by A. N. Wilson
—Eye tzink I see trees ahead.
—Ah think if tha lukes a bit closer-lahk, tha’ll find ’em tubby masts, lahk.
It was too much. One of the young wags was laughing so much that he actually bit through the stem of his pipe, and coughing was added to the general mirth.
Reinhold, the real Reinhold’s, cordial greeting, made the sillier of them look away to continue their giggling, while Elliott, the most mature, blushed with embarrassment, hastily looking from Forster to Forster to see whether the ‘imitations’ had been overheard. The hasty way in which George’s eyes darted in another direction, refusing Elliott’s gaze, said everything.
—Good evening, Dr Forster, Elliott said.
—Good evening, Mr Elliott. We had a good day. George made an excellent watercolour.
—Excellent. Excellent!
—Well – after a pause – we must return to our quarters, said Reinhold, rubbing his hands, and hoisting to his shoulders his botany-bag, which he had momentarily laid down, in anticipation of a longer conversation.
On the other side of the harbour, they watched a party of slaves, chained from the neck, returning from a day in the plantations. Reinhold uttered a splutter of disgust.
Nearly ten years later, George found himself married to Therese Heyne, and in the first week of sharing a bedroom with his wife, he had knelt beside the bed before getting into it. She was already sitting upright against the pillows in that Polish inn on the way to Vilnius. They had been married a few days, but it was their first day without Assad, and he hoped that it might be possible for their union, his and the young bride, to become that of a man and woman.
—We have not prayed together yet, he said, from his knees, and looking into at least one of her confusing, scornful young eyes.
—Do you kneel to say your prayers? he asked her. Some, I know, pray in the sitting position. If you prefer – I can come to sit beside you.
Her lips curled into a smile of pure satire.
She said,
—Oh, no . . . and then giggled.
He did not immediately inquire whether this was, ‘oh no, I sit to pray, I do not kneel’ – or ‘oh, no, I won’t get out of bed’. He did not know these things because in the few seconds it took for her to giggle, and to utter the two monosyllables, ‘oh no’, he lost his faith. Not merely did he abandon a personal Divinity. Even the sort of Deistic moral arbiter propounded by Professor Dr Kant was dismissed by the laugh of this young woman. The universe was suddenly emptied of purpose. The angel choirs, the redeeming Christ, the seventeen hundred years of faith, the witnesses of Augustine, Thomas of Kempen, of Luther and Johann Sebastian Bach evaporated. The considered wisdom of every great mind in the Western world, from Ambrose of Milan to Dante, from Cyprian of Carthage to old Samuel Johnson, deferred to the knowing laughter of this conceited little girl.
When this loss of faith occurred, it was a shocking, and yet an almost familiar sensation, because of what had happened that afternoon, a decade earlier, in St Helena. The suppressed scorn of the midshipmen worked its devastating effect. By the time that Reinhold and George had returned to the Governor’s lodge, the boy no longer believed in his father.
He felt, as, ten years later he would feel, upon the departure of his Creator, a poignant combination of emotions: hilarious relief, and an instantaneous stab of inconsolable mourning. Ever since consciousness dawned, he had seen the world through Reinhold’s highly distinctive intelligence. From Vati he had learnt to speak – first German, then Latin. From Reinhold, as did the Apostles from the Holy Ghost on the Day of Pentecost, George received the gift of tongues, learning Russian, French, English, Polish. From Reinhold, he learnt to name the plants and trees and birds. From Reinhold, he learnt love, in so far as we can learn love.
Wherever he had been with his father, his eyes had beheld the effect which this lanky scholar, both arrogant and vulnerable, had upon the rest of the human race. He had seen the bafflement of Russian customs officers and courtiers as Reinhold told them their business; witnessed the faces of English academicians as Reinhold laid bare for them their intellectual shortcomings. And on the Resolution he had seen the ‘Reinhold effect’ as it transpired that he was a better astronomer than Mr Wales, a more practical mariner than Mr Gilbert, even, on occasion, a better navigator than Captain Cook. At the beginning of the voyage George had possessed such total faith in Reinhold that he actually took his father at his own estimation. Later, as adolescence increased his capacity for embarrassment, George began to cringe when he noticed his father being proved wrong. His fundamental love of Reinhold, however, was unshaken: and he had remained proud of his father’s prodigious range of accomplishments, the seventeen languages, the patiently acquired knowledge of chemistry, of botany, of astronomy, cartography, history, theology.
