The Gentleman

by Forrest Leo

  ‘—and I do not believe him ill-intentioned,’ he finishes.

  ‘That’s very gracious of you,’ says my wife.

  ‘Not at all, not at all. In fact—’

  ‘She TOLD you and you didn’t tell me?’ Lancaster has finally regained his feet, and looks pathetically at Vivien. It takes a moment for me to realise he is talking about his mother.

  ‘When would I have told you?’ asks Vivien.

  ‘I SAW YOU TEN MINUTES AGO!’ thunders Lancaster.

  Something is not right. I blink. ‘You saw whom?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry if I was focusing on my actual problems and not your hypothetical ones!’ says Vivien hotly, ignoring me.

  ‘When did you see her?’ I demand.

  ‘There’s nothing hypothetical about a life in fetters!’ he says.

  ‘She couldn’t tell you,’ says Lizzie, ‘because you kept blundering about with your eyes closed and wouldn’t let anyone say anything.’

  I begin to get an inkling of a conspiracy. ‘You knew she wasn’t in Hell?’ I say to Lancaster.

  ‘Not until this morning, old boy, but good Christ, Viv—’

  Hubert cuts him off. ‘You came here?’ he asks Viv. ‘That wasn’t the plan!’*

  ‘Neither was challenging my husband to a duel!’ she retorts. ‘And I had to see Simmons.’

  ‘You ALL knew?’ I cry, aghast and betrayed.

  ‘Settle down, Nellie. Until this morning only Simmons knew.’

  ‘Simmons!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he says blandly, ‘but you know that in matters of love I always hold my tongue.’

  ‘Well damn it, how did the rest of you find out?’ I demand.

  ‘I dropped by to say hello,’ says Viv. ‘I met Lizzie and we became excellent friends and talked about art. I agreed to pose for her, and I’d managed to get about halfway out of my blasted corset when Ashley blundered into the room and had a fit, and then we heard you on the stairs and I threw my clothes back on and left in rather a hurry.’

  ‘Good God,’ I say. The earth reels beneath my feet. I want to ask a thousand questions, but the conversation is commandeered.

  ‘Vivien, by Christ, what are we going to do?’ wails Lancaster.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About my funds!’*

  Before she can answer there is a knock at the study door. Simmons opens it, but no one is there. After a moment we hear it again—but now that we are expecting it, it is quite plain the knocker is knocking at the old door to the library on the second storey. I look about in confusion. Everyone who should be knocking on a door from within the house is in this room.

  ‘Are you expecting someone, Simmons?’

  ‘I am not, sir. Shall I go and see—’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ I say, and then I shout, ‘Come in!’

  The second-storey door creaks open and in walks Will Kensington, his green eyes twinkling. He is soot-stained, wind-burned, covered in coal dust and engine grease, his hair is sticking straight up, his cheeks are ruddy, and his nose is running freely from the autumn chill—but he appears to be in perfect health and excellent spirits. A pair of driving goggles dangle from his neck. ‘Good morning!’ he says. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve landed on your roof.’

  He descends the spiral staircase, his boots ringing merrily on the iron. I am remarkably glad to see him well, and it seems I am not alone in the sentiment—Lancaster meets him with a hearty embrace, and Lizzie throws her arms around his neck (about which I am not entirely pleased, for beneath her blanket she is still quite naked).* Even Simmons is demonstrative, and nearly smiles.

  ‘Kensington!’ I cry, pumping his hand. ‘You’re alive! How was your flight?’

  ‘Excellent!’ he says. ‘The repairs worked beautifully. A stray bullet almost took out the engine, which was frightful because I didn’t realise until I was at quite an altitude and then suddenly it coughed and sputtered and died completely, and we began to drop like a stone. It turned out to be a lucky thing I was so high up, because it gave me time to plug the hole with a bit of oilcloth and get the engine started again before we were dashed to bits. After that, I gained altitude until we were high enough to do some simple aerial tests. Satisfied that we could survive the North Atlantic, I landed in a village just outside the city, visited a blacksmith to get a patch for the engine, borrowed a Who’s Who to find your address, ate several gallons of stew at an inn, slept like a dead man for twelve hours, woke up, charted my course, and came directly here. I’m sorry for the delay, but I didn’t trust myself to get us to Iceland without a meal and a good night’s sleep. But everything’s quite ready now, and standing by!’

