She remembered how, only the day before, he had said she was turning the children against him, saying such wicked things, that she never cared for them properly, that she was mentally disordered. She was stupid, she knew, her back burnt, her heart leaked. Try as she might, none of the flowers came together in any pattern as the world swam in a cruel whirlpool around her.
The front door slammed and Katy came into the study to find her mother alone, both she and the vase of flowers she held in disarray. She looked half-mad; she was gasping, as though she were suffocating. Oblivious to her daughter, Catherine summoned from some void deep within a terrible sound, not a woman’s voice, but some desolation far older. As though a thing infinitely precious had been stolen from her, she abruptly cried out—
‘It hurts!’
And then said no more.
That night, Dickens came to bed late and lay for some time on his back. Neither touched. When she was almost asleep, she felt him slowly, almost absent-mindedly unlacing her nightgown. She reached out to him. She brought his face into her breasts. He smelt the lavender oil with which she perfumed herself every evening. She did not feel his tears. He was recalling Danton: You do not make a revolution with rosewater.
Away with a shriek and a roar and a rattle from the town they now fled, burrowing at first among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into meadows, mining in through the damp earth, booming on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so bright and wide. Fleeing through the hay, through the rock, through the woods, past objects almost in the grasp and ever flying from the traveller, Dickens felt a deceitful distance growing within him, while Ellen Ternan felt she was finally moving towards what life should be: joyous, exciting and so much fun.
On that train trip north in the month of August 1857, with The Frozen Deep’s large company and entourage taking several carriages, Dickens even had Mrs Ternan crying with laughter playing Conundrums, the answers for which he insisted on being passed window to window poised on umbrellas and walking sticks. When they were lost in the rushing wind he would run back and forth, pretending to tear out his hair in anguish, mimicking a lisping conductor by crying out, ‘What a conundwum! My! My! What a wetched conundwum!’
And if such innocence were tinged with a flirtatious frisson, what of it? Ellen Ternan might enjoy his attentions as the tribute she was discovering men would pay to youthful beauty. But that was all. And Dickens, for his part, might play, possibly even tease, perhaps indulge in a certain kind of romance that permitted no sense of romantic attachment, and it would end, because his disciplined heart demanded no less. Destiny’s darker edges were as Dickens was, dancing the sailor’s hornpipe just as the train swerved around a great bend and tossed him into a corner: something simply to laugh at. What blow or fall could not be met and overcome with good humour? They were joyously alive and oblivious to everything, even as the world around them began to change by imperceptible degrees into something altogether different.
As the most famous Englishman of the age rolled around the floor of a train carriage, the eyes of those travelling with him were wet with tears of laughter. The train shrieked and cried louder and louder as it tore on resistless, until its way was strewn thickly with ashes and everything grew blackened. Around the train arose some strange charred forest from which humanity had simultaneously been exiled and was condemned henceforth to survive in.
Beyond the train windows, the filthy smoke writhed around battered roofs and broken windows and they could see into wretched rooms where want and fever hid themselves in many awful forms with death ever present, and Dickens turned away and tried not to think of what Wilkie had once said to him in an unguarded moment, that he lived as he acted, with a dead father in one pocket and a dead daughter in the other, unable to erase the image of either from his mind.
‘Never ever this late,’ Mrs Ternan was saying over and over, as she bustled Ellen and her two sisters into the smoke and noise of Manchester Railway Station two days later. ‘Who knows whether they’ll still be here?’
They strode through the crowd and, though Ellen’s preparations for the outing had delayed them all and cost her a great deal of effort, to say nothing of her begging and pleading and more than a few moments of tears, she was now revelling in walking so purposefully through the carbon and sulphur haze, slightly sweet and somewhat damp, riding the trill excitement of clanging iron and sudden whistles past trembling platforms.
Though virtually none of what Ellen wore was hers, from the moment she walked down into the lobby of the Great Western Hotel that morning with her sisters and drew admