The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  At the conclusion of the introductions, Edward realized with wonder that all the literary lions of London were now gathered in William Pitch's front parlor, the men and women who under other circumstances and in different times had quite effectively torn each other and society in general to shreds, armed only with their pens.

  Now reduced to unity by common grief for one man, they stood in silent circles, sipping tea and gazing blank-faced out the windows, their tribute mute and therefore highly effective.

  But enough, and Edward signaled as much when approaching the door again, after having made the full circle, he begged of Jane, "Please, now take me to him."

  And she did, apparently satisfied that he had met everyone.

  As they took the stairs, he had to slow his pace for the enfeebled Jane. Heavily she leaned on his arm, her other hand pressed against her breast as though her heart were beating too rapidly. "Oh, for the ease of youth," she mourned. "I can remember the days when I took these stairs two at a time, generally in rage and ill-temper."

  He smiled considerately. "You're doing fine, Aunt Jane."

  She dismissed his lie for what it was. At the top of the landing, she came to a complete halt, gasping for breath. While she was still recovering, she said, "I've agonized all day for your mother, Edward. I wish she were here." With peculiar force, she added, "She should be here."

  Edward tried to offer comfort. "If she had known, I'm sure she would have made the effort. You know as well as I how difficult it is to pry her loose from Eden."

  Jane looked at him, a strangely soft expression on her face. "All my life I've tried to keep them apart. Now I'd give my last breath to be able to bring them together."

  She walked ahead of him down the long corridor, leaving him to puzzle her last comment. Near a door at the end of the corridor, he saw two gentlemen in close huddle. They parted as Jane approached. The three of them were talking quietly as Edward drew near. Again there were introductions, two physicians, Doctor Someone and Doctor So-and-so, the blank, unrevealing expressions of all medical men on their faces.

  "Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden, if you will," one of them suggested. "He needs his rest." Then one of the physicians had him by the arm

  and was guiding him into the dimly Ht chamber. The drapes were drawn on the one broad window, partly obscuring the pink dusk which had begun to fall outside.

  Edward closed his eyes and silently cursed the stern dictates of age. His memories of the man at his prime were painfully before him, playing horseshoes in the back garden, William teasing Edward for losing so soundly to a one-armed man.

  Again the physician passed him by. "Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden," he repeated.

  At that moment, the white head on the pillow stirred. From behind the closed eyes came a voice only slightly diminished by his faltering heart. "Pay no mind to the old cutthroat, Edward. Only by the grace of God have I survived his ministrations for all these years."

  The eyes were open now, a smile warming the once lifeless features. "Come," he muttered to Edward, waving his good left hand in the air. "Earlier today I dreamed you were here. Come, let me touch you and see if the vision has substance."

  As the nurse and physician retreated, Edward stepped toward the edge of the bed. A game of marbledores, Uncle William? the child within him cried.

  As the door closed softly behind him, Edward drew a chair close to the bed, leaned forward, and took the hand extended to him. It felt like a piece of thin white parchment, cold, with sharp blue ridges like a relief map. "I'm here, William," he said. "You're not dreaming now."

  The old man tried to shift his position on the bed. His sunken eyes peered intently into the dimness. "Why in hell are the drapes closed?" he grumbled. "Open them, Edward. A man has a right to light."

  Quickly Edward went to the window and threw open the drapes. A stream of soft pink dusk flooded the room. "That's better," the old man sighed. "Now, come back," he urged, patting the edge of the bed. "We have business to discuss."

  Edward returned to the chair and again enclosed the thin hand between his own. In the increased light he saw a purple tint to William's lips. The sight caused Edward's alarm to increase. The man resembled a cadaver. "I mustn't stay too long, William," he said. "There are others—"

  "Damn the others," William snapped. "Vultures, most of them, come to pick the bones clean."

