Lord Byron's Novel

by John Crowley

  ‘What!’ exclaim’d his Client. ‘What other claimants? Who has made these presentments, as you name them?’

  ‘They have been received from one John Factotum, without address given, in the name of—’

  ‘In whose name?’

  ‘Lord Sane’s. Young Sir! Believe me that whatever frauds or impositions the fellow intends, they will not succeed—one by one they shall be answered, and spurned as worthless!’

  Ali begged to know what, till then, he was to live upon, and how he might make provision for Wife & Child, and hold off his Creditors. Mr Bland averred that he might live quite long upon Air, though not forever—he admitted, that it would be a close-run thing, between Ali’s case in Chancery, and his Creditors’ impatience.

  For Ali’s Creditors had themselves acquired Counsel, not of that generous and optimistic sort that Mr Bland manifested, but—as Ali would soon have reason to perceive them—more resembling a pack of vicious curs, snarling for blood—fang’d, iron-clawed, stony-hearted! These produced, in not too long a time, a Bailiff, come to attach the young Husband’s goods, and to prevent his removing them, or aught else of value upon which the said Pack might gnaw. The Bailiff posted upon Ali’s door the Notice of his right to possess the house, and, like a German sprite, make mischief everywhere; he entered in at the door, despite the attempts of the valet and the cook to prevent him—he took his seat upon a chair in the Hall, and laid his ragged staff upon his lap, and put his feet apart—nor did he see fit to remove from his head a hat which he wore cock’d, as insolent as his grin. Enough in himself to drive a young man mad, who must pass by him at every egress, and upon every return to his house—to see and to smell him there, the Minos of his future life—yet he was not the figure that Ali most feared. That was the one who appear’d only in the Glass he looked into—and that one he knew not how he might contend with!

  ‘Have I in aught offended?’ asked his wife, seeing him at the limits of his temper after a day’s black silence. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You offended?’ Ali replied hotly. ‘Why, think you that your offence is all that could cause a man to fall silent? You know what burden has been placed upon me. Do you not see it, feel it? Do you not see me struggle to lift and bear it, with all my strength? Allow me at least to show, in my actions, now and then, some strain in this—allow that I may be curt, and even harsh—I mean not to be so—and be patient.’

  ‘I will do all that I can,’ said she with greatest care, ‘to be what you wish me to be.’

  Such an answer—such a calculation—was then to Ali’s soul as those chemicals we see, an acid and an alkali, seeming bland and plain, that when toss’d together immediately commence to foam and reek and overflow their vessels. He could say nothing—could not upbraid her for patience and willingness—yet he felt himself diminished, and affronted—in short, a desperate man, with no name for his desperation. Each day, with the unspoken yet unforgiving reproach of his Wife, couch’d in gentle remonstrance—the Bailiff sitting at the door like an Idol of stone, yet with a cold eye that missed nothing—his own sensation of being entirely in the wrong, and yet unable to act otherwise—Ali felt caught betwixt Fire and Ice, and unable to guess what he might do next—a sensation so terrifying to his soul that, casting at Catherine a look of horrid rage—which he could, with a strange Pity, observe reflected in her countenance—he would fling himself past the stolid Bailiff and out the door.

  In that ill-starred house in the fullness of time was Catherine, Lady Sane, brought to bed of a Daughter, surrounded by aged and experienced female relatives—three in number, as they must be, who gather upon such occasions, to pronounce the Fate of a child, and cut the Cord that has bound it to its mother till it be sent out ‘in this harsh world to draw its breath in pain’—as this infant was, with an initial cry that could be heard in the kitchens below and in the drawing-room where Ali paced and brooded, as all prospective fathers ought. Yet he was not like all other fathers, and his feelings upon that night, or morning (for the last stars had faded, and the familiar sounds of carriages upon the street without could be heard, and the cries of early vendors, when the news came to him), were all at war within his breast. Then he went up, and at the door of the room where his wife lay, he stopt—unable for a long time to step within—seeing the strange wonder of the child in her arms, so infinitesimal, a molecule, an atom of life—the child he could not own as his, yet could not deny or spurn.

  ‘Is it—healthy?’ asked he, still outside the room.

