by Michael Cox
I could not tell him that I had in fact formed the clearest possible ambition. Instead, I prevaricated by saying that I planned to go to London to find some suitable temporary position until a permanent course of action presented itself.
He looked at me doubtfully. ‘That is not a plan, Ned,’ he said, ‘but you must do what you think best. London, certainly, will offer many more opportunities than Sandchurch, and I would urge you to make your move soon. The longer you stay cooped up here, the harder it will be for you to break away.’
The following week, he called again and insisted that I leave the house and take some air, for in truth I had not stepped outside for several days.
We walked along the undercliff, and then down to the smooth area of wet sand washed by the waves. The sky was a perfect blue – the blue of my Heidelberg memories – and the sun shone in brilliant majesty, throwing down glancing points of light onto the ever-swelling wave-tops, as if God himself were casting a myriad new-born stars across the face of the waters.
We walked some distance in silence.
‘Are you happy, Ned?’ Tom suddenly asked.
We stopped, and I looked out across the dancing waves to where the vault of heaven met the shimmering horizon.
‘No, Tom,’ I replied, ‘I am not happy and, indeed, cannot say where happiness can be found in my life. But I am resolved.’ I turned to him and smiled. ‘This has done me good, Tom, as you knew very well that it would. You are right. I have immured myself here for too long. I have another life to lead.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say so,’ he said, grasping my hand. ‘I shall miss you, God knows. The best pupil I ever had – and the best friend. But it would grieve me more if you were to waste away here, and make no mark upon the world.’
‘Oh, I intend to make a mark on the world, Tom, have no fear. From this moment I am reborn.’
It was true. I had felt a surge of energy as I gazed out at the mighty rolling ocean, alive with sunlight – a new consciousness that my life now had purpose and definition. I had made my decision. I would go to London, and from there I would begin my great enterprise.
My restoration.
*[‘Labour conquers’. Ed.]
*[James Bell (1769–1833), A New and Comprehensive Gazetteer of England and Wales (1833–4). William Cobbett (1763–1835), A Geographical Dictionary of England and Wales (1832). Ed.]
*[John Burke (1787–1848), A General and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage of the British Empire, first published by Henry Colburn in 1826, and now generally known as Burke’s Peerage. The 1830 edition was the third. Ed.]
*[Charles Duport (1648–1711) was created a Duke in the Jacobite peerage – a title without legal existence in England. His son, Robert Duport (1679–1741), a stout Protestant, inherited only the Barony. Ed.]
*[i.e. sagittarius-lions, half-men, half-lions. Ed.]
†[‘By Endurance We Conquer’. Ed.]
17
Alea iacta est*
The only person whom I knew in London was my old school-friend and travelling companion, Willoughby Le Grice, to whom I immediately wrote to ask whether he could recommend suitable lodgings. He replied by return to say that a fellow at his Club had suggested I should write to a Signor Prospero Gallini, a former fencing master, who, by all accounts, now kept a good house in Camberwell.
I had taken the decision to abandon my given name of Glyver, except of course with respect to those few, like Le Grice and Tom Grexby, who already knew me. It was not mine by birth but was a kind of alias, imposed on me, without my knowledge or consent, by others. What loyalty did I owe the name of Glyver? None. Captain Glyver was not my father. Why, then, should I bear his name? I was who I was, whatever I chose to call myself; and so, until I could redeem my rightful name and title, I would put on whatever pseudonym suited my present purposes. My whole life would be a disguise, a daily change of dress and character. I would inhabit a costumed world, entering now as one character, now as another, as circumstance demanded. I would be Incognitus. Unknown.
There were, besides, practical considerations. In making enquiries concerning my true self, carrying the name of Glyver might be disadvantageous to my cause. Concerning the plot hatched by Lady Tansor, there were undoubtedly many aspects of which I was as yet unaware; and to use my mother’s married name would immediately reveal my interest and connexion to the protagonists. No, for the time being, it was better to work in the shadows.
