—What are you staring at, young miss? You’ve been staring at me all along.
—Forgive me, Mary says.
Dunraven lifts his chin slightly, a gesture of dismissal. He begins to talk about Disraeli. The Jew, he calls him.
—Really, Kingsley, the entire matter of Victoria being named empress of India. Do we call her empress? This is the British Empire, is it not? I fail to see the benefit of calling our queen the empress of India. The thing sounds wrong. Why, it’s as if we have a wog on the throne of England.
—I quite agree, sir.
They go on to talk about the fighting in the Balkans. The Russians have declared war on Turkey, and invaded Rumania. They’ve crossed the Danube. The trade routes to India are threatened. In Lord Dunraven’s opinion, everything is Benjamin Disraeli’s fault. Disraeli has recently been named Earl of Beaconsfield by the queen.
—The man’s a fool. A foppish dilettante and a writer of silly romances and novels. I have heard people referring in conversation to articles about his books, and they sound to me to be quite absurd.
—I’ve read the books themselves, Mary says. Did you read Lothair? Do you know Sybil, or the Two Nations?
Dunraven stares, but doesn’t answer.
—Well, ’ave you read them or not? Mary says.
George Kingsley reaches across the small space of the closed coach and slaps her. The blow is delivered with very little force, but Mary feels it, like an imprint of his hand, for miles, burning. She says nothing more. The carriage pitches and tilts along the rutted country roads, heading northeast. They go past Winchester and on, to a country inn she hadn’t seen on the journey south. The day’s clouding over, threatening more snow. The carriage stops in the rattle of wheels on paving stones, and the sneezing of the horses, the clatter of their hooves. The land surrounding the inn is all brown grass and naked trees, a desolate field bordered by a low brown hedge. Lord Dunraven makes a fuss about the care of his horses and coachmen and it’s clear that, as in everything else, he expects the preferential treatment to which he’s accustomed. Mary, with her burning cheek, has noticed that there’s a curious familiarity between the two men: when Dunraven speaks to her father, his tone is less imperious, not as loftily detached. She hears the difference when he asks Charley about his interests at school, and Charley explains that he enjoys studying Greek less than reading translations of the Greek poets and tragedians.
—It’s all better in English, Dunraven says. If you ask me.
—Yes, sir, says Charley. I’ve been reading Browning’s translation of The Iliad.
—Never understood what all the fuss was about, says Dunraven. Literature. It’s for women, if you ask me.
—I don’t like it much, Charley says.
It’s clear that he’s trying to please his father.
Dunraven seems momentarily confused, but then he forces a hard little laugh and says:
—There’s a chap. The whole bloody business.
He looks at Mary, and nods.
—Forgive my speech. We have been in wild places, and far from the society of young women.
Mary nods back, glancing at her father.
Dunraven goes on, talking now about the savages of North America, and by savages, he’s careful to point out, he does not confine his meaning to the naked killers of the plains. The two men go on to recount to Charley, looking only at Charley, some of what they’ve seen. Dunraven speaks in the sure tones of someone who’s possessed of the conviction that his opinions will be supported. And yet on two occasions Mary’s father actually contradicts him, both times about the customs and habits of the North American Cheyenne Indians. In each instance, Dunraven retreats, as if in deference to the expert, the anthropologist and the physician. But these concessions do not, finally, have the sound of agreement in them: it’s as though such concerns, anthropology and science, are not worthy of his attention. He’s a world traveler, an adventurer. He’s sorry to be home. He says so.
At the inn, Mary excuses herself, pleading a headache, and goes to her room. She eats no evening meal, and when her father comes to the door of the room to ask after her, she calls to him that she is abed, and, though not hungry, feeling better.
—Can you open the door for a moment, Mary?
She rises, gathers her robe around herself, unlatches the door, and opens it a crack. Her father is so tall and handsome, standing there in the flickering gaslight, and there’s something about his eyes that makes her feel sorry for him—a quality of being beset, of struggling against some powerful anguish.
