by Forrest Leo
I suppose this is hyperbole, but then I recall the automaton and cannot help but wonder. We have in this time climbed several staircases. On the lower storeys they were grand and sweeping, but as we ascend they grow narrower and narrower until they twist themselves into a spiral.
‘Like Burton’s painting, what?’ notes Lancaster. I resist the urge to strike him.
Unaccustomed to physical exertion, I am by this time breathing heavily. Kensington notices and says with concern, ‘I’m very sorry for the climb, sir. But my experiments being chiefly of an aeronautical nature, I requested the highest rooms in the club.’
His ‘rooms,’ when we reach them, prove to be a single garret, tiny and cluttered—but for all that, the most poetical space I have ever seen. The wallpaper is a hideous shade of yellow, but can scarce be made out for it is covered, every inch, by diagrams, notes, and calculations. There is a washbasin in a corner, a small bed buried under a pile of technical treatises, and a workbench along the western wall. The eastern is dominated by a tremendous window looking out over London, which in the glow of gaslight looks strangely peaceful. We are much higher than I had realised and the few people illuminated by streetlamps look like insects. They are policemen and beggars and prostitutes and dissolute young men out too late and staggering home, no doubt—but from this vantage they seem like so many ants, without personality, vice, or history.*
Kensington’s workbench is strewn with tools and models. The tools appear ordinary, but the models are anything but. They are of every conceivable design, but every one a sort of flying machine. There are balloons, gliders, birds’ wings made of cloth and the most intricately and delicately carved wood, tall ships complete with sails and masts and bowsprits but with wings sprouting from their sides, and countless notions which I do not believe have names but I wish dearly I could show to you, for they are unlike anything I have ever seen in ingenuity and wonder.
Lancaster and I are both rendered dumb by the cumulative effect of this enclave of wonders. Kensington, though, is quite businesslike, if a little awkward and darting in his manner. I believe we make him nervous. He hastily clears of impediment the two chairs in the room and offers them to us, then shoves papers off the foot of the bed and perches there.
‘So,’ he says when we are all properly situated, ‘what was it that you wished to discuss?’
‘You are aware, I think, that I sold my wife to the Devil?’
‘Yes,’ he says, nodding eagerly, ‘you said as much earlier this evening. A most interesting conversation it was, too.’
‘Well, something terrible has happened since then—I believe partly as a direct result of said discussion—and I have realised that I am in fact overwhelmingly in love with her.’
‘Oh, but that’s wonderful!’ he cries. ‘Felicitations!’ He makes a move as though to shake my hand, then thinks better of it, evidently uncertain of the proper response to such news. He shifts awkwardly on the bed and looks politely at me to continue.
‘Thank you. But it leaves us with quite an interesting situation, which is that I need to get her back.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘From the Devil—yes, I see. Interesting indeed. Potentially rather difficult, too, I suppose?’
‘So it seems.’
‘Where precisely does one go on such an errand?’
‘That is the question,’ I reply. He leans in, all attention. ‘I believe that I have—’
Lancaster coughs discreetly.
‘I believe,’ I amend, ‘that Lancaster and Tompkins and Lizzie—she’s my sister, I think I mentioned; you’ll quite like her—and I have together come to the conclusion that the entrance to Hell, or at least one entrance to Hell—we are not sure but that there may be more than one—is the crater of a volcano in Iceland called Snaefellsjökul. But here’s the rub, Will Kensington. Iceland is a dishearteningly far way off, and we do not know how much time we may or may not have until my wife becomes permanently ensconced in the underworld.’
‘Oh I see,’ he says gravely. ‘Yes, that is a conundrum, isn’t it?’
‘So we thought,’ I say. ‘But perhaps not so. You see, I heard rumours of a young inventor with a flying machine . . .’
There is a pause. Kensington looks very pensive. Lancaster and I are both leaning so far forward in our seats that we are nearly standing. Kensington rises. He extends his hand and says solemnly, ‘Mr Savage, I would consider it a great honour to be permitted to help you on your errand. My person and my flying machine are at your service.’