I therefore wrote to Signor Gallini as Edward Glapthorn – the name by which I now became generally known in my new life. The following week, after receiving a satisfactory reply, I took coach from Southampton to make arrangements with my new landlord, whom I found to be exactly as Le Grice’s friend had described him: tall, courteous, and quietly spoken, but with a melancholy patrician bearing, like an exiled Roman emperor.
The village of Camberwell – despite the growing proximity of the metropolis – was charming, with open fields and market gardens all around, and pleasant walks through woods and lanes to nearby Dulwich and its picture gallery. Signor Gallini’s house stood in a quiet street close to the Green – not far, as I later discovered, from the birthplace of Mr Browning, the poet.* I was offered two rooms on the first floor – a good-sized sitting-room with a small bedchamber adjoining – at a most reasonable rent, which I instantly agreed to take.
Just as I was leaving, our business having been concluded satisfactorily with a glass of wine and a cigar, both of excellent quality, the front door opened and in walked the most beautiful girl I thought I had ever seen. Already, I liked to fancy myself as a pretty hard-nosed young dog when it came to the female sex; but I confess that I felt like a callow schoolboy when I saw those lustrous black eyes, and the voluptuous figure that her light-blue morning dress and short lace-collared cape did little to conceal.
‘May I introduce my daughter, Isabella?’ said Signor Gallini. ‘This, my dear, is the gentleman who has been recommended to us. I am glad to say that he has consented to take the rooms.’
His English was perfect, though spoken with the still-detectable accent of his native country. Miss Gallini smiled, held out her hand, and said that she hoped I would like Camberwell, to which I could only reply that I believed I would like it very well indeed. So began my connexion with Isabella Gallini, my beautiful Bella.
The time had now come to leave Sandchurch behind me. I set about packing my mother’s journals and papers into three sturdy trunks, and instructing Mr Gosling, her former lawyer, to sell the house. It was hard to let Beth go, for she had been part of the household for as long as I could remember, and had continued to cook and clean for me since my return from the Continent; but it had been agreed that she would perform the same domestic duties for Tom, which eased my conscience a little. Billick took the news of my departure in his usual taciturn fashion: he pursed his lips, nodded his head slowly, as if in silent recognition of the inevitable, and shook me by the hand, most vigorously. ‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, receiving the small bag of coins that I had held out; whereupon he spat out a piece of tobacco, and walked off down the path to the village, whistling as he went. That was the last I ever saw of him.
I was not embarking on my new life entirely without some plan as to what I should do with myself. Ever since the moment that I had gazed upon the photogenic drawing of the great stone king in Professor S—’s rooms in Oxford, the idea had been growing in me that the production of such images might perhaps furnish a means of making a living, or at least of supplementing my income. I had not mentioned this to Tom, fearing that it would produce another disagreement between us, but I had quietly taken steps to acquaint myself more fully with the possibilities and techniques of this wonderful new medium. I flatter myself that I was amongst its pioneers and, but for the subsequent course of my life, I think I might have made my name in the field, and have been remembered by posterity for it, along with Mr Talbot and Monsieur Daguerre.*
I had always been fascinated by the camera obs
cura and its ability to throw fleeting images onto paper, the creations of an instant, which then, just as rapidly, faded away when the camera was removed. Tom – to my utter delight – possessed one, and as a boy I would often harangue him, once our lessons were done on a fine summer evening, to go out into his little garden and let me look into ‘the magic mirror’. Those memories had been instantly revived by the photogenic drawing displayed in the Professor’s rooms, and I now determined to learn for myself how to catch and hold light and shadow in perpetuity.
To this end, a few weeks earlier, I had written to Mr Talbot, and he had kindly agreed to receive me at his house at Lacock,* where I was inducted into the wonderful art of producing photogenic drawings of the kind I had seen in New College, and into all the mysteries of sciagraphs,† developers, and exposure. I was even given one of Mr Talbot’s own cameras, dozens of which had lain all about the house and grounds. They were perfect little miracles: simply small wooden boxes – some of them no more than two or three inches square (Mrs Talbot called them ‘mousetraps’) – made to Mr Talbot’s design by a local carpenter, with a brass lens affixed to the front; and yet what wonders they produced! I had returned home to Sandchurch, afire with enthusiasm for my new hobby, and eager to begin taking my own photographs as soon as possible.
