I have passed the day in sightseeing — the Opera House, the old Royal Palace, the new Protestant cathedral in the Lustgarten which they call 'old Fritz's tea-cup' on account of its dome. 'Old Fritz himself is in the city and About has gone to the Palace in hopes of an audience. He did not wish to be accompanied, claiming that the matter was one of business and would be too dull. He took with him, carried by a servant from the hotel, one of the stout boxes he loaded in Paris. I do not know what is inside of them, and when this morning I gave it a hard look. About winked at me in a very curious manner. I cannot believe it is anything improper. Does Frederick have any foibles your Ladyship knows of? Great men sometimes do. I believe that Monsieur About delights in teasing us.
Mr and Mrs Featherstone have been with me doing the sights. They are rather pleased with Berlin and as the Prussians were our allies in the late wars they have a greater claim on Mr F's affections than the French can ever hope for. Tonight we dine at the Bristol and retire early to make the most of our good Prussian beds, for About advises us that the further east we travel the less salubrious will be our quarters. So be it.
I trust this shall find your Ladyship both healthy and happy. Shall you be going up to Town this winter? Now Monsieur About is at the door. I am your humble and obedient servant,
Julius Lestrade
Jls Lestrade to Miss Dido Lestrade
Berlin, 1 November Dear Dido,
Your brother is in Berlin! Yes, I know, he has no business being there but. . . there he is and there's an end on it. Are you well? I have sometimes wondered whether Thome knows what he is doing. Most doctors are incompetent. Quite a number of them are mad. All are greedy. The trip from Paris might have been worse though my back is sore from the confounded coach and I have been seized with the worst attack of piles I can remember having suffered. I often wish I was back in Cow, but as I am still unfit to serve as the people's spiritual guardian I should only have to go away again and cause more distress to those I hold dear. Perhaps God is in the East. Perhaps I shall become a Mohammedan. Would you let me back in the house, Dido, if I became a Mohammedan?
Besides Monsieur About I am travelling with some people called Featherstone. Mr Featherstone, who has shares in a couple of Bristol slave boats, is a great red-faced child. Mrs F is a fiirt and has married him for his slave gold.
Incredible as it may seem, she has been making eyes at me! They say travelling induces a slackening in a mans moral character; what effect might it have upon a woman? We shall see.
Tomorrow morning we are on the road again. Things I fancy will be considerably less convenient from here on. Of course, there is nothing to stop me returning to Paris, or for that matter returning to England, but I intend to see the journey through. I shall then at least have some stories to tell, even if I have no grandchildren to tell them to.
I had a dream last night and you were in it, wearing one of Mama's old dresses, the grey one. Do you recall it? When I woke I had for a time a strong emotion. I wonder if Father was happy at my age. Are you happy, dear sister?
My next from the chilly land of the Poles. Give my best to old Askew. Remember me in your prayers.
Julius
Rev Jls Lestrade to Mr Askew, Esq
Bydgoszcz, 8 November
My dear Askew,
I doubt not but Dido has kept you informed of my peregrinations. She was not at all pleased with me when I left, swore she could not understand my mind at all. Accused me of pleasing myself at the expense of others. I am afraid there is some justice in this, though I hope that you, old friend, are not so hard on me. How could I discharge my office as a conscious hypocrite? A lawyer may perhaps practise his profession without much faith in the law or a soldier attend to his duties without believing his war to be a just one, but a man of the cloth cannot decently continue without his faith. I know, my friend, you are wagging your head and saying if such were the case half of the divines in England would have to relinquish their positions. I sometimes think that what I fear
most is that I could live quite contentedly WITHOUT religion. Is this the spirit of our times? An overweening age.
How are the dogs? That lovely bitch of yours will be a terror for the hares this year. I trust Miss Askew thrives. An odd business the other day - I had a stand-off with a mob of the local soldiery. I quite feared for my life, though I do not think I showed it. They came upon me while I was pissing on a wall behind the inn where we had passed the night. Ugly devils. Paid them off and they let me be. The country here is very poor. The peasants wear the bark of trees upon their feet for shoes. Danzig on the Baltic is our next stop and we hope to have some news of the flying doctors there. I shall have to buy myself a decent cloak for the weather is turning. Keep an eye on my sister, she is not used to being alone.
