“Sometimes you go up, sometimes—” There was a noise from the room; she gave a dark glance at the door. “Out of my natural element, and all.”
“But your famous afternoons? Your handkerchiefs—”
“No time for idling. This isn’t the place for talk.” Skittles glanced down the passage. She pulled me into the shadows as we heard footfalls approaching. I confess, the blood danced in my veins as she grabbed me, though goodness knows I had no designs upon her. “Will you meet me? Dress more foppish, and less the Newgate mizzler, will you? Cora and Steph’ll tell you where. Come with an open mind. I could do with your help.”
The footsteps were upon us, but it was only Sabine with the whisky. She and Skittles exchanged a complicitous look. Then the famous courtesan kissed my cheek and marched brazenly back into the room.
PART III
CONFOUNDED CONFEDERACIES
JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1864
The ruin of many girls is commenced by reading the low trashy wishy-washy cheap publications that the news-shops are now gorged with, and by devouring the hastily-written, immoral, stereotyped tales about the sensualities of the upper classes, the lust of the aristocracy, and the affection that men about town—noble lords, illustrious dukes, and even princes of the blood—are in the habit of imbibing for maidens of low degree “whose face is their fortune”, shop girls—dressmakers—very often dressmakers and the rest of the tribe who may perhaps feel flattered by reading about absurd possibilities that their untutored and romantic imaginations suggest may, during the course of a life of adventure, happen to themselves.
Henry Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor
There are but two families in the world, as my grandmother used to say, which are the haves and the have-nots.
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
We are keepers of books, not guardians of morals.
Keeper of the British Museum Library
COMPLAINT OF WILLIAM DUGDALE & JOHN HOTTEN, EROTIC BOOKSELLERS
When your man Sergeant Lawless strolled in, I thought I was headed back to the Penitentiary. The things we do for books, eh?
It’s just after Lucretia, or The Delights of Cunnyland, new edition, comes in the post: a notable addition to our Flower Garden. Eager to show off the delightful engravings, I run into the back room to tell Hotten and the girl.
“Dugdale,” Hotten interrupts me, his eyes bright, “you must hear Molly’s latest.”
The urchin continues mid-anecdote. “This flash yob coshes the jailbird right in the inexpressibles. He kicks the bucket, only no one twigs he’s croaked…”
How can one resist such argot? How full of slang Molly is, and told with relish. Hotten is transcribing these lexical gems, when—ting-a-ling—the fierce wind lashes in through the bookshop door. I peek out to see a bright-eyed sap come in, collar pulled up against the prying eyes of Holywell Street. (It’s your man Darlington, but I don’t know that yet.) He has the look of a Pantagruelian fantasist. He thumbs through the tamer prints, and asks offhand if we have Fanny Hill. Do we have Fanny Hill! This may have been the open sesame for erotic booksellers of old, but I need better proof of erotophilia before opening our secret Flower Garden, since my troubles with the judicial system.
Sensing my disdain, the sap takes a deep breath, and asks for The Cockchafer, The Politick Whore, and Sodom, by the divine Rochester. I look at him in a new light: this is sufficient abracadabra to unlock the special door. Locking it behind us, I show him our new blooms, the latest “republications from Amsterdam”. The Natural History of the Frutex Vulvaria catches his eye; The Sixteen Pleasures piques his interest; but he’s soon engrossed in Venus School Mistress. His eyes grow round. Sweating slightly, he peruses the tale of the Fukkumite Islanders and their underwear.
Ting-a-ling at the shop door.
I slyly open up Cunnyland at the engravings of the priest and the callipygian orgy. I suggest he latch himself in while I’m with the new customer. I pray he isn’t a soiler: we need sales, not smirches.
Another blast of wind. In the doorway, an unwelcome face. Lawless of Scotland Yard. My heart sinks. “Sergeant, what a pleasure.”
“Back in business so soon, Mr Hotten?”
“I’m Dugdale, as you well know, having sent me to prison for two years.” I clench my teeth: I’m rather homely, Hotten’s got less fat on him than a butcher’s pencil. “Is it so cumbersome to distinguish between us?”