—I’m all right, she says to him. Really, Father.
—I’m sorry for today, he says.
—Please forget about it, Mary tells him. She has always loved his directness. It occurs to her that witnessing his deference toward Dunraven has been more painful than the blow to her cheek.
—I caused your headache, didn’t I, he says.
—No, Father.
—I’m quite proud of you, you know.
She doesn’t know what to say to this. He lifts his hand to her face, without touching it, then lets the hand drop to his side.
—I’m unable to believe how much you’ve grown.
She nods, a gesture of shy acceptance.
—I was upset, Mary. That business on board. I’ve seen such things.
Never get used to it, of course. In Kansas, I saw a man shot dead in the street. They let him lie there the whole afternoon. This was…well.
—We thought you were dead, she says.
—I know. I have the letters from you and your mother.
—We were so frightened.
—There’s a brave girl.
—No, she says.
—Well, good night, Mary.
—Good night, Father.
She watches him go down the corridor, then returns to her bed. Outside, the wind howls in the eaves, and she thinks of snow. She imagines it accumulating on the roof, the windowsill, and the branches of the trees. She has a dream that it covers the horses, the carriage, the building itself, collecting in the hollows of her own closed eyes.
The morning is bright, clear, and cold, and it hasn’t snowed at all. Dunraven wants an early start. They have biscuits and tea, and by seven o’clock they’re jouncing along toward London. Dunraven explains that he feels much better today, and that the upsetting business on board is quite behind him now. He wishes to express his gratitude for the pleasant company he has enjoyed during his ride back to London. He nods at Mary again, and then concentrates on Charley, the adventurer thrilling the heart of a boy, talking about the harrowing experiences his party had in the great mountainous Wyoming territory—the extremes of weather, and the strange behavior of the savages, some of whom were peaceful, nearly docile, in fact, and some of whom preyed on everything around them, man and beast. Raiders, they were. He postulates the theory, which he has spent considerable time developing, that all the darker-skinned races are inferior. But he has a great store of sympathy and understanding for them all, and they respond to him.
—I have a way with them, he says. They love me. They positively fawn over me, do they not, Kingsley?
—Yes, they do, George Kingsley says.
When they stop to rest, Dunraven tells them he wishes to clear his lungs, and walks a few paces into a field.
—The air parts for him, Mary says, low. She can’t help herself.
—Don’t be impertinent, says her father. He’s actually rather an amazing chap. I’ve seen him face down nine Blackfoot warriors without so much as a twitch. He takes hardship wonderfully. He’s missing the small toe of his left foot, and do you know why? He cut it off. Himself. Because it was frostbitten. I saw him do it.
—My God, Charley says, impressed.
Mary looks at the figure in the distance. Dunraven coughs and spits, and walks in a small circle, taking deep breaths and slapping his own trunk with the flat of both hands. It’s almost a gesture of someone indicating a hearty appetite, except that the hands mov
e to the face to cover the mouth as another cough comes forth.
—Consumption? she says to her father.
—Not every cough is dire, Mary. He’s coughed since I’ve known him.
Dunraven returns to them, clearing his throat and regarding them with an expression of benevolent sufferance. They climb into the carriage, and ride along for a time in silence.
—Nothing like a little bracing cold air to clear the lungs, he says. Best thing in the world for rejuvenating one’s spirits. I’m thankful for the company, Kingsley.
—We thank you for your hospitality.
—Indeed, it’s you who will be extending the hospitality. That is, if it isn’t too much of a presumption to suppose that I might dine with you at your home?
For a bad few seconds, no one says anything. George Kingsley seems not to have understood him.
—Oh, of course, he says finally, with an enthusiasm that doesn’t quite cover his embarrassment.
—That is, I mean, if I wouldn’t be in your way.
Mary sees that her father is utterly unprepared, and seeks for something good to say, wanting to soften the effect. She sits forward slightly and murmurs:
—We’d be delighted to ’ave you, sir.