Then came the hot July day when I closed behind me the front door of the house on the cliff-top for what I thought would be the last time. I paused for a moment, beneath the chestnut-tree by the gate, to look back at the place that I had formerly called home. The memories could not be restrained. I saw myself playing in the front garden, eagerly climbing the tree above me to look out from my crow’s-nest across the ever-changing waters of the Channel, and trudging up and down the path, in every season and all weathers, to and from Tom’s school. I recalled how I would stand watching my mother through the parlour window, doubled over her work for hour after hour, never looking up. And I remembered the sound of wind off the sea, the cry of sea birds as I woke every morning, the ever-present descant of waves breaking on the shore below the cliff, thundering in rough weather like the sound of distant cannon. But they were Edward Glyver’s memories, not mine. I had merely borrowed them, and now he could have them back. It was time for my new self to begin making memories of its own.
During my first few weeks in Camberwell, I made several trips to town in search of employment. All proved fruitless, and, soon, with my little store of money diminishing fast, I began to fear that I should have to fall back on tutoring again – a most uncongenial prospect. Perhaps if I had possessed a degree, my way might have been made easier; but I did not. Phoebus Daunt had put paid to that.
The summer began to pass, and, determined I would not subside into idleness, I turned again to my mother’s journals. It was then that I made a great discovery.
My eye had happened to fall on an entry dated ‘31.vii.19’: ‘To Mr AT yesterday: L not present, but he kindly put me at my ease & explained what was required.’ ‘L’ was, of course, Laura Tansor; but the identity of ‘Mr AT’ was unknown to me. On an impulse, I searched out a tied bundle of miscellaneous documents, all of which dated from 1819. It did not take long to extract a receipt for a night’s stay, on the 30th of July of that year, at Fendalls Hotel, Palace Yard. Adhering to the back was a card:
‘Mr AT’, I thought, could now be identified, tentatively, as Mr Anson Tredgold, solicitor. This now explained an earlier entry: ‘L has agreed to my request & will speak to her legal man. She understands that I fear discovery & require an instrument that will absolve me of blame, if such a thing can be contrived.’ It seemed clear from this that some form of legal document or agreement had been drawn up, to which both women had been signatories. Of such an agreement I had found no trace amongst my mother’s papers; but, seeing its likely importance to my case, I began there and then to devise a way of getting my hands on a copy of it. My great enterprise had begun.
The next day I wrote to the firm of Tredgolds, in a disguised hand, and using the name Edward Glapthorn. I described myself as secretary and amanuensis to Mr Edward Charles Glyver, son of the late Mrs Simona Glyver, of Sandchurch, Dorset, and requested the pleasure of an interview with Mr Anson Tredgold, on a confidential matter concerning the aforementioned lady. I waited anxiously for a reply, but none came. The tedious weeks dragged by, during which I continued to make a number of enquiries concerning employment, without success. August came and went, and I began to despair of ever receiving a reply to my enquiry to Mr Anson Tredgold. It was not until the first week of September that a short note arrived, informing me that a Mr Christopher Tredgold would be pleased to receive me privately (the word was underlined) on the following Sunday.
The distinguished firm of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr has already been mentioned in this narrative, in connexion with my neighbour Fordyce Jukes, and as the legal advisers of Lord Tansor. Their offices were in Paternoster-row,* in the shadow of St Paul’s: a little island of the legal world set in a sea of publishers and booksellers, whose activities have made the street proverbial amongst those of a literary inclination. The firm occupied a handsome detached house, on the other side of the street from the Chapter coffee-house; as I was soon to discover, part of the building, unlike many in the City, was still used by the present Senior Partner, Mr Christopher Tredgold, as his private residence. The ground floor formed the clerks’ offices, above which, on the first floor, were the chambers of the Senior Partner and his junior colleagues; above these, occupying the second and third floors, were Mr Tredgold’s private rooms. One peculiarity of the building’s arrangement was that the residential floors could also be reached from the street via two side staircases, each with its own entrance that gave onto two narrow alleys running down either side of the house.
