“Listen, Dutchman, I ain’t gonna be respons’ble fer ya,” said the champion.
Doing his best impression of an English accent, Mugin said, “Me neither.”
“Well, little man, let’s see what you can do!” said the announcer, and rang the bell.
The champion gave Mugin a moment—perhaps he felt like being a bit nice—but Mugin did nothing. So the man—apparently his name was Harry, or so the announcer called him—charged forward.
That was when Mugin dropped his hands behind his back and fell to the floor, holding himself up by his palms and letting his raised foot meet the approaching fist. Knuckles hit metal and the crunching was audible. Mugin pushed himself up, taking the fighter down with his foot, and stood over him. “Give up,” he whispered. “Or I’ll break both your hands.”
“That wasn’t fair!”
“You are bigger than me. I do what I can.”
Harry looked up at the man he was facing, but the light obscured much of his face. He pulled away, and Mugin gave him a chance to get to his feet. One arm he held up, but it was bloodied and red. The other was still fine.
“Round one for the Dutchman!” said the announcer. “Round two!”
Mugin still held his arms behind his back as the bell rang. He stood there, unmoving, before his opponent. The crowd was torn between booing and waiting to see what the wily foreigner would do. Mugin was much smaller than his opponent, and would have been a whole head shorter if not for his geta shoes. He was not muscular. He did not have a lot of weight.
“Fight like a man!” Mugin said nothing. He waited. He was in front of Harry, but when the muscled Harry charged, he wasn’t there. He leaped on his shoulders, and then over him, landing on the ground as Harry went into the audience. There were no barriers, so it was not unheard-of for the first row to get injured. Harry barely had time to reorient himself before Mugin kicked one of his legs out from under him at the knee. Mugin grabbed the man’s hair so he would not fall forward onto some smaller audience member and tugged his hair so he fell backward, flat onto the dirty floor with a thud. Mugin put a shoe on his chest again. “Hurt me, not audience.” He kicked him, and Harry rolled away. Slowly, he got to his feet.
The announcer approached Mugin. “Look, Mister, if you can understand English, you have to use your hands. All right? None of this foot stuff.”
Mugin kicked off his sandals. Only then did Harry get back into stance. This time, Mugin drew one of his hands up behind him and the other out flat in front of him, palm up.
“Man, I’m never goin’ to Dutchland!”
“Fight like an Englishman!”
Mugin ignored his detractors and stayed in position. This time, when Harry came charging, he stepped sideways, caught the man’s arm, and twisted the wrist so hard it turned Harry over and he hit the ground again. Mugin towered over him.
“All right!” Harry shouted. Mugin offered him a hand, and he painfully took it, as one hand was broken and the other wrist badly sprained. Compared with how the previous combatant had fared against Harry, beaten to a pulp in the head, Harry was still relatively intact.
Mugin bowed to a dizzy Harry, and the announcer raised Mugin’s arm. “Winner!” There were both cheers and jeers, and after collecting his prize money, Mugin made a hasty exit while Nadezhda and Georgie made their own. They met up half a mile away, and began a more leisurely walk back to the house.
“You count,” he said, handing the pile of bills and the coins to Nadezhda. “Well, Jorgi-chan, what did I do right?”
“You threw him down three times!”
“And how did I do that?”
“With your legs!” As they reached the edge of the small estate, Mugin stopped. “How did I really beat him? I was smaller than he was. I was weaker than he was. I was shorter than he was.”
“You got out of the way.”
“Right, little ookami,” he said with a playful pat on her head. “The others, they stood up against him. One heavy object hitting another heavy object until one goes down—always the smaller one. Stupid gaijin. If your opponent wants the wall behind you so badly, give it to him.” He leaned over. “You always remember that.”
“What if I’m fighting someone smaller than me?” He smiled. “Then just be kind.That poor person.”
Darcy felt something in the pit of his stomach as their little boat approached the island. After they had left for the Isle of Man, he had felt pangs of remorse for subjecting Grégoire to this—no, for subjecting himself to this. The last time he had been here was when he was five and ten, but he remembered everything, for it seemed as if nothing had changed.
The solicitor was there to greet them on the bright fall morning. “Hello, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bellamont. We’ve cleaned up the place—both for the sale, and for your own inspection. It had been closed up for years, so there was a bit of work to do.”
Behind them was the house, that long, strange one-level dwelling. The previous owner (before the Darcys) had just kept adding room after room, instead of building another level above. It was one long hallway all the way to the end, where his uncle had spent his days and nights.
“We brought in some food and a cook.You’ll be staying how long?”
“Not more than a few days, at most,” Darcy said, already wanting to leave. “Thank you.”
In the immediate rooms they heard the cook singing to herself. She hurried out, curtsied to them, and asked them when they wanted dinner. Then she made herself scarce.
It was just room after room as Darcy opened the first set of doors to reveal a sitting room that had been recently dusted, but the furniture was as he vaguely remembered it. Was this the room he had sat in while his father talked with his uncle, undoubtedly about him? He could not remember. The next room looked the same, almost exactly—except for a pile of books in the corner that had not been dusted. “He liked to read,” he said to Grégoire.
