by John Crowley
‘Then it may be saved,’ she said, and so saying she took from the table at her bed-side a black-bound book that any among us this side of the Middle Sea would know at once. She held it out to him—not as a thing for him to take, but only to behold—for, as many do who hold that Book in the greatest reverence, she seemed to think its virtue flowed as strongly from it when closed, as open—indeed perhaps more strongly, or simply. ‘Come to me,’ she said, ‘and together we shall read.’
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I cannot read.’
‘Then you shall learn,’ said the lady, rising in her bed, ‘for who cannot read or hear, cannot be saved.’
‘Saved?’ Ali inquired, at the reiteration of this word, which is so pregnant with meaning—or meanings—indeed, with a varied and contrary offspring. The lady touched a place on the broad bed, indicating that there he should sit by her, and when he had with care and some trepidation taken that seat, she regarded him the more closely with her melting eyes. ‘I see you are in want of a friend,’ she said, ‘and so am I; let us pledge to each other, that we will be each the other’s support, and protection.’
‘If you wish it,’ Ali said in all gentleness. Indeed he knew not how this lady might protect him—nor how he would repay that service in turn—as it seemed she might well require of him: and yet for sure he stood in need of such a one, and no other champion had appeared, or seemed likely to—none but his own soul, upon which he dared not wholly lean. And so he made a soft answer, and took her hand fat as a pluck’d quail, and as cold; and pitied her, as he would not deign to pity himself. And soon the lady sent him away, with a promise, when she felt stronger, to send for him again.
THUS WAS ALI PUT to school with Lady Sane, to learn the meaning of those signs and symbols he had at first begun to recognize in the company of the Circular Tutor aboard the Navy brig that brought him at first to Albion. Lord Sane was not entirely pleased to learn that his son had been invited to spend much time in his wife’s company, and look’d upon Ali with his reptilian consideration—and yet said nothing to forbid it—and soon enough he was gone from home, if that humble but dear name be applicable to the House he occupied. He had spent but a month there—feeding and teasing his Menagerie—by day riding at breakneck speed over the fields of his hard-press’d Tenantry, or disputing with his Steward—at night drinking his own hock and Claret, knocking the heads off the bottles with a poker, the drawing of corks being too mean a labour for him, and the summoning of his man too tough a job. ‘Enough!’—then cried he—and called for his Coach, and his brutish Coachman, large as a Patagonian, and the four matched blacks which that Coachman alone could control—and he betook himself South to the Fleshpots, and the companions he delighted in.
Each morning Ali mounted the stairs that led from the ancient Abbey where Lord Sane presided—even in absence—to the modern house, where Lady Sane was in residence—tho’ seemingly not always present, for her thoughts turned often from the books and the papers upon which Ali indited his crude letters, to dwell on past times, or in dreams, or in Heaven, to which she meant to lead the son of her husband. But often, in going about in that far realm, her imagination lit upon Heaven’s opposite, and she trembled at a thing she could not say—a tale she would not tell—and seemed to fear.
When Ali, alarmed, asked her what was the matter, and what it was she feared, she answered only, ‘Why, to be damn’d, and suffer for aye!’—and would not say, upon what grounds the divine Judge might make such a disposition. Ali, not disposed to consider his own after-fate, no matter how Lady Sane pressed the matter upon him, could not but ponder, and grieve for that gentle lady’s suffering.
Of the other souls who haunted that palace in Limbo, there were housemaids, who shied from him like deer, as they had learned to fear the attentions of the Master of the house, and thus whoever might stand in his stead—and a Cook, and scullery-maids and footmen, a sullen one or two—and a lady’s maid nearly as ghostly as her Lady was. Ali, who had no knowledge of the right manner of treating with servants, alarmed them sometimes by sitting silently among them in their kitchens and shops—where he learned much that, when he began at school, he would be required to unlearn, though he would not forget—and unwittingly affronted them by not suffering them to wait upon him, but rather doing for himself what was needful. Happier was he alone and abroad, with no company but a black Newfoundland dog, chosen by him from a litter out of his father’s favourite bitch. This animal would come to seem a part of himself—his own best self, ready to stand and run and sleep beside him, ever loyal, without motive, without reservation, with all his strong heart. Thy warden, Lady Sane called this companion of her son’s when Ali brought him even to her chamber; and when Ali had ascertained the right meaning of the word, it became the beast’s name, as it was his nature. With him Ali strode for leagues over the naked hills and through the new-sprung woods; oft he was observed far from the Abbey, careless of the weather, without occupation and—for a time, a day, a blessed Hour!—without thought, save for the ache in his joints, and the air in his lungs, until he truly seemed to have returned to the hills of Albania (which to his eyes these of Scotland resembled, except in respect of moisture) and was again following his goats, with his people, and his beloved.
