There were, of course, other considerations, other than the obvious diplomatic ones. A man likes to show mercy whenever possible. Then, at our private audience early that evening Macbeth relieved me of what might have been an awkwardness by tactfully producing unasked a quantity of gold and suggesting that I should devote it to pious purposes of my own choosing. And, when all is said, one soldier is bound to feel a certain kinship with another. It was with a full heart that I pronounced him absolved and wished him a safe return, and I allowed him without reluctance to keep the dainty crucifix he seemed so attached to.
The next morning Hildebrand came to me with Macbeth’s story written out fair. ‘Evidently, Lord, a considerable person.’
‘More so than his position calls for. I hope for his sake he sits as securely as he appears to believe.’
‘Time will show.’
‘Time will show many things of greater moment than the devices of a Scottish desperado, however engaging.’
‘Is your highness instructing me that this is not to be put into the permanent archive?’
‘We agreed to keep it as sparse as possible. Extract whatever is needed.’
‘As your highness pleases. I hope you feel your time was not wasted.’
‘It was most diverting, and we have the man’s goodwill.’
‘True, Lord. And now some news of your captains. Five are confined. Valerian died by his own hand before he could be secured. Frederic is believed to be at large in the Emperor’s domain. I have somebody competent at work.’
‘Let the matter be settled and over. It seems well it should be done quickly.’
HISTORICAL NOTE
Macbeth (‘fair, yellow, tall’) first visited Rome in the year 1050. This visit, unlike his second three years later, is vouched for by documents. In 1054 his armies were defeated near Scone by those of Earl Siward, but he continued on the Scottish throne another three years. Then his ally Thorfinn died, and shortly afterwards Malcolm Broadhead murdered him. Macbeth’s stepson Lulach became king, but after a few months Malcolm murdered him too and took the crown, ruling as Malcolm III. Macbeth and Lulach were buried in the island of Iona, the ancient resting-place of the Scottish kings.
The health of Pope Leo IX had been shattered by his captivity and he died the following year, 1054, though not before he had proceeded with the excommunication of the Patriarch of Constantinople, thus making final and permanent the split between the Western and Eastern Churches. He was canonized as St Leo in 1087.
Hildebrand became Pope Gregory VII in 1073 and also achieved sainthood.
MASON’S LIFE
‘May I join you?’
The medium-sized man with the undistinguished clothes and the blank, anonymous face looked up at Pettigrew, who, glass of beer in hand, stood facing him across the small corner table. Pettigrew, tall, handsome and of fully moulded features, had about him an intent, almost excited air that, in different circumstances, might have brought an unfavourable response, but the other said amiably,
‘By all means. Do sit down.’
‘Can I get you something?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ said the medium-sized man, gesturing at the almost full glass in front of him. In the background was the ordinary ambience of bar, barman, drinkers in ones and twos, nothing to catch the eye.
‘We’ve never met, have we?’
‘Not as far as I recall.’
‘Good, good. My name’s Pettigrew, Daniel R. Pettigrew. What’s yours?’
‘Mason. George Herbert Mason, if you want it in full.’
‘Well, I think that’s best, don’t you? George . . . Herbert . . . Mason.’ Pettigrew spoke as if committing the three short words to memory. ‘Now let’s have your telephone number.’
Again Mason might have reacted against Pettigrew’s demanding manner, but he said no more than, ‘You can find me in the book easily enough.’
‘No, there might be several . . . We mustn’t waste time. Please.’
‘Oh, very well; it’s public information, after all. Two-three-two, five—’
‘Hold on, you’re going too fast for me. Two . . . three . . . two . . .’
‘Five-four-five-four.’
‘What a stroke of luck. I ought to be able to remember that.’
‘Why don’t you write it down if it’s so important to you?’