—Yes, her father says quickly. Delighted.
The house in Highgate is lighted up like a Christmas candle, every window. The carriage pulls up, and they get out, and Mary sees Dunraven’s face at the sight of the lighted windows.
—Mrs. Kingsley doesn’t like to be alone, George Kingsley says.
—I like a lot of light, says Dunraven.
They go to the gate and Charley opens it and holds it for the rest of them. The air is heavy with cold. He gives Mary a look as she goes through. In the front lawn, two of the gamecocks are wandering in the yard.
—I say, Dunraven says.
Mary shoos them around to the back and shuts the inner gate. It is starting to cloud up again, and the coal smoke in the air stings her eyes. There are also the several odors of London’s streets—raw sewage and refuse and rotting garbage, the effluvium of the dirty river, the dung of thousands of horses. After the country, the long ride, these odors are fairly overpowering. In the house, her father and Dunraven have gone to the parlor for a drink of brandy and a cigar. Mrs. Barrett is bustling about, picking up her things. This is the room she has made her own in George Kingsley’s absence. Mary is surprised to find her mother crossing the hall from the stairs, wearing her flannel nightgown and a sleeping cap. She’s carrying a lantern, though the tongues of flame are bright in every light in the house. Charley has begun moving from lamp to lamp, turning them down or off.
—Mother, he says, surprise and consternation in his voice.
—I couldn’t eat today, Mrs. Kingsley says. Mary, ’ow could you leave me alone in that fashion?
—Mrs. Barrett was here, Mary says. You were not entirely alone.
—That is a rationaliz-eye-shun and an exagger-eye-shun of enormous proportions, her mother says, in the tone they use with each other when they are alone, and entertaining each other. Mary touches her arm and smiles, and feels a thrill of happiness. She wants to see what a man like Dunraven will find to say or do when confronted with the frank, funny gaze of her mother when she is in this sort of mood.
But George Kingsley steps over to his wife and gently takes the lantern from her.
—Mrs. Kingsley, perhaps you ought to go upstairs, he says.
Mary’s mother stares at her.
—Mary?
—Perhaps you ought to go upstairs, George Kingsley repeats, with an insistence.
—I don’t ’ave to, his wife says, glancing in the direction of Lord Dunraven, who clears his throat and looks around the room with an expression of morbid curiosity. Then he steps forward and offers his hand to Mrs. Kingsley.
—Lord Dunraven, madam. It is my distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.
Mrs. Kingsley looks at him from under her brows, a look of suspicion and wariness.
—Pleased to meet yeh.
—Yes, mum. Very good. I have been enjoying the society of your husband and children.
He lets go of her hand, then reaches for it again and raises it to his lips. Mary’s mother seems astonished, then slyly ironical.
—It’s a claw, she says to him. Ain’t it? Can I boil you an egg?
Dunraven seems momentarily dazed.
Mary’s father says:
—Isn’t it a good idea now that you go back upstairs.
He turns to Dunraven.
—She’s not been well. Female troubles, you know.
Dunraven merely stares at her.
Mary comes forward.
—Mother, let’s go upstairs, and I’ll read to you.
—I don’t want to miss everything, Mary. I don’t want to miss boiling ’is egg.
—I’m not a bit hungry, madam. Thank you so very much for your consideration.
Mary’s mother winks at her.
—Never knew them not to be ’ungry for a boiled egg.
—They’re just going to smoke tobacco and talk about the Indian wars in America.
—I would like to know about all that, I would.
—You ought to go upstairs now, George Kingsley says firmly.
—I fought in the Crimean War, Dunraven says, then seems mildly confused at his own statement.
—Go on upstairs, please.
—I don’t ’ave to, Mary’s mother says.
George Kingsley looks at Mary.
—Take your mother upstairs, please, Mary.
—Don’t ’ave to, Mrs. Kingsley mutters.
Mary leads her up the stairs and puts her gently to bed. Her mother cries softly, like a little girl, and for a time Mary holds her, rocking her gently.
