by Forrest Leo
Lancaster is adrift. Lizzie at last wearies of her game and takes pity on him. ‘Tell me about the north,’ she says again.
He clutches at the question like a life preserver. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Everything,’ she says. ‘But you could start by telling me where you went.’
‘You read about Greenland?’
‘Yes! Did you really ski all the way across it?’
Lancaster leans in conspiratorially and says, ‘Truthfully, no. My binding broke with a hundred miles to go, so I walked the rest of the way. Then by balloon from the east coast of Greenland to the west of Iceland, where I rendezvoused with Dr Nansen. We went together on his ship, I forget her name—’
‘The Fram,’ says Lizzie promptly.
‘How d’you know that?’ demands Lancaster, looking at her even more intently.
Lizzie shrugs. ‘I know things.’
Lancaster cocks an eyebrow. ‘Well, then you know he built the Fram especially for Arctic waters.’ She nods. I have no idea what they’re talking about.* ‘I’d have preferred to take my own Daydream, but the poor girl wouldn’t have made it through the ice. When the pack got too thick I took my leave of the good doctor and skijored to Svalbard. Skijoring is—’
‘When dogs pull you on skis, I know. You were saying?’
He beams at her precocity. ‘From Svalbard I tried several times to punch north, but each time was turned back by weather. Damned good sport, but I’d finally had enough, and was completely out of supplies—I’d been living on walrus meat for the better part of a year, and between the two of us I was beginning to put on some blubber myself.’
Lancaster laughs at his own joke. It is clear that his muscled frame has never carried an ounce of blubber in his life. ‘Even so,’ he continues, ‘I’d likely have stayed longer, but there was a blizzard and reports of a troll* and it seemed time to leave. I tramped down the spine of Norway, bought a schooner in Bergen, and set sail for home. Nothing much happened on the way—a few detours and a shipwreck, but nothing of note.’
‘That sounds so marvellous,’ says Lizzie dreamily. ‘I’d so like to do that someday.’ Which is worrisome. When Lizzie gets an idea into her head it can be a dangerous thing. I only hope that Lancaster will discourage her.
‘You should,’ says Lancaster. Damn him.
Listening to them makes me a little sad. They have achieved within an afternoon’s acquaintance a conversational ease which Vivien and I never had. At first I think it is because of Lancaster’s natural effortlessness in all things; but the more I watch, the less I think that is so—after all, he could barely say a word to her five minutes ago. Nor is it Lizzie’s quickness of speech and wit; she is hardly quicker than I, and if anything her speed throws Lancaster off. No, it is something that I cannot put my finger on. Something ineffable. It is to be found in neither one of them separately, but seems to be some sort of chemical reaction set off by the meeting of their minds. Perhaps had Vivien and I experienced that, things would have been different.
Lancaster is still talking, and they appear to have completely forgotten I am in the room. ‘Someone, I can’t recall who, wrote that exploration is nothing more than the physical manifestation of the lust for knowledge—’
‘Appleblossom.’
‘What?’
‘Apsley Appleblossom wrote that.’
‘So he did, by Christ! You amaze me. He also made a salient point, though, which is that only rarely do explorers actually enjoy themselves during expeditions. He notes that tramps like mine are often enjoyable only in retrospect; while you’re actually on them you’re generally hungry, lonely, and bloody freezing.’*
‘Is that always the case, though?’ asks Lizzie. ‘I feel like there must be moments even as you’re cold and hungry and sleeping on the ground when it’s really wonderful.’
‘Oh, absolutely! Don’t get me wrong, you’ve absolutely got your Friedrich moments.’
‘Your what?’
‘Your Friedrich moments,’ he repeats. ‘Looking out at a sea of fog.’
‘Who is Friedrich?’ says Lizzie.
‘Caspar David Friedrich,’ says Lancaster. ‘He painted Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog.’
‘I’m not familiar with it.’ There is a hitch in her voice.