At this, Pettigrew gave a knowing grin that faded into a look of disappointment. ‘Don’t you know that’s no use? Anyway: two-three-two, five-four-five-four. I might as well give you my number too. Seven—’
‘I don’t want your number, Mr Pettigrew,’ said Mason, sounding a little impatient, ‘and I must say I rather regret giving you mine.’
‘But you must take my number.’
‘Nonsense; you can’t make me.’
‘A phrase, then – let’s agree on a phrase to exchange in the morning.’
‘Would you mind telling me what all this is about?’
‘Please, our time’s running out.’
‘You keep saying that. This is getting—’
‘Any moment everything might change and I might find myself somewhere completely different, and so might you, I suppose, though I can’t help feeling it’s doubtful whether—’
‘Mr Pettigrew, either you explain yourself at once or I have you removed.’
‘All right,’ said Pettigrew, whose disappointed look had deepened, ‘but I’m afraid it won’t do any good. You see, when we started talking I thought you must be a real person, because of the way you—’
‘Spare me your infantile catch-phrases, for heaven’s sake. So I’m not a real person,’ cooed Mason offensively.
‘I don’t mean it like that, I mean it in the most literal way possible.’
‘Oh, God. Are you mad or drunk or what?’
‘Nothing like that. I’m asleep.’
‘Asleep?’ Mason’s nondescript face showed total incredulity.
‘Yes. As I was saying, at first I took you for another real person in the same situation as myself: sound asleep, dreaming, aware of the fact, and anxious to exchange names and telephone numbers and so forth with the object of getting in touch the next day and confirming the shared experience. That would prove something remarkable about the mind, wouldn’t it? – people communicating via their dreams. It’s a pity one so seldom realizes one’s dreaming: I’ve only been able to try the experiment four or five times in the last twenty years, and I’ve never had any success. Either I forget the details or I find there’s no such person, as in this case. But I’ll go on—’
‘You’re sick.’
‘Oh no. Of course it’s conceivable there is such a person as you. Unlikely, though, or you’d have recognized the true situation at once, I feel, instead of arguing against it like this. As I say, I may be wrong.’
‘It’s hopeful that you say that.’ Mason had calmed down, and lit a cigarette with deliberation. ‘I don’t know much about these things, but you can’t be too far gone if you admit you could be in error. Now let me just assure you that I didn’t come into existence five minutes ago inside your head. My name, as I told you, is George Herbert Mason. I’m forty-six years old, married, three children, job in the furniture business . . . Oh hell, giving you no more than an outline of my life so far would take all night, as it would in the case of anybody with an average memory. Let’s finish our drinks and go along to my house, and then we can—’
‘You’re just a man in my dream saying that,’ said Pettigrew loudly. ‘Two-three-two, five-four-five-four. I’ll call the number if it exists, but it won’t be you at the other end. Two-three-two—’
‘Why are you so agitated, Mr Pettigrew?’
‘Because of what’s going to happen to you at any moment.’
‘What . . . Is this a threat?’
Pettigrew was breathing fast. His finely drawn face began to coarsen, the pattern of his tweed jacket to become blurred. ‘The telephone!’ he shouted. ‘It must be later than I thought!’
‘The one at my bedside! I’m waking up!’
Mason grabbed the other by the arm, but that arm had lost the greater part of its outline, had become a vague patch of light already fading, and when Mason looked at the hand that had done the grabbing, his own hand, he saw with difficulty that it likewise no longer had fingers, or front or back, or skin, or anything at all.
MR BARRETT’S SECRET
I
It must have been in the January or February of the year 1845 that I first became aware of the connection of Elizabeth, my first child and eldest daughter, with the man Robert Browning. Had I had the least intimation of what was to follow, I should have forbidden its continuance in any form, and have prosecuted my interdiction with unswerving tenacity. Nevertheless, full knowledge of the future that awaited Elizabeth and myself would surely have led me to bless that divine provision whereby it is not given to us to see as far as the next tick of the clock.