  Again Edward smiled. "Not vultures, William. You should see your front parlor. It's a galaxy of stars, the cream of London's literati—"

  "Curdled now," the old man snapped. "Dickens is writing sentimental slop. Macaulay is arrogant as ever, and Carlyle's spouting like a

  great beached whale on such subjects as Chaos and Necessity, the Devil, and Universal Warfare—" He broke ofT. A smile softened his features. "Carlylc's the only man I know whose very voice can render a capitalization."

  He chuckled softly and shook his head upon the pillow. For an instant his eyes fell on the tops of emerald trees beyond the window. "Not a Boswell on the horizon," he mourned, "to say nothing of a Johnson." He looked back at Edward, a gleam of pride in his eyes. "I knew them both, you know, in my youth." He closed his eyes. "I can't account for much in my life, but I can say I knew the gods."

  Abruptly he shook his head as though to rouse himself out of his nostalgia. "But enough," he scolded. "Let the fools wait. I'll have to endure their farewell speeches soon enough, a fitting prelude to Hell—" Again he shifted upon the bed, as though experiencing mild discomfort. Edward noticed his nightshirt, sleeveless on one side, tailored in the fashion of all of William's garments, to conceal the absence of his right arm.

  How many times Edward had heard the tale of how he'd lost it, and he'd never tired of hearing it, how William had been in Paris in '93, at the height of the Revolution, how he'd stepped before an assassin's bullet and spared the life of Mr. Thomas Paine, and in the process lost his arm.

  Now as he waited for the old man to recover, he felt a strangely oceanic sense, as though all of London had dropped away and left the two of them stranded in this small room.

  "Great God, what a face, Edward," William now was scolding. His left hand floated weakly up and lightly brushed across Edward's brow. "What a pretty brow," he smiled. "Still a pretty brow. Your mother's brow," he added, the delight on his face softening into sorrow.

  Edward leaned forward. "She would be here if she could, William, if she knew—"

  The old man nodded quickly. "I know. You must convey to her my affection." He continued to stare intently into Edward's face as though seeing beyond it. "My God," he murmured, smiling, "that woman has never been where I wanted her. It seems as though I've spent half my life waiting for her, calling for her. When I lost this—" He glanced down at his smooth right side, then abruptly broke off" speaking.

  Edward fought continuously against the conflict within him, the feeling that he should leave and the desire to stay. "Please, William," he begged, "try to be at ease. Don't—"

  "Be at ease," the man scoffed on diminishing breath. "I'll be at ease soon enough. For now, let's talk of you."

  Edward had not expected such a direct focus.

  Apparently William saw the surprise on his face. "IVe followed the trial, Edward," he said, his voice strong. "I know all about the young woman, and I know too of your constant attendance in the company of that jackass. Sir Claudius Potter—" He hesitated, not faltering this time, merely giving Edward a chance to assimilate his words. Slowly he went on. "What I don't know is your involvement in the affair."

  Edward bowed his head. "My involvement is total," he confessed.

  William nodded. "I thought as much." Again he fell into a close scrutiny of Edward's face. "Well," he sighed, "fifty years ago you would have met the offended husband in the meadows beyond Hampstead Heath and the affair would have been settled in a matter of minutes. Now, in this 'progressive age,' the two cocks go free and the poor hen is left to suffer the consequences."

  "She will not suffer," Edward interjecte
d quickly.

  William looked surprised. "Sentence has been handed down, and knowing the old magistrate, it will stand—"

  Edward agreed, and disagreed. "But she will never face it. I have friends in Newgate—"

  Suddenly the old man's face brightened. "A plot? Oh, how delicious. Tell me all, Edward. A farewell plot to warm an old man's bones—"

  In spite of himself, Edward smiled. The very matter of which he'd agonized for four long weeks seemed suddenly as important as a theatrical at the Haymarket. "Some money will change hands," he began. "The head turnkey at Newgate will conveniently leave doors unlocked. My friends will spirit her out—" He came to a halt in his narrative, realizing that there his plot ended.

  "And?" prompted William.

  Edward shrugged. "And—nothing. She'll be free."

  "To do what?"

  "What she pleases," Edward replied, rather snappish. He left the bedside and went to the window.

