by Forrest Leo
‘There is a way,’ says the Gentleman dubiously. ‘But it will take some doing, and may not be achievable yet. It would be easiest with some form of aerial transport.’
Lancaster, Lizzie, Kensington, Viv, and I all begin to laugh at the same time.
‘What is funny?’ enquires the Gentleman.
‘I think,’ says Viv, ‘that the trip will not be so difficult after all.’
‘How do you know about the Cirrus?’ I demand.
‘Ashley and Simmons and Lizzie told me all about it when I was here this morning. It sounds very grand.’
‘I— Oh.’ In my state I cannot wrap my mind around everything. I give up.
‘Am I to understand that you have access to a flying machine?’ asks the Gentleman.
‘Yes!’ exclaims Lizzie, looking at Kensington proudly. ‘Will invented one! It’s what he landed on the roof.’
‘But that’s perfect!’ says the Gentleman. ‘Would he be amenable to . . . ?’
‘There is nothing I should like more!’ says Kensington, flushing at Lizzie’s obvious pride in him.
The Gentleman claps his hands delightedly. ‘Then it’s decided! And I don’t mean to rush you, but I am in fact on a bit of a schedule—would you be offended, Mrs Savage, if we didn’t stay for tea?’
‘Not in the least,’ she replies.
‘I need to dress,’ says Lizzie. ‘I’ll meet you on the roof.’ She hurries out of the room.
Lancaster does some hasty packing, I call for Simmons, and we make our way upstairs. The airship is perched elegantly between two chimneys. It has a few bullet holes, but somehow they only serve to increase the distinction of the craft. Vivien and the Gentleman are suitably impressed by it, and say as much. Kensington blushes, and in tearing spirits vaults onto the bridge and begins warming up the engine.
Lancaster arrives, changed into high boots, canvas trousers, and a sturdy-looking coat belted at the waist. He carries a rucksack and a rifle, and has rakishly tucked a machete in his belt. Lizzie emerges a moment later, fully clothed (for which I am immeasurably grateful) and vibrating with excitement.
She and Lancaster and the Gentleman face us for farewells.
Lancaster steps forward first. I extend my hand, but he ignores it and sweeps me up into a bone-crushing Krakatoan hug.* ‘If you hurt my sister again,’ he says in my ear, ‘I will eat your heart.’
‘And if you let mine into harm’s way,’ I say into his, ‘I’ll eat yours.’
He sets me down and grins at me warmly. I believe we are friends. He embraces Viv and says something to her, but I do not attend—for the Gentleman is pumping my hand enthusiastically and expressing his fervent wish that we meet often. I quite genuinely echo the sentiment.
While Lancaster helps the Gentleman into the machine, Lizzie steps forward. ‘Vivien,’ she says, ‘I am sorry that we’ve had only such a short time to meet. But I promise you we’ll be wonderful friends someday.’
‘Oh, I am quite sure of it,’ replies Viv, smiling.
Lizzie turns to me. ‘Nellie,’ she says sternly, ‘when I return I expect my room to be vacated.’ She hesitates. There is a glimmer in her eye, and she adds imperiously, ‘And I want a violin!’* Then she smiles, flings her arms around my neck, and says, ‘I love you.’
‘And I love you,’ I say, squeezing her for all I’m worth. ‘Look after them—they need someone sensible.’
‘So they do,’ she says. I set her down. She kisses Vivien, kisses Simmons, and hurries to the machine. Lancaster boosts her up and Kensington helps her over the rail. I am gratified to see the solicitousness with which they both treat her.* Once she is aboard, Lancaster tosses in his rucksack and hauls himself up after it.
Kensington throws a lever and the wings accelerate into a blur. He appears again at the rail. He grins at us, bows slightly, and pulls on his goggles. Slowly, the machine begins to take on the appearance of weightlessness; then it rises. I am wonderstruck anew. I have learned by my acquaintance with the young inventor that there are two types of Progress in the world—and if one is deplorable the other is just the opposite. Lizzie, Lancaster, and the Gentleman are waving to us like madmen. Kensington does something to another lever, and the airship takes off like a shot.
It soars up over the rooftops of London, higher and higher until it is just a speck. Then the speck disappears into the fog.
Simmons and Viv and I stand in silence for what feels like a very long time, hands still raised in farewell. Eventually, I ask a question that has been on my mind: ‘Simmons, was it you who alerted Scotland Yard?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ he replies. ‘I was worried that otherwise you would attempt to fly yourself into a volcano.’
‘That was good of you, Simmons.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I cannot, however, approve of “Alec Rubeum.”* In the future, should you be called upon to invent anarchist splinter cells, I shall hold you to a higher standard.’
‘Yes, sir. I fear I was in rather a hurry. I shall endeavour to do better next time.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Simmons. I have always said that you are a paragon, and I’m damned proud that you condescend to call Pocklington Place your home.’
‘Thank you, sir. And sir, if I may say, I’m damned proud to call you my employer.’
I am so touched by that I fear I might cry. But I do not, for I am an Englishman. After a moment, Simmons discreetly removes himself, muttering something about mounting the swords upon the wall.