I am, Sir, your most obliged and humble servant.,
Julius Lestrade
Jls Lestrade to Miss Dido Lestrade
Kashubia, 12 November
Dear Dido,
We are nearing the Baltic coast and the city of Danzig, which About tells me is a thriving merchant city much populated by Scots. The land here, though fertile, is poor, worse than France, but the people seem less oppressed. It is also damn cold, a wind that blows in our teeth for it comes out of Russia. Yesterday eve my back seized up completely while I was lying in bed trying to read Candide by the candlelight. For several minutes I could not move at all and even fancied I should die there, a godless clergyman in a hovel in Poland. Punishment no doubt for my reading Voltaire. It is About's book. He has made me a present of it. He met Voltaire in Geneva.
It is a mistake to travel in the hope of solving one's problems. One merely transports them and is thus forced to endure them among strangers. Hovj is that for a pensee? // will be a great relief for us to reach a civilised town. Even About's equanimity has been somewhat ruffled by these last two days of slog. I will not say he quite snapped at Mr F; it was more the soft growl of a very big dog, rather impressive and comical when you consider one could make three Abouts from the flesh and bones of one Featherstone. It is dangerous for Mrs F to see her husband constantly in the company of a superior man. I am sure Mr Featherstone shines like a star among his fellow slavers but he sputters like a damp brimstone next to About.
I believe I can smell the sea. A cold green sea.
I am, affectionately, your brother.,
Julius Lestrade
Konigsberg, first city of ducal Prussia, basks fatly under blue skies. Mami Sylvie clatters in through the slushed streets, a bell rackets in the cold air. Mrs Featherstone desires to make some purchases. They link arms and set out from their inn. The Reverend buys senna and tobacco. About buys a fine fur hat. In the same furrier's the Featherstones purchase pelisses, 'This for the lady, this for the gentleman -sehr schon, nicht wahr} And this other gentleman, he will also be wanting?'
The Reverend considers his diminishing hoard, and settles for a pair of gloves. Outside they admire themselves in the shop window. 'Now,' says About, 'we are fit to meet an empress!'
With fresh horses they set out the following morning, travel hard, deep into the night, chasing the Pole Star towards Riga. The snow, half thawed, freckles the landscape, but on the afternoon of the second day, clouds roll in from the east: blue, grey, white. Throughout the night, snow, shifting stealthily around the shuttered windows of their inn, falls steadily, pausing just long enough next morning to persuade them to continue on their way, then falling again, relentlessly, a soft crushing weight of snow. It is exhilarating at first, its weird dances, weird beauty. Then, quite suddenly, as though a mental spark has flown between the travellers, they are alarmed by it. What if the coach should become bogged? Where would they seek help? Have they not been rash to travel so late in the year? About raises his hands. Peace! In Riga they shall have Mami Sylvie fitted with runners, a very usual way to travel in this part of the world and wonderfully pleasant. They shall skate into St Petersburg! He has done it a thousand times. For his own part he
is very glad to see such weather. They will go twice as fast on the runners. All for the best in the best of all possible worlds! He winks at the Reverend, and yet to the Reverend's eyes even About appears unsettled, glancing furtively at the impossible curtains of snow, the failing light. How slow the horses go, up to their knees in the drifts! It is agreed, in the very next village they come to, they shall seek shelter. No point tempting fate. They do not have a race to win!
They stare out anxiously, searching for the silhouette of a house, the flicker of a light.
There!'
Well espied, Mrs Featherstone!'
It is little more than a hovel. About jumps out, beats at the door. The others peer through the window at him, wiping their breath from the glass. The door opens. About enters. Five minutes later he returns, the snow melting from his boots as he settles back in his seat.
*We are saved!' He chuckles. 'The delightful fellow informs me there is a monastery no more than a half-hour's ride from here.'
