“’Tis, ain’t it? That first embrace of thief and gettings. Delightful.”
“A man trembles. Love at sight. Love at touch.”
“That ain’t our game. Thievery. Only we like a manse with a few fine whim-whams.”
“I want the whims; he wants the whams.” (Then followed scuffling and laughter.)
“Have you sacked the cellars?”
So disordered were my nerves from their romping badinage that I did not mark this question was addressed to me.
“Did the light-fingered gentleman ransack the cellars?” the other repeated. “I’ll reckon they have a tearing fine collection of wines.”
“The steps are by the pantry,” I replied. “You will be pleased to find the wine around the back of the stairway, circling to the left.”
“Many thanks.”
“There is a crate of Malmsey supposed to be particularly fine.”
“Very beholden to you.”
“And the gentlemen may be pleased to enjoy the claret. Its owner spake of it highly.”
“O most excellent sofa,” said one to the cushion. “Most excellent and talkative sofa.”
“I will remove myself immediately, sir,” said I.
“And we will commence our game at tip-cat.”
“Whackets.”
“Hot cockles.”
They rose and left the chamber, making their way to the kitchen. I heard their laughter; they descended into the cellars.
Finally at liberty, I pushed myself out from under the couch, took my bundle, and rose. I passed through to the kitchen; but then arrested my progress toward the window, and stepped quickly into Mr. Jonathan Gitney’s study. I had it in my mind to remove some book with me, which volume might provide entertainment and improvement in my hours waiting upon Dr. Trefusis.
The young Mr. Gitney possessing a not inconsiderable shelf of books, I surveyed their titles for one which might engage me. With all the pleasure of old acquaintance, I seized upon the Æneid, delighted, I having been transported through its channels and rough bays in my childhood; but then I espied several volumes of the philosopher Locke, of whom my tutor had spoke with such approbation, and I lay down Virgil’s epic, and took up those books instead. I weighed each volume in my hand, and wondered at which I should remove with me.
With timidity, I placed the three volumes of Locke upon the heap of clothes, which little library rested there rocking atop the frock-coats and shirts. I considered the Virgil.
Mr. Gitney and his crew had demanded I read, and then had snatched all the books which gratified me from out my hands; I recalled Mr. Sharpe sitting in gloom, preaching of the impracticality of all Dr. Trefusis had taught me; speaking of my failure; admonishing me to succeed, and yet administering only cold fragments; sitting by while I performed and stumbled.
This was their constant study: They had taught me to adore; and then removed the object of that adoration and observed my discomfiture — as were I a beetle of interest, an eel to be stroked, a cur timed for drowning, or lightning itself.
And, this thought acknowledged, I began pulling books off the shelf and hurling them into my pile. I little regarded their titles or authors; it was a phrenzy.
Shakespeare; Congreve; Milton; Pope; the Stoics, the Skeptics, the old tragedians. Their covers slapped in congress on my pile. I was sensible of joy.
I had never known a pleasure equal to this pillage.
If you dare not give me an education, thought I, I shall take it from you.
The books were in a confusion on my bundle, far too many for me to carry. Having mounded them up, I shuffled through them, discarding some upon the floor. The others, I wrapped up in the midst of the garments.
Habit ruleth like a task-master returned from the grave; I could not leave the unneeded volumes in disorder. I stacked them neatly by the desk, lifted my pack, and sought the kitchen once more. Thus my walking library.
I could hear shouts from below, the delights of the grape. Bidding a silent farewell to the magnanimous Sodomists, I crawled out through the open window; opened the garden door; and fled down the alley, with my books and clothing held beneath my arm.
The plunder had been startlingly circumstanced, but its issue had been all I could have hoped. The bundle was large and contained everything that Dr. Trefusis and I would need to establish him as a gentleman and me as his servant.
So proceeded my own rebellion. First escape; then theft. In all things, we become acclimated; this is our strength in wartime, and also our weakness. What is a principle, if it alter with circumstance?