  The room is rather awed by his account. ‘Kensington,’ I say, ‘I thought so before but now I am quite certain: you are the most poetical person I have ever met. Allow me to introduce my wife!’

  ‘You found her?’ he asks in bewilderment.

  ‘I found him,’ she says, extending her hand. ‘Hello, Will Kensington. I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘Madam,’ says he, taking it and bowing. ‘I have heard so much about you! I am very pleased to see you in so mundane a setting.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, smiling with amusement.

  Kensington leans in and asks in a low, respectful voice, ‘If you’ll pardon the presumption, might I enquire what Hell was like?’

  ‘Oh,’ says Vivien airily, ‘you mean being married to a man who doesn’t love you?’

  Poor Kensington is nonplussed.

  ‘No,’ I cry, ‘I’ve had an epiphany! I do love you!’

  ‘You have a remarkable way of showing it,’ shoots back my wife.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ says Lancaster, ‘but what am I going to DO?’

  ‘Ashley,’ says Viv, ‘we can make a plan to save you as soon as we finish the plan to save me.’

  ‘Plan?’ I demand. ‘What plan?’

  ‘I am afraid two circumstances have rather altered it,’ she says, ignoring me.

  ‘What plan!’

  ‘The plan to make you fall in love with me.’

  ‘But I do love you!’

  ‘That is the first of the two altering circumstances I mentioned.’

  ‘What’s the second?’

  ‘The second is that you sold me to the Devil.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ puts in Hubert almost inaudibly. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I’m not quite clear on one point. What was the exchange?’

  ‘Do you know,’ says Lancaster morosely, ‘I’ve been curious about the same thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lizzie, ‘your talk of selling suggests that something was given to you in exchange for Vivien.’

  All eyes turn to the Gentleman, who holds up his hands palms outward in a gesture meant I suppose to absolve himself of any blame.* ‘Please reflect upon the point that in fact there was no bargain whatever struck between my dear friend Mr Savage and myself,’ he says. ‘I had no knowledge that Mrs Savage was anywhere other than here. She certainly never came home with me, as some of you seem to be suggesting.’

  ‘Of course she didn’t go to Hell,’ says Hubert. ‘She came home with me—as dictated by the plan.’

  ‘WHAT PLAN?’ I demand.

  ‘Wait,’ says Lancaster, ‘we’re not finished. Savage, what is the exchange you believed you had made?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I say. ‘There wasn’t one, clearly!’

  ‘But you’ve been saying for days that you sold her to the Devil.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Viv, ‘and I am quite curious—what exactly am I worth?’

  I shrug uncomfortably. ‘Well . . . Well, the truth is that I wasn’t aware of any exchange having taken place. But it doesn’t sound nearly the same to say that I gave my wife to the Devil, or that he took her—that makes me sound, well, rather passiv
e. I suppose I may have exaggerated the situation for dramatic effect. And there was a possibility, I thought, that he would restore to me my poetic gift—which would have been a sort of transaction!’

  They all look at me like I am a creature you might find living in a bog. Viv says, ‘Lionel, you have before you a choice.’

  The sound of her voice makes the breath catch in my chest. ‘What is the choice?’ I ask.

  ‘You may face, for your crimes, trial by jury or by combat.’

  ‘What crimes?’ I ask.

  They all look at me again with that flat look they are so fond of. Even Kensington does not seem eager to defend me. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Those crimes.’

  ‘Combat or jury?’ Viv says again.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I say. I don’t want to stand trial. It is an absurd notion. ‘Who is the jury?’

  ‘They are before you.’