Iman! She could not fade from his heart, but her image—undimm’d—could not alter, either, nor grow, nor change: she became a painted picture—a single mood—a gesture—or but a few—her voice, the same, still heard, but like the voice of one who walked away, and looked not back. In the Park, not far from the Abbey, there grew an Elm with a double trunk—two sundered limbs that had sprung from a single root, and had grown year by year farther apart. Upon the two uplifted arms, Ali, with the point of the sword he had brought from the land of their birth, carved his own name, and hers—in the letters of this land—the only he would ever learn.
One other among that house’s inhabitants showed him kindness, and bent his mind to make him welcome. ‘Old Jock’, as this ancient was known, was formerly a retainer of the ‘auld Laird’, Lady Sane’s father—indeed, he seemed to carry with him, in the bright roses of his cheeks, his ready smile, and the frost upon his curling hair and whiskers, the spirit of a merrier age, and a happier house. The smoke of his long pipe, and the touch of his rough hands, reminded Ali of the old goatherd who had raised him, and predisposed him to love the man. With him Ali learned the making of bullets, and the cleaning and care of pistols and guns, and when at length he left the old Abbey and its guardian spirit, he had learned to put out a candle with a pistol-shot at forty paces. By Old Jock’s fire, seated upon a ‘creepie’, or Scotch stool, Ali listened to tales that reached back to the Covenanters, and in the repeated hearing of them added a Scotch burr to his English that not all his later schooling would rub off. From Old Jock he learned of the wayward lords and the noble ones who, though he shared no blood with them, stood now in a row behind him like the parade of Banquo’s sons in the witch’s mirror, he being the heir of the house.
‘There is nae other naw,’ said he. ‘And naw will never be, none but thee; for a curse fell upon the house long ago, that it would be barren, and produce none.’
‘A curse?’
‘There was but a single child born to my Lady,’ said Old Jock, and his voice had sunk to a whisper, as though someone—someone he need not name—might overhear. ‘The birth was not easy, and the child was soon dead. And after that time, my Lady shut herself up, out of the world—or was put awa’—it mak’s nae muckle difference, how ’tis said.’
‘This amounts to no curse. Many a one is born to die.’
‘Ah,’ said Old Jock. ‘Ah, young Sair. We make a curse of what befalls us, if we are certain ’tis meant to be. The old Laird, blessings be upon him: on his own death-bed, he was heard to say, that his only daughter’s marriage would bring about the downfall of his house.’
‘It still stands,’ said Ali.
‘And here art thou, as well,’ said Old Jock, and the glitter in his eye wa
s kind, and yet too wise for kindness. ‘Aye, aye: here art thou!’
Yet it is not sufficient to make an English gentleman, that he learn his letters at a pious Dame’s side, and the crafts of life from a Countryman. There came a time when Ali must go to school—he was already superannuated. Lord Sane and his wife were of different minds on the subject—for Lady Sane wanted to have the boy near, and Lord Sane cared nothing for that, so his situation be an approved one, where his fellows would bring him out, and polish him, as though he were a gem found by the wayside. The school chosen for him (Lady Sane in feeble opposition notwithstanding) was far to the South, nearly as far as London.
