James Miranda Barry

by Patricia Duncker

  I wait until I hear her negotiating the second landing, before I quietly dismantle my stethoscope and consign it to my chest. Humankind is invariably hostile to improvements, innovation and change. Or at least, that has been my frequent observation. Most people believe that physicians practise a form of black magic, and I was, still worse, trained as an army surgeon. Mrs Harris would probably not be amazed to find me sticking pins into a wax effigy of my uncle after the manner of some West African tribes. My stethoscope is a new invention, brilliant in its simplicity, created by my French colleague, René-Théophile-Hyacinthe Laënnec, a pupil of the famous Dr Bichat. He has been physician to the Salpêtrière hospital for almost a year now. I have visited him there, and found his methods remarkable. I was even a little jealous at the extent to which he is given a free hand in his experiments, when I am everywhere strangled by bureaucratic inconveniences. I have been privileged to read the first part of my distinguished colleague’s Traité de l’auscultation médiate, which he hopes to publish in a year or two. It is a significant development in our knowledge of diseases of the lungs, a real scientific advance from Bayle’s work on phthisis. Yet Bayle was a great favourite with my master, Astley Cooper, because his work was based on dissections, accompanied by immaculate drawings.

  I keep my stethoscope hidden for the moment.

  James Barry chokes slightly. I put my arms under his and lift him upright on the pillows. He opens his yellowing, watery eyes and peers back at me, seeing me as if for the first time.

  ‘It’s you,’ he whispers, ‘you’ve come.’

  ‘Yes, uncle. I’ve been here some time.’

  We stare at one another for many moments. I listen to the rain against the windows. His face takes on its habitual tense sneer. He looks better.

  ‘Uncle, I have sent for the priest.’

  ‘What the devil have you done that for? I’m not dying yet.’

  ‘Not immediately. But you’re very ill. I thought the priest might have some comfort to offer you.’

  ‘Hypocrite. You don’t even have a soul.’

  I smile down at the old man, who is working himself up into one of his rages. He is quite right. He won’t die yet. The human will is an uncanny thing. James Barry is, for some reason best known to himself, refusing to die. I am reminded of Barnadine, called to execution. Arise and be hanged, Mr Barnadine. To which he replied, ‘I’ll not die today for any man’s sake.’ I reflect on the non-material elements of my being.

  ‘Am I encumbered with a soul? No. Perhaps not according to my scheme of things. But if souls exist, then I certainly do have one. And you will do whether they exist or not. It’s an article of the Faith. Come on, uncle. The host will do you no harm. As your doctor I can guarantee that.’

  ‘Don’t speak lightly of holy things, young man,’ Barry snaps.

  I take his hand, very gently.

  ‘And don’t you be angry. The tension is bad for your heart.’

  We sit in silence. The fire snaps and light rushes up the wall and across the image of the Pandora, now carefully re-covered with the damaged sheeting. I think of the dead cat on the window sill, its limp whiskers awash with rain, and the state of siege in which my uncle appears to live. I want to raise the question of Alice Jones, but I have no wish to distress him. James Barry begins to speak, hesitantly at first, with long pauses between his breaths, then slowly gathering strength.

  ‘I asked for you. I wanted you to come. I don’t trust anybody else. Dammit, we made you what you are. David paid for you. Francisco brought you up. I gave you my name. Without us, you wouldn’t exist. We have some rights over you.’

  Suddenly he looks at me, a clear sharp glance, full of undisguised family pride.

  ‘You’re a real soldier. A real soldier. Yes, you’re the real thing all right.’ This distended grimace is as close as he will ever come to a smile.

  I smile back. He changes tack. His mind is adrift in a high wind.

  ‘Get back the box, boy. Everything’s in the box that bitch carried off when she left.’

  ‘What was in that box, uncle?’

  But he is now too angry to be coherent.