Lawless smirks—he’s doing it to unsettle me, hoping I’ll give the game away. “Trade going well?”
“No complaints from our customers.”
“Reference books, is it now?” He eyes our respectable shelves. “I should hope so, after the time you spent in the Penitentiary. Millbank, wasn’t it?”
Mere mention of the Tench makes me wince. “Blast it all, Lawless, we’ve just opened. Can’t you let us alone?” I wonder if he knows that our ever-expanding list of customers includes MPs, the PM and his commissioner. “Hotten has friends in high places, you know.”
“I’m afraid The Obscene Publications Act deems the filthy books in your back room—”
“Back room? What back room?” I laugh; he points; I tut. “That’s private premises.”
“You have a customer in there.”
“Not a customer. A friend.”
Lawless laughs. He pushes me aside and rattles the handle of the Flower Garden. Thank goodness I told the sap to lock the door. “Darlington?” he calls. “Found anything?”
After a long moment, the door opens. “Sorry, I’ve been seizing certain items.” The sap is rather red-faced. Clutching several precious volumes, he can’t look me in the eye. “I shall have to confiscate these.”
“You lying so-and-so.”
Lawless takes advantage of my shock to nip around the counter and bother Hotten and the girl.
“Blasted police,” Hotten protests. “We’ve a tradesman’s entrance, you know.”
Lawless begins his accusation. “Mr Hotten—”
“I’m Dugdale,” says Hotten, just to confuse him. “That’s Hotten behind you. If you’ll excuse us, we’re working. Your Commissioner Payne won’t be pleased—”
“Oi oi, lilly law.” The girl sidles out. Entertaining a pubescent youth in our accounting room suddenly looks a bit rum.
Lawless stares between the three of us. “What’s going on here?”
“Writing a dictionary,” says she, “ain’t we?”
“And I’m the Poet Laureate.”
Hotten’s bravado is shaken. “This is not what it looks like.”
Molly squares up to the policeman. “Are you imputing low morals to me? That’s slander, that is. I’ll have you in front of the magistrate, don’t you doubt.” Plucky little thing, she brandishes the manuscript at him. “Dictionary of Modern Slang, expanded edition. To which I am prime contributor. Incarcerate these gents, would you?”
“It wouldn’t be Dugdale’s first time.”
The girl glances at me with increased respect. “You try to earn an honest wage, and the charpering coppers can’t wait to spoil it.”
“We’ve been harassed by authority, it’s true,” says Hotten, “but we are not ashamed. We are working in the interests of posterity.”
Lawless smirks. “Is that what you call it?”
Darlington is still perusing Cunnyland, further confiscated volumes clutched under his arm.
Hotten takes the slang manuscript from Molly with a reverent air. “This evanescent vulgar language, rich and poor, honest and dishonest, this is the language of the streets, of the fast life, high and low, as old as speech and city congregations, full of pungent satire and always to the point.”
“Nicely put, old cove.” Molly applauds. “That’ll make a tidy introduction.”
Lawless gestures at Darlington. “And these other publications, Hotten?”
“We also promote literature which soothes woes and heightens pleasures. I stand by the right to read and our right to print.”
“Literature?” Lawless scoffs.
Molly rises on her tiptoes. “Who gives you the right to judge what men may and may not read? And women for that matter.”
I gather my courage, inspired by her defiance. “Why should the literature of love be banned, Lawless? You leave the pimps’ trade unimpeded, while harassing our mere descriptions of pleasure. We men of letters are free to think, and write; and our words might even alleviate vice. Ban the lascivious acts, if you must. To prevent us describing the truth of the matter is to put the cart before the horse. The prudish may think it better that such thoughts should not be thought. But many, including prominent citizens of the world, enjoy such writing. And what harm does that do?”
Darlington nods, to Lawless’s annoyance.
“How,” Hotten chimes in, “is literature arousing sexual appetites worse than murder stories? Newspapers, full of knifings, and poisonings, and death, are purchasable by you, me and this child for pennies; but one mention of minette and gamahuche, and we are branded pornographers.”
