by DM Bryan
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Talbots Inn, like other buildings designed for the same purpose, begins in a narrow passage and ends in a wide yard, which is tucked behind public rooms fronting the street. Sarah expects the beasts to be stamping in the court, stabled like horses in wooden-walled stalls, but the boy takes her through a back entrance and up a narrow flight of stairs.
On the landing, Sarah stops, certain of having been misunderstood. “I want to see the animals,” she says to the boy’s back. “I won’t go up there.”
In the gloom of the stairwell, the boy turns. He takes off his crumpled hat and rubs it dry against his breeches. All the buttons are gone from the knees, Sarah notices, and the cuffs flap loose. One sock sinks earthwards. “You’re wrong, missus,” he says. “Them creatures got their own apartments like any other guest.”
“Who does?”
“What you said.”
Sarah wonders if the child is simple, but instead she says, as clearly as she can, “Where is the zebra? I want to see the zebra.” The word brings to mind the handbill’s beautiful picture, flapping in the rain.
More polishing of the hat. “To be truthful, he’s gone to Bristol, that zebra,” says the boy, “But he was a sight when he was here. And the monkeys are gone also, which will be a sharp disappointment for a lady like yourself. Everybody knows, the ladies love a monkey.” And the child gives her a leer she hopes is only mimicry of his elders.
“You should have told me the animal show is over,” Sarah says, her own voice sounding childish in her ears. “They are gone to Bristol.”
“Never,” said the boy. “You think I’d take your coin for nothing? I’m honest, I am. And if you’ll come upstairs with me, madam, you’ll see how they left some of them creatures behind, for there was no room in the travelling cases for two of each. Upstairs is the Ram, from the coldest reaches of Iceland, with horns that curl and twist—they had so many of those Mr. Brooke sent some to the countryside to earn their keep. And they got a crocodile that isn’t exactly alive, but is stuffed to show all his teeth. He’s worth a look for his gnashers alone. Also, there’s an Indian hog and some peacocks, fit for a lord’s table.”
“The handbill promised stupendous sights. Peacocks are hardly stupendous.”
“They are to some folk.”
Sarah supposed him right, although perhaps not to anyone who could afford the shilling entrance. “And the rhinoceros?” asked Sarah, expecting to be disappointed.
She was. “He’s gone Bristol way. Though they was doubtful he’d survive the trip. Always sick, that creature. And he’d started to smell.” The child shows her, holding his nose.
“In that case—” Sarah begins, turning about.
“But we got Camelus Paco,” said the boy, all but reciting: “A native of the Mountains of Peru and much admired for his wool.”
“You have a camel?”
“An alpaca they call him. Native of the mountains of the moon. Much admired for his wool. But he looks just like the camel they keep at the Tower.”
e
The alpaca has his lodgings on the second floor, in a reeking room that looks out on to the yard. When Sarah and the boy arrive, the creature faces the window, seeming to gaze out through the glass. As they enter, it spins awkwardly, hooves clattering on floorboards. Bewigged and narrow-waisted, the creature presents such a familiar silhouette that Sarah smiles at the boy, amused by its resemblance to a frockcoated gentleman. The alpaca stands as tall as Sarah, and its coat is soft brown, like a milky cup of tea. Its face, when it looks her way, is split lipped, snaggle toothed, and wary.
Sarah decides she is glad she has come to Talbot’s inn, but no sooner does she experience this small satisfaction than the boy takes up a stick leaning by the door. As Sarah watches, he commences poking the Alpaca, deep beneath the heavy woollen coat. The animal shifts away, moving toward the empty hearth and clattering behind a broken chair, which is the only furniture in the room.
“Stop,” says Sarah, who hears the anxious tapping of its hooves.
“Why?” says the boy. “You can see it better this way,” and he slashes with the stick across the thickly pelted chest so that the animal rears up, striking out with its forefeet.
“Stop,” Sarah says again, moving to challenge the boy for the stick. To her shame, he proves the stronger, for all his small stature. Sarah loses the tussle, and the child stands in the doorway, stick still in hand.
“You must stop,” she says a third, useless time.
The alpaca stalks stiff-legged back to the window, turns its face away, and starts pissing.