‘No, no, surely you’ve seen it. It shows from behind a man standing alone on a promontory, looking out at a vast expanse of clouds and mountains.’ I brace myself. Lancaster is on dangerous ground. He is about to discover something about Elizabeth Savage which she does not want discovered. It occurs to me that I should warn him somehow, but I do not. I am intrigued. It is like watching a person walk into a patch of quicksand—you know that you really ought to call out, but you cannot; you can but watch in morbid fascination.
‘That sounds lovely,’ she says with gritted teeth, ‘but I’ve never seen it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you have,’ says he. ‘Everyone has!’ (‘Oh sir!’ I cry in my head. ‘Oh sir, speak no more!’)
‘Well, clearly everyone hasn’t,’ snaps Lizzie.
Lancaster cannot let it lie. ‘I mean, every educated person!’ he says. ‘Every art lover. I can tell just by looking at you that you spend huge amounts of time at the National Gallery. It’s written all over you. I’m not wrong, am I?’
‘No, actually, you are.’ I have never seen her this annoyed.
‘Indeed? Well my God!’ he cries. ‘Have I found a breach in your defences at last? This is fantastic!’ I begin to wonder whether it isn’t stupidity but in fact bravery in the big adventurer. He must know what treacherous ground he treads. My respect for him continues to grow.
‘It’s not a breach,’ says Lizzie, hugely indignant. ‘I just haven’t gotten around to art yet. I know books. Art can wait. I’m sure it’s lovely, and I’ll get there. It’s not a breach.’
Lancaster is gleeful, and does not bother to contain himself. I again imagine him with sword in hand, leading a small brotherhood in a desperate battle. It would be a sight to see. ‘It is!’ he cries. ‘I can’t believe it! You know everything in the world but you don’t know a damn thing about art.’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Bosch and Bruegel,’ says Lancaster. ‘Who copied whom?’
‘What?’ Lizzie is becoming flustered. Lancaster charges on.
‘Who’s Gustave Courbet?’
‘A painter.’
‘What did he paint?’
‘PAINTINGS.’
‘Who sculpted Michelangelo’s David?’
‘I DON’T KNOW!’
‘Michelangelo’s David,’ he says, and even I have an inkling.
‘Oh,’ says Lizzie, slumping, defeated. ‘I have decided I hate you.’
But Lancaster is not done with her. ‘Who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ashley, I’m not stupid!’ she yells, rallying. ‘Even I know who da Vinci is.’
Lancaster just looks at her. I do not know who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but from the expression on his face I gather that it was not da Vinci. (I am tempted to exclaim that I now know that he designed flying machines that wouldn’t fly—but I restrain myself.)
‘Damn,’ says Lizzie. She turns her attention to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time in too long. ‘Nellie!’
I prepare myself for the bombardment. ‘What?’ I say wearily.
‘You have been decidedly remiss,’ says Lizzie, ‘and I am furious with you. I am completely ignorant about art!’
‘And?’ I say. I am not looking for a fight. I am tired. I want only to read my Milton and find my wife.
‘And it’s all your fault! As my older brother it’s your duty to see I am educated in all things, but I know nothing about art!’
‘Neither do I,’ I say honestly.
‘EXACTLY!’ she yells. ‘I need Simmons. SIMMONS, WHERE ARE YOU?’
Simmons enters, looking aggrieved. ‘Do you know,’ he says, ‘there is a bell.’
‘This is no time for philosophy, Simmons,’ says Lizzie curtly. ‘Something awful has happened. Could you be a dear and run me an errand?’
‘Of course, Miss Elizabeth. Is everything alright?’
‘Oh, everything’s fine,’ she says. Her voice drips with sarcasm. ‘My silly brother and yourself have left a gaping hole in my education, that’s all. It seems I know nothing about art!’
‘Indeed, miss?’
‘Don’t be coy, Simmons. Who painted Wanderer in a Sea of Fog?’
‘Friedrich, miss,’ he answers promptly. ‘And I believe it’s Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog.’ How in the name of God did he know that? I must remember never to underestimate Simmons.
Lizzie, however, is displeased with his hidden knowledge. ‘DAMN IT! I am angry with you, Simmons. But I may possibly forgive you if you run out to Tompkins’s bookshop and get me the two best books on art history. And while you’re out, buy me an easel, some brushes, and a set of paints.’
