“Duty calls in distant Utope. My lord,” he says, turning to Hogarth. “This plenipotentiary is off. Adieu.”
Hogarth is startled by Thomas’s sudden act, but he himself quickly stands. “My good man—” He reaches out to grab hold of Thomas’s upper arm. “I must away as well, alas.” The painter turns to the table, zeroing in on the fellow with ink-stained hands. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.”
“But Rhymin’ Rosie’s next,” calls out the printer.
“Our loss, I’m afraid,” says Hogarth over his shoulder as he strides off with Thomas.
—
As the two men hastily leave The Rose, Thomas nearly bumps into an aged knife-sharpener wearily pushing his tarp-covered cart up the street. “Veuillez m’excuser,” he says.
“Fuck yourself,” the old man replies.
“Eye-opening, was it not?” Hogarth asks as they hurry across the Covent Garden piazza.
“Depressing is more like.” Thomas slaps his arms and shoulders to warm up. Coming out of the packed tavern into a cool spring night is only momentarily refreshing. He begins to feel a chill. “If it was meant to inflame our passions, I’m afraid it did the opposite for me.” Thomas looks at Hogarth hoping he will agree.
“Oh, I concur. But do you not think you should write it up? Include it in your book? That’s why I brought you here.”
“I’m not sure how, but, yes, I think I must.”
“That’s what I thought. London may be the greatest megalopolis there is, but we have our nasty parts. As I’m sure your Paris does as well.”
“Megalopolis?” Thomas gives Hogarth a dubious look. “Yes, Paris does. I knew those areas once.”
“You sound wistful.”
“No, not really. Well, maybe for the youth I once had and spent.” Thomas sniffs the air. They must be passing through a downdraft of coal smoke. “So, Hogarth, heading home or going down some other dark path? If the latter, I leave you here.”
Hogarth laughs. “I may paint a rake on his descent, but I am most assuredly not one of them. I’m off home to my sweet Jane.”
Thomas shrugs. “Ah, right. A married man. What we all aspire to. Remind me, you have children or not?”
“Yes, foundlings we’ve taken in. None yet of our own, though we still have hopes. But you tell me, Tyrell, speaking of wives, what about that cousin of yours, that pretty widow with the Russian name?”
“She is not my wife, Hogarth.”
“Relax. Do you know how suspicious you look?” Hogarth lays a calming hand upon Thomas’s shoulder as they stride along. “I’m not chasing her. All I mean is that she once was someone’s wife. What is her Christian name?”
“Hélène.”
“That’s it. And now the widow Rusty Cough.”
“Kharlamov.”
Hogarth shrugs. “Close enough. I’ve not laid eyes on her since that trip up the river from Gravesend. Is she well?”
“She is.” Thomas gives the painter another close look as they stride off the piazza on the far side. Are his questions as innocent as they seem?
“And she’s still staying with you and Earnest John at that Church Street address?”
“Soon to be moving out. Look, why are you asking all this?”
“Just conversation, Tyrell. It’s what people do as they walk side by side.”
“Do they? Well, I’d prefer to leave my cousin out of it.”
“Of course.” Hogarth puts his hands up.
Thomas gives the painter a sour look. “Another topic, Ho-garth.”
“The recent closure of the convulsionist site in Paris? Reports of the grave-robbing vampires in Hungary?”
“The former, please. For I once knew that site well. The Church of Saint-Médard it’s called.”
“Really? I’m all ears.”
IX
Education
London
Spring 1733
Thomas can feel his heart thumping in his chest. He wants it to slow down but he knows not how. Tonight is supposed to be the night, and that means he’s thought of almost nothing else all day long. For several days, in fact. Edward Cave has had his manuscript for three weeks, maybe a month. Cave as much as said that he’ll let Thomas know what he thinks of it the next time they get together at the Friend at Hand. He was not there last week, so surely he’ll be there tonight.