I take his hand with equal gravity and make a small bow.*
‘Well, now that’s settled,’ says Lancaster, ‘you must tell us all about sailing the sky!’
Eleven
In Which We Find Something Marvellous on Hampstead Heath.
Hampstead Heath at dawn is a place of mist, birdsong, and affairs of honour. It is not uncommon for the serenity of a morning to be shattered by pistol shots, or for early passers-by to hear the clink of smallswords, the muffled calls of wounded men, and occasionally the cry of women. These glorious sounds have always evoked within me a sort of patriotic fervour. Since the commencement of my own duelling career some twelve hours ago, I note that they bring an added sensation. I feel as though I now belong to a club the existence of which I was not even aware the day before yesterday.
I am not a bloodthirsty fellow. Before my encounter with Lancaster I had never struck a man or been struck. (Except by Lizzie, but that doesn’t count.) But I have all my life had a fascination with the fiercer aspects of human nature. I am quite taken with the warrior ethos—and I use ‘warrior’ as a term distinct from ‘soldier,’ which I take to mean a man whose profession is waging war. A warrior does not fight for profit, but for something deeper. Honour is a part of it, but does not I think capture the entirety. There is something more, something almost monkish, which I have always admired in an abstracted sort of way.* There is a resolve in the spirit of a warrior that I did not think that I possessed. Since the events of yesterday, however, I wonder if it mayn’t in fact be lying dormant somewhere deep within me. I have found in myself a vigour of spirit with which I was hitherto unacquainted. It pleases me, and I think a little better of myself than I did before.*
As we approach the Heath, we pass duelling parties returning to town. They are typically comprised of five men: a doctor, two seconds, the victor (looking proud but restrained), and the vanquished (bandaged, assisted by the seconds if wounded in the leg, carried on a litter if struck in the torso or the head or if dead). There is sometimes a variation in the party—a lady may be present. These are my favourite groups to observe. The lady is without exception very beautiful and a little haughty, and she is often weeping or bravely attempting not to. The men of parties which include a lady are different than men of the other sort. They stand taller and their eyes are brighter. The wounded is not so pathetic, and the victor is humbler.
I think chivalry is a magnificent thing.*
Kensington crashed his flying machine on the Heath. With the help of a kindly farmer he dragged the wreckage into an old barn, where he has been returning each day to make repairs. By his description, the crash was not as calamitous as it could have been, and the craft by no means permanently crippled. He told Lancaster and me in what proved to be a lengthy and altogether fascinating conversation (begun in his garret and continued on our trip to the Heath) that he believed with help he could have it once again ‘cloudworthy’ (his expression, and one I quite like) within half a day. He estimates that the journey to Iceland will take about thirty-six hours. It is longer than I had hoped, but so much shorter than any alternative that I am grateful.
He expressed some scepticism at our plan, but admitted cheerfully that ‘I am but an inventor while you are a poet and an explorer.’ This gratified Lancaster (he is a little vain, I find, and enjoys compliments), but made me ra
ther nervous. Our plan really is a most tenuous one. We are pursuing it less because it is a good idea than because we haven’t a better one.*
What horrifies me most is the possibility that we will arrive in Iceland in three days’ time only to discover that the volcano is nothing more than a volcano, that there is no trace of the metaphysical about it, and that my wife is as distant to me as she was before.
We reach the barn at sunrise. (I say ‘sunrise’ because somewhere above the clouds, the sun is rising; all we can see, however, is a general brightening of the sky.) I am wracked with curiosity to view Kensington’s machine.
The barn is much like any other. It is grey and wooden and large and commonplace. It stands on a rise above a field. The field is green and spotted with sheep. It is also commonplace. In the middle of it is an area of disturbed earth three yards wide and perhaps thirty long. Kensington identifies this as his crash site.