‘What are you going to do with a paint set?’ I demand.
‘You can’t learn anything from the outside in, silly! If you really want to know about it, you have to do it for yourself.’ Well, that is sound. I approve, despite myself. It is as I have mentioned—Lizzie’s brain works maybe a little too like my own; I cannot for long disagree with anything she reasons out fully. ‘Any questions, Simmons?’ she asks.
‘None, miss, but it is my duty to point out that it is approaching midnight.’
‘So?’ When Lizzie has possession of an idea, she sometimes does not think things through in their entirety. I do not know where she learned this trait.
‘So the shops will be closed.’
‘Well, then do it in the morning, Simmons!’
‘Very good, miss.’
‘And when you get back,’ she says, her gaze softening a little, ‘I’ll consider forgiving your educational oversight.’
Simmons bows and leaves the room.
‘Ashley,’ says Lizzie after a moment, ‘when Simmons returns with my things in the morning, would you like to pose nude for me?’
Lancaster turns several colours very quickly.
‘A brother and an Englishman, Lancaster,’ I say, laying my hand significantly on the pistol still perched on my desk. ‘A brother and an Englishman.’*
‘I’m sorry, Lizzie,’ says he, ‘I find that I am otherwise engaged.’
Lizzie sighs prettily and frowns, as though searching for another dreadful tangent to embark upon.
‘Lancaster,’ I say before Lizzie can display yet more slatternly proclivities, ‘how does one go about outfitting an expedition to Hell?’
‘Have you discovered how to get there, by Christ?’ he exclaims, leaping up.
‘No, no, no,’ I say. ‘Hardly. With the two of you prattling like goats I haven’t been able to focus. But if we’re going to chatter, we may as well chatter about something useful.’
‘Just so, just so,’ he says, flirtation quite forgotten. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Well, to begin, when we do figure out where Hell is, what’s the best mode of transport?’
‘Nellie,’ says Lizzie reprovingly, ‘that’s a silly question. We can’t know how we’re going anywhere until we know where it is we’re going.’
‘She’s right,’ says Lancaster. He’s looking at her in that way I don’t like again. ‘But,’ he goes on, shaking his head as if to clear it, ‘we can still begin outfitting an expedition. Now that you mention it, maybe that is the thing to do. Make us feel useful, eh? All this paging through books is no way to begin an adventure, by Christ!’
I cannot help but say, ‘No—much better to plunge blindly into a black room.’
Lancaster looks at me steadily. ‘Savage,’ he says, ‘I do believe you’re mocking me. But you shouldn’t be, old boy—you shouldn’t be. Let me give you some advice. You can spend your whole life locked in a library and read every book there is to read and think you know everything there is to know—but the fact of the matter is, you won’t be a whit better off than when you started, because all you will have done with your life is sit in a wooden box.’*
Lizzie cuts in before I can reply, which is probably for the best. ‘So how does one prepare an expedition to Hell?’ she asks.
‘Well,’ says Lancaster, ‘first we need to determine what we’ll need. If we’re going north we’ll need skis, if we’re going south we’ll need machetes, and—’ He breaks off. ‘I see,’ he says, frowning. ‘We haven’t the slightest idea what to bring because we haven’t the slightest idea where we’re going. Complicated, that.’
We all look at each other. None of us know how to proceed, but it is clear that someone has to take charge. So I say, ‘Well, what do we know about Hell? Let us begin with that, and perhaps we can piece together its location.’
‘I don’t know a thing,’ says Lancaster. ‘I’m a Buddhist.’
I groan. I have no patience for fads. ‘Very well, then it falls to Lizzie and me. What do we know, sister?’
‘About Hell? Not very much, except that both of us will probably end up there.’
‘I’m being serious,’ I tell her.
‘So am I!’ But she sighs, and thinks, and says, ‘What if it doesn’t have a physical location?’
‘’Course it has,’ says the explorer bluffly. ‘Everything has a physical location.’