The split second loss of faith which occurred, as they left behind them the facetious group of midshipmen, did not deny Reinhold’s cleverness, but it revealed him for what his son had always seen, but never allowed himself to see: preposterous. In the subsequent years in England, nothing came as a surprise. Reinhold’s quarrel with the Admiralty, his urging on his son to write the Voyage – thereby insuring the enmity of the entire British establishment – his quarrel with Banks, his quarrel with Cook, his expectation of preferment – perhaps to the Directorship of the British Museum – his running-up of huge debts, his narrow escape from imprisonment as a debtor, only effected because he took a humble job as a clerk at the Prussian Embassy and could therefore claim diplomatic immunity – the whole ridiculous story, in which Reinhold threw away all his chances. His impossible character, which was what George, from infancy, had been programmed to love, made all his other accomplishments redundant.
Swinging past the gates of the Governor’s lodge and up the front steps, they came through the wide front doors. Mr Skottowe, the Governor, was standing in the hall. He was a big bluff Yorkshireman. Without any embarrassment, Captain Cook had informed him that his own father, James Cook senior, had worked as a hand on a farm on Skottowe’s estates in Great Ayton. Skottowe was a countryman, who knew all the birds, plants and fish of the island.
—More drawings? he asked eagerly. I say! What a gift you have, young sir! I was looking through this portfolio of yours.
George’s recent drawings were spread out on the large, marble-topped round table in the hall of the Governor’s lodgings.
—Pentapetes erythroxylon! Solidago sparia – you’ve got them to the life, sir!
Reinhold opened his mouth to speak, and for the first time, the new George, the faithless George, blotted out his father’s words, even though they were anodyne, harmless, provoking from the Governor merely an
—Indeed, sir, indeed!
II
1793
IT WAS A TWO-DAY JOURNEY BY POST-CHAISE BEFORE GEORGE reached the cobbled streets and Dutch gables of Arras. Building work appeared to be in progress in the centre of town. The cathedral, near his inn, the Lion d’Or, was surrounded by rubble, but when he asked the head waiter what was on hand, the man merely looked at him with dismay and shrugged. The next day, when he had slept better than he had done in weeks, and when he was breakfasting – again for the first time in an age – on fresh bread and real chocolate – he heard from fellow travellers in the coffee-room that the cathedral was being demolished.
—The new Mayor, the local Controlleur . . . M. LeBon – has decreed it.
—A curious name for one who wants to do something so bad, said his wife, who sat opposite him.
They were a couple in their fifties. The man dabbed his lips with his napkin and said,
—Be careful, my dear, what you say.
They were all speaking in English. The couple, who were trying to get to one of the Channel ports, and so home, had been visiting the wife’s sister in Amiens. The wife was evidently French, of the prosperous shopkeeping class. Her husband, in a buff coat and with high riding-boots, informed George that he was a brewer from Faversham in Ken
t.
—My wife’s sister was widowed. Her husband, a most respected parfumier, was called to his maker a month ago. We were allowed to go to the funeral, in spite of the war. But it was before . . . all this.
All this was the atmosphere of Terror, which was palpable.
—I cannot take my wife out of the inn, sir. Not with those – those Instruments erected in the market square. Yet I wish to go to the Mairie to obtain permission to go on to Calais.
—I shall mention your case to the Mayor in person, said George. I have an appointment with the Mayor himself this morning at ten. Your name is?
—Mr Godfrey, Mr and Mrs Godfrey of Faversham, sir, Faversham, Kent – a brewer by trade, sir, one who travels in peace. We came only—
—Only to the funeral pomps, said his wife, briefly breaking into her own language. We wanted to see if we could help my sister – perhaps bring her to England to live with us for a while until she was stronger. Her son has taken over the running of the parfumerie.