The half-hour passes. An hour. There is no sign of any monastery. No sign of anything. Mrs Featherstone enquires testily if Monsieur About understood the directions. Monsieur About fixes on her a hard and intimate look. The Reverend is quietly calculating their chances if they are forced to remain out in the storm. They have some biscuits and there is the last half-bottle of the French brandy. Might a fire not be possible? He has a tinder box and there must be a great deal of wood about.
The word 'wolf leaps into his mind like the beast itself. Childhood wolf stories. Childhood dreams of animals with spiky fur and ice-coloured eyes, slouching, watchful, scenting the dreamer in the forests of sleep. No Mama here to vanquish the horror with a lullaby. This, thinks the Reverend, looking round at his companions, might be a good moment to recover the comforts of prayer, and he has formed a single, silent 'Our Father', the words cumbersome, large as eggs in his mouth, when all prayer, all thought, is instantly suspended.
Says Mr Featherstone: 'Was that . . . ?'
The second shot is more distinct than the first. The coach halts; no one speaks. A cry? They hold their breath. They hear only the beat of their own hearts, the sweep of the wind.
The Reverend says: 'Hunters?'
'In this?' scoffs Mrs Featherstone.
'Perchance it was a signal?' says the Reverend. 'A traveller in distress. Should we not investigate, monsieur?'
Mr Featherstone asks: 'Are there bandits in these parts, monsieur?'
About shrugs. Shrugs again. 'I regret, some things are unknown even to About.'
Mrs Featherstone says: 'Why does one of you not look into it? Why do you all just sit?'
'Surely, dear,' says Mr Featherstone, 'my first duty is to protect you.'
About says: 'Bravo, monsieur. For myself, I have been out once and did not care for it. My stockings are still quite wet.'
They look towards the Reverend. He holds their eyes a moment then buttons the neck of his coat, forces open the door at his side, and drops, lightly as he can, into the roaring world.
The coachman grips a blunderbuss across his lap. Only his eyes remain unmuffled, humanly alive. His coat is crusted with snow and the snow sits thickly in the gutters of his hat.
The Reverend says: 'Let us go forward together!' He speaks in German, seeking, as the snow thrusts at his face, the appropriate grammar. Imperative or conditional? The driver shakes his head; a small gesture of unshakable resolve.
The Reverend turns away, pats the nearest horse, a sorrel. He feels the warmth through his new gloves. Poor beasts. How unhappy they look. His hands sheltering his face, he gazes forward, up the road towards Riga, then walks, leaning into the storm, twenty yards before he remembers he has no weapon. He stoops, picks up a branch, wipes the snow from it, holds it like a musket. Through this weather it might be mistaken. No more shots now. No sign of life at all.
How far is he supposed to go? He must not lose sight of the coach. It would not take long to become lost then; to wander off the road, lose all sense of direction, steadily colder, weaker. Lying down he would be covered in minutes. Buried till the thaw, some
peasant with his dog coming across the frozen corpse in spring. A lonely place this. The whole land giving off a continuous low moan of absence.
He looks back. Mami Sylvie, though much obscured, is still visible. Ten more paces, then back. He counts them out, reaches seven, and stops. Something is moving in the storm ahead. A man? Two men. One standing, one lying in the snow. At the side of the road there is a vehicle, a chaise, wheels deep in the snow. One horse.
Grasping his branch, the Reverend approaches. Whoever they are they do not look like cutthroats. More like the victims than the perpetrators of an outrage.
'HALLOOOOO!'
The man has a pistol, briefly points it at the Reverend's face, then lets his arm drop to his side. The Reverend moves closer. He lets go of the branch.
'Dr Dyer?'
They are standing together now in the road. Dyer's cropped head is gashed, gory.
'Dear sir, what calamity is this? Are you robbed?'
'You know me, sir?'
'I saw you in Paris. Place Royal.'
'I did not see you.'
'The Reverend Julius Lestrade, sir. Is this your companion? Is he badly hurt?'
'That is the postillion. My "companion" shot him while he made his escape.'
'Shot him?'
'Having first struck me and filled his pockets with my gold.'