Ida—so she shall here be named—was then the first, or it may be the second, Academy where those too old to learn from their Parents and too young to learn from the World were ensconced, to learn from Masters wise (or contrariwise), and much more—not all of it lofty—from their Fellows. Here Ali arrived, in the summer of his fourteenth year, late and ill-prepared for what might now become of him—for his protector Lady Sane could not, and his father had not cared to, describe it to him. The crowd of boys in their tall hats and tail-coats at once drew him in among them, and at the same time made clear to him his absolute difference from them, in experience and knowledge; he was tarred for being young and for being too old, for being too tall and too delicate, for being ignorant of things he could not have learned elsewhere. He was shocked to discover that as a junior scholar he would be the dependent, nay the servant of others, who might demand of him anything. Only a touchy and implacable combativeness—whereby he often bled, as much as he caused others to bleed—kept him from the worst indignities, as being too much trouble for his seniors to inflict. They found it easier, and found that it caused pain as great, to mock him, though not always to his face—they soon grew wary of that—and material suited for such teases was easily come by.
‘They have called me Turk, and what is more, Bastard,’ he wrote to his father, ‘which I am none—and I would rather they threaten my life than my honour. I will not appeal to the Masters, as those who have insulted me have all more influence with them than I, who have but newly come here, and am looked upon with suspicion, as a kind of Monster, tho’ I am able to answer to them in classes, and in examinations, well enough to show I am but a Man like them. I wish you to defend me, as you have not so far done, and inform those Masters, who have done nothing to sustain me in the face of these enemies, of the Insults I have borne, and to demand of them what Remedies they may apply. I am also in want of Money, whereby to buy small presents for those who may be of my party—it is the common thing—I want nothing for myself, but I am given gifts, and am not able to give any, which is to my shame.’
To this his father, not quickly, responded. ‘What!’ he wrote. ‘Do they call thee Turk, and contemn thy halting speech? Well all that is but the case—and naught truly wounds us but what is the case—and therefore, be wounded, as it suits thee—or give back as you have been given, with the Truth if truth be at hand, or what is like the truth if the truth suit not your purpose—and if none of this win for you the redress you seek, or inflict wounds painful enough to cause your tormentors to withdraw—then something more sharp may do so, and this you have brought from the land of your birth. That is the sum of my advice to you; ask me for no more till all these be tried. As for Money, I have swept all mine out of doors—you must apply to Lady Sane if she have any—or do without—or steal.’
Ali wrote again, after he had read (and torn to pieces) this communication of his father’s: ‘My Lord—If I am to be insulted and mocked for what I cannot help nor change, even if I would, which I would not—very well—I shall take the Help you offer—tho’ it be but words—and ask not for other. It matters not much. Others have begun with nothing and ended greatly. I will carve myself a way to greatness, but never with Dishonour.—I am, my Lord, your Lordship’s affectionate & obedient Son—ALI.’
So said he: and the Lord his father was not to know that, while in sunlight he braved his Fellows well enough, and even rallied them and won some hearts among them for his courage, and for his cheek too, and for how he spoke up to his Masters, whether gravely or in jest—yet in the dark alone he wept, and no one comforted him. He had never known a mother’s dear caresses, he hardly knew to ask Heaven for what he most desired, a Friend! His being was as tender and easily hurt as a snail’s soft seeking horn, and—for the snail’s selfsame reason—he built around himself a stony carapace. Oft would he slip away from his fellows and their occupations, to retire alone to a famous and ancient Church-yard—not to commune there with the dead (for Youth but rarely ponders its own mortality, and, even when gloomily asserting it, does not truly believe in it)—but to lay down there the burden of his imposture, as he saw it to be, of heedlessness and temerity—as a knight doffs his heavy armor in his tent, where no one sees.
Silence and old stones are good company for the solitary, but there came a time when Ali, slipping away to be with his granite companions, found another, as alive as himself, already in possession there, and reclining upon his favoured gravestone. He was known to Ali—and saluted Ali cheerily—and made room for him there upon the commodious breast of him interred below. But Ali in response only demanded what he did there—to which the boy answered with the same question turned round again—and for a moment Ali looked away, to the long view over field and valley, which he had also come to regard as his own.
‘Come,’ he heard the other say. ‘There is room for two.’