I stand by him. “Murders are mere sport for these detective novelists. The knife slices the belly, the blood spurts, the victim writhes in agony—unnatural violence. I describe a hairy mount, the most natural thing in the world, and I am jailed.”
“True enough.” Darlington grins. “We don’t complain about books that make the blood run cold. Why must we confiscate books that make the blood hot?”
Lawless shakes his head, defeated. “Maybe you’re right.” To my amazement, he holds out his hand for us to shake. “We will grant a period of grace to finish your labours.”
Hotten shakes on it without discussion.
“Not because I agree with your deviations,” Lawless continues, “but there are worse crimes; and you are gainfully employing this indolent street child.”
“Oi!” Molly demurs.
I blink back my astonishment. “You’re letting us off?”
“On one condition.” He takes a deep breath. “That you should inform me, if ever certain manuscripts should be offered to you, private papers in an erotic vein, papers you may suspect stolen from men about town…”
Hotten and I exchange a glance. Lawless has described, more or less exactly, the extraordinary collection of manuscripts we’ve just been offered by an Irish littérateur of our acquaintance. We say nothing; we accept his amnesty. I promise to let him know if we are offered anything suspicious. Lawless marches off; if he lets us trade long enough, we’ll finish the slang dictionary.
His crony Darlington says he’ll be returning for frequent inspections. I keep him happy by offering to send our next publication for his inspection when it comes out.
This is publisher-police collaboration, as I prefer it. Hotten was ready to scare them by brandishing our subscription list. Better keep that up our sleeve. If they get heavy-handed, we can call on heavyweight friends to fight our corner. The new manuscript—well, better it remain unmentioned, and we’ll see if the subscribers complain when we serialise it.
The girl stays behind to finish her dictations. We crack open a bottle to celebrate our defiance. How can I resist? I can’t. I simply can’t resist telling her about our latest—and surely greatest—publishing venture.
FLOWER GARDEN CATALOGUE, ANCIENT & MODERN, HOLYWELL STREET 1864
(appended to Dugdale-Hotten’s complaint, for the perusal of Commissioner Payne)
The Lifted Curtain
The Ins and Outs of London
Sodom, or The Quintessence of Debauchery
The London Jilt: or, the Politick Whore
Lucretia, or the Delights of Cunnyland
The Ladies’ Telltale & The Lustful Turk
The Romance of the Rod
The Whore’s Rhetoric
The Sixteen Pleasures, or About All the Schemes of Venus
The Natural History of the Frutex Vulvaria
Harris’s List of Covent-Garden Ladies, or Man of Pleasure’s Kalendar
The Crafty Whore
The Cockchafer: Flash, Frisky and Funny Songs, Never before Printed and Adapted for Gentlemen Only
The Cabinet of Venus Unlocked
Mutton Walk Cyprians
RENDEZVOUS WITH THE URCHIN LEXICOGRAPHER
By the time Molly joined us, Darlington was ordering his second celebratory pint. She appeared at our table as if by magic. “Top of reeb, thanks, Watchman.”
I ordered her one happily enough. Top of reeb, indeed; it was Molly who taught me whatever backslang I know. Top of reeb, pot of beer—even a dullard detective could untangle this. Maybe a policeman shouldn’t be buying a girl beer, but I too was pleased with our charade and hoped she’d share more of what she’d gleaned during her employment.
“Excuse my tardiness, Watchman. Couldn’t leave the old churls till we’d chalked up the letter C. They’re in clover with my canting cock and bull.”
I smiled. “Cheese your claptrap, chatterbox.”
“You ain’t going to crunch ’em, you old crusher?” She fixed her eyes on me. “It’s cushy coppers for me.”
“I’d have thought your Oddbody Theatricals more profitable, no?” All the trades Molly had ever learned had been systematically banned: chimneys, night soil, toshering, mudlarking, even Bazalgette’s sewer work. Dictionary-writing was a legitimate alternative, if only the publishers weren’t offenders of the Obscene Publications Act. But maybe they were right: what harm did words do, when every day I must ignore criminality in night houses?