But what is a man, if he cannot change to meet changed times?
And if he can change to meet changed times, is he a man, or several in succession?
Whatever he was, this youth named Augustus, he appeared to be me; and he fled towards Madam Platt’s house, secretly giddy not simply with the practical success of his assay, but with the good fortune of close escape and the petty delight of vengeance lightly taken.
When I returned to the house on Staniford Street, I entered by the back door and made my way up to the bedchamber; but was waylaid by Mrs. Platt, who lingered in the hall before Dr. Trefusis’s door.
“I gave him some candles against the evening,” she said. “A farthing apiece.”
I bowed and said, “We are sensible, ma’am, of the kindness of your attentions towards us, and honored that you would with such assiduity regard even the most minute of our —”
“Is he an atheist?” she asked anxiously.
He was, and had been hounded from many of the gilded courts of Europe for his blasphemies; but I avowed he was the firmest Christian I had ever known; which was not, in its way, untrue.
Uneasily, she nodded, and continued along the thin corridor.
She having departed, I entered in and found the most beloved of tutors lying almost in a swoon, so distempered was he by fevers. I took his hands and asked him how he fared.
“The woman is watching me,” he whispered. “I believe there is a little maggot in her brain whispers I don’t have two farthings to clink.”
I informed him of my employment at Fanueil Hall, and that it should result in a small sum sufficient to carry our rent, with, however, no excess. Still wary of censure, I further related to him my entry into Mr. Jonathan Gitney’s house and my theft of clothing. He did, however, but praise me.
“Excellent!” he cried, laughing. “Excellent. Good boy. Nothing breeds fortune like a hat and jabot.”
That night, Dr. Trefusis suffered greatly from his chill. He could not cease shaking, though he was heaped with blankets and it was high summer. The chamber was infernal in its heat and rank in its scent. I now held the pot for him when he urinated — he who, in my childhood, had been called upon to capture and weigh my water and fæces. Now distempered as he was, he yielded no solids.
He felt a discomfort in his very bones, as if they contracted so that they might struggle out of the mercenary peel of flesh and walk abroad. The ache in his marrow lashed him all the night, and he turned from side to side, seeking oblivion’s solace. I slept on a straw mattress upon the floor, and I was often awakened by his pained tumblings.
I lay beside the bed, fearful for his health; determined he should recover; and conscious of a foreign satisfaction, perhaps even pleasure, that awaited a ripe moment to grow from bud to bloom.
I was, though still bound in law, free in practice; I would soon be receiving a small sum to play my music, I would pay for my own lodgings, and the kindest philosopher that ever the world saw was my mentor and remained at my side. And though we lay in a city starving; though we were surrounded by an implacable enemy; though we slept amidst the encampments of soldiers from afar, Scotsman and Mancunian, convict and younger son, all overwhelmed as we by the intimations of the coming strife when Boston should rouse itself and march; though the dark of the night was marked with the thousand cook-fires of rebels who would, if not checked, soon rise to overrun us; though I little knew what wo
uld come and little understood what had already transpired; still, I felt the motions of happiness perhaps for the first time since the Transit of Venus had passed over our heads and left behind it clouds and shadow.
In the midst of this chaos, I had found contentment.
The next day, arrayed in black satin breeches and my ill-gotten waistcoat, I made my way again to Faneuil Hall. The clothes were poorly fitted for my frame, being cut for one much stouter, and the breeches fairly flapped about my knees.
When I arrived, I found the orchestra arranging themselves on chairs; the strings being a collection of civilians, the brass drawn from the military band of the 64th Regiment, which famed consort gave a strict and louring aspect to the proceedings, their uniforms being black shot through with white lace and red. Apprehensive at the sight of these men, so stern in their demeanor, I hesitated by the door, unwilling to go further.
Mr. Turner caught sight of me, wincing at the sag of my stockings. He came to my side. “You still,” he asked, “are in need of a violin?”