  I glance at the faces of my friends. They are not soft. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘that is clearly not an acceptable option. Whom must I fight?’

  ‘You choose combat, then?’ presses my tenacious wife. Was she always so? I do not know. The truth is, I know very little of her personality. I had thought she had none; apparently this is not the case.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ I say. ‘I don’t know! You didn’t answer—who am I to fight? Because if it’s Ashley, that’s obviously not a good option either.’

  ‘I require no champion,’ says Vivien haughtily.

  ‘You mean I’m to fight you? Very well, let us begin!’

  Vivien is not a small woman; she is in fact very nearly as tall as I. But she is a woman all the same—and after all, I am become in the last two days quite a duellist.

  ‘If you will, let it be so,’ says she. A flash in her eyes makes me abruptly uncomfortable. It is what I have come to identify as the Lancaster Look—the same one her brother had when he stood over me pugilistically, and when he hurled the rock at the policeman. Hubert seems not to possess it.* ‘Ashley, Lizzie, Simmons, Mr Kensington, Your Highness*—you will serve as our judges, and ensure that the combat is conducted honourably upon both sides. My husband fights to prove his love and remove the blemish from his name. If he falls, his love is false and his name besmirched forever.’

  I try to laugh at her little speech, but it comes out chalky in my mouth. No one else laughs. Lizzie and Kensington and the Gentleman sit down side by side on the sofa. After a moment’s deliberation, Hubert joins them. There is not room enough, and they sit with shoulders touching like sardines in a can. Lancaster leans against a bookshelf. Simmons stands at ease. They are prepared, it seems, for a spectacle. Their looks are intent and I feel awkward, uncertain what to do with my hands. I wonder if this is what it is like to appear upon a stage.

  My wife removes her coat and hat. She hands them to Lizzie, then takes from Hubert his sword. I realise that I am still holding the other. So it is to be swords. I was not certain what she meant by trial by combat, but it now becomes clear. I prepare to fight my fourth duel in as many days. (Does my encounter with Hubert count as a duel?* Perhaps not. Nor I suppose does our run-in with the police. But they felt like duels, which is I believe the most important thing.)

  Vivien tests the weight and balance of the sword with alarming professionalism. It had not occurred to me that perhaps she knows how to use it. Is such a thing possible? Surely not—I suppose she is simply repeating a procedure she has read in a novel.

  Then she attacks, and I am proved quite wrong.

  I defend myself as best as I am able, but I am no swordsman. I flail about wildly as she leaps and dances with the blade, flashing first this way then that, darting and lunging and displaying such skill as I have never witnessed. I should marvel at it, were I not doing my best to avoid being spitted.

  As she presses her attack, she says, ‘You married me for my—’ (lunge) ‘—money. You never even—’ (thrust) ‘—tried. You never even—’ (swashing blow) ‘—pretended to like me. You never—’ (another thrust) ‘—spoke to me. Never—’ (slash) ‘—looked at me. And then, you sold me to the—’ (riposte) ‘—Devil. You are the worst husband—’ She disarms me. ‘Ever.’ My weapon spins across the room, hits a bookshelf, knocks over a bust of Ovid, and falls to the thickly carpeted floor with a thud.

  Her sword is at my throat. She is breathing heavily, her hair has come slightly undone, her cheeks are pink, her eyes are bright, and she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen upon this earth.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

  ‘I was a champion fencer at school. Which you’d know, if you’d ever bothered to talk to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She does not reply. Nor does she lower her sword. She says instead, ‘Verdict?’

  ‘He doesn’t love you and is a cad,’ says Lizzie promptly.

  ‘Seconded,’ says Lancaster.

  ‘Carried,’ says Hubert.

  ‘Now wait a moment,’ I protest. ‘That isn’t true!’

  ‘You chose trial by combat. You have lost the trial. It is proven,’ says Vivien.

  ‘That’s not how it works!’

  ‘That is precisely how it works,’ says she. ‘Only, if we were being quite proper I should run you through.’