Viv and I are left alone.
‘Well,’ I say at last.
‘Well,’ she echoes.
‘Does this mean,’ I ask, thinking of Lizzie’s emptying room, ‘that you’ve forgiven me?’
‘Lionel Savage,’ says she, ‘you ignored me for six months and then sold me to the Devil. I doubt very much if I shall ever forgive you.’ My heart drops. ‘But for better or worse,’ she continues, and my spirit rises like Kensington’s machine, ‘I am your wife.’
My heart soars. She turns her face toward mine and looks solemnly into my eyes. We stare at one another, seeing before us a very long future filled with innumerable adventures.
Then she says with a dev’lish twinkle, ‘Free verse isn’t the absence of structure.’
And at last, I kiss her.
Acknowledgments
The bundle of pages in your left hand is, I fear, riddled with faults—anachronisms, inconsistencies, and infelicitous turns of phrase. The responsibility for these is mine alone. But I hope there are merits, too—and these are thanks to a bunch of really generous and brilliant people.
Mitchell Waters is the best agent a boy can have. Big thanks to him, Steven Salpeter, Anna Abreu, Holly Frederick, Jonathan Lyons, Sarah Perillo, and the whole Curtis Brown crew. Ed Park’s deft, patient, and gentle editorial hand is a thing of beauty. I’m beholden to Annie Badman’s tireless good humor, and to everyone at Penguin Press. Mahendra Singh’s illustrations are basically everything I’ve ever wanted. Sarah Crichton’s kind mentorship is Virgilian in its guidance. Olivia Birdsall suffered through more unfortunate pages of my writing than anyone should ever have to, and taught me a great deal.
This book began life as a play, and its first director was my dear friend Saheem Ali. Thanks to Pipeline Theatre Company for facilitating that first reading; Laura Braza, for astute direction of the subsequent workshop; the casts, for bringing it all to life; and Kristina Makowski, for shaping the world with her costumes. Special thanks to Tom Oppenheim, Libby Jensen, and the Stella Adler Studio of Acting for their exhaustive support.
Sophia, Isabella, and Molly Kensington have been very generous in allowing me access to their family papers. I owe them a great debt.
This book wouldn’t and couldn’t exist without the support of my family. Ma has been unstinting in her help and her encouragement. She’s the
smartest and the kindest person in the world. My big brothers are awesomeness personified, and I still want to be them when I grow up. Amanda and Kai gave me hope for the future and made sure I ate. Grandma Dee instilled in me an appreciation for art: it’s thanks to her that I know the difference between Bosch and Breughel and can tell you with relative certainty who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Finally, thanks to Abigail—my partner in all things.
*I have included this excerpt as epigraph because I believe it gives a sense of Mr Savage’s poetic temperament for those unfamiliar with his work. It is taken from his first collection, Pasquinades and Peregrinations. I have not consulted him upon its inclusion.—HL.
*It is for the attentive reader to decide for himself whether Mr Savage is deserving of that epithet.—HL.
*I believe this is meant to be an unfortunate play upon my cousin’s name. It is a literary offence typical of him.—HL.
*My cousin refers naturally to Hyde Park. This (in case the reader has the misfortune to be on the Continent or in the Colonies) is the London park which people of fashion and breeding frequent.—HL.
*I, too, was present. I dine often at Easton Arms. My father being brother to Lord Lancaster, I am Vivien’s first cousin. As Mr Savage is my cousin’s husband, he is thus by law my cousin also. It is for this reason I made bold to include an epigraph without obtaining his express permission. We harbour between us that particular and tenuous affection which marks the sobrinical bond.—HL.
*I beg you to note that this is equivalent to declaring popular art bad art—which would I am afraid quite condemn the poetry of Mr Savage. In addition, it should be mentioned that the collection at Easton Arms has a national reputation for excellence.—HL.
*It appears I am no poet.—HL.
*This, too, is open for debate. Mr Savage at all times displays such deep contempt for society that one wonders at the grudge he nurses. Whence comes it? Is it innate or learned? Can it be cured? Such questions are beyond the scope of your humble editor.—HL.
*These names include Horatio, Britannius Grammaticus, Iucundis Eremita, and Charles Greenley.—HL.
*See epigraph. It is for elucidation of this exchange as well as for other reasons that I elected to include it.—HL.
*Like the unicorn, legends of my cousin’s cheer persist only because they cannot be disproved.—HL.
*The reader has undoubtedly noticed that Mr Savage presents this account in an affected present tense. I strongly petitioned him not to do so, but he was intransigent. A transcription follows of the brief missive he sent me regarding the choice: ‘Hubert—there’s method to my madness and madness to my method: glorious, rather inspired madness. By writing in the present tense I bring immediacy to the events. Which, obviously, is the reason present tense exists. If I did not write thus, the reader would instantly know that the whole thing turned out well, if I sounded merry, or ill, if I sounded melancholy, and the effect would be ruined. Now be a good chap and leave literature to the literary.—S.’—HL.