—They cut five heads off in the market square only yesterday, said Mr Godfrey, who either could not speak French, or chose not to.
—And you sir, said Mrs Godfrey, what is your name?
—Argan, sir. M. Argan, said George.
He did not know what prompted him to choose the name of Molière’s imaginary invalid, but it was a time when instinct prompted the use of aliases. His letters to Therese had become more and more gnomic and ciphered. Long since, when he was in the grip of his Rosicrucian madness in Kassel, George had taken the sobriquet ‘Amadeus’ as his name in the brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Now he had taken to writing to his wife in his own person, but referring to Amadeus as if he were a third party.
The state of Amadeus’s health gave some cause for anxiety but the doctors say this was to be expected in this summer heat. I think you know where he is spending the summer. I think he would like to meet you to discuss some of these matters, but you know that he might find it difficult to obtain permission.
George gave no hint to Therese of the reason for M. Amadeus to be in Arras.
Walking to the Mairie after his breakfast with the Godfreys was a distressing experience. Only the old women of the town were brave enough to make open protest against the destruction of their cathedral. They did so vociferously, tugging at the clothes of the soldiers and labourers who clumsily but effectively were busy with the destruction work.
—Out of our way, old hags, or you’ll get rocks on your old coifs, yelled the foreman. They reckon the tower’ll come down this morning and then the walls’ll be child’s play.
—Blasphemy!
—It’s God’s House, you fiend, that you destroy!
—That’s what the Abbé said a week ago! called one of the workmen.
—He won’t be saying it this week, laughed one of his colleagues, not unless his head can talk on its own in a basket.
And no sooner had he said it than a man on a farm cart, operating a large ball and chain on a winch and pulley, swung them with devastating effect to destroy a spindly flying buttress which supported one of the north side walls of the church.
—Away, away! he called, and there was a panic-stricken run, as workers and old ladies alike hurried from the quivering walls. A huge fissure appeared in the side wall. The pointed arches of two windows became detached at the top. Coloured glass cascaded outwards and the walls shook like rumpled blankets. A cloud of dust hid their fall.
Half an hour later, George sat opposite the man responsible for the destruction, the local maire, Citizen Joseph LeBon.
—What do you think of our little building project? Our clearance of rubbish, citizen?
He was a large man of twenty-eight, who stretched out long muscular legs from his office chair. Already, his cheeks and chins were fleshy, and he was vain enough to wish to disguise this with a flourish of white cravats at his throat.
—Citizen Robespierre, who wasted so many hours of his life in that building as a boy, was anxious to have the site cleared. Eh? said LeBon who had a drawly manner of speech and made even non-interrogatory sentences into questions. I should know, eh? Served enough damn masses, did I? Sent to seminary, was I? Ordained priest? Oh yes – a holy priest sits before you, citizen! Consecrated by no less a one than old Bishop Talleyrand, wasn’t I? Priest of the Oratory in Paris? The Oratory? You know the Oratory?
—I don’t actually.
—How is that, Citizen Argan?
—I am a Protestant.
LeBon looked momentarily discomposed, as if George had confessed to being a talking ape.
—Dangerous times, eh, citizen? Dangerous for all of us? Perhaps safer not to ask too much, know too much? But you are come to do delicate business, citizen? Of that I am informed. You will have our protection. You come highly recommended.
—Really?
Praise is always seductive.
—Citizen Guénot thinks highly of you. This surprises you, eh?
He ran stubby fingers through thick brown hair. There would be some women, George reflected, who would melt.
—Come to you, wouldn’t you say? My guess? The English will make the first move, eh? But when they do, you’ll have safe passage to the camp where they hold our prisoners. A straight swap, no deals? Their soldiers for our soldiers?
—That, I understand, is the deal.
George took this opportunity to tell LeBon about the Godfreys, the harmless couple staying at his inn. He explained about the death of the parfumier, of his sister-in-law coming to comfort her widowed sister, of their being marooned in Arras, uncertain of how safely they could get to Calais and find a boat home. LeBon seemed interested, wrote down their details.
