by John Crowley
I was surprised, frankly—that he thought so often of her that he could calculate the hour and day of her birth, and note it. A coincidence—or maybe a fatality as Lord Byron calls it—is that I came upon this letter just as I was transcribing pages about the fictional child Una’s immurement with an evil trio of elderly female relations.
But this reminds me—the latest picture I have of you is now some fifteen years old (your mother stopped sending them at a certain point, maybe she just thought it was unimportant, that the connection was so long broken). Can you send me another? I’m sure you could do it digitally, and it wouldn’t be any trouble: not like having a miniature painted. I’d be grateful.
Lee
From: “Smith”
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE:Letter, and request
How about this. I’ll send you a picture (I have to get one from home, or have one taken; I don’t really like pictures of myself, but I’ll make an exception) if you will do something—something more—for me. Not just for me, though. For all of us (all of us now, and all of us then).
I need you to write a letter to someone for me. It’s the person who is now in possession of the original manuscript of the notes and the enciphered pages. I won’t tell you her name because it would freak her out if I did. You send me the letter, and I will forward it to her AND to the woman I work with at Strong Woman Story, who is also very keyed up and stressed out about this mystery which she actually knows nothing about. I need you to write a letter that is very gentle and very authoritative. I want you to say that this find (which you know about only from me) is among the most important literary discoveries, whatever, etc. etc. You need to sound like what you were, a professor of Byron studies or whatever it was, and also like yourself, major filmmaker person and human rights advocate. All of that. You have to convince her. You have to seduce her, or God that’s not right, you have to win her over with male authority and gravitas, isn’t that the right word? I hate asking this for a lot of reasons. But I’m asking.
S
From: [email protected]
To: “Smith”
Subject: Gravitas
And what about what I also am, international fugitive from justice and statutory rapist?
I’ll do anything you ask. Just be sure you know what—or rather whom—you’re asking.
Lee
• FOURTEEN •
In which all are older, and some are wiser
LABUNTUR ANNI—and after several have slipt away, a strange Equipage is to be seen unloaded from a ship at Calais, observed in some anxiety by a small Gentleman on the dock, who peers through a quizzing-glass at its progress. It is a day in May, that one glorious day in May upon which all romances begin, and some true stories too—this present one falling somewhat flatly between the two—& the day, whether in May or November, fine or foul, is of no relevance whatever, and is only brought in to induce a sense of pleasant expectation, that the tale is commencing—or rather re-commencing—as it should. The small gentleman is none other than our acquaintance the Honourable Peter Piper, Esq—less honourable upon this evening, it must sadly be said, than when last we had conversation with him—and the carriage, which now rests safely upon the dock, and is being readied once again to take to the roads, is his—though little else may be. His Crest is graved upon the panels of the doors, and his man (newly engaged) is to take the reins, as soon as suitable beasts are acquired with which to draw it.
Indeed it is a delightful piece of the Coach-builders’ art—a small yet commodious lit de repos, or dormeuse, more reminiscent of than truly resembling the famous coach of Buonaparte’s, found abandoned at Genappe when that small gentleman found he had no further immediate use for it. There is space within for a couch, that may be made up for sleeping; for a stove (and its chimney), a bookcase and books, for Mr Piper will not be without his Ovid, his Montaigne, and his Rambler, among others. There are plates, cups and tumblers cunningly stowed, a spirit lamp or two, and any number of containers, drawers, hooks, straps and boxes for the holding of any thing that a traveller who intends not only to progress in the carriage but to inhabit it may conceivably find useful.