It was a fine morning, bright and dry, though with a distinct feeling of impending autumn in the air, when I first saw the premises of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, which were soon to become so familiar to me. The street was unusually quiet, but for the dying chimes of a nearby church clock and the rustle of a few newly fallen leaves drifting along the pavement and gathering beside me in a little twirling heap.
A manservant showed me up to the second floor, where Mr Christopher Tredgold received me in his drawing-room, a well-proportioned apartment whose two tall windows, looking down on the street, were swathed and swagged in plush curtains of the most exquisite pale yellow, to which the sunlight streaming in from outside added its own soft lustre.
All, indeed, was shine and softness. The carpet, in a delicate pattern of pink and pale blue, had a deep springy pile, reminding me of the turf against which I had lain in my little nook above the Philosophenweg. The furniture – sparse but of the finest quality, and much against the present ponderous taste – gleamed; light danced off brilliantly polished silver, brass fittings, and shimmering glass. The long sofa and tête-à-tête chair,* in matching blue-and-gold upholstery, that were set around the elegant Adam fireplace – each item also enclosing an abundance of perfectly plumped cushions of Berlin-work – were deep and inviting. In the space between the two windows, beneath a fine Classical medallion, stood a violincello on an ornate wrought-brass stand, whilst on a little Chippendale table beside it was laid open the score of one of the divine Bach’s works for that peerless instrument.
Mr Christopher Tredgold I judged to be a gentleman of some fifty years or so. He was of middling height, clean shaven, with a full head of feathery grey hair, a fine square jaw, and eyes of the most piercing blue, set widely in his broad, tanned face. He was dressed immaculately in dove-grey trousers and shining pumps, and held in his left hand an eye-glass on a dark-blue silk ribbon attached to his waistcoat, the lens of which, during the course of our interview, he would polish incessantly with a red silk handkerchief kept constantly by him for this purpose. In all the time of our subsequent acquaintance, however, I never once saw him raise the glass to his eye.
Dulcis was the word that impressed itself on my mind when I met Mr Christopher Tredgo
ld for the first time. Pleasant, soft, charming, mellifluous, refined: all these intangible impressions of character seemed to mix with the atmosphere of the room, its elegance and fragrance, to produce a sensation of sweet and dreamy ease.
Mr Tredgold rose from the seat he was occupying by the window, shook my hand, and invited me to make myself comfortable on the tête-à-tête chair, whilst he (somewhat to my relief) took a seat on the sofa. He smiled seraphically, and continued to beam as he spoke.
‘When your letter was passed to me – Mr … Glapthorn …’ – he hesitated for a moment as he glanced down at a little sheaf of notes he was holding —‘I thought it would be more convenient for us both if we conducted this interview in a private capacity.’
‘I am grateful to you, Mr Tredgold,’ I replied, ‘for giving up your time in this way.’
‘Not at all. Not at all. You see, Mr Glapthorn, your letter intrigued me. Yes, I may say that I was intrigued.’
He beamed again.
‘And when I am intrigued,’ he continued, ‘I can be sure that the matter in hand is out of the ordinary. It is a remarkable instinct I have. It has happened time and again. I am intrigued; I investigate the matter in a private capacity, carefully, quietly, and at my leisure; and then – it always happens – I find something extraordinary at the bottom of it all. The ordinary I can leave to others. The extraordinary I like to keep for myself.’
This statement was delivered in the smoothest of tenor tones, and with slow precision of enunciation, which gave it a chant-like quality. Before I could reply, he had consulted his notes again, polished his eye-glass, and had proceeded with what was evidently some sort of prepared introduction to our meeting.
‘In your letter, Mr Glapthorn, I find mention of Mr Edward Glyver and his late mother, Mrs Simona Glyver. May I ask what your relationship is to either of these two persons?’