  Behind him he heard a soft inquiry. "Do you love her?"

  Edward stared through the window at the patch of dwindling blue above. "I made love to her," he replied.

  Again from behind, he heard a clucking noise. "Oh, Edward," William sighed. "What a waste."

  As Edward looked over his shoulder, he saw the white head wagging back and forth. "Mind you, I'm not opposed to taking other men's wives. I took a few of my own in my day. But I always did it with passion." 'He closed his eyes as though the word tasted sweet upon his lips. "Passion," he repeated, smiling, "the true test of vulgarity and refinement."

  In his own defense, Edward said, "She was lonely, as was I. I loved

  her in a fashion, still love her, perhaps—" In despair, he shook his head and again looked out the window. "My problem, William, seems to be the classic inability to define love—"

  For a moment, the room was silent behind him. When that silence persisted, he turned in alarm, only to find the man staring at him. Still when he did not speak, Edward stepped back to the bed. In some confusion, he saw tears on the old man's face.

  "Have I said something, William, that—"

  But quickly the man shook his head. As though embarrassed by his own weakness, he hurriedly wiped the moisture away. "You'd think that at eighty plus, the word would have lost its hold on me. But it hasn't. I hear the word and I see one face, hear one voice—"

  A tribute to Jane, Edward thought, and found it touching. But the man spoke on. "You should have known her as a girl, Edward, your beloved mother, the miraculous Marianne—"

  Edward stepped closer, the ancient puzzle from his childhood beginning to fall into place. William was speaking quite steadily now, though his eyes were closed, his voice low. "I remember the first time I laid eyes on her, a drowned rat she was after the coach ride from North Devon, a mere girl of sixteen, with a scarred back"—his voice hardened—"the handiwork of your father, I might add." The hardness passed. "But what spirit, what light! Jane had banished her to the storeroom, her first feeble attempt to make a servant of her." The dim eyes opened. "What a foolish gesture that was." Again the voice fell. "Oh, God, how I loved her, love her still, if you'll forgive an old man's confession."

  Edward held his position beside the bed. Words were beyond him. There was nothing to forgive. It wasn't embarrassment he felt, rather a kind of relief, as more pieces fell into place, as though he'd known forever what the man was now confessing.

  Then an urgency surfaced on the old face. He waved wildly for Edward to come closer. "I have lived," he whispered, "my entire life on the nourishment of what might have been." His head pressed backward into the pillow as though he were seized by a tremor. "What a waste," he gasped.

  Edward felt concern for him, the emotional remembrances obviously taking a tremendous toll. "Please, William," he begged, "no more talk-"

  The old man looked up. "Do I shock you?" he grinned. "These antics of the heart? The young always think their elders too stupid for such knowledge. But if you are listening carefully, you will hear a lesson—aimed particularly at you."

  Distracted, Edward murmured, "I don't understand."

  William laughed. "You were never dense before, Edward. Why now, when you need most to listen and to understand?"

  Hurriedly Edward shook his head. "I'm concerned for you, William—"

  The laugh faded rapidly. The enfeebled head tried to lift. "Forget about me," he rasped. "It's you. You're the one." He relaxed again into the pillow as though he knew he was spending more energy than he had to spare. "I look at you, Edward, and you become for me a flawless pier glass. I see myself as I was forty years ago, full of the rancor of an ambitious man who knows he has powers and is savage because they aren't being used, feels that the months, the years are being gnawed away—you are just at the stage, Edward, when you are ready and willing for liberation. You are too robust a man, have too much strength and warmth of nature—"

  Edward started to protest, but William cut him off. "No, hear me out. You have too much strength and warmth of nature to abide in passive despondency much longer." Again he smiled and shook his head. "Depression, yes. The two of us are born depressives. I struggled against it for a lifetime, as you will too. But like all true depressives, we have much capacity for enjoyment—and love, and I think, in your case, it is ready to break out—"

  He was trembling. Edward could feel it in his hand. "Did you break out, William?" he asked softly.