To this I assented; and he requested a boy fetch me a fiddle lain in another room. That battered instrument placed in my hands, Mr. Turner came again to my side and, observing how I held it to my ear and plucked its strings, he inquired of me, “Does it sound well?”
I gave a slight bow and replied, “To he who is parched for music, sir, and who swells with gratitude to one who so benevolently grants his desire, even the most ill-tuned string sounds with glorious —”
“Indeed. That instrument, my recent Augustus — that instrument belonged to your predecessor, an old Negro with about one tooth. He was excellent at playing an Irish jig and lively at the allegros, but he was, as it happened, spying for the rebels, so we hanged him for treason. He did a little dance with more vigor than regularity and died with his tongue out and piss on his britches. If the new Augustus will pardon for one moment a fond dancing-master’s forwardness, might I inquire whether you too plan on conveying intelligence to rebels? Do you long for the domino and dagger?”
“No, sir.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because there is nothing easier than plucking a Negro out of an orchestra and setting him to dance on high. Aye?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kicking a gavotte in Lady Hemp’s embrace. I merely request you consider it; and if any rebel should approach you and ask for news of the Sixty-fourth or any other matter, I would be gratified if you informed them you are bespoke for the next several dances.”
“Thank you, sir,” said I, but he was already gone from my side. He left me wary.
It took no little time to shed these disagreeable impressions, even once the brilliancies of the symphony were cast up around me. Notwithstanding such anxious reflections, however, I was mollified by the exhilaration of playing in company — for it must be remembered that I had only very infrequently played with a full band of music previously, most of my instrumental turns being as part of a small consort, best suited, respectively, for the contra-dance or the sonata a tre.
To participate, then, in the pomp of the orchestra, in the full scintillation thereof, was in the highest degree thrilling. Is this not the image of the perfect republic — each instrument singing its wonted melody, endeavoring at once to express its part, and, in the same instance, to conform its voice to the conversation of the whole?
We prepared, as it transpired, for a concert to take place later in the week in benefit of the poor of the city, the officers of the army being much concerned that the citizens starved as the rebels blocked off all routes of trade save the sea-routes from the farthest destinations. We played several symphonies and a few arias which a soprano much admired by a lieutenant-colonel would sing; and there was to be a harpsichord concerto writ by a celebrated sapper of the Army Corps of Engineers, a man whose speciality was tunneling under walls and laying detonations, but who had enjoyed the fruits of gentler arts, and turned his nimble fingers to scribbling for the jacks and strings. I found the whole program of the greatest delight.
The rehearsal being complete, I packed my borrowed violin in its ungainly box and set forth across the market square, little crediting that I now was at liberty to play upon that instrument dearest to my heart whenever I pleased, did Mrs. Platt allow it; and that I might play whatever my fancy suggested to me. I delighted in the thought.
Seagulls cried above the town dock and settled on the spars of ships just off the wharves; the heated air smelled deeply of sheep and tar.
As I made my way back to Mrs. Platt’s house, I had a sudden notion to return by way of the College of Lucidity. I know not whether I was actuated by the desire for some phantom approval of my new situation or for defiant display, but I wished to pass its door; I wished to stand before it, to look and be done.
It was not a walk of any great distance to that gaunt house; and, that quickly accomplished, I halted, violin-case in hand, and regarded the place, examining both the familiarities of infant association and the novelties of occupation: the guard who stood beside the door; the Regimental colors hung from out Mr. Gitney’s bedchamber window; the cook-fire lit in the stable.
The last time I had gazed upon the house before the previous day, it had been December, the morning when Mr. Gitney had revolved the key in the lock of the great doors at last and we had evacuated the town in favor of the rural retreats of Canaan some months before the Pox Party. The carts had been heaped with our belongings; my mother had been alive.
In my memory, she darts back from the carriage, her arms slim, her hands volant, her smile vivid, her head inclined with all the graces of art, her neck, marked with lace collier, imperial in its attitude; a cap upon her hair. I see her run across the cobbles to the door.
