Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘Ah, what lovely little…’

  But they were not lovely little anythings, I noticed belatedly. A moment before they washed up around my feet I saw from the gleam of their eyes and the wrinkle of their snouts that they had murder and mayhem in mind. Horrified, I turned and started to run, but managed only one step before my ankles were snarlingly and slobberingly clamped. I yelped as the teethneedles sank in, then tottered, flailed and fell. In an instant, the dogs were all over me, and I could do nothing but blindly beat at them with my elbows and forearms.

  ‘My babies!’ I heard Amanda cry above the commotion, ‘Don’t hurt my babies!’

  ‘Then get the little bastards off me!’ I tried to shout back, but opening my mouth only made my tongue vulnerable, and several dogs immediately tried to get at it, and rip it out. Incensed at the impropriety of my position – after all, what would Capability Brown make of this blot on his landscape? – I struck out harder, and managed to elicit a yelp or two, but this only served to draw Amanda into the fray, who proceeded to lift up her skirts and kick me in the kidneys with her sharp-pointed shoes.

  ‘Stop it!’ she screamed as she kicked, ‘Stop it, you beast!’

  I tried to curl up into a ball, but the dogs now had me on their own version of the rack, and were busy stretching me apart so that my body had just the right amount of tautness to make Amanda’s kicks even more effective. Writhing, I felt like a giant worm being tormented by birds, but I could do nothing until the dogs lost interest in me of their own accord, which they did when one of them pulled my expensive wig from its moorings, and ran off with it across the garden. The others, seeing this out of the corners of their eyes, dropped me and followed, no doubt thinking that my wig was a cat, or some other poor creature more easily dismembered than I. Free at last, I scrambled to my feet, grabbed hold of Amanda by her still-kicking boot, and swung her to the ground.

  ‘Take that, Madam!’ I shouted at her, pushed in my fury far beyond the bounds of etiquette. ‘And don’t come near me again!’

  ‘But Sweetie!’ she wailed, ‘we are made for each other. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘No, madam, I cannot!’ I replied haughtily, as I wiped blood and slobber off my face and clothes with my handkerchief. ‘And stop calling me Sweetie.’

  ‘You look wonderful with your wig off, Darling. All man.’

  ‘And don’t call me Darling either!’ I exploded, before storming off towards the house, self-consciously running my hand over my bristly head as I did so. I felt naked rather than manly without my wig, and feared the ridicule of the musicians, until I looked up and saw that they were too busy having their own canine contention to notice me. From behind the barricades of upturned music stands and chairs, they were hitting out at the still-swarming dogs like a besieged platoon of soldiers. One man wielded his damaged violin at them like a pickaxe. Another beat at them with rolled sheets of music. Yet another stood on a chair whimpering, his hands protectively cupping his private members. I tutted and shouted over:

  ‘Not St Martin’s In The Fields, is it, lads?’

  They looked up and scowled at me, as if it were all my fault, then returned to their defensive duties. Concluding that I was surrounded by dunderheads, I continued on into the house itself, where I bumped into my mother on her way out.

  ‘Harry! What has happened?’

  ‘Attacked by the dogs, mother. I told you that fortune-hunting is a dangerous game.’

  ‘And where is your wig?’

  ‘Being at this very moment torn, shredded, chewed and swallowed by the aforementioned dogs.’

  ‘Oh Harry, how could you be so careless? That cost me nearly forty pounds.’

  ‘’Tis not my fault. Besides, I did not ask you to buy it for me.’

  ‘Your father will be furious.’

  ‘My father is always furious. Now, are we leaving this madhouse, or what?’

  ‘We are, as a matter of fact. I was just coming to call you. Mrs Philpott is having a lie down in her room, and now seems as good a time to depart as any. We don’t want to overstay our welcome on the first day, do we?’

  ‘Meaning, by implication, that you have at least a second day in mind. But I can tell you now, mother, the first day is also the last day, as far as I am concerned.’

  ‘The dogs ran riot – unfortunate – but what has that got to do with you and Amanda? You seemed to be getting along very well when I left you.’