A letter, addressed to Elizabeth in a strange hand, arrived by the early morning delivery at my house at 50 Wimpole Street, a circumstance in itself very far from unusual. More especially since the publication by Moxon of her Poems in two volumes the preceding August, my dearest Ba (to use her family pet-name) had grown used to receiving correspondence from persons unacquainted with her. Many came from America and other distant parts of the world; the letter in question had been posted in London.
In characterizing just now the style of the writing on the envelope, I used the word ‘strange’ advisedly. It was not only unfamiliar to me; it was peculiar, extraordinary, odd. And yet in its very singularity there was a principle I seemed to recognize from some distant part of my life, from long ago. Possibly, too, I was aware of an indefinable threat or menace lurking in it, remote but real; more likely, however, I am allowing later events to sophisticate those first memories.
Whatever I might have thought, then or afterwards, there was no doubt that Elizabeth was delighted with her letter. I had scarcely finished breakfast before I was urgently summoned to her room on the third floor of the house.
‘Dearest papa!’ she cried, rising from her sofa-bed to embrace me in lively fashion. ‘You will never guess what a marvellous gift I have had in the post this morning!’
‘You are bidden to take tea with our young Queen,’ I suggested, smiling.
‘It’s a trifle soon for such a thing, though doubtless that and much else will come in time. No, I am the recipient of a poem by Mr Robert Browning, a most beautiful and wondrous poem in which he exalts me to the status of a queen, but a queen of poetry and of the making of poetry. Oh, it’s such a poem, darling papa, so full of the loveliest affirmations of devotion, so eloquent, so rich in the spontaneous vitality you know I prize above everything.’
‘And this comes unprompted? As a spontaneous tribute?’ I asked.
‘Not quite, it’s true. You may remember that in my poem “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship” I referred to Mr Browning along with Mr Wordsworth and Mr Tennyson as a man whose writings place him next to the Gods.’
‘So you did. And now he sends you a whole poem by way of return.’
‘Well, there of course,’ said Ba merrily, ‘uncultured fathers and others of a sad literal disposition of mind will insist that the thing’s only a letter, you know, nothing but a rather long and flowery letter, dash it all, the work of some modish popinjay with a fancy for extravagant compliment’, and the dear girl’s voice and demeanour became for the moment a fanciful but truly comical travesty of my own. ‘But this is a letter with the beauty and tenderness of a poem, a true poem. Enough! – you shall see and judge for yourself’, and she made to hand me the closely written pages, but snatched them quickly back and read from them in a high thrilling voice, ‘“I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett”, oh, and, “Into me it has gone, and part of me it has become, this great living poetry of yours”, and a little farther on . . .’
‘I shall never see to judge for myself,’ I laughingly protested, ‘if you persevere in your recitation’, but I believe she was too much engrossed in those pages to hear me.
‘Yes, he speaks here of, h’m, h’m,“the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought’, and again, “I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart – and I . . .”, but there I think he goes too far.’
A blush mantled her pale cheek. What had Browning written that she had not cared to let me hear? I know not, for I never saw that letter at last. But some of the phrases in it that I had been permitted to hear, the references to fresh strange music and to affluent language (affluent! a curious epithet, many would say, in this connection), remain lodged in my mind to this day. So did the general kind of expression employed therein. Once again, I felt I had received a warning or a premonition; once again, however, I may in saying so be looking ahead to what then lay in the future.
Certainly, at the time my strongest feelings were pleasure in my dear Ba’s pleasure, heightened by satisfaction that her gifts of versing had been recognized by one I knew to be a poet of sorts, and by a reasonable hope that there might lie distraction from the melancholy and low spirits that had afflicted her increasingly as she grew past her first youth – at this time she was approaching her thirty-ninth birthday. My main concern, however, was as always for her health. This had never been truly sound since, at the age of fifteen, she had fallen victim to a mysterious incapacitating ailment that also afflicted her two younger sisters. As it proved, they were able soon to cast it off, but Elizabeth perhaps never wholly recovered, and within three months she had developed measles. Thereafter she spent much time confined to her room, even her bed, and I have always thought that the resulting seclusion and immobility were what first led her to the writing of verses – a healthier remedy than the opium which she came to consume, sometimes, I fear, in distressingly large doses.