  A look of grief crossed the man's face. "No," he whispered. "Instead I committed the worst crime that a man can perpetrate on himself." He looked directly up at Edward. "I accustomed myself to it."

  Edward listened closely. He leaned forward and with his handkerchief caressed the sweat-covered brow. The eyes which had been closed opened again.

  "I apologize for painting such a black picture, Edward," he whispered. "And it isn't true that I'm not grateful. God grant everyone such a life." He smiled warmly. "But it might have been more, if I'd only had the will to—"

  Suddenly he broke off in a spasm of coughing. The frail frame shook under the paroxysm. Edward started forward in alarm. Although the spasm passed, it left him with his head pushed backward, eyes closed. But the mind was still working, forming words.

  "Remember one thing, Edward. Nature isn't to be changed. But character, by will and effort, might be—"

  The cough was almost continuous now. Tears filled his eyes. "Please, William," Edward begged.

  "Oh God," the old man moaned.

  Edward tried to rise. The physicians were just outside. But in spite of the weakness now engulfing William, he would not release Edward's hand. The man's lips were moving. Edward leaned closer in order to hear.

  "Thank you, Edward," he whispered, "for sharing this life with me. And thank your mother—" The sentences were coming in fragments now. "Much love—much indulgence—much bewilderment, suffering this hour of dreams—this life. There is no error in the design, merely errors in—us—"

  The bell for evening matins sounded in St. Mark's down the road. Edward leaned forward and kissed the man. Blind with tears, he murmured, "I love you, William."

  He saw the head turn upon the pillow as though he might speak. But instead an awful gasp escaped through purple lips. Edward saw his mouth frozen in a final attempt to draw breath.

  He sat a moment longer, clasping the hand. He tried to remember what the man had said, but the words were a jumble.

  The bell in the church steeple began to ring again. As in a trance, Edward placed the hand upon the sunken chest. Again he leaned forward and kissed the beloved face.

  Suddenly in a pain of grief, he bent over and bodily lifted William into his arms, cradled him close, and rocked him as though he were a child in need of comfort. Beneath the nightshirt, Edward felt the ancient stump, felt as mutilated as the man he held, something cut off, missing, gone forever.

  Behind him he heard the door softly open. Then he heard a rush of footsteps and the two physicians were separating them, one guiding Edward away, the other hovering o
ver William.

  Looking up, he saw Jane clinging to the door, her face buried in her hands. Quickly he went to her and separated her from the door and took her into his arms. As the old woman clung to him, her sobs increased. To one side, Edward saw the physicians drawing the coverlet over William's face. Still he continued to hold the frail woman and absorb her distress. With his hand pressing her head to his breast, he said, "His last words were of you, Jane, how empty his life would have been without you—"

  She looked up at him, tears streaming in a crisscross pattern over the wrinkles of her face. "I loved him," she whispered fiercely, as though someone had challenged her. "I loved him always, and will love him to my grave."

  Edward nodded. He continued to hold her for several minutes. Sooner than he might have expected, her grief seemed to subside,

  There were important matters awaiting her, the physicians standing a discreet distance away. She dried her tears and with remarkable control asked Edward to stay close by. She would have need of him.

  He assured her that he would, although as she turned toward the waiting physicians, he doubted her words. She had run William Pitch's life with extraordinary efficiency. She would preside over his death in a like manner.

  The corridor outside the chamber was now filled with people, word of the death somehow having spread to the visitors waiting in the front parlor. As Jane rather primly arranged the dignitaries for final deathbed visitations, Edward retreated.

  Hurriedly he pushed past the crowded corridor, heading for the stairs. Someone called after him, but he didn't stop in his downward progress. In fact his speed increased until he was running across the entrance hall and out into the cool May evening.

  He saw the street still clogged with carriages, even more arriving. He wanted no fellowship, desired to exchange words with no man, and in an attempt to gain some privacy, he cut sharply to the left, skirted the house, and took refuge in the darkened garden.

  He felt like something lost, trying to get home. The exhaustion was increasing. Slowly he sank down onto a stone bench and bowed his head.