—It was joking at first, Mary.
—I know. And it couldn’t’ve been more appropriate. I was very glad to see it.
—Well, you liked it anyway.
Mary rocks her until she falls asleep.
Downstairs, the men have dined on cold roast lamb, and biscuits prepared by Mrs. Barrett. They’re drinking cognac, smoking American cigarettes, which they’ve brought over on the sea journey. Lord Dunraven holds forth about his exploits in the uncivilized world, and speaks with great confidence on his opinions concerning the reasons for drought and famine in the primitive parts of the globe, especially in Africa, with its tribal wars and internecine slaughter. He goes on to evaluate, with some acrimony, the self-aggrandizement of men like Speke, and Stanley, and Sir Richard Burton, and all the others who apparently fail to see anything but terrain. The source of the Nile River is an absurd thing to search for when there are thousands of benighted human souls occupying those lands.
—I would think much was to be gained from speaking with these people, Mary says.
—Speaking with them? Dunraven says. They’ll cut you into pieces and eat you.
—Not according to Mr. Burton’s recollections of them.
—Burton is a vain, self-promoting fool, George Kingsley said. I don’t wish to talk about him.
—Your daughter has ideas of her own, Kingsley.
—I have left her alone in my library too long. Mary is possessed of a quick mind. I have taken steps to train her.
Dunraven is gazing at Mary.
—Are you aware of the writings of Sir Richard Burton?
—Some, yes, she says. I am interested in science and anthropology.
—And what is your schooling?
—I ’ave none, Mary tells him. But what I can glean on my own.
Dunraven takes a long pull on his cigarette and then looks at her father.
—A little education is a dangerous thing, Kingsley.
—I think I must have mentioned that she’s quite able to hold her own in any company, says her father. And she has a sharp tongue, for which I apologize.
—No apology necessary, I’m sure.
Charley is watching them, chewing on a biscuit. Mary clears some of the
dishes away, and Mrs. Barrett hurries in to take over. Mary sits down again, hands folded in her lap.
—I guess it’s the price of coming from a literary family? Dunraven asks.
—I suppose.
—Charles, here, will write books, no doubt.
—I should like to be a poet, Charley says.
This is the first that Mary has heard of it.
—Tosh! Dunraven says. A lot of emotions, poetry. Again, as I remarked earlier, I should think literature the province, mostly, of women.
—Do you know the work of Lord Tennyson? Mary asks him. It occurs to her with a little start that she means it as a challenge. She can feel the blood coursing through the veins of her face.
—I have some acquaintance with it, yes.
—And Shakespeare?
—I believe Shakespeare has been judged to be overrated, somewhat. I believe I read something to that effect.
—Do you know the sonnets and the plays? Mary says.
—Well, of course.
—And you get nothing out of them?
—I prefer the world of action, young miss.
Dunraven clears his throat, puffs on his rolled tobacco, and looks at her father.
—See here, Kingsley, I wonder if we couldn’t speak alone for a few moments. I really must be leaving soon.
—Excuse me, Mary says, rising.
She looks at Charley, in his shadowed corner of the room.
—Charley?
He accompanies her, across to the living room, and the window looking out on Highgate Street. They sit in tall-backed chairs on either side of the window. The two men are muttering in the other room, and Mrs. Barrett is clanging around in the kitchen. It is snowing again, the flakes dropping down through the gathering mist. Finally Dunraven comes out into the hall, and in a harumphing, formal tone of voice takes his leave. They watch him go down the walk, bark orders at the coachmen, get in, and close the door. The carriage pulls away.
—Why do you suppose? Mary says, to no one in particular.
—He’s frightened, comes their father’s voice.
He has entered the room and stands at Charley’s shoulder.
—All the things we’ve seen in our travels, and nothing quite upset him as much as that chap dropping over dead yesterday morning. Quite shaken, he was. I think he may be curtailing some of his wanderlust.
Hello to the Cannibals Page 21