  ‘There is a world of difference between appearance and reality. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘Things will improve, I’m sure.’

  ‘I am not marrying her, mother. No, not I.’

  ‘Then ‘tis Grub Street for you, my boy. You know your father’s wishes.’

  I quaked. The mere words Grub Street, as my mother well knew, emptied my bones of marrow. It took all my reserves of bottom just to stay upright.

  ‘Grub Street it is then,’ I croaked feebly. ‘I do not care.’

  ‘At least there you will experience at first-hand the subjects that so interest you in your poetry, I suppose.’

  ‘Aye, I will.’

  ‘Though being so close to your subject matter may inhibit the workings of your imagination, and surely the imagination is the most important ingredient of poetry, indeed of all creative writing. You may get there, and find yourself wanting to write about life in the Philpott Hall’s of this world. What an irony that would be.’

  ‘Indeed it would,’ I croaked, truly terrified by this argument, because I knew how cogent it was. Finding sanity even more unbearable than insanity, I quickly endeavoured to steer my mother away from the subject completely. ‘Now, are we ready to go?’

  ‘Yes. Compton is ready with the post-chaise, I believe. Have you said goodbye to Amanda?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve said goodbye to her, all right.’

  ‘And thanked her for her hospitality?’

  ‘Well…not exactly…but then it wasn’t exactly hospitality.’

  ‘You must thank her nevertheless. A simple letter will suffice.’

  ‘You know, mother, it is such empty punctilio that is the hallmark of the bon ton. I hope you do not aspire to be part of that loathsome group of parasites?’

  ‘I certainly do, Harry. With their manners, their grace, and their composure, only the aristocracy know how to live.’

  ‘Aye, how to live cynically, like that rogue Lord Chesterfield with his despicable letters to his son’

  ‘I thought it was an admirable piece of work. I was thinking of buying it for you.’

  ‘Then don’t. I’m no whoremonger.’

  As we got into the carriage, my mother looked up at the facade of Philpott Hall, sighed, and gave it one last go.

  ‘You know, Harry, you are throwing away what every other young man in Sussex would die for.’

  ‘’Tis only a house, mother. Only bricks and mortar with a few thousand tiles stuck on the outside.’

  ‘’Tis more than that. ‘Tis a lifetime of financial security. You may despise such a thing now, but in future years when your idealism has become threadbare, as it inevitably will, as everyone’s does, you will understand what I am saying.’

  ‘I understand what you are saying now, and I have nothing against money, but I want it on my terms.’

  ‘You will not make any money from poetry.’

  ‘Pope did!’ I cried hotly.

  ‘Only with his translation of Homer, I seem to recall. No-one bought his own poetry. Anyway, he was a genius.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not a genius?’

  ‘You’re not, Harry, you’re not. Something would have happened by now if you were. You would have produced one poem at least. Anyway, what is so good about being a genius? Pope was a sad, deformed man, for all his wealth and genius.’

  ‘I’ll be a sad, deformed man if I marry a girl for reasons other than love.’

  ‘More foolish idealism. Love has nothing to do
with marriage. Marriage is a mere business arrangement. If you don’t care for Amanda you need not see her much; the house is big enough for you to have separate apartments. Also, you know, you need never really work. The daily business of the estate can be done and dusted by breakfast; the rest of the day would then be yours to spend as you wish. You could even spend it reading and writing poetry, if you really must.’

  This argument, I confess, gave me pause for thought, but I sniffed a ruse. The estate work would not be that easy, especially with Mrs Philpott breathing down my neck every minute of the day, chivvying me on to superhuman business endeavours. And in fancy I could already hear Amanda’s sobbing and raving in distant rooms, distracting me from my daily wrestle with the Sublime. No, no, ‘twas intolerable. Just in time I recovered my righteousness.

  ‘So you are saying I should marry her, get her money, then do as I wish?’

  ‘Certainly. Why not? That’s what your father did with me.’

  I gave her a withering look.

  ‘Madam, you are truly corrupt. All men are not like father, you know.’

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  ‘Then I beg to be taken home to Brighthelmstone. Compton, drive on!’