“Dirty,” says the boy, striking it again, this time a hard blow to the hindquarters. The creature reacts, lashing out with its back feet, but the boy is faster and dodges the hooves, laughing.
Sarah can see how practiced he is. Again, she wishes she had the stick, but now she would do more than spare the alpaca.
Now, the boy approaches the animal, still with the stick in his hand. The alpaca backs away from the advancing child, the tipping of its hooves sounding on the boards.
“Watch now. I’ll bring him closer,” says the boy. “You can touch his miraculous wool.”
“I do not wish to,” says Sarah.
“He is wonderfully soft,” says the boy. “More like a cloud than a sheep.”
Animal and boy circle the room, the alpaca backing and the child coming on. Closer and closer to Sarah he drives the creature. She shifts, floorboards creaking underfoot, and the alpaca turns its head to regard her. She hears its breath, smells its faint woollen odour. Its eyes flicker, dark and lashed. She cannot help herself but puts out her own hand—a gesture that offers compassion and, she hopes, friendship.
The alpaca flares its nostrils and turns the sad tuck of its mouth toward Sarah. A moment later, the boy bends double with laughter as Sarah wipes disgustedly at the wet goblets that splatter Elizabeth’s cloak. Genteelly, elegant as a gentleman taking snuff, the alpaca walks away. Sarah’s handkerchief comes away green with spittle.
“Get on out of there,” says a voice behind her. Sarah turns, standing with her handkerchief still pressed to her breast. A fine fellow stands in the doorway, scowling at Sarah and the boy. He wears riding boots and a high cut coat, but his lapels are too angled and the boots too well-oiled for Sarah to think him a real country gentleman. Also, he has taken the stick from the boy’s hand.
“I’m just showing the lady around,” says the boy, edging closer to Sarah. The leather soles of his shoes step in time with the alpaca’s percussive tread. The beast goes one way, while the boy goes the other, setting Sarah between himself and the stick.
“I warned you to stay out,” says the man.
“I only just came in. The lady wants to see the Indian hog. And the crocodile hanging from the ceiling.”
“I haven’t yet paid my shilling fee,” said Sarah. “I shall settle my debt and go.” She approaches the man, eager to leave behind the alpaca’s threshing hooves and cloak-flecking bile. Behind her, the creature has begun to click in its throat, and the sound makes her step faster. As she reaches the door, her hand to her purse, the boy makes his bid for freedom. He rushes the man, who has time only for a glancing blow with the stick. Then, the child is past and clattering down the stairs.
Sarah holds out her shilling.
“We’re closed,” says the man. He makes no move to take the coin.
“I have seen the alpaca.”
“Closed.”
“Then you should bolt your doors,” she tells him, tucking away her coin. “Bolt your doors and set down your stick.”
She waits for the man’s reply, for the insults to come, but he steps back, making way for her to pass. Sarah turns once more to see the alpaca’s eyes, glinting, round as cannon shot. Then she goes, picking her way down the stairs.
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When Sarah retur
ns to Mr. Hogarth’s front door, the maidservant has her answer ready. Mrs. Jane Hogarth, it seems, is an admirer of A Journey Through Every Stage of Life, and on the strength of that recommendation, Mr. Hogarth will be happy to see Mrs. Scott at ten o’clock the next morning. He is happy to offer whatever advice he can provide. However, he must forewarn Mrs. Scott that he will never invest in a scheme of the sort she describes in her letter—here, his nib presses hard into the soft paper—and she must not attempt to persuade him to do so.
Sarah reads over her letter in the wet heart of Leicester Fields, then summons a chair to take her home to Hill Street. Inside the chair, a faint chemical smell tickles her nose. Through the rippled glass of the window, she views the mottled heavens. Out of the sky comes Talbots’ crocodile, swimming toward her. The beast swoops up and over her head, its pale belly distending into sky. Where patches of rain fall, clouds grow dangling limbs. A bright tail coils along the horizon.