  ‘The box. Damn you. The one she took. And keep that whore out of my studio. Up with her skirts and spreads her legs for any man with a rod to shove up her. She doesn’t pick and choose, either. Titled lords and kitchen boys. They all went prancing through her bedroom. Anyone, anyone could have her. I had her myself, thousands of times, there, there and there. And all she gives back is a dose of clap. I hope her cunt rots!’

  ‘Calm down, uncle. Drink this.’

  I mix two drops of laudanum with the tepid water, which has at least been boiled more than once. I am trusting that opium will calm his obscenities and ease his breathing. But by now, he is raving.

  ‘She’s gone. With a man dressed up like a Christmas tree. And that black widow who hides down passages used to open all the doors. Bundling her into men’s bedrooms like an unpaid pimp. What was in it for her? Unscrupulous witch. Twenty years ago she used to do it. Did they think I didn’t know? Night after night.’

  Alice is barely twenty-one. So she cannot be the subject of these ramblings.

  ‘What do you mean, uncle?’ I ask quietly as he swallows the soporific.

  ‘That foul slut, of course. Who stole my box.’

  ‘Then who is the black widow?’

  Suddenly, I know that he is talking about Louisa. But his mind has lost its aim. He gives a little jerk, as if attempting to fix his concentration. His gaze wanders the length of the draped painting. He raises one finger and stabs at the darkening figures of the assembled gods.

  ‘That whore! That box! James, you must find that girl and get back my box.’

  He slumps back. I touch his forehead and cheek and find that he is feverish again.

  ‘Uncle, don’t try to talk. Don’t. Be quiet now.’

  I hear Mrs Harris creeping up the house, and the heavier tread of the priest behind her. The room is lit only by firelight. I have had barely two hours’ sleep in the last days. I stagger to the door. My trousers are smeared with mud and my white stockings grimy and foul with constant wear. I leave my uncle in the sinister hands of the Catholic Church and slither down, aching and depressed, onto the last step of the dusty stairs.

  A gust of cold and smoke rushes into the hall as the door flies open. Two giant strides and I am in his arms.

  ‘Soldier! You’re under orders. I’m taking you straight home to bed.’

  It is my commanding officer: General Francisco de Miranda.

  * * *

  I am surprised at how little has changed in the house. Here are the tiles, black and white, immaculate, no leaves or clods of mud scuttering across the patterns, here is the French sofa, with oil lamps shaped like torches, rising up on either side. Here is the hall fire, well tended and blazing. Here are the polished boards of the dining room and the heavy oak table, too heavy to be fashionable, with plain straight legs. Rupert and Salvatore look exactly the same, and they treat me with the exaggerated respect reserved for gentlemen.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I see that the sea air is treating you well.’ Salvatore’s English is almost unintelligible beneath his Spanish accent, but there is no hint of irony nor even a tinkle of knowing recognition. James Barry is right. I am the real thing. Salvatore and I grin at one another. The past unfolds, like a descending curtain, perfectly smooth, with the seams invisible.

  ‘Was there anything else besides this letter from the hospital? I have asked Mrs Harris to send for me at once if there is any change in my uncle’s state. Don’t forget.’

  No messages.

  But there is an enormous breakfast, real chicken and ham pies, cold tongue, boiled mackerel and sheep’s kidney, sausages, bacon and poached eggs, boiled eggs, still very warm, wrapped in a padded muffler, toast, muffins, butter, jam and marmalade, and here is Rupert, carrying tea and coffee in shimmering silver pots. I look gloomily at the laden table. Diet has, unfortunately, bec
ome one of my obsessions. My visit to Paris was filled with the undignified contradiction of my learned colleagues discoursing on the need to cultivate a frugal palate, the sine qua non for a healthy old age, while gorging on oysters and pâtés swimming in fat. We all agreed that we were killing ourselves, but no one rose from the feast. This is not rational, it is not even sense. Francisco’s table has always reflected his tastes, too much meat, too few vegetables and no coarse bread. He loves food. My wealthy patients present me with a remarkably constant spectrum of diseases: heartburn, gout, colic, apoplexy, degeneration of the liver, topped off with a bleeding rectum. The causes? Salt meat, protein excess, animal fat, alcohol in vast daily quantities, overeating, possibly sodomy, smoking and inertia. They want to be sent off to the spas and hydros where they can continue their cheerful round of gossiping, drinking and general debauchery. They do not want to be told to limit their consumption to a quarter of their usual daily intake, to smoke no more and to walk several miles every day. I have a reputation for being ferocious with my patients, for taking no prisoners and showing no mercy. All I do is tell them the truth.