  ‘Ali,’ spoke Catherine—she seemed as deflated and worn away as though God had taken flesh and blood from her to make the child—which indeed He had—and for a moment he felt a great pity—or love—that took him by surprise—so that he still might not come in. ‘Ali,’ whispered Catherine again. ‘Will you not come to see it—will you not?’ And thereupon he did.

  The name they chose for her was Una: for Ali feared she would be always singular, and alone. Yet she was strong, and fat, and wailed mightily, as though for good reason—for her House was disordered, tho’ she knew it not—and a flaw had grown between her parents that would soon be past mending.

  On a certain night, having left his house to find some distraction in places where Distraction is thought to reign—with Dissipation on her right hand and Oblivion on the left—he went from Theatre to Club, from dice to cards, seeking surcease from thought, passing among the madding crowd, yet remaining an observer more than a participant.

  ‘Waiter,’ he heard one Exquisite weakly cry at the supper-table, ‘bring me a Madeira negus, and a Jelly—and rub my plate with a challot.’ At which a rough fellow nearby him at the table cried to the same waiter—‘Waiter! Bring me a glass of good strong grog—and rub my arse with a Brickbat!’

  A Female in fury rose at the far end of the table, and look’d Basilisk-like upon a grinning fellow who had offended her. ‘You darest not say so—you would not, if I were a man! Why, I am of a mind to pull on breetches, and demand satisfaction!’ ‘If you do so,’ says the fellow, ‘I shall pull off mine, and see that you receive it!’

  Passing from the supper-room to other precincts where other pleasures might be called for, he came upon a group of gentlemen studying a certain paper, who when they saw Ali approach, looked guiltily, and put away what they studied.

  ‘Why, what have you there?’ he asked them without preamble, yet smiling upon them. ‘It seems that it may concern myself.’

  ‘Indeed it may, my Lord,’ said one of these, a fellow who acted sometimes as Banker for those at play within. ‘I have an instrument which by rights it is not possible I may possess. I must tell you, I know the hand, and am certain it is his—surely it is not your Lordship’s.’

  ‘I know not what you mean,’ Ali said, and smiled no more. ‘Whose instrument? What is it to me?’

  ‘In truth I saw not the man who made it,’ said the Banker. ‘A friend—better say an acquaintance—having received from a Gamester at table a cheque for his losses, and being himself in need of the ready, sold the cheque to me, at a certain discount—and here it is.’

  The paper he then produced stated that the bearer was to be paid by a bank in Lombard Street a certain amount, and it was signed with a bold hand SANE, the paper then being folded and sealed—and on the broken seal, spread like a gout of blood, Ali saw stamped the sign of his father’s ring—the [.Sigma]—the same sign that long ago, in the hills of Albania, had been cut into his own arm, to mark him as his father’s son! ‘It is his,’ Ali said—and dropt the thing upon the table as though it were a missive from the Beyond, where, if the most approved Sermons fable not, his father now dwelt in uncomfortable circumstances.

  ‘And yet observe the date—the thing was executed by him but a few days ago,’ said the Banker, in a hollow tone, and making no move to pick up the paper.

  ‘I knew the man,’ said another at the table, red-cheeked with drink, and not afraid of revenants, it seemed. ‘It was oft his way, so to settle a debt, upon a scrap of fools
cap.’

  ‘He is dead,’ said Ali, in a tone that brooked no objection.

  ‘Then he is up to his old tricks, despite that condition,’ said the jolly fellow. ‘Still at play, and still taking losses.’

  ‘And upon what,’ asked another reveller of the Banker, ‘will you spend this spectre’s money? Upon a long-dead mutton-chop, perhaps—or the ghosts of whores? Or upon spirituous liquors?’

  ‘Ah!’ said his red-faced chum, ‘but there ain’t any money to spend.’

  ‘That is the final proof that his hand is in it,’ said the Banker, an uncanny fear upon his features. ‘For today the bank have dishonoured the cheque! How like him, eh? What say you?’

  Ali drew out his own notecase, and gave the Banker a few pounds for the bad cheque, which the Banker was glad enough to part with—for more than one reason, it seemed, though his Poins and his Bardolph mock’d him for his scruples. Merely a desperate scheme—so Ali told himself—a money-cadging scheme—a trick played by a living rogue, and not a dead one. At his next opportunity Ali crushed the vile paper in his hands and gave it to the Fire—yet hearing, as it burned away, a whisper—‘I cannot die!’