  ‘That’s a terrible system!’ I cry. ‘It doesn’t prove anything!’*

  ‘If you loved me, you would have won.’

  ‘But I do love you!’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘Then pick up your sword and prove it.’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Then leave.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Either prove your love, or leave my house.’

  ‘It’s my house!’

  On the couch, even Kensington puts his face in his hands. ‘I mean,’ I stammer, ‘it’s our house! You can’t order me out.’

  ‘Pick up your sword.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you don’t love me.’

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘Then pick up your sword.’

  I cross the room and pick it up. Who is this maddening woman? And what has she done with the snivelling creature who so plagued me for the last six months? I turn back toward her. She has not moved. She is standing tall, her bosom rising and falling from the exertion. The colour in her cheeks highlights the colour of her eyes, which is an impossible blue.

  ‘You’re a poet,’ I say. I do not know why I say it.

  ‘What?’ she says, and I believe I have caught her off guard.

  ‘You’re a poet. You never told me that.’

  ‘You never asked,’ she counters, which is true.

  ‘Lizzie found your poems. They’re exquisite.’

  She says nothing. Her sword is still raised and is pointing straight at me, but her breathing has quickened, and I wonder if I have scored a hit.

  I do not know why I say what I say next—perhaps to press my imagined advantage?—and I do so against my better judgment; but after a moment of internal struggle I blurt, ‘They have no structure.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she says, eyebrows in her hair.

  I try to stop, but I cannot. ‘They have no metre. They don’t rhyme. They have no structure.’

  ‘Are you actually talking to me about the structure of my poems right now?’ she demands, incredulous. She advances to within a blade’s length of me.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I say, ‘that’s my point—they have no structure.’

  She strikes at my head. ‘They don’t NEED structure!’

  I parry without thinking and cry, ‘Everything needs structure!’

  ‘Poetry doesn’t,’ she says, lunging.

  I sweep her thrust to my left. ‘That’s absurd,’ I say.

  ‘You’re absurd!’ she cries, attacking with a flurry of overhead bl
ows. ‘Poetry is not precise! Poetry exists only to capture everything that CAN’T be captured. Putting it in blank verse doesn’t make it any more capturable, it just makes it look pretty on a page.’

  I manage somehow to come through the hailstorm unscathed, and say, ‘You realise you’re spitting in the face of five hundred years of genius.’

  ‘No,’ she says, sword raised but not attacking, ‘I’m suggesting that for five hundred years people haven’t considered that they might be missing something.’*

  ‘You’re impossible,’ I say.

  She looks at me. ‘You’re calling me impossible?’

  ‘YES!’ I say. ‘You put words together so beautifully, but you do so in a wilfully sloppy fashion.’

  ‘IT’S NOT SLOPPY!’

  ‘IT IS SLOPPY!’ I surprise us both by attacking. It is an ungainly, lumbering sort of attack—but it is an attack all the same. She wards it off with no ado whatever and counters. For a few moments we advance and retreat in turns, in a reasonable facsimile of a fencing match.

  I don’t know why we’re fighting. I forget why we’re yelling at each other about poetry. All I want to do in the world is pick her up and spin her around and kiss her and tell her again and again how much I love her, and how sorry I am, and how foolish I’ve been, and how desperately I wish I could take back the last six months and return again to our wedding night and—

  ‘When was the last time you wrote a poem?’ she demands, breaking in upon my thoughts. I am thrown off and miss my guard and find her sword again at my throat.

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ I say.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day before our wedding!’

  ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘Because a poet can’t live without love.’

  A shadow passes over her face. Her sword point presses against my throat, in the hollow just above the intersection of my collarbones. ‘Why didn’t you love me?’

  ‘Because you’d never love me.’

  ‘BUT I DID LOVE YOU,’ she cries, pressing harder.

  ‘But you never told me,’ I point out.

  ‘I DID WHEN YOU ASKED ME TO MARRY YOU AND I SAID YES.’ I feel a trickle of blood.