  We lurched forward, and were half way down the drive when a resounding scream came from the house.

  ‘BASTARD!!’

  Excruciatingly embarrassed, I yet turned to my mother in triumph.

  ‘There, you see. She has declared her hand. That is the kind of girl she really is. Game, set and match to me.’

  But my mother, ear cocked, was only listening to the harmonic ghost of the scream as it died on the hot afternoon air.

  ‘’Tis a lover’s tiff only, by the sounds of it,’ she concluded, drawing on her shameful wealth of personal experience in such matters. ‘We’re still in with a chance. At least you made an impression. Good boy.’

  I could take no more. Pushed far beyond my natural tolerance, I let rip at my mother with some of the choicest language this side of Newgate, though none of it was personal. My mother, however, took offence, and ordered Compton to stop and eject me from the carriage.

  ‘Go!’ cried my mother dramatically, ‘and never let me see your face again!’

  ‘Nor I yours, Madam!’ I retorted, still hot.

  ‘Just go!’ she shrieked, before slamming up the window, and disappearing down the road.

  Not too worried, once I had calmed down, about never seeing her face again – after all, she had issued the very same threat at least a hundred times since my first remembered misdemeanour – I was nevertheless worried about how I was to get home. The country people, in common with footpads, highwaymen and the rest of society, were no friends of the macaroni, and my pumps were built for lolling, not walking. However, casting a weather eye at the sun and the length of my shadow over the cornfields, I realized I had no choice but to start out immediately if I wanted to be safe home by dusk. So, pausing only to relieve myself of a pint of tea, I set off after my mother’s carriage, which by now was crawling specklike up a distant hill. Mincing along amidst the glorious scenery of the Downs, I had a brief moment of ecstasy before my pumps started to bite, and ‘twas back once more to the mundane miseries of life. Malodorous Summer! I thought to myself, Evil Afternoon! Who in their right mind could love life? What was it but a rotting pile of corpses? Or a candlelit gallery of grinning skulls? To the satisfaction of my poetic self, other images of what exactly life was started to queue up in my brain. Pleasingly, none of them were complimentary, meaning that my Night Thoughts were starting to move again. Elated in my misery, I could not wait to get back to my garret and give the living the hammering they deserved. The most determined macaroni on the turnpike that afternoon, I vowed to show them all – one way or another, sooner or later – exactly what stuff I was made of.

  2

  The Rescue

  I awoke the next morning determined to spend the day as if the events at Philpott Hall had never happened. I washed, attended to my toilet, and made myself a large dish of tea. Then, in skull cap and morning gown, I hobbled over to my table, sat down, and sifted through my papers. Lurking somewhere beneath a strewn pile of poetry books and tattered old copies of the Sussex Weekly Advertiser were my Night Thoughts. I found them, shook off a dusting of biscuit crumbs, and read from where I’d left off the night before.

  Alas, Fortunato, the world is not for the likes of you and me

  Its odious stink makes cadavers of roses smell.

  The sun (dread luminary!) lightens only the mood of fools

  Who bask like drowsy bees in its killing rays.

  Deluded mortals! Unhappy wretches! Fatal disposition!

  Life is a hideous Monster that devours those who praise it.

  I picked up my pen, dabbed it in my inkwell, and set to with a vengeance.

  Wrap yourselves instead in the shroud-like majesty of the sable senses

  Seek solace at the arboreal throne of the screech owl

  Loiter palely in the Ballrooms of the Dead

  And make sombre obeisance to the grandeur of the Ebon King!

  Here the flame of inspiration flickered, sputtered, and then went out completely, leaving me in darkness yet again. Morbidly aware of the need to push on, I tried to force out words and images using brain power alone, but the utter gibberish that resulted was so abhorrent to me that I had to stop. Feeling the vapours coming on, I tossed my pen on the table, got up, and stuck my head out of the open window, there to look down with gloomy horror on the passing populace of Brighthelmstone. They were a scurvy lot, and not much interested in poetry by the looks of it. But then I knew no-one who was, so what was the point of my existence? Why not pack it all in and try to be brainlessly happy? Why not, indeed, marry Amanda Philpott, and use her money to drink, whore and gamble my life away, like any other rogue?