The Reverend kneels in the snow beside the post-boy. No boy this, but a man in his fifties, shocked, frightened. The ball has struck his wrist and exited by his elbow. When the Reverend looks up, Dyer is leaning into the coach, pulling out a bag, a travelling
bag and another, smaller, of green baize, which faintly jangles as he lifts it.
'I assume, Lestrade, you did not walk here from Paris.'
'Indeed not. The coach is yonder.'
'Then I should be grateful if you would assist me to the nearest town. If you know of me then you know where I am bound.'
'I fear we shall none of us get far in this. Aha! Here they come!'
Mami Sylvie creeps silently towards them. Mr Featherstone is sat up beside the coachman. Featherstone has the blunderbuss at his shoulder. Thinks the Reverend: It will be a miracle if I am not shot in this adventure.
'HO!'
'HO THERE!'
The wounded postillion is carried inside the coach; Dyer follows, the blood making a crazy web over his face. The remaining horse from the chaise is tethered to the basket at the back of the coach. Mr Featherstone elects to stay up with the driver. Inside the coach the Reverend fusses ineffectually with the groaning postillion. Mrs Featherstone offers a handkerchief to Dyer to wipe his face. He wipes, hands back the cloth. Mrs Featherstone receives it, drops it discreetly by her feet.
Says the Reverend: 'The rogue shall not get far in this.'
'The devil looks after his own,' says Dyer. 'I swear that when they come to hang him the rope will snap. Where are you headed?'
'Wherever at all we may reach. We are told there is a monastery . . .'
There is an excited cry from Mr Featherstone. About pulls down the window.
'La,' says Mrs Featherstone. 'Can that be it? That ruin?'
The building looks like the hulk of an ancient ship. Two central towers, two low wings, one of which is clearly derelict, the snow
visibly falling behind its gaping windows. The other wing is more hopeful, though there is no light to be seen, no welcoming plume of smoke.
They draw up. Monsieur About and Mr Featherstone beat at the wooden door between the towers. Looking out, the Reverend does not believe the door will open. Yet open it does, though by whose agency he cannot see for the moment until Mr Featherstone comes trotting back to the coach. Even then it is hard, among the piling shadows, the last of the daylight, to see more than that it is a man, aged, and carrying a tiny light which somehow contrives to endure the plucking of the wind.
Mr Featherstone
and the Reverend carry the postillion between them. Behind, like mourners, come the others: Dyer bare-headed; Mrs Featherstone shivering inside her fur; Monsieur About, humming under his breath, now and then declaring: 'Everything shall be charming. Just wait and see!'
Silent corridors. Unlit empty rooms. Everywhere the reek of damp and cats.
'I believe', whispers the Reverend to Mr Featherstone, 'that this fellow is on his own here.'
Featherstone concurs, says: 'So long as he has a fire and something in the pot. Are they not under obligation to share what they have?'
There is a fire, though it is almost lost in the great stone hearth. Also a pot, which the old monk peers into, stirs, and hangs from a tripod over the flames. They lie the postillion on the table, a noble piece of furniture that may, fancies the Reverend, have served once as the abbot's desk.
'Is he dead?' asks Mrs Featherstone.
The Reverend says: 'He lives, and yet his signs are very faint.'
There is a laugh from Dyer, sharp and humourless. The Reverend says: 'Perhaps, sir, you would examine him. If, that is, you feel able.'
Dyer comes over to the table, looks quickly at the wounded man, goes to his green bag, pulls out a roll of bandages and tosses them to the Reverend.
'You seem to like the part.'
The Reverend, very conscious of his audience, binds the postillion's arm. He is tying the knot when the man lets out a piercing scream, half sits up, then faints away, his head banging heavily on the table. The Reverend steps back like a stage murderer. Everyone except Dyer peers at the man on the table.
Is he dead now?' asks Mrs Featherstone.
Later, with the postillion on a couch of old straw in the corner of the room, they eat from the monk's smoke-black pot. Some manner of gruel flavoured with pork fat. They drink goat's milk from a communal bowl. The old monk, in the patched and faded habit of a Benedictine, heavy wooden crucifix around his neck, observes them with his small, incessant smile. With him is a boy, fat, fourteen or fifteen years old, the wide open face of an idiot.
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