How has Mr Piper come into possession of such a conveyance? The story will long be current in those purviews where he was once welcome—it will be told with admiration by some, and contempt by others—how the Honourable, after a long night’s play, and an astonishing run of luck, abetted (as in his case it always was) by his skill in Calculation, found that the young gentleman with whom he had played—who had just come into his Majority, and a fortune—was ruined. The boy collapsed upon a sopha in misery, said he was a beggar, moreover that he was on the point of marriage, which now would be capsized. When the tale was told, the Honourable—for he was not of clockwork, but had a heart—gave him back (yet somewhat to his own surprise) all that he had lost, upon the boy’s promise never to play again. But he kept this very carriage or dormeuse, which the young man had toss’d at the last moment into the pot. Mr Piper was later heard to say, ‘When I travel in it, I shall sleep the better, for having acted rightly.’
Now, however, those same Gods who before had smiled upon him have withdrawn their favour. As all know who live by play, Fortune is like that bridge into Paradise that the Mussulman imagines, narrow as a famish’d spider’s thread, sharp as a sword’s edge, that moreover crosses over Eblis, so that many a one is tumbled thence into the fires—observing which must discourage those who follow. The Honourable had always before him the example of those who had not crossed over, and tho’ he had got well along the way, by exercising the greatest care, and the right Humility, yet in the end he fell. It was a matter of a thousand—it may have been two—or ten—borrowed from one to pay another—in consideration of which, and just ahead of a man with a Warrant of Attorney, he embarked upon foreign travels. He intends to go about, and insofar as possible to live, in his dormeuse, and spare Expense; his man will be driver, and valet, and cook his maccaroni on the stove, which he will sauce from a collection of sauce-bottles carefully chosen—and down below, as the coach rolls on, he can just hear the companionable clinking together of a couple of dozens of bottles of Clos Vougeot, &c., and a very comforting sound it is. To Paris he will not go, not when the Bourbons rule there again—for he is something of a radical, and there is a bust of the fallen Emperor himself amid the coach’s furnishings, obscured by a tin of tooth-powder. He is for Brussels, and the Low Countries, Germany, Venice—as yet he knows not—he will follow his horses. Upon a night, camped like a Gypsy’s caravan in a field by the public highway, he is tucked up in his bed, night-cap on his head, with a tumbler of Brandy by, and writing, by the light of his lamp, a letter to an absent friend—to tell him of his changed Circumstances, and give him news (as he has done faithfully these several years) of all those whom once they knew, of ill fame and good, in the City and the Nation whose dust he too has now shaken from his feet.
‘MY DEAR ALI—’—thus he begins—‘You will observe from the Post-marks upon this letter that I have left my native Isle and gone ajaunting in other lands. I expect that the next letter you have from me will carry the marks of still a different place. In answering—should you chuse to fling outward from your promontory or Fastness one of the brief scrawls, so dear to me, with which you have favoured me in the past—you must address it to Poste restante, Bruxelles—for there, in a month’s time, I know I shall be—though whither thereafter, I as yet know not. I now must tell you, dear Friend, that my circumstances are not as you would wish them to be—as I know you ever wish me well—and yet they could be far worse, as I am not clapt up in Prison, nor pierced through by the Sword of an angered Debtee—if we may call the man whom a Debtor owes by that name. No, but I have fled in shame, I must now tell you, yet with ambitions to recoup my fortunes, and bring myself once more to a position whereby I may restore to those gentlemen whose Trust I have (temporarily) abused,
all that I owe them—though I see as yet no way to do so, as I have made a firm purpose of amendment in regard to Gaming, and have no other way to earn money.