“I have forgot my mantilla,” she says.
“The door is locked,” says Mr. Gitney.
“I will catch chills.”
“You waited,” says he, “only to delay us and so prove your sovereignty.”
And yet she took the key from his hand; and smiling, unlocked the door, and flew up the stairs to fetch her scarf.
I have forgot my mantilla. Of such trivialities are moments made; and hours built; and years constructed; and ruins, finally, remain, with ornaments half-seen beneath the grasses.
She ran, an animal endowed with contraction and extension; she ran; I have forgot my mantilla. She stepped from the carriage, flesh envivified; her brain tricked out in schemes; I have forgot my mantilla; only this do I recall; she ran.
And then she returns with that whimsy wrapped around her shoulders, and is handed into the carriage; then we are gone upon the carts and equipages, our sojourn begun; and we are without the city gates; and the fields are about us, ice in the meanders of sloughs; and then a somber boy and his tutor tread the road the other way, gray with summer’s dust, and it is eight months later, and she will not return.
This I know. We return, but she shall not.
I presume her body lies now in Canaan.
At her last, she did not appear to be human. She had abandoned species.
Staring at the house in the full heat of summer, it was scarcely credible that the world had so swiftly fallen into confusion. I looked at that manse, now a bedding-place for the Parliamentary Army, its interiors unknown to me after a life of confinement there. I did not know how to understand my changed state, nor that of the rugged world.
As I peered, I seemed to spy her at the windows, all of them equally, each window engraved with its own scene, its own revenant in cloak or sacque, each spirit passing a different way before my sight.
They lingered to regard me — she at sixteen or seventeen, when first I could recall her, telling tales of petal thrones and chariots hauled by panther-team; she at twenty, smiling and severe, gazing at me though surrounded by men; she at twenty-five, quiet and rueful, scarce attending to her embroidery upon its hoop as long evenings passed in silence.
In each pane of our abandoned house tran
sformed, she watched me.
I pled with her — knowing not why I pled —“But I am free. I play my violin.”
It was not enough; I saw the blank windows; and that was more terrible than the specters of memory with their piercing gaze; that absence; those sheets of glass that held no image but transmission.
“Please,” I whispered to her. “Please let me feel this joy.”
That night, I returned home, anticipating the felicitations of the most generous of tutors upon my first rehearsal, and anxious to minister to his health; but when I arrived, I found Mrs. Platt awaiting me, sitting upright without repose on an old fauteuil.
She instructed, “Tell Dr. Trefusis I find him uncommon rude.”
I submitted that no thought could be further from Dr. Trefusis’s intent than to incommode such an excellent hostess.
“He is indeed an atheist, is he not?”
I could not deny it; and yet endeavored to, when she demanded, “And the fine Dr. Trefusis don’t have a grout to his name, does he?”
I offered, “We do have a scheme, however, that shall cover our expenses, madam.”
“Capital,” said Mrs. Platt. “We shall all starve.” She walked from the room without dismissing me.
She returned a moment later to add, “Kindness is never repaid. I should have known no good would come of feeding a philosopher.” She turned and frowned, framed in the door; behind her in the gloom, circuits of soiled plates glowed faintly like the lunar phases. “His death will leave the chamber haunted.”
“I trust, madam,” I said calmly, “that there is no reason to anticipate his death.”
“He anticipates it constantly when you’re abroad,” she said. “He calculates.” She demanded, “He shall not die in that chamber. Philosophers require a whole retinue of devils for their removal from this world. They are the grandees of the infernal kingdom.” She turned and left me. “I may be sure of constant annoyance from red-eyed frogs.”
I lingered some minutes, being unaccustomed to retiring from a chamber without permission or direction; but our hostess having disappeared, I passed above-stairs to see what strife had occasioned such an outburst.
The Kingdom on the Waves Page 4