Thomas supposes he’ll be able to tell with just a glance. If Cave greets him with a smile and an embrace, then Thomas will know that he will have his work published soon enough, likely as installments, a chapter at a time. If the reception is good, someone may want to put it out as a book.
But what if Cave looks away, up to the ceiling or down to the floor? In that case, the man will not need to say a thing. The rejection will be written in his face.
“And if he doesn’t come at all?” Thomas mumbles aloud.
“What’s that?” Gallatin leans forward to get a better look at Thomas as the two of them walk along. “If who doesn’t come?”
Thomas shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Cave? Am I right?”
Thomas slows his pace. “How did you know?”
“Ever since you gave Cave your pages a month ago, you’ve not been yourself.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. He’ll like them, I’m sure. You didn’t share the final package with me, but I’m confident they’re good. Very good. You’re a clever lad.” Gallatin hesitates then adds, “And—” But then he says no more.
“And if they’re not?” Thomas completes Jean Gallatin’s thought. “What then, Jean? I still have my tutoring position and the job in the Thrift Street shop?”
“One step at a time, Thomas, all right? Wait until you hear what Cave has to say. Before— What I mean is there’s no sense in souring your humour with worries about something that probably won’t come to pass.”
“I know, but just let me stew a little more nonetheless. Will you do that?”
“As you wish.” Gallatin pretends to take a key to his lips.
In the silence of the next few minutes, as the two friends grow steadily nearer to the Friend at Hand, Thomas finds his thoughts no longer dwelling on the pages he gave to Edward Cave. Something Gallatin just said, about Thomas’s humours being soured, has struck a chord. That is exactly what has happened to him. Not just since giving his manuscript to Cave, but since coming to London.
His once promising Paris career is gone. He makes his living doing what anyone could, anyone who speaks French and knows a bit about cloth. As for Hélène, the woman he left his previous life and position for, he hardly gets to be alone with her at all. For well over a year they have stayed in separate rooms. All because Thomas lied about the nature of their relationship at the start. A story once told is difficult to change. And it’s only every month or two they even get to be alone. Lately it requires pleading or convincing on his part. The old Hélène has been replaced by someone else. The new one is satisfied with working at Gallatin’s shop and reading novels when she’s at home.
So, yes, Gallatin is right. Thomas’s humours are out of sort. If Thomas still had as much of Hélène as he used to, he might not care what Edward Cave thinks of his pages. But since he does not, not until they move out, Cave’s acceptance is all he has.
—
The instant they arrive in the bottom-most room of the Friend at Hand, Thomas hears Gallatin mutter beneath his breath, “Not him.”
Thomas looks. There are half a dozen men at the usual table, but none is Edward Cave. So no answer tonight after all, unless Cave arrives later on. Thomas hears a loud exhale come out of his friend. “To whom do you refer?” he whispers to Gallatin.
“Cleland,” the bookseller mutters. “He’s beside Fielding, on the right. In green. I don’t like or trust the man. C
an’t say why. I just don’t.”
“Good to know,” Thomas replies. “And who are the other two? Between Hogarth and Sam Scott?”
“John Goodenough and Adam Whynott.”
“Why not? Pourquoi pas?”
“Oui. Les Anglais, n’est-ce pas?” Gallatin shrugs. “Both aspiring writers like yourself. Pleasant enough chaps.”
Thomas reappraises his friend. He does not like to be lumped in with two men of questionable talent he does not know.
“Gentlemen,” exclaims Gallatin in a loud voice. “A good, good evening to you all.”
Thomas’s eyes go wide, then he remembers. As a bookseller and a printer Gallatin does business with these people. He has to pretend he is a good friend to one and all, even the one he doesn’t like, called Cleland, seated beside Henry Fielding.
“Enough chit chat.” Hogarth climbs to his feet. He taps the table to have all eyes directed his way. “You two, take your seats.”
Gallatin does as he is told, choosing to sit beside John Goodenough. The only other open chair is next to the man that Gallatin does not like or trust. Thomas goes there.