‘I prefer the company I chose,’ Ali said, not deigning to turn. ‘That is, my own.’
‘Oh, stuff,’ said the lad—and when Ali in fury turned upon him, he saw that the newcomer was smiling lightly, and that his jibe was meant only to win Ali away from rigid Solemnity—and tho’ he desired still to keep the face he had chosen, he found he could not—and instead came to sit where, with laughter, the other invited him, and accept his hand, and an arm put round his shoulder.
Lord Corydon—so shall we name this child—was scion of an impoverished House, already in possession of his title tho’ far from his majority (his father having recently died in a fall from a horse). Younger than Ali—as most of his fellows were—he had been but little noticed by the older student, except that in chapel he sang, and exquisitely, seeming transfigured by his own soul, which, exiting from him (as the ancients supposed it could do) in the form of song, entered into his rapt listeners, none more rapt than Ali. True it was that Ali’s first—his only—joy had been to be alone—but there are other joys—rarer and less reliable—but by so much the greater! From that day the two marked the beginning of a true and deep Friendship, that they were sure would never cease.
How shall their youthful intercourse, intense as it was slight, be here recorded? The jests they made lived only in the moment of their being spoken, and are now long faded—their boasts and challenges vanished upon the air—the Scholars and Masters they spoke of in ardent admiration or scorn are dispersed, and all changed—for the boys are no longer boys, and some are dead. Ali—the reader will have gathered this—was one who felt wrongs intensely, for the which he had surely ample reason—yet his heart was sound and clear, and nothing of bitterness had so far shadowed it; he was jealous of his honour, by which he meant his embattled self, always seemingly on the point of evanescence, and hardly to be chained within his flesh but by constant vigilance. Lord Corydon was his opposite, or complement, in colour as in all other things—for he was as much fairer than his fellows as Ali was darker, and his eyes of palest sapphire as light as Ali’s were deep; he was as poor as Ali, yet cheerful and uncaring; stood never upon ceremony, or precedence, over which Ali fretted overmuch, as he well knew; slow to take offence, quick to forgive, and yet careless of his Affections too, as Ali—whose heart once given was given for aye—would sometimes feel, to his pain.
Still it was very nice, for sure, to have someone to comfort you in such a place as Ida was, and nurse you in afflictions; to protect you,
or to be protected by you; to undress with you and together take Ida’s cold bath, and after to share a warm bed (for a bed of one’s own cost the more, and neither could afford it); and hand in hand with whom to laugh, and outface the world!
At end of term, the friends would not be parted, and the younger invited the elder to his own house, to stop as long as he liked. He laughed, indeed, at the hospitality Ali would there see. ‘It is nothing like an abbey or a castle,’ said he, ‘and there is no entertainment to be had—nothing but climbing hills, and singing part-songs, and looking out the window—now I have done my honest duty, and warned you!’ Yet he had not done all his duty, nor told all that there was to tell about his house and family, which Ali divined from the laughter in his eyes—though he asked no further question, only wrote to Lady Sane to say that the long journey to Scotland & back again was inconvenient in so short a time, and that he would be well provided for—he had Lord Corydon subscribe a compliment, and a reassurance—and then they tumbled West-ward on a public conveyance, with hardly a shilling left over to share between them—and Ali in wonder thought that never in his life before had he ever embarked on a journey, with none but good hopes, and happy expectations!
NOTES FOR THE 3RD CHAPTER
the ruins of an Abbey: Lord Byron’s portrait in these pages is of his ancestral home in Nottinghamshire, Newstead Abbey, sold by him for debt in his youth and ever afterward regretted (so I believe). It was not often in its history a happy place. The fortune that might have allowed the Byrons to preserve their seat was seized by Cromwell’s auditors, and never afterward restored; Lord Byron’s ancestor, the Fifth Lord, tho’ known to the world as ‘Wicked’ Byron, may not be entirely blamed for the damage done to the estate, the selling off of its furnishings, &c., &c., as that gloomy Peer had in fact no other resources to maintain a property that he could not sell, and one that, no matter how much my father loved it, he could not himself keep.