‘But that’s not really the case, is it?’ says Lizzie.
‘Let us assume that it has,’ I say before Lancaster can reply. ‘Otherwise we may as well just go hang ourselves.’
‘Agreed,’ says Lancaster. ‘It has a location, and by Christ we’ll find it and go there! I’ll take care of that part of things—it’s rather my area, you know. But what about when we arrive? What happens then?’
‘I’ll handle that,’ I say. ‘The Dev’l and I are on excellent terms—I lent him some Tennyson—and after all, he did what he did only under the misapprehension that it would be a kindness to me. Once we arrive in Hell I’m certain things will be quite easy.’
‘Excellent,’ says Lancaster.
‘But how do we get there?’ asks Lizzie tiresomely.
The question still baffles us, and the conversation again dies. It is clear we require aid.
‘SIMMONS!’ I cry.
He enters with his usual promptness. ‘Sir?’
‘We need to go to Hell to rescue my wife, but we’ve no notion how to get there.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘You don’t know where it is, do you, Simmons?’
‘Not offhand, sir.’
‘Well damn it, Simmons, then what are we to do?’
‘It would seem, sir, that some research is in order. Might I suggest a trip to Tompkins’s?’
‘Of course!’ I cry, feeling the fool for not having thought of it myself. ‘Simmons, you’re a miracle.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What’s Tompkins’s?’ says Lancaster.
‘Oh,’ says Lizzie wickedly, ‘do you find yourself ignorant upon the subject?’
‘Touché,’ grins the giant.
‘Tompkins’s,’ I say, ‘is the best bookshop in London.’
‘And probably the world,’ says Lizzie.
‘And probably the world,’ I echo.
‘A bookshop?’ says Lancaster. ‘But all the shops are closed. Simmons just said it was almost midnight!’
‘All the shops are closed, sir,’ says Simmons. ‘But not Tompkins’s shop. Tompkins’s shop is never closed.’*
Nine
In Which We Are Helped by a Human Encyclopaedia.
The first thing Tompkins says is, ‘You a
gain?’ which leads to a brief account of my afternoon ramble and my encounter with Will Kensington—about whom Lizzie and Ashley are very eager to hear. They are a trifle hurt that I did not mention him before. (I did not tell them about my ramble at first because it was a private matter, and then because I was distracted by Lancaster’s fists.)
‘Do you know where he’s staying, Tompkins?’ I ask.
‘Some sort of inventors’ club, I believe. The Hefestaeum, was it? It’s in Pall Mall.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ I say, which I find perplexing. I make it my business to know things about this city which are odd or poetical, and an inventors’ club sounds to me like both. ‘Have you heard of it, Simmons?’
‘I have not, sir,’ says he. ‘Perhaps Tompkins invented it.’ Simmons enjoys needling his friend.*
‘Invented it, eh?’ cackles Tompkins. ‘I’d’ve expected better of you, Simmons.’ Simmons makes him an ironic little bow. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘tell me what it is precisely that you’re doing here in the middle of the night.’
We are seated before his fire. Simmons and Lancaster and I pulled four armchairs into a semi-circle, or a sort of prostrate arch of which Tompkins is the keystone, while Lizzie poured us all tea, which we are now sipping.
‘To begin with,’ I say, ‘I realised I love my wife.’
‘Naturally,’ says Tompkins. I cannot tell if he is making fun of me or not.
‘Quite. Anyway, we obviously have to get her back—’
‘From the Devil?’
‘Yes, yes, from the Dev’l—but the trouble is, we don’t actually know how to get to Hell to talk to him.’
‘Hmm,’ says Tompkins. ‘Yes, I see. Go on.’
‘Well . . . That’s it, really. We need to plan an expedition to get to Hell, and in order to do that it seems we need to discover the location of Hell—’
‘If it has a location,’ puts in Lizzie.
‘Which,’ I say sternly, ‘we have agreed to assume. And so we came here to do some research.’
‘Simmons,’ says Tompkins, ‘I am pleased to see that even if they are in general quite hopeless, these children of yours do at times display some sense.’