‘Yet enough of these unfortunate and lowering events—I hardly need burden you with details which would strike you as depressingly familiar, an old tale oft repeated, ‘vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man’, &c.—I shall instead supply you with your budget of news, tho’ it shall also be but variations on an old theme. There is hardly a Divorce stirring this season—though many in embryo—in the form of marriages. The Summer being mild, the blood of the strong was not so heated as it hath been in other seasons you & I have known. This year I intervened in but a single fatal controversy—I mediated between a Life Guard and a passionate Clergyman—who was as hot and haughty as any Irish Gamester or Cornet of horse. The woman in question had but to speak two words (which in no degree would have compromised herself ) to end it—but she was cold and heartless, and a horrid sort of delight was in her countenance the time I observed it. I managed a reconciliation at last between the two enragés—to her great disappointment.—Our great friend Mrs Cytherea Darling has fallen upon hard times—her life is in ‘the sere, the yellow leaf ’, which looks poorly upon one engaged in Pleasure, tho’ the lady seemed as spirited as ever when last Winter she took a certain Duke to Law, to resolve a breach-of-promise case, in which she felt herself poorly used by some who had every reason to smoothe her way in the world (as she saw it)—she would have won, too, except for a late ambuscade fired by the other side, in the form of some Letters which I am afraid revealed Mrs Darling herself to have been two-hearted in the matter. The Counsel for the triumphant Defendant is known to you & me—a certain Mr Bland—skill’d as ever in parry & thrust. Mrs Darling has taken to the Continent herself, and now resides alone, and has covered her Mirrors.
‘My dear Friend, I fear that I regale you with these light matters, which can mean but little to you in your Desert, that I might postpone telling you of things more nearly concerning yourself. A doom has fallen upon Lady Sane that even those who never wholly warmed to her—despite her many admirable qualities—will be sorry for: she has, dear Ali, gone mad, whether from grief at your absence, so long continued, or from the combined weight of many troubles, or from a Fairy-stroke such as none could suspect, and none avoid—I know not. I know only that she has been removed from the bosom of her family, to a house in a more salubrious climate, where she is subject to the leech, and the cup, and other remedies, attended by physicians and spiritual doctors both—or rather she was so attended—Science having since confessed itself baffled, they have withdrawn, and I understand she is now much alone, with companions or keepers, and occupies herself solely with prayers, and with Mathematical Puzzles, of which she never tires.
‘Upon learning of these news, in the depths of the Winter just passed, I made inquiries, which gave me some certainty that your Daughter had been remanded to another property of that family, who are so well provided with forbidding and unlovely Residences from which to chuse. More investigation still discovered the place, and lo! it was that very House, so tall, so grey, upon the high seacliff, where in an inauspicious December I colluded, dear Friend, in the greatest error you had ’til then made, and the greatest you are likely to have made since—if you are indeed still on life. Providing myself with the necessities for a journey thence—a Bearskin rug, a silver flask of the best Armagnac, a brace of pistols, and a hat of Beaver—I went to call upon that house, that I might learn something to transmit to you—but oh! how dark and cold it seemed to me—like the tower where a parentless Princess is lock’d up alone—tho’ she is not alone, but well accompanied, by three Women, old Beldames reminiscent of those three who in the tale pass a single Eye among them—by which Eye the child is ever watched, and warded. As your friend and ally I was of course forbid the house—the Door was but briefly opened after my long employment of the Knocker, and it was shut again upon my inquiring nose, before my foot could be got between it and the Jamb; yet I caught one glimpse of your daughter. She stood at the top of the stair, in the light of a window there by the landing—if it was not a ghost, or an angel, that I perceived—her raven uncut hair as though set afire by the light, and her white dress like alabaster—in her hand a thing I thought to be a dead Cat but now suppose must have been a poppet or Doll she cherish’d—and her face all still, as one who looks out from the gates of Avernus upon the living world beyond, not remembering, quite, how things go on there, and who the creatures are that may be seen. Then a dark Sleave appeared from above, and a clawlike Hand was put upon her shoulder, and the Door shut at the same moment—and that is all I may report.