Elizabeth’s first letter to Browning further cheered me. I had been concerned lest, with all the refreshment of pleasure and interest in life the man’s words might have brought her, she had perhaps become over-excited thereby, brought to an unhealthy access of sentiment. The dry terms of her answer, composed without any assistance but confided to me, were greatly reassuring. She spoke of her high respect for Browning’s own ventures into poetic composition, saluted him as a fellow-craftsmen, told him that he would remain in her everlasting debt if he would draw her attention to faults in her manner of composition – nothing of the dreamy palpitating stuff in which he had evidently indulged himself. The correspondence continued. I had pressing concerns of my own at that time, in the City, relative to my affairs in the West Indies, and to be candid I was not sorry that my dearest Ba seemed to have found someone who might unwittingly share the burden of emotional obligation to her that I had inescapably (if gladly) acquired.
So matters stood for a couple of months and I was more than content. Elizabeth had acquired a companion who might prove more durable than her poor much-loved brother, known to her as Bro, lost sailing off the Devon coast at the age of thirty-three, and one who was nearer at hand than the excellent Hugh Stuart Boyd and John Kenyon, the latter known to me since our days at Cambridge and Elizabeth’s benefactor and distant kinsman. Her letters to and from Browning, of which I was told nothing of substance, grew more frequent, but I saw no harm in that.
Then, in May of the same year, 1845, the two were to meet; he was to visit her at two o’clock in the afternoon of the 20th. I raised no objection; at that time I had none to raise; at two o’clock that day I was engaged in the City of London. I had left my Ba in her room as usual reclining on her sofa, surrounded by her simple furniture, most notably her beloved books on shelves built by her brothers, and with her spaniel, the well-behaved Flush, close beside her. As her father I could say to myself that, for all her large brown eyes and splendid thick dark hair, she was not what the world would
have called beautiful. The black silk she wore at this season accentuated the pallor of her ivory complexion. She looked small and defenceless (she stood only an inch over five foot), eagerly desiring and yet deeply dreading the advent of the scoundrel [1] who had so artfully insinuated himself into the very springs of her being.
Before I departed, I counselled Elizabeth to remember that this young man, six years her junior, must be as apprehensive as she of the coming encounter, and that, whatever might betide, he ardently desired her welfare, and doubtless more. What else could I have said or done?
‘I see that Mr Browning’s visit was a success,’ I remarked some hours later as I took tea with Elizabeth in her room.
‘Oh yes, it was most pleasant and valuable,’ she replied from her seat on the sofa. (I occupied the armchair by prescriptive right.)
‘How did he impress you?’
‘He was most affable, and from the beginning there were no constraints. We had lively talk for something above an hour.’
‘Upon what topics?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a great many, from poetry to politics.’
‘Very likely. I was hoping you might particularize a little.’
‘Oh . . . ah . . . he renewed his affirmations of regard for some of the things I’ve written, especially . . . especially “A Dream of Exile” and “The Rime of the Duchess May” and others. Truly, he was most . . . I could not have wished for a more . . .’
‘No lady,’ said I with a smile, my hands on my knees, ‘is on oath when her father questions her on her conversations with an eligible young gentleman; indeed, she need say nothing at all. But, my dearest Ba, you and I have always been closely attached; pray do a little to indulge the curiosity of an old man and a loving parent. No doubt Mr Browning did converse with you of this and that; but what did you make of him, in what frame of mind do you look forward to his next visit, if there is to be one, did you like him?’ And Flush, at her side as always, raised his dark liquid eyes to hers as if to say that he, too, would have welcomed some information upon this head.
Dear Illusion: Collected Stories Page 38