Lancaster and I help to open the barn door. What is inside takes my breath away. The machine is shaped like an enormous dragonfly. Its central hull (does one call it a hull on a flying machine?*) is about thirty feet long and maybe ten feet wide at its widest, and about the same in height and depth. (I should here state that, though I have been throwing estimates of size and distance about willy-nilly, I am in fact perfectly hopeless with spatial relations, and am very likely mistaken by no small amount.) Shingles covering the hull give the impression of scales. About a third of the way from the front (imagine again a dragonfly) are its four wings. They are made of canvas stretched over a wooden framework. They appear to be manipulated by a series of gears, levers, pistons, and other such machinations, which are connected by means of dented metal pipes to what I believe is a steam engine.
The hull tapers somewhat toward the rear, and then abruptly splays like a hawk’s tail. This at one time seems to have been covered similarly to the wings—but the only evidence of it now is a few muddy tatters hanging from tarnished tacks.
The front of the machine is nondescript—nothing to suggest a captain’s seat. As we draw nearer and I get a better view, I discover that the whole hull is open on top. My initial impression of a dragonfly was only partially correct; more apt would be to call it a longship with dragonfly wings and a tail. The scaled hull, which bulges at the middle to hold the engine, is built with the shallow draught of a Viking ship and narrows at the front to the same sharp prow.
On the underside of the hull are not wheels, as I would have supposed, but rather skids or skis. One of these is broken in a manner piteous to behold. The front of the craft is badly banged. The framework of one of the wings has snapped and is held together only by the canvas covering it. These injuries aside, however, the machine looks in much better shape than I had expected.
Lancaster is walking around and around it in wonderment. He keeps murmuring things under his breath, but all I can make out is, ‘Brilliant . . . brilliant.’ Kensington stands back a little, watching the two of us with apprehension. I believe he is nervous of our opinion.
He needn’t be. It is the most incredible sight I have ever seen, and I tell him so. Lancaster is no less sparing in his praise. Kensington, though, is a humble creature and does not take compliments with the alacrity of, say, Lancaster; and he quickly begins speaking so that we can say no more.
‘She’s not looking her finest, of course,’ he demurs. ‘Better now than a week ago, but all the same, she took quite a beating. But I think we can have her up and about in no time, really.’
‘What can we do to help?’ asks Lancaster.
‘Oh, well, I’m not sure. It’s mostly tinkering which— Well, I don’t mean to be— The fact is, there are certain things which I’m not sure anyone but myself will know how to do. If you’ll pardon me.’
In any other man, such diffidence would strike me as unconscionably tiresome; but it does not bother me in Kensington. His confidence and kindness excuse his overzealous humility—and they show it to be not mere affectation, but a genuine desire to be gentlemanly. This I approve of, even if I cannot imagine it in myself. I am a coarser fellow than that.
‘We quite understand,’ Lancaster says kindly. ‘We’re rather advanced in our own fields, you know; Savage wouldn’t have me write a poem, by Christ, nor I him lead an expedition. All the same, I know a thing or two about nautical maintenance, and I can’t imagine an airship is so different than a boat. If you’re willing to have another man tamper with her, I’m yours to command.’
‘Oh, excellent!’ says Kensington. ‘Yes, I suppose that she must be similar to a sailing ship in many areas. In fact, we are I believe going to have to purchase some sailcloth to patch her tail.’
I leap at the opportunity to be something other than completely useless. ‘I can do that!’ I say. ‘Shall I run back to town for it?’
Kensington looks like he’s worried to put me out. ‘Only if it isn’t too much trouble,’ he says dubiously.
His demeanour is finally beginning to grate. We haven’t time for such scrupulous politeness. ‘Look here, man,’ I exclaim, ‘you’re helping me to save my wife. My helping you fix your machine is only a means to my end—so don’t concern yourself about any trouble you’re causing me.’
‘I’m so sorry, sir. You’re quite right. As my sister once said—’
‘Good God!’ I cry. ‘Lancaster, we’ve forgotten Lizzie!’ In the excitement of our brief imprisonment and Kensington’s aeronautical wonderments, it completely slipped my mind that we had promised to return for her.