The next room was the same, except that there were more books; all in piles, none on shelves. It was not a room meant for bookshelves, just another sitting room. How much sitting could a person do?
It went on and on. In each room were more books, to the point where there were actual cases of them, and furniture shoved aside to make space. Everything looked the same—they had changed nothing, just abandoned it. There was even a chair overturned for some reason. Grégoire set it up properly before they moved on.
“This is it,” he said. “They might have cleared it out, I don’t know.” But he opened the door, and discovered that they had not. They both stepped in, the silence impenetrable.
His uncle’s room was exactly as he remembered it, except that there was no longer a mattress, just the wooden frame of the narrow bed. All the walls were bookshelves, except the one with the window, facing out to the sea. There were books piled up on the dresser, beside the bed, and under the bed—everywhere, as if he had just been finishing up a few novels the day before. But Gregory Darcy was long dead. There was a closet full of clothes, but they both coughed when the closet door was opened and the dust burst forth. The ancient garb of their father’s generation hung before them, half eaten by moths.
“Brother,” Grégoire said. Darcy turned around. Grégoire focused on the desk before the window, where their uncle undoubtedly had sat for hours on end. He lifted the lid and opened it. Inside, aside from the pens and bottles of now-dried ink and the knickknacks, were piles and piles of paper, all filled with writing. Some were even in hand-bound notebooks. Grégoire picked up a bound one. The title read November 1778—October 1779. “He wrote.”
What mysteries were contained in there? Did he really want to know? Darcy avoided the question by instead opening the dresser drawers.Aside from the yellowed shirts and hair powder, there were portraits. “Look at this,” he said, calling Grégoire away from the journals. He held up two portraits, connected by a metal bracket. “Our father and uncle.” They looked very similar, with only their names inscribed on the back to identify them. Each one looked maybe
one and ten or two and ten; they were about the same age as Geoffrey was now. Geoffrey resembled both of them, but Geoffrey also took after his mother in many ways.
Darcy looked down at the journal in Grégoire’s hands. “Do you think he wanted someone to read them?”
“His death, he planned. He could have burned his writings beforehand if he chose.”
“Are you so sure he wanted them to be read?”
“No,” Grégoire said. “I wish to find out.”
CHAPTER 23
More Notes from the Underground
DARCY BUSIED HIMSELF with the solicitor for the rest of the morning and most of the early afternoon. He was willing to sell, but he needed time to remove some personal items from the property—boxes and boxes of books. He authorized the hiring of men to package them, and wrote a quick letter to his wife, saying that they were safely arrived and would be staying for perhaps a few days to finish up some business. Only after seeing that everything was in order did he return to his brother, who was still at the desk, papers piled everywhere.
“Our uncle was quite prolific,” Grégoire said. “Here.” He passed Darcy some yellowed parchment.
1 August 1768
Geoffrey sent me a new book today. More accurately, it arrived, so he must have sent it some time ago. It is an original of Boccaccio’s Decameron. How coincidental, to receive a set of stories told by people who have gone into exile to escape illness. I wonder if Geoffrey read it at any point or he merely bought it because he presumed I did not already own it. The library that Father provided is already impressive, I must say. In that respect, I have not been ill treated.
12 August 1768
My delay in writing the daily life of this madman was not of my own design. Even now, my (blot) strength fails me.
Dr ______ came to bleed me yesterday, and I was stupid enough to scream, which meant more bleeding, for only a madman would scream at having a scalpel scraped across his flesh, no? More tomorrow.
18 August 1768
I look back. “More tomorrow. “A week has passed. I could ask Nurse ____ to transcribe my entries, I suppose, were there truly anything worth saying other than that I hate her and I hate Dr. _. I hate them all so much.
19 August 1768
Apologies, Journal. I spoke out of frustration, not actual hatred. The staff believe they are doing right by me, that they are doing only their best. What do they think—they will cure me and I will go home? I am dead anyway in England; I cannot go home.
LET ME BE MAD!
“Were I him,” Darcy said, “I would not want this made public.”
“We are hardly the public,” Grégoire said. “I am not proposing to paste it on the wall at Pemberley.” Looking up at Darcy, he reclaimed the papers. “You need not read them, Darcy.”
Darcy nodded numbly and left Grégoire alone as he returned to his sorting of the book collection.
Dinner was served after Vespers.
“Darcy,” Grégoire said. “You can leave tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I’ll oversea the removal of his things.You can do the rest from England.”
Darcy replied simply, “Did you read any more of the journals?”
“Yes.”
There was silence again. Grégoire watched his brother move the food around on his plate.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, I did!” Darcy said. “He was my uncle, too.”
“Because I can—”
“He was my uncle, too!” The sound of the glass slamming on the wooden table was enough to startle both of them. They let the sound fade into an uncomfortable silence as the cook took their plates. “Excuse me,” he said in a much smaller voice as he excused himself, leaving Grégoire at the table.
“Is the master all right?” said the cook.
Grégoire eventually found his brother on a bench by the sea, without his hat or overcoat, staring out into the inky ocean of night.