Sarah sits upright in the chair, watching the back of one of the men who carry her. She does not know if she should commend Mr. Hogarth for his generosity in agreeing to see her or find fault with his characterization of her project. She seeks no financial backing—she thought that clear from her letter. But, now she cannot remember her exact words—did she leave her motives open to interpretation? If only she had not used the word enterprise. Without Barbara, she is not at her best—a ship without its captain.
In her pocket, she finds the little bundle of ribbon, which she takes out now. Parting the paper with her fingers, she finds the bright stuff inside. Barbara’s gift she accounts a credit, but her adventure with the alpaca must sit in the deficit column. Minute moral reckoning—that is the sort of business Sarah understands.
Her drawings, her home for harlots, ranks with the ribbons. She will explain herself to Mr. Hogarth, and he will understand. Leaning back in the chair, Sarah closes her eyes.
Chapter 17
“As no one is obliged to stay a minute longer in company than she chuses, she naturally retires as soon as it grows displeasing to her, and she does not return till she is prompted by inclination … ”
Sarah Scott’s A Description of Millenium Hall.
London, 1762.
Sarah dines with Elizabeth alone that evening. She has no appetite and would have been happy with a small plate of broiled fish, perhaps served in her room. Instead, they sit in state in the golden dining room, a thick-stemmed candelabra between them. Sarah has seen trees with fewer branches. A footman comes with a tray of silvered dishes, and the sisters eat in silence. The second remove follows the first without any respite. Sarah eats all, wants none. Her meat coils haunchlike on its platter. Cress soup quivers in her bowl, the exact green of Camelus Paco expectorant.
So that Elizabeth might not see the stain on the primrose gown, Sarah has changed back into her brown travelling dress. She has trusted the girl, Sadie, with the silk, and, with much head-shaking, the girl has borne it away. Sadie knows a laundress, she says, who can remove all manner of blotches, splashes, besmirchings, but alpaca snot—well, she will have to consult the washerwoman. Sarah is pleased by Sadie’s words. She herself has known laundresses to make a difference before.
On the far side of the table, Elizabeth looks askance at her sister but says nothing. Freed of the need to be informally brilliant before her friends, she has dressed correctly for dinner, in shining blue satin and lace sleeves. Nothing at all like a zebra, obliged to lodge over an inn. Sarah sees Elizabeth’s tiny hooves, clad in soft slippers, well suited to the wide oaken boards of her native land. But, no sooner does she entertain the thought than Sarah is sorry. She dislikes it when women are depicted as animals, a hesitant step on the road to creation, halfway between a slug and a gentleman drinking port. My point? she asks herself. My point, my point? Angrily, she heaps more pink mutton on her plate, sees the curving edge of each slice, fashionably scalloped.
How tired Sarah is of the company of Sarah Scott. Every word from between her lips tastes of brackish water, and even this thought sours in her mouth. She sips and sips again from her glass of elderberry wine, the fruit of the Sandleford gardens. Elizabeth turns her own glass between her fingers, examining the colour by candlelight.
Her point, Sarah thinks, is that she is about to publish Millenium Hall, a novel about a community of ladies, living in peace and good will, and she can’t get along with her own sister. And how many other people has she offended since arriving? Sadie over the primrose dress. The straw-hat girl over straw hats. Perhaps even the laundress with the outlandish nature of her stain.
Barbara.
Sarah decides she should not have made this trip to London. She will not see Hogarth. His letter, crinkling in her pocket, will go into the fire as soon as she gets close to a blaze. Her plan, like all her schemes, is foolish. Destined to fail. A house for harlots? A reformatory for rakes? She is not practically minded, and she knows this. Her ideas ever sprout, but never flower, never fruit.
That night, when she goes to bed, she remembers Hogarth’s letter still in the pocket of her gown. She wishes she had dropped it into the hot-burning fire of the dining room, or into the orange flames that licked the marble mantle of Elizabeth’s dressing room. And she’s not too late. Even now, a jittery blaze flickers in her bedroom grate. She can see it from where she lies, the counterpane heavy over her chest. Invisible hands have laid that fire, ignited it, coaxed it to life. Now, she watches it throw brown shadows across the ceiling. She could easily slip from between the covers and dispose of the letter, holding it to the flame until the white page blackens. In the morning, the ash will include its fragile, pale skeleton.