—So may I tell them you will help them, citizen?
—Is it ever safe to tell anyone anything?
That afternoon the tower of the cathedral collapsed and by nightfall the whole building was a heap of rubble.
A couple of days later, two revolutionary soldiers arrived at the inn to inform the Godfreys that they were being offered safe passage to Calais. Mrs Godfrey was so effusive in her tearful thanks that George almost had to unclasp her from himself as they parted: but he did feel quiet satisfaction that his interview with LeBon had had at least one happy consequence. Meanwhile, he waited at the inn for word from the British army. Three weeks passed. George started work on his essay on the relationship between politics and personal happiness. For the first time in months, despite a yearning for his children, he felt something like contentment. Even without its medieval cathedral, Arras was a fine old town, its squares and red-brick gabled houses beautifully planned and proportionate. The Lion d’Or was a pleasant inn, and he became fond of the servants, even the taciturn waiter, who had seemed cold and unfriendly upon arrival, gave him good white Bordeaux to drink in the afternoons, and took charge of his laundry with an efficiency which recalled the magic touch of Nally. These shirts, which had grown used to having grey cuffs and yellowing fronts, were now transfigured. An English midshipman would have worn them with pride. How these miracles were effected remained a mystery.
Guests came and went. Some engaged M. Argan in conversation, some kept to themselves. One who was quite obviously going to keep himself to himself was a bushy-browed traveller, with one of the new stove-pipe hats, white trousers and a green riding-coat, who never appeared to take his eyes from his newspaper as he ate his two cutlets and drank his red wine. Only when this ceremony had been conducted did he remark, in unaccented French,
—As good a claret as you could find in the cellar of Le Blanc’s in the rue St-Jacques . . .
—In which city, sir? asked George.
—Why, à Londres, said the stranger, his voice sinking to a whisper. And there are those who find themselves stranded in the good land of France and would love to come home . . . if an arrangement, satisfactory . . .
So this was Major Manson, who had come at last.
Once they were in the park which had once been the gardens of the (looted) bisho
p’s palace, the Englishman reverted to his own language. When they were safely out of anyone’s earshot the Major said,
—I won’t mince my words, sir. It was a dirty trick. A dirty trick.
—You have the advantage of me, Major.
—The apprehension of Mr Godfrey, a harmless Kent brewer and his wife, who is of a nervous disposition. To have allowed them to get as far as Calais, and then to hold them in the barracks under armed guard.
—What is this?
—Either you are an actor, or they did not let you in on their little plan.
They walked in silence. George was indeed shocked.
—Well, you can tell the mad priest who has taken charge of this poor little town – if he thinks the Revolution will be helped by chopping off the head of an English brewer and his harmless little wife – good luck to him. I’m a gentleman and a Christian, but I’m not going to risk the life of one English soldier to save the sister of some French haberdasher—
—Parfumier.
—Does it matter? You can tell that to your pals. Chop off the little milliner’s head – though you’ve no right to chop off the Kent brewer’s. But if you do, you won’t get back any of your prisoners. Understood?
George felt seriously aggrieved that he had been the instrument by which the harmless Mr and Mrs Godfrey had ended up being interned in a military camp at Calais. He said as much to LeBon.
—Was it not fair? Isn’t Albion at war with France?
—Yes, but a parfumier! Why, M . . . whatever the name of the dead parfumier might be . . . he might have supplied Eau de Cologne for Citizen Robespierre’s own handkerchiefs.
—Citizen Robespierre does not consider there is any need to lace his person with eau de toilette.
The next time they met, Major Manson informed George that the parfumier’s widow, Mme Martinet, had become ill. She was of too frail a disposition for it to be possible for her son, the parfumier, to disclose the fact that her sister, Mrs Godfrey, was now a prisoner of the Revolution. Humanity demanded that Mme Martinet be allowed to join her sister Mrs Godfrey and be taken to live in England with the worthy, dull, bourgeois Mr Godfrey of Faversham. If the authorities would not show compassion in this instance, there was no possibility of an exchange of prisoners of war.