  USELESS IT IS TO GO to the Law, if there be no-one to Prosecute—no-one to confront—even though the no-one continues to offend! Ali on another night overhears one say that a certain Sane has won largely at Hazard—which Ali has never play’d; he learns by rumour that a tilbury very like the former Lord’s was seen careening upon the Brighton road, the driver ‘tooling the ribbons’ and horse-whipping the turnpike-men for sport as he tore by, and vanish’d. Then, on passing through the crowded rooms of his Club in St James’s Place, amid the voices lifted in repartee and triumph (despair too), Ali hears—it rakes his soul—the very voice of his Father—unmistakeable the harsh grinding of it, like shingle drawn down by a cold sea wave—and he searches through the crowd in a passion, flinging open the doors of private chambers—yet finds no-one—and so desists, feeling all eyes upon him, and his Heat turn to freezing Fear—for surely he was deluded, it was not he—could not be—not Sane!

  At the Members’ desk, he asks for pen and ink, and writes out a Note:

  TO HIM POSING AS LORD SANE—Will he be so good as to reply to the Undersigned, or give the holder Notice, where and when he may be met by one demanding Satisfaction for his impositions upon unsuspecting persons, and the false presentments he has made in a Name he does not own—the time and place being at his Pleasure.—SANE

  This he doubles, and seals—addresses with the name of one not among the Living—unless himself be understood to be the one named—and the challenge therefore addressed to himself. To the wondering Clerk, he directs that the letter be given to the first claimant, and departs.

  The Honourable agrees with alacrity, in the event of this challenge being taken up, to act as his Second,—the duties of which office he takes with the greatest gravity, viz., the duty to soothe and reconcile the principals if possible—the duty to consult with the seconds on the opposing part, and to agree as to a Ground, which should be free of obstacles, outside the Law’s immediate purview, with a good light, &c.—the enlisting of a Surgeon—the preparations for Flight, should the encounter end in a fatality—and all other concerns small and large attendant upon an affair of Honour. But these are moot, the party offering the offence appearing not—nor did any one come forward as Second, in response to the proffered challenge.

  ‘It is,’ Mr Piper averred, ‘quite irregular! I cannot imagine that good can come of it—I tremble at the issue, ’pon my soul!’

  Tho’ none took up the note he had deposited, Ali on a day not long after found awaiting him at his apartments a letter, whose cover bore no sign of its origins, and which contained this response:

  TO LORD SANE—the compliments of LORD SANE, who proposes that he meet you upon the Ides of this month, in the evening at about eight on the clock—not for your satisfaction, for he considers that he owes you none, but for his own, and perhaps for your Enlightenment. The choice of weapons is of no interest to him, and is left to your preference.

  To this note was affixed the name of a place of poor repute, in a desolate district, where commonly such transactions are carried on, that the Law may not interfere; and it bore no signature.

  ‘This is worse than before!’ cried the Honourable. ‘It is quite impossible to fight a duel so late in the evening—with night coming on—in such a place—I think we are mocked, or illuded—I insist no answer be made, and that you not appear in the matter at all!’

  ‘But I will,’ said Ali. ‘I must know, who it is that thus pursues me—if he be a man, or—or what indeed he is.’

  ‘If he be a man?’ quoth the Honourable. ‘Do you expect a sprite? Or a girl?’

  ‘I meant only, a man of Honour,’ Ali said quietly—knowing not, indeed, just what he meant. ‘I will go to this place, at this time; I should be glad of your company, but if you decline, from whatever just scruples, I shall entirely understand.’

  ‘What! Not accompany you! Not likely!’ said the Honourable. ‘When who knows what devilish tricks are afoot! Do not you stir abroad without me—I should certainly take it ill, if you did.’

  Upon the appointed evening, then, Ali ordered his coach, and he and Mr Peter Piper (who carried a case of Pistols, a lamp, and a portmanteau of needful things in the event of flight) were driven to the place. The time was eight on the clock, as stated; the place deserted, save for a fellow loitering there, alone, smoking a segar, a broad hat drawn low over his face. The quarter of an hour having passed and no-one else appearing, the Honourable climbed from his coach, and called to the smoker.