The colour drains from Lancaster’s face. He has not known Lizzie long, but he has apprehended enough of her character to know that we are in for a very stern talking-to and possibly some physical violence done upon our persons.
‘Damn,’ he says. ‘Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.’
Twelve
In Which I Witness Something I Wish I Hadn’t.
I make it from Hampstead Heath to Pocklington Place in record time. My cabman thinks me mad, but it is no matter. We clatter through the morning streets at breakneck speed, hurtling past sleepy shopkeepers and bleary bakers, and I yell at him to go faster. As we plunge deeper into London the buildings loom and press together like the walls of a maze but our pace does not flag. We fly past the Museum and careen onto Oxford Street, where the cabman deftly wends his hansom through the morning traffic, already thick on this main artery of the city. We leave commerce behind us, and our speed increases in the sparsely peopled streets of the fashionable neighbourhood in which I live. He deposits me at the steps of my house, and I dash to the door and hurl myself inside. I run to my study, from whence I shall go upstairs and prostrate myself before Lizzie.
But what I find within my study brings me up quite short.
It is Simmons, standing stripped to the waist and fumbling with the buttons of his pants, apparently preparing to remove them as well. What is even worse than my butler playing Salome in the middle of my study is that my sister is watching the whole thing with an arch look on her face, and tapping her imperious little foot impatiently. She holds a paintbrush and one of those thin ovoid boards whose name I do not know but on which painters put paint,* and stands before a blank canvas on an easel. She spares me barely a glance and continues to regard the nudity being perpetrated. Simmons, by contrast, looks up at me in horror and throws himself behind the sofa.
‘Oh, hello, Lionel,’ says Lizzie casually. ‘Simmons is being a dear and has agreed to pose for me.’
‘What are you DOING?’ I cry.
‘I am learning about art, which is not necessarily what I would choose to be doing at the moment, but I was abandoned and at loose ends and so I took matters into my own hands. And now that I have explained myself, which is not a thing I was required to do but did only from some residual trace of the affection I once felt for you, you might return the favour and tell me where you’ve been all night.’
‘Lizzie, for God’s sake, display
some propriety!’
‘Alas, you have from a very early age bred into me nothing but contempt for propriety.’
I flail for a rebuttal, but in vain—Lizzie is in the right. She begins idly dabbing paint onto the canvas. I turn from her in exasperation and am confronted with Simmons lying half-naked behind the sofa, no doubt hoping to be forgotten.
‘SIMMONS,’ I say.
He is facedown on the floor, and I have never in my life seen him less dignified. But he summons all the dignity he can muster and says, ‘Sir?’
‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’
‘I was to be her Homer, sir.’
‘Her Homer?’
‘Yes, sir. She cast about for a suitable artistic subject, and Homer came to mind. She asked me to pose as her Homer, and I saw no reason to deny her.’ He has adopted a manner which suggests his actions to be the most natural in the world, and a fellow mad to think otherwise.
‘YOU WERE GETTING NAKED!’
He pauses at that. ‘Yes,’ he finally admits. ‘That is the case. I did not understand that nakedness was to be part of it when she first approached me.’
‘Otherwise?’ I prompt.
‘Otherwise I never would have agreed, sir,’ he says in a tone that is meant to be conciliatory but isn’t, really. I do not know if he is lying or not. There is something of the gypsy buried deep within Simmons which reveals itself at very peculiar times—particularly in his nonchalance regarding certain aspects of the body.
The fault, then, is Lizzie’s. ‘Why,’ I demand, ‘did you ask Simmons to remove his clothes?’
‘Homer didn’t wear an English butler’s suit from the reign of Queen Victoria,’ she says without looking up from her canvas.
‘Nor did Adam and Eve wear fig leaves,’ I snap back. ‘But they are represented as doing so IN THE NAME OF DECENCY.’