This picture, provided gratis by her imagination, pleases her. Under bedclothes, she sighs, feeling comfortable at last, and Sarah, exhausted by the heavy weather of London, sleeps.
e
At ten o’clock the next morning, Sarah stands on Mr. Hogarth’s doorstep, dressed in her travelling clothes and holding her leather portmanteau in her hands. She has his unburnt letter in her pocket. Like the day, she is brisk, renewed. Of course she will do as Hogarth instructs: seek his advice, expect nothing further—wasn’t that always her intention? Even so, Sarah shifts uneasily. She rocks on her feet, shifts the portmanteau from hand to hand.
At Sarah’s knock, the maid she remembers from yesterday opens the door. A moment later she is standing in Mr. Hogarth’s black and white tiled hall, giving the girl her name, her cloak. She follows the slapping of the maid’s leather soles, through a front parlour, full of sun and dust, and as far as an oak door, standing closed. This the girl opens, saying, “If you will go in, madam. He is in the garden with the dog. I will inform him you are arrived.”
Sarah does as she is instructed and enters a dark room. A sofa appears before her, and Sarah sits, her portmanteau in her lap. While she waits, she looks around with interest. Panelled and old-fashioned, the smoke-stained chamber also boasts a battered secretary, well covered in papers—the great man’s desk. Ink pens, crayons of all colours, rulers, and wooden curves cover every inch of the surface. Sarah at first ignores, then notices the drawn curtains, screening the windows. A pair of candles winks at her from over the red hearth. She sets her portmanteau aside and rises.
At the edge of the artist’s desk, a leather-bound book lies open to a drawing in Hogarth’s own style. The sketch gives Sarah a view of a tilted room filled with loosely penciled figures, all men taking their ease. They eat; they sketch; they shave—drawings conveying the intimacy of friendship. Sarah looks up. From one of the secretary’s shelves, a ceramic Mr. Nobody looks gravely from atop his huge trousers.
With one ear listening for footsteps, Sarah bends her head closer to the fascinating litter. Scraps of drawing paper. Little crayon sketches, some no bigger than the palm of her hand, feather the desk’s hinged surface. She sees drawn hourglasses of different designs, but every one cracked, nearing empty. She sees a tiny gallows
and a ruined tower. She sees the world on fire. She sees a nude male figure, reclining.
Sarah steps back.
The door opens without the preamble of footsteps. A fat-bellied pug enters, his nails clicking, tracking mud across the polished floor. At once, the small creature scents Sarah and sits, turning his goggled eyes upon her. The dog barks—intelligently, she thinks—and seems to wait for her reply.
Sarah calls the dog to her, but the pug holds its ground. She knows the artist makes the dog his emblem and prides himself on his pugnacious nature. Only, when the real Hogarth enters, he is so different she does not at first understand who stands before her. The little dog runs forward and licks his hand, so she knows this is the animal’s master, but the features she knows from the engraved self-portraits are lost to old age. Rheumy eyes stare. Stained teeth protrude slightly from his drooping smile. The hairless dome of his head hides beneath a slipping headdress. His figure, still wide-shouldered and capaciously gutted, moves stiffly, an automatic Hogarth, ungreased and creaking.
There is no one to introduce them. Sarah’s self-announcing letter has brought about an impossible moment—they both do and do not know one another. She bows and so does he, and then they are acquainted in a manner new to both. Sarah shivers at the success of her, yes, enterprise—she will use the word.
Hogarth seats himself in the wooden-armed chair before his desk, while the dog settles contentedly to sleep at his feet. The man gestures at the sofa for Sarah. Seated, she sinks below the artist’s eyelevel, finding herself awkwardly positioned, with her portmanteau in her lap. Still, the room is so very small, they can see each other well enough. Now, what are the words? What ought she say next? Hello. Thank you. Good morning, Master Hogarth.
But she has not moved quickly enough, and Hogarth both takes the trump and leads the next hand. “It is not often,” says he, “I meet a person who proposes to venture into pictures.” His voice comes in short, rough bursts. “What a proposition. Forgive me, madam, you do not know me. Those who do, understand how strongly I am opposed to such efforts.”