ and some harsh punishment.
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Our poor Elizabethan ancestor had the misfortune to be summoned to Court when
suffering a cold in his head, as one can imagine, an ailment of mammoth proportions.
Whenever there was a burst of music, or sycophantic appreciation of a saying of the
Queen, the poor fellow gave a loud sniff. But this was not sufficient as a cure, so in
desperation he buried his nose in his luckily exaggerated neck ruff. Bright of hair and
bright of eye this extraordinary exercise did not escape Her Majesty’s notice.
“Why Sir, you remind me of a little hungry bird pecking at your ruff in that manner”
She called up the Court Jester and told him to scatter some seed on a space in the
floor without rushes, left for dance practise, and there to teach the noble Lord how to
suck up seed with a length of hollow straw.
Oh the horror for the victim, with the Court now in uproar and shouting instructions to
him. His new hose were ruined, his nose, un-ruffed, dripped constantly, and he was
persona non grata at Court for a year, cruel despite the entertainment he had provided.
In the bottom corner of his portrait is a tiny lace handkerchief.
We moved on to the era of be-tweeded sporting squires. Leaning negligently, and
somewhat dangerously, on his gun, riding crop tucked into the top of his beautifully
polished riding boots he posed, in the background a positive forest of waving hounds’
sterns, this ancestor also boasted a glowing port wine version of the family
adornment.
His wife is sitting in a nicely contrived rural nook, her charming silk dress protected
from any damp by a sheepskin rug, her only concession to the rough outdoors , a very
pretty, or pretty ridiculous tiny hat, with the longest pheasant feather ever moulted or
plucked. She has an assortment of little dogs clustering round her elegant kid boots.
Breeds are not my forte, but suffice it to say they are of the sort that have no
substance under long silky coats, and scream in treble key whenever awake.
The story attached to this ancestor is purely domestic. He returned from a tiring day
chasing after wild life on horse and foot, the estate was teeming with the stuff as his
game-keepers kept both two and four-footed predators well away from the sacred
acres. His consequent thirst had been slaked several times during the day. Now his
valet and several maids were toiling up to his bedroom preparing him a long hot
bath,(this generation did use water), and there would be lovely hot towels, a little
more refreshment, and the prospect of a jolly dinner with the house guests, and one
little filly amongst them was worth the whole stable.
His wife woke him from his reverie,
“Would you look at Snooky Poo’s eye for me, you are so good with dogs. I think he
may have got some pollen in it when I was doing the flowers for the dinner table.”
In his benevolent state of mind, and flattered by his wife’s reference to his knowledge
of dogs, he picked up the scrap of fluff and held it up to see the injured optic.
Beady eyes looked into red rimmed watering ones. Snooky Poo wriggled in his
ignominious elevated position and caused the squire to hold him closer.
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What a tempting lump of red veined meat was right within reach. Small dogs may
also have small, if vocal, mouths, but they are lined with sharp teeth that , size for
size, any shark would be proud of.
The interesting filly was not admired after all, as the squire lay recumbent on his
pillows, with his valet applying cold compresses to the family nose.
In the corner of his portrait is a small, blue ,embroidered dog collar.
Now we have reached the Second World War, yet another well proportioned
uniformed figure with lots of gold braid and a positive rainbow of medals on the
proudly thrust out chest. Surely there can be no stories attached to this one not already
mentioned in despatches, but the Guide launched into another bit of family history.
This military figure served his country well, leading his men in a very intensive
encounter with the enemy when Britain was fighting a rear guard action desperately
trying to hold on to the invaded countries they were trying to liberate.
After a long and weary fight his group were surrounded and unable to fight any longer
due to having no more ammunition and several casualties. So they became prisoners
of war. Of course they marched into camp, heads high despite fatigue and injuries.
At the first roll-call the officer in charge had a soldier following him taking note of
details of the new prisoners. They came to our ancestor and his details were duly
noted, then looking into his face the officer murmured “Wurst”. With his reference to
their favourite national dish, the guards had difficulty in not sniggering. The damage
was done, from then on his family adornment made him conspicuous, and he became
known as Wurst to everyone.
His fellow prisoners with thoughts on tunnels and wire cutting refused to let him join
them “ rather outstanding old chap”, and even the usual shuffling round after an
escape to hide gaps would be useless as he was now a noticeable figure. On the whole
the guards were reasonably human, but because everyone knew him Wurst was called
upon for jobs on more occasions than others, though occasionally this worked to the
advantage of all, as he got the odd cigarette to share, and one notable time, got a full
bottle of beer.
Red Cross parcels began to arrive, and one contained much appreciated magazines.
Wurst found a copy with an article on a South Sea island where the natives wore
colourful, if minimal, costumes, and this gave him an inspiration. With much
ingenuity, and use of things lying around, at the next concert attended by both guards
and prisoners, Wurst sashayed onto the stage wearing a grass skirt, beads, and playing
…a home made nose flute.
He brought the house down, and was always being asked to play his improvised and
most appropriate instrument, and his repertoire and reputation grew.
Quite a change from the history of his forebears, though one, of course, had
entertained a Queen.
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His portrait was naturally not of the camp buffoon but a military officer , but in one
corner, by custom, was a string of native beads.
But what have we now, a magnificent fellow wrapped in Arctic furs, snow boots,
mittened hands holding the reins of a pack of huskies. The background snow, snow
and more snow, with just a gleam of grey ice water on the horizon, and a carefully
posed polar bear. Refraining from shouting “Look behind you” I made a detailed
study of the figure. Despite all the polar expedition paraphernalia, something was
missing.
Of course! The nose. Could this be some strange mutation, had some maternal blood
broken the nasal line?. Alas no, the gallant explorer went in by ice breaker ship until
it stuck, then sledge loads of scientific equipment was ferried to the hut,
. The goal was to carry out numerous tasks to test global warming, study local wildlife, the effect of light depravation and light excess when there was perpetual day, and
many other trials, beyond my limited school laboratory comprehension.
Light in the dark months was at a premium, naturally, so to save their Led lamps and
torches, they tried native blubber lamps. Their hut was hermetically sealed against
cold and gales, the atmosphere of bodies washed in small portions with wipes (saving
water ergo melting snow with limited resources) , together with heavy unwashable
clothing, made the place untenable, and as their length of time in the hut was
unknown, the ‘going native’ phase petered out.
Our explorer/scientist, was trying to see the figures on a glass flask, but it was
impossible in the gloom, so, forbidden as it was, he slipped outside to see if any
heavenly body could reveal the numbers. As with the squire, the nose , then family
size, got in the way and pressed on the glass flask, which in a short time had become
minus several centigrades, where it stuck.
There was a howling wind so cries for help were carried away, and the nose attached
flask combined with ice laden eyes, made navigation back inside lengthy and
hazardous. By the time he achieved entry the nose had turned blue, then rapidly white,
eventually a shade of green. It was obvious to the medical scientists they had to get
him swiftly back to the ship where there were surgical instruments and a sick bay with
operating facilities.
Sad to say , to save the poor fellow, most of the family pride and joy had to go.
On his return home, eminent plastic surgeons did what they could, utilising parts that
wouldn’t show, and so the record of the long line of amazing nasal narratives came to
an end.
In the bottom corner of his portrait, incongruously amongst the snow, is a surgeon’s
scalpel.
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