“My good friend over there....” Hogarth gestures at Sam Scott. It sounds to Thomas’s ears like the painter is about to make a speech to get elected to the English Parliament. “Yes, the celebrated Sam Scott. My colleague maintains that London was founded not by Romans, which is what we were all taught, but by Trojans. Yes, those lucky few who escaped from ancient Troy. Do I have that right, Sam?”
“It is written down.” Sam Scott gives an embarrassed shrug. “That’s all I ever said. It’s in a book.”
Thomas glances at Gallatin, the greatest admirer of the Romans he has ever met. His friend is giving Scott a steely gaze.
Hogarth makes as if he’s astounded by what Scott has just said. “So, if it’s written in a book, it must be true, is that it? Can the rest of you attest to that?”
There is silence at the table. No one wants to torment poor Scott any more than Hogarth already has.
“Fielding, you’ve written a few books. More than the rest of us combined. What say you? If something is in a book, does that make it true?”
Henry Fielding glances at Sam Scott with an apology in his eyes. “Depends on the book. Some are more reliable than the rest.”
“Well said.” Hogarth’s face is triumphant. “And you, sir.” The painter turns to Gallatin. “If you only sold books that contained the truth, how many books would you sell?”
“Impossible to say.”
Thomas recognizes a smug smile forming on his friend’s lips.
“How so?” Hogarth frowns.
Gallatin holds out a single outstretched hand and raises his pointer finger before he speaks. “First, one must define what is meant by the truth. It is not a synonym for facts.”
“Bah.” Hogarth swivels in his chair. “Let’s not get into that. You, Tyrell, you have a quiet, learned air. What say you to Scott’s belief that the Trojan horse was here?”
“Willy! Please.” Sam Scott shakes his head. “I never said—”
“Shhh, I know. Disregard my joke about the horse. Tyrell, come on, the clock is ticking fast.” Hogarth holds out his hand.
“But you’ve changed the question, Hogarth,” Thomas ventures. “You started with the Trojans possibly coming to London and then switched it to books and the truth. Should we not discuss them one at a time, not in a blur?”
“Bravo,” says Sam Scott to Thomas in a quiet voice. “Hear, hear,” say some of the others.
Hogarth sits down, a deflated expression on his face. “All right. What a strange night is this. I seem to be in need of correction. Like a comet in the sky, it shall not be seen again.”
“But— but comets do come again.” Thomas glances around for support.
“Of course they do,” says the man to Thomas’s right, the one Gallatin does not trust. “That’s what makes them comets and not something else.”
“What a crowd.” Hogarth shakes his head. “Let’s move on. Enough about the Trojan wars.” The artist gives an impish smile.
The table, especially Sam Scott, looks delighted to let the subject drop. Three separate conversations begin to fill the void. The man who backed up Thomas’s remark about comets rises from his chair, hand outstretched.
“Cleland. John Cleland,” he says.
“Tyrell. Thomas.”
They regain their seats, but Thomas has taken closer notice of this Cleland’s carefully coiffed wig and well-cut clothes. The dark-green coat looks to be of the finest wool, tailored carefully to the man’s frame, not picked up at any auction sale. The coat and the matching breeches will have cost him a lot. Whoever he is, he seems to be a man of some means.
—
“Well, I ask you this,” a suddenly impassioned Henry Fielding nearly shouts, “who here has seen a man kicking the air as he fights for his life?”
There are stunned looks on every face. This is not a usual subject for a Wednesday night. The latest pamphlet or book, yes; the supposed threat of the Jacobites; or whether or not religious writers absolutely need to be so tedious and dull. But the practice of hanging criminals? No, that’s not a subject they discuss.
“Whatever do you mean, Henry?” inquires John Goodenough. There is a hint of trepidation in his voice.
“I was eighteen when I saw Jonathan Wild hang from Tyburn’s tree.” Fielding’s voice is serious. “I sometimes see him still.”