‘Dear friend! She is supposed the spawn of Madness and Infidelity, and to bear (as received Opinion holds) your own dark Blood and its evil tendencies, whatsoever those may be; and I fear me that she will never be let out, but will grow a pale hothouse bloom in that place. I know not what recourse you have, save that you return thence, and make appeals, and even sorties, and take what is yours to cherish, & protect. I am sure that our Mr Bland will act for you—tho’ forces may be arrayed strongly upon t’other side. Well! I shall say no more of this—you would have thought it ungentle of me to have withheld what I know—but to insist upon that which cannot be helped (if indeed it cannot)—Heaven forfend!—So let me pass to other topics—or none—for I feel the arms of Morpheus about me. My man upon the box keeps a short Gun loaded by him, for fear of Foreigners, and will not retire—I feel as well watch’d as Io was by hundred-eyed Argus—I trust that by dawn his fears will have passed—and then we are off again.—Heigh-ho for the wandering life! I shall write again when I have more to write of—and I remain, Sir, with all humble and obedient duty, your Lordship’s servant and Friend, PETER PIPER.’
Much time had passed, and many miles been rolled over by the wheels of the dormeuse, when the Honourable found at a Swiss Poste Restante, along with other communications that he put aside (for it looked like courage would be needed, to inspect them), a brief Note, without mark or return: ‘Thank you for your great kindness and your friendship to me. I shall never set foot upon that land again.—ALI.’ To which the Honourable could return only a Sigh, and a shrug.
After further peregrinations, punctuated by stays at Inns when the limitations of his dormeuse as a home grew irksome, the Honourable came down into Italy—of which Rubicon-crossing he was made sharply aware, by the painted Ceilings of the stone buildings where he stay’d, and the noisome Necessaries he there endured, and the threat of Robbers upon the highway, a species of person absent from the well-metalled roads of Switzerland—his driver now bore two guns, primed, upon his box, and the Honourable a pistol of his own—yet they were not challenged, and reached Milan—then followed their noses across the Lombard plain to Gorgonzola—Brescia—Verona—how sweetly the names trip from the tongue!—until at Mestre he must disembark from his domicile, which could not cross the water, and make for the Island City, where he had always pictured himself arriving—tho’ never in the dark of Night in a pouring Rain!
Soon the sun shone, as softly it does there upon the Adriatic, and soon Mr Piper had learned enough of la Serenissima to continue his correspondence (so perfunctory upon the other part) with his chiefest Correspondent, and one letter ran as follows:
—‘MY DEAR ALI, I am pleased with this City above all others I have seen, and may perhaps cease my roaming here—tho’ I have once fallen into a Canal, which has led to a Cold, and might have been in any case Fatal, since I have not your skills in the natatorial science—it is apparently as common an accident here as stumbling into the Gutter in London, with the difference that in this city the streets are made of Water. For this reason also I have retired my beloved dormeuse, and packed it up, and taken a piano nobile in a house not too large and not too damp. I am everywhere informed that Society has fallen away from what it was in the great days—but travel has taught me this, that whenever we enter any society, we will be told that its great days are
past, and it is not what it was. Still, there are but two conversazioni worth attending, and but four Coffee-houses open all the night, where once there were a dozen of the first rank.
‘In the mornings I attend to my Italian (tho’ the language spoken here by the generality is quite a different thing, methinks, and must be learned as well) and in the evenings I attend a conversazione where English may be heard, as well as the best of the Native tongue—I confess I love the sound of it, like Latin gone rosaceous and soft as butter—I think I am being seduced when I am but greeted, or harangued. It is said of this City that she spent a thousand years gathering in the wealth of the world, and will now spend the next hundred or so in spending it, on Pleasure—there is a maddened quality about the pursuit, that makes one giddy, and unable to avoid joining in.’
Later he continued in this wise:—
‘I learn much of Venice, and Venetians. In love they have no morals—at the which I profess myself shocked—but they have very strict codes—which supply their place, and which evoke the most grievous of social punishments when broken, viz., banishment, ostracism, and even the threat of a Duel, though they are by and large a peaceful people, and prefer Pleasure to Honour except in the extremest of cases. Their code has its heroes, too, and heroines—I have heard of, and had pointed out to me, a Lady now somewhat elderly, who never had but a single lover (her husband not figuring in the story) and who, when the lover died, remained faithful to his Memory as well, and never took another—an example of selflessness and fidelity that seemed to mark the Lady’s features with a certain air of sanctity.