  It is extraordinary how much money people will pay to hear blunt advice that they will never follow. At least my patients in the barracks hospital are obliged to take orders from me. But in this house I must obey my commanding officer, and consume a gigantic breakfast. I attack the boiled mackerel, which is delicious.

  Mary Ann appears. Her face is bleached with tiredness.

  ‘Did you find your clean linen?’

  ‘Sit down. And eat something. You have no colour in your cheeks.’

  ‘James, I can’t go back to that house. I have nightmares. You’ve heard him. He shrieks abuse at me when he’s coherent. And sometimes even when he isn’t.’

  She covers her face.

  ‘Eat something, I beg you.’ I serve her a little cold chicken and toast.

  ‘What does he say about me? What does he want of me? What can he possibly want me to do?’

  She is near to tears. I take her hand.

  ‘Listen, Mary Ann, he makes very little sense now. Neither to himself nor to anybody else. And you’re quite right. All that comes out is a flood of obscenity. He cursed the priest – and the last rites. But he’ll sleep a lot now until he dies. His lungs are slowly filling up with fluid. I’ll make sure that his suffering is not excessive. All we have to do is wait.’

  I pause.

  ‘I suppose he hasn’t made a will?’

  ‘Oh, God knows.’ She flings herself upon the cold poultry, swallowing mouthfuls without paying much attention to what she is eating. ‘All he’ll have to leave are debts. Did you know that David Erskine has galvanised the Society of Arts? They’ve raised £120 to rehouse him and give him a fresh start. He’ll never live to enjoy any of that.’

  ‘No, he won’t. When I first saw him I didn’t believe that he could last three days. But he has a savage will. He may die very slowly.’

  I say nothing for a moment or two and we crunch toast in the spring sunlight. The first breach in the smoking rain has come. The light pushes back the drapes, thickens the dust on the panes, leaving bubbles glittering in the glass, and sends one broad tendril across the white damask to play with the rings on my mother’s hands.

  ‘Mary Ann, he is very distressed about that box Alice took with her when she left. There was something in that box which was of great significance to him.’

  ‘It was quite valuable. I don’t know how much the stones were worth. Oh, why bother? She’ll have sold them all by now.’

  ‘We must find Alice.’

  I have spoken my desire.

  Mary Ann bites into her toast, indifferent. I butter another slice and pretend to hand it over.

  ‘Have you any idea where she went? What she intended to do?’ I dangle the slice of white toast like a bribe. Mary Ann snatches instead at the tender bread.

  ‘None whatever. Unless she’s run off with a company of actors. She was learning Shakespeare in the kitchen.’

  ‘Shakespeare!’ I drop the toast onto my mother’s plate, pour her more tea and press the sugar cubes upon her.

  ‘Oh yes. Something entirely suitable. Katharina the Shrew. Which would only encourage her to grow more unscrupulous and saucy than ever.’

  ‘Mary Ann, tell me about this.’

  An odd urgency in my tone makes her listen and concentrate for the first time.