“I’ve not heard this before.” Hogarth brings his hand up to scratch his chin. “You were really there that day?
“Along with everyone else. We were thousands, if not tens of thousands. There were tickets sold for the best viewing spots. The huzzas I’ll never forget. You’d think it was a coronation.”
“Who was this man Wild?” Thomas asks.
“An inspiration, it seems,” offers Cleland.
All eyes turn Cleland’s way, surprise on their faces. Thomas notices Gallatin is shaking his head, a disgusted expression nearly showing through.
“For writers, I mean,” Cleland clarifies. “Defoe was quick off the mark. Then old John Gay. There’ll be more to come, mark my words. The world loves a thief. Just as long as his hand is in someone else’s purse and not their own.”
“True enough, that,” mutters Hogarth, and the entire table agrees. “You, Tyrell, and even you, John Gallatin, you’re not that long from France. Are thieves there celebrated as well?”
Gallatin and Thomas exchange a look. The bookseller nods that Thomas should reply. “Not by those whose pockets or chests are robbed, but by the untouched, yes, they can be celebrated, I suppose. Just as Monsieur Cleland here said.”
There’s a momentary lull in the discussion. Thomas assumes it’s because no one knows how to get the subject away from hanging thieves.
“Well,” says Fielding, “I don’t know if Defoe was at Tyburn that day or not, but his book sold well enough. And John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera had over sixty performances at the theatre at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I’ve never had anything do as well as that.”
“No fault of yours, Henry.” Sam Scott gives the writer an understanding look. “The public is an ass.”
The silence that follows lasts but half a breath. Then everyone at the table, including Scott, guffaws and sputters.
“An ass, perhaps, but it farts out the money to pay our bills.” Hogarth smiles warmly at Scott.
“Indeed it does.” Scott sends an apologetic series of shrugs around the table. “Forget I said anything.”
—
“So, what brings yet another Frenchman to our dear London town?” Cleland asks.
“This and that,” Thomas replies.
“Ah, this and that. The French do that so well.” Cleland makes his eyebrows dance.
Thomas cannot help but laugh. Though Gallatin
has warned him about this man, Thomas has not seen or heard anything yet from him in the past hour’s conversation he does not like. He is very well dressed and seems bright, even funny at times.
“Like the rest of us, except the artists, I assume you’re here because you write?” Cleland asks.
Thomas inclines his head.
“Saving your best words for the page, I see. Very wise, Tyrell.” Cleland takes a sip of the rum he switched to half an hour ago. “The trick,” John Cleland takes a second sip, “is to find a niche. It’s as simple as that.”
Thomas is particularly struck by the man’s way of speaking. It’s as if each word or phrase is a cream-filled pastry in his mouth. It’s how Thomas imagines a count or duke might speak, should he ever be in their circles.
“Easier said than done, I think,” Thomas replies at last.
“True enough. Tell me, have I said enough?” Cleland leans toward Thomas and gives him a quizzical look. “Passed some quota you have for people you’ve just met?”
Thomas blinks. “Am I as rude as that?”
“Well, you were quiet to begin with, then you say less as the conversation goes on. Other than that, no, you’re not especially rude. I find it’s a natural French thing. Le style français, peut-être?”
Thomas glances at Gallatin, who is deep in a conversation with Sam Scott. Why does Jean not like this man? “You speak French?”
“No, but occasionally foreign words come out my mouth. A salon trick.”
“A good one to have, I bet.”
“You know, Tyrell, French is good for but two things.”
“French the language or the French?” Thomas taps his own chest.
“I’m afraid I don’t distinguish.” Cleland waves to get the servant’s attention. He indicates he wants a top up of his rum and some for Thomas as well.
“Thank you,” says Thomas, “you’re very kind to someone you’ve just met.”
“It’s easier to be kind to strangers, don’t you find? We know our friends too well. After a while they don’t deserve a thing. But tell me, sir, are you not curious about what I think of the French?” Cleland tilts his head.
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