  Resolution broken now, I allowed the rest of my mother’s arguments to come flooding in. I had to consider what to do anyway, for ‘twas clear that I could not finish my poem before my father evicted me from my garret. Trying to apply reason rather than emotion to the problem, I concluded that it was after all a straight choice between Grub Street and Philpott Hall. One course of action was morally clean and physically dirty: the other was physically clean and morally dirty. I knew which course I wanted to take, but was I strong enough mentally to endure the hardship of Grub Street? Had I the talent, the dedication, the education? The first two were doubtful enough, but the third was a definite handicap, for my schooling had taken place at home, under the tutelage of Dr Werner Habel-Schnelling, one of the Hanover crowd who had come over in the wake of Georges Ein, Zwei und Drei. Apparently Dr Werner (as I called him to save time) had a step-cousin who knew someone who knew the King’s mother, a fact that squashed itself onto his visiting card as FRIEND TO THE HANOVERIANS, which is more than what he was to me, the bastard. He forced me to read German literature, all of it, in the original, until the mere sight of Gothic script made me want to spew. Then there was German music, German mathematics, German philosophy, German botany, German astronomy – my whole world was German. When, in desperation, I retaliated by thanking God that Shakespeare wasn’t German, Dr Werner put me right and said that Shakespeare wasn’t good enough to be German, being only an English country scribbler who didn’t know where Bohemia was.

  Perhaps ‘twas this education that was causing all the trouble now, for it made me look at England and its customs in a detached, analytical manner, and prevented me from forming those soppy associations with flowers and tinkling streams that so blighted English men of culture. It also distanced me from the sordid carousings that tainted every cranny of English life. I was vaguely aware that I would have to jettison my idealism in a pot of puss sometime soon, but secretly I yearned for a clean healthy place in which to live properly. I wasn’t naive enough to want Utopia, just a place where corruption was the exception rather than the rule.

  And so the arguments went round and roun
d in my head, until I was again befuddled, and needed to lie down and rest. I must have fallen asleep deeply, for by the time I came round it was well into the afternoon, with the sun streaming through the window, and the insistent cries of a pieman breaking the stillness of the room.

  ‘Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle…dumplings ho-o-t. Pies, pies…beef…poooork….pies. Fresh green peas, ninepence a peck. Peck, peck, pi-ies!’

  I’d wondered before why this man came down our street every afternoon, Sundays and saints days included, and now I knew. Nothing in the world was more tempting to me at that moment than a veal pie and peas, heavily seasoned with salt and vinegar. I had eaten nothing all day and did not fancy the thin gruel that constituted my normal supper, so I leapt up with alacrity and rushed to the window.

  ‘Man!’ I cried down, ‘My man!’

  There were several people in the street below, and all swivelled their heads upwards to gaze on me with mild interest. The pieman, apparently unaware that I was addressing him personally, nevertheless stopped pushing his cart so that he could study me the better.

  ‘Yes, you! Pieman!’

  ‘What?’ he shouted up suspiciously.

  ‘Have you a veal pie and peas?’

  ‘’Course I ‘ave.’

  ‘Then wait there. I’m coming down to get them.’

  I dressed hurriedly and clattered downstairs, strangely elated at the simple act of buying a pie and satisfying my hunger after a wasted day of fug-inducing reflection and thought. Once outside I was better able to appreciate the fare on offer, for besides my order there were other delectables on display such as shrimps, beefcakes, dumplings and apples, along with plenty of beer, gin, tea and coffee to wash them down. Indeed, ‘twas a good job I had ordered blindly, or indecision would have paralysed me for the rest of the afternoon. As it was, I exulted over the offerings in a manner no doubt inappropriate to my social standing.

  ‘Never seen food before?’ said the pieman in a surly manner, ladling peas onto a plate.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  The man sneered.

  ‘Don’t know what the world is coming to when the nobs in West Street can’t get enough food in their very extensive kitchens to cater for their very exclusive appetites.’