  ‘Who are you, Sir?’ demanded he. ‘Are you he whom we have come to meet?’

  ‘I may be—it much depends upon whom you came to meet.’

  ‘Where is your principal?’

  ‘He has declined to appear. He wishes now to withdraw his earlier impertinences, for the offence of which he makes apology. He hopes this will be acceptable, and declares you shall hear no word from him further.’

  ‘You have come to tell us this?’

  ‘I am his messenger.’

  ‘This is irregular,’ said the Honourable. ‘I declare upon my word it is.’

  The man made no reply, unless the sudden glow of his segar in the darkness might be one—it seemed, as he lifted his hand, that he took a glowing coal from out his mouth, and held it before him till it cooled—a trick of the light in that shadowed place—and then he turned to go. Ali then stept from the coach. ‘You, Fellow!’ cried he. ‘I know you not, but I shall not withdraw my challenge, and you may answer it if he will not!’

  ‘I!’ said the fellow. ‘Why, I am no-one, and no fit object for your Lordship’s spleen.’

  ‘I demanded satisfaction,’ Ali said. ‘His communication to me denied me that, most impertinently, but promised enlightenment. I desire an Explanation, of all that he has done.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the other. ‘Explanations be dear now-a-days, and may not be wanted when they can be had.’ Then he tossed down upon the stones the segar he smoked, where it scattered red sparks at his feet. ‘The matter is nothing to me. I have delivered my message, and have done—I bid you good-night!’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Ali, and made to follow, whereupon Mr Piper, who was somewhat encumbered by his case of Pistols, tugged Ali’s sleeve, and whispered to him that ‘He should not go with this fellow, for a trap may have been laid!’, at which Ali removed his friend’s restraining hand, and went after the man—down the dark roadway—the one ahead quick as an elf, despite a halt in his gait—to where a small fire burned in a cairn, and one or two low fellows warmed themselves. From among them at the hatted man’s approach there arose a large and burly carl, who lifted a head—no, ’twas a muzzle!—and Ali saw the two, his Mocker and the Mocker’s Beast, greet one another with every mark of friendship, as the others laughed—then, taking the chain around the bear’s neck, the man went off with him into the fog—where Ali would not
follow.

  UPON HIS ARRIVAL once again at his own house (but it was not his, nor were the things, the spoons and sophas, the fire-dogs and salt-cellars, his) Ali found that his wife had decided upon a visit to her family home—and was filling trunks and directing servants, with the aid of the three Ladies in black who seemed ever in attendance upon her—that is, her Mother, her childhood Governess, and one of those ambiguous Relations without whose gimlet eye and serpent tongue family life cannot be conducted, or adequately spoiled.

  ‘Upon the morrow we set out,’ said she, and he noted the flush upon the heights of her cheek, and the eye too bright. ‘The country air will be good for Una. And for me.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Ali coldly. ‘You ought not to be in the same house with one such as I am.’

  ‘What! Why do you speak so? I said nothing against yourself!’

  ‘You need not say.’ Before him, the fire was dying away in the grate—it seemed suddenly, and madly, to Ali that his own life would perish with it—Why had no-one attended to it? Had his servants fled? He grasped the poker, and turned again to face his wife.

  ‘I say you need not—your feelings are plain—yet I may demand you do say—or else—’

  ‘Will you kill me?’ said Catherine, and clutch’d at her throat. ‘I will not believe you would do me harm.’

  He saw in her face an alarm that astonished him—and which then moved him to a rage beyond reason, a rage that unreasonably grew as her alarm did. ‘What! Why think you I would not? Is it not bruited everywhere that I killed my own Father? Am I not the scion of a line of madmen and villains? Did I not in a sleep-walking state dishonour you? Why should I stint at your murder?’

  ‘Speak not so wildly—they will hear—I beg you!’

  ‘They! Why, let them hear! They have long believed—they have long said—nay, I will speak no more on the topic! Follow after your lady mother—Go where you will. Forgive me. A strange phrenzy was just now upon me—regard it not.’