“You can approach,” Darcy said. “I don’t bite.”
Grégoire sat down beside him, a folio in his hands. “I’m sorry. If you want, we’ll burn them.”
“Do you think it is what he would have wanted?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t know him. He did not know himself.” Grégoire smoothed his hand over the cover of the folio. “I do suspect that he helped you at one time, and that he might not have been as ill as we have believed. Anyone would go mad from the torment he describes.”
“You seem well.”
Grégoire managed a half smile. “Thank you for the compliment, but you know very well my intention.” He handed the folio to Darcy. “This is the rest of what I’ve read. There is far more.”
27 March 1769
Geoffrey visited today. He did not look well and I did not look well, so it was mutual. Father is dead. He died in his sleep. Would I be so lucky. I think constantly of death. Did I wish it on Father, even by accident? Do my thoughts have power? Will any of this affect anyone? The plan was to remove me from the picture. Were we successful?
29 March 1769
I do not understand why I have these thoughts that are so terrible that I cannot transcribe them. I am shamed. I did not think this way at Pember—I cannot write it. It hurts too much. I was afraid. I was irrational. I had thoughts there that were bad, but not like this. Now I think things in my boredom that any person should think are crazy. I am no longer borderline. I am beyond the pale, as they say.
14 April 1769
Excuse my absence. I was detained for some time after bashing Dr. ____ in the head when I believe he attempted to bleed my brain. My brain! I need my brain! It is all I have left, even in its tarnished form. So they tied me to the bed and left me like a naughty child to be punished. They took away everything sharp. They would not let me go outside. I decided not to be the master of Pemberley’s fate—can I not be the master of my own?
3 June 1773
Geoffrey visited. He is engaged to be married to an earl’s daughter.The family, he does not care for too much, but he is in love. I could see it on his face; it lit up when he talked of her. I hope it lasts. I hope that all of his wild oats have been sown and there are none left.
He agreed to stop the treatments. I am all joy! Though some of me remains flesh, my spirit is happiness, and my blood is on fire—and it will stay in me! I take a tonic for sleep, or if I am agitated, but it is of my own choosing. He also changed my nurse. I like her better, though she does treat me like a child; anyone would be preferable to the previous woman. I can rest now.
“Does it go on like this?” As usual, Darcy’s calm voice masked a wellspring of emotions.
“I imagine so.”
Darcy handed back the folio. “Then let us keep reading.”
The handsomely paid solicitor returned the next day on a boat laden with trunks and another filled with men to do the packing. There was a library to rival Pemberley’s in this strangely constructed house, and it would not be an easy task. Darcy looked at each title as he passed it on, to be packed with great care. The duplicates would go either to Grégoire’s private collection—if he ever desired to have one—or a poorhouse school. His uncle had been quite well read.
Grégoire sat at the desk, reading through the letters his namesake had set to ink for some reason or another. At lunch, he shared some with Darcy.
5 July 1773
Interesting to note that there is general improvement in my health since the end of my treatment. This is, of course, coming from a man whose word cannot be trusted. After all, I am insane. But I have more energy, and feel calmer. I go outside more.There are wonderful ruins on this island. Like me, they are slowly turning to dust, but at least the moss on them is quite beautiful. Yesterday, I saw a bird. I wrote to the executor in London to inform Geoffrey that if they have a book on birds native to the Isle of Man, then he should send it on.
3 December 1773
My brother did send me a large shipment of books that arrived just today in a
great trunk, and I must assume they were selected at random, because there is no lack of variety here. For some reason beyond my admittedly flawed comprehension of this world, a large stack of them were women’s novels, the sort that make me think the printing press a contemptible invention. There was a book on the birds of Scotland, for which I am (relatively) grateful. Perhaps most interesting was a copy of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, a rather old translation, but one I can read well enough. It came in two volumes, one which seems to be just a collection of his letters about his travels to other churches.
14 January 1774
I am fascinated by this St. Bede, the father of English history, not for his tales but his experiences in the Dark Ages, wandering around the isle and the people he met along the way. He records a lost culture, which at his own time was dying; I wonder if he knew that or considered it. He must have. I will write the solicitor to see if more books are available.
29 October 1774
Large shipment of books of every sort. I am to be a truly enlightened madman if I manage to read them all, and I think I shall. There is little else to do with my time besides this journal itself, and what do I have to record? The time of the tides? The servants are not much for conversation. I feel well. Did I make a mistake? Did my isolation cure me? I sought escape and have found it, and it is most unsettling.
4 June 1779
The truth is confirmed: I am not fit for human contact. I am too afraid. It is a relief in a way, confirming the rightness of the path I chose, though in looking back I can see that Father was most persuasive about it.
Geoffrey came just yesterday and brought his wife, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, and his son, Fitzwilliam Darcy (poor soul, such a name!). I do not think Geoffrey was mistaken in his choice of bride in the brief moments we spoke, but she was terrified of me and I of her, though I made an effort to hide it. She was wearing Mother’s jewels.This is Mrs. Darcy now. Geoffrey is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. He has assumed the role meant for me, and he has made a presentable depiction of a happy family.
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 22