*It should be noted that despite Mr Savage’s ambiguity the late earl was not his father. Mr Simmons purchased the desk at an estate sale on Mr Savage’s behalf.—HL.
*There is, and I have had to deal with them often.—HL.
*It is as well for Mr Savage that he has had no dealings with the Suicide Committee. Despite the morbid name, the Committee is peopled largely by unnervingly cheerful men of small stature who smile more than is necessary and laugh more than is polite. They disquiet me.—HL.
*If this poem was ever written, I have not seen it. The reader will note that Mr Savage’s trouble stems not from lack of ideas but from lack of follow-through.—HL.
*I do not condone this form of racial epithet.—HL.
*See the third note here.—HL.
*Firstly, this does not seem to me firm ground upon which to base a prejudice. Secondly, I believe that progress of any sort is good progress. Is that not the meaning of the word? To move forward? And is not moving forward good? I believe it must be. To retreat is not gentlemanly. Thirdly, on a scientific note, gas comes from coal. Coal comes from the earth, for which Mr Savage professes a fondness.—HL.
*I believe that I would here do well to venture a few words upon Miss Elizabeth Savage. She is made, in these pages, to seem to be of easy virtue and loose morals. This is not, I believe, actually the case. She is by no means conventional, and at times behaves in ways which, let it be understood, I hope that my daughters, if ever I have any, would not. But she does not do so from wilful deviance. There was a philosopher—whose name I cannot recall but who I much admired in my youth—who declared that he would taste any drink once. Miss Savage seems to live by that maxim. She pursues knowledge in a way not immoral, but amoral. She is an innocent who longs for experience, if the reader will pardon my allusion.—HL.
*For my part, I find little to admire in this frankly anarchic sentiment. This age of morality, as Mr Savage refers to it, has I believe done more to better the world than any age before. This may be a controversial opinion, but I have spent many hours in study and contemplation and I am convinced of the truth of it.—HL.
*It is not.—HL.
*What is amusing is that even as I prepare this manuscript for publication, Mr Savage is preparing to accompany Mr Lancaster on one of his expeditions. Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges, which is something that Mr Shakespeare once said.—HL.
*This exchange and others like it—the ones, I mean, regarding certain matters of the body—make me uncomfortable. However, I have generally left them as they were written because I believe they serve the valuable purpose of elucidating the free-thinking nature of the household at Pocklington Place.—HL.
*This sentiment and phrasing Miss Savage borrowed from Lord Tennyson.—HL.
*This is the truth.—HL.
*I, too, have wondered this.—HL.
*It would.—HL.
*While I do not mean to sway the reader, I would like very much to call his attention to my earlier note about whether or not ‘gentleman’ is the correct descriptive for my cousin by marriage.—HL.
*I myself love promptness. I often arrive early, occasionally on time, and never, if it can be avoided, late. It has earned me the nickname ‘Timely Hubert,’ which I like, though there are not many who call me this.—HL.
*Though I am no poet, I cannot refrain from pointing out that this is not necessarily the case.—HL.
*What Mr Savage speaks of is true of any servant. For instance, Mrs Savage brought with her to Pocklington Place a cook, one Mrs Davis, whose services were a wedding gift from Lord and Lady Lancaster. The poor woman is devoted to Vivien, but because of the marriage must also endure Mr Savage.—HL.
*I trust that my views upon such language and sentiments are by now quite clear.—HL.
*Respected is not, I think, the correct word. Of the most recent collection, Daydreams and Digressions, Mr Pendergast wrote, ‘The best one can say of this packet of poems, for such Mr Savage assures us they are, is that it is but seventy pages long.’ For a time it did sell tolerably well, however.—HL.
*That is, Tennyson.—HL.
*I believe this must be true, as I have read as much elsewhere. I do not, however, have any personal experience with it. There was once when I believed I had—but I was mistaken.—HL.
*Though it is scarcely credible, I have examined and cross-examined many people who assure me that the conversation which dominates this chapter did indeed take place. Make of that what you will. For my part, I am still grappling with it.—HL.
*I have often wondered about this, and things similar, such as whether or not one ought to say, ‘You see,’ to a blind man, or ‘If you follow,’ to a man with no legs. It is a complicated question, and one which has not yet been satisfactorily answered.—HL
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*A wise man of my acquaintance once said, ‘Between writers there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.’ —HL.
*I like this work very much.—HL.
*I have met one very old man who went to school with Tennyson and who swears this is not true; and one who swears it is. So I do not know. I do know, though, that my cousin Ashley once carried a mare across a stream because it was pregnant and Lady Lancaster was worried it would take a chill and miscarry. (I may add that, gratifyingly, the mare delivered without mishap—and that the foal went on to become Falling Star, whose exploits on the racetrack can scarcely be overstated. The reader will recall his famous victory against Persian Emperor at Alexandra Park.)—HL.
*I was present at this party, and so I can say with authority that this is not what happened. However, I have heard that something very similar did occur once at a party given by the Count and Countess de Guiche in Paris.—HL.