“Bede and the Pixie are otherwise engaged, the blinding cog-diddlers.” She grimaced. “Dugdale and Hotten pay prompt and pay by the word. Don’t put the old anti-queer-uns away, I beg you.”
Darlington delivered the drinks, flushed with our success. He removed a volume he had secreted in his coat pocket, pleased with himself for discovering such filth in the booksellers’ secret room. “We put the fear of God up ’em, all right.”
“I get the impression,” I nodded, “that Dugdale found the Tench uncomfortable. But it’s information I want, about these stolen manuscripts.”
“Oh, they’ll give us it, if they want to continue trading,” he grinned. “They’ll do whatever we want, in return for my discretion.”
Molly raised her brow. “You might want to watch your step. Hotten has friends in high places.”
I looked at her. “How would you know?”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Watchman. But seeing as you’ve considerately allowed me to continue in their employ, I’ll share what I’ve learned.” She took two pamphlets from her pocket. “Exhibit the first: Dugdale-Hotten’s catalogue for 1864, for the discerning erotobibliophile.”
Darlington sniggered at the list of authors: Terence O’Tooleywag, Paddy Strongcock, and Timothy Touchit. “Where do they find this filth?”
“Erotic memoir, ain’t it?” Molly sniffed. “Everyone’s writing ’em, pseudonymously mind. Ain’t you? Can’t say I see the harm in it. Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t reel him in just yet. Viz, exhibit the second.”
This is when I first heard rumour of the vast erotic manuscript later known as My Secret Life by “Walter”. Molly’s exhibit was minimal: a few scribbled notes and chapter titles. But she explained that these represented snippets of memoir delivered to Dugdale-Hotten over recent weeks. The details they carefully hid from her, but they couldn’t conceal their excitement. It seemed a memoir of extraordinary extent, describing every sort of salacious situation from the sensuous to the obscene, from youth to old age, the profound to the perverse. They were receiving the manuscript piecemeal from a secret source—which made Molly think it might be stolen, or some of it, at least. Dugdale had never read such a catalogue of sexual escapades. He was dying to serialise, for it would be a smash; but he had been warned to hold off for the moment. She promised to bring proofs as soon as they were typeset; I would leave Darlington to bring it to Sir Payne’s attention.
I was already pleased with our ruse, but there was one more document Molly had shrewdly co
pied for me.
“Exhibit the third: the subscription list.” With a glance about her, Molly pushed it along the bar. “The erotobibliophiles.”
On the list, names I knew. Names everyone knew.
“It’s a new publishing model,” Molly said. “Gents sign up, and pay monthly, thus receiving each new Dugdale-Hotten edition.”
I screwed up my eyes. Far too many names: bankers, businessmen, journalists, politicians, peers and policemen.
“Blimey.” Darlington snatched up the list. “The head of the British Museum.”
“Not to mention a prominent newspaper editor, and your very own Scotland Yard commissioner.” Molly examined her beer in the murky light; it was cloudier than the January skies outside. God damn it: Dugdale-Hotten worked out how to keep us off their backs. “I imagine, Watchman old cove, it may aid your investigations, this list, eh? I ain’t saying that reading is the same as doing. Nor imputing low morals to nobody. Only that your literary aficionados take a profound interest in a subject, and if this lot are interested in your investigations, you’d do well to watch out.”
FOLLY
I remember every detail. Her skin and her hair. Every detail of her clothes and her underclothes, for she allowed me to help her remove every last layer. And the way she spoke. She had this way of going so far, then leaving the rest to the imagination. But her kisses said to me what words never could.
Titchfield Street was ever quiet. I pushed away the thought that Gabriel Mauve MP had encountered his wife in just such a place. It could be so sordid. But with her, it became always divine.
I cannot describe her here. I will not write of our intimacies. Oh, I could detail every movement, every reaction, but I lift the quill and torpor overtakes me. Yet I see now the pleasure of recalling to mind these golden moments, when we had the body of love, the hands of love, the touch of pleasure, skin so soft, her mellifluous voice, limbs entwined, our hearts afire.
Lawless and the Flowers of Sin Page 10