  She had gone to visit James Barry, who had sent an urgent message to Francisco. It was Candlemas, the second of February. The old painter had vomited during the night and was being excessively persecuted by the street pranksters, who had sealed the keyhole on the front door with mud and pebbles. Francisco was away in the country for a few days and the roads were frozen, so Mary Ann and Rupert, finding the front door barricaded, were obliged to approach the house through the wild back garden. Rupert hacked out a path through the frozen brambles. The trees were white with frost. Mary Ann tore her sleeve on one of the branches. The back door flew open and there was Alice Jones, standing on the step leading into a warm, well-swept kitchen, which reeked of fresh bread, smoked meat and spices, clutching James Barry’s copy of Shakespeare’s comedies.

  Alice was pert and gracious. A servant who gave herself airs, according to Mary Ann’s tart judgement – ‘She would have quoted French at me, if she’d dared’ – but she led the way up into the house, ushering my mother into the studio and departing with an insolent curtsey. She left Mary Ann arguing with James Barry and strutted back off down to the kitchen.

  An hour later, finding that the bell rope was either broken or ignored, Mary Ann came quietly down the kitchen steps, and from the top of the last landing, saw Rupert, far more comfortable than he had any business to be, reposing in a high-backed chair with cushions, his feet on the fender, gazing indulgently at Alice, who, without the prompt, was in full Shakespearean self-surrender. There she was, the stormy heroine, the tall nut-brown maid, the handsome scowling Katharina, going to the extremes of submission. How far deep in love must she have fallen with her Petruchio, that she will place her hand beneath his heel!

  Fie! Fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,

  And dart not scornful glances from those eyes

  To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor . . .

  Rupert was thoroughly enjoying his promotion to the position of Eastern potentate.

  Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

  Even such a woman oweth to her husband:

  And when she’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

  And not obedient to his honest will,

  What is she but a foul contending rebel,

  And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

  Alice is an egalitarian revolutionary from every button on her bodice right through to the sinews of her calculating heart, but according to Mary Ann’s description, she delivered this speech in tones of unregenerate sincerity, representing the rapture of abjection with alarming conviction. Radiant and beautiful, her black curls escaping, she turned from the two kitchen chairs which had served as Bianca and the Widow, appropriately struck dumb and reduced to vessels of service, and down she went upon her knees before Rupert, whose self-indulgent smile glittered with satisfied masculinity, such as can be witnessed all the world over whenever women abandon some small part of their estate.

  My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

  My heart as great, my reason haply more,

  To bandy word for word and frown for frown;

  But now I see our lances are but straws,

  Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

  That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.

  Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

  And place your hands below your husband’s foot;

  In token of which duty, if he please,

  My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

  And here she bowed, in one graceful swoop, dimples discreetly arranged, her cheeks glowing, to pla
ce her hand at any man’s disposal. Rupert, forgetting himself, rose up from his chair, caught Alice’s hand, wrist, waist, hip, and pulled her into his arms. Rupert always was a clever bastard and clearly goes to the theatre more often than we think. And I know of no man nearing forty, and being that way inclined, who does not like to kiss a pretty girl of twenty-one. But Rupert had the line pat.

  ‘Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.’

  Mary Ann has seen quite enough. She stalks over the threshold, like the bad-tempered widow in the pantomime.

  ‘I take it that your rehearsal is now over. Mr Barry and I would like some tea, Alice Jones.’

  A week later Alice was gone from the house, clutching her infamous Pandora’s box. I listen carefully to Mary Ann’s narrative, but say nothing. My next move is clear. We must search the theatres.

  * * *

  The weather improves. A spring wind pushes the smoke of London aside and dries the mud in the streets. There is so much coming and going in the house of James Barry that the street children are held at bay. Francisco orders the dead cat to be removed from the window sill and the house set to rights. The broken panes at the front are repaired and the rooms thoroughly washed and scrubbed. The house confronts the spring, barren but clean. The old painter rallies a little. He is very weak, but his breath is no longer desperate and rasping. For a man of his age he has a remarkable constitution. I spend four or five hours with him daily. On the fifth day, I risk speaking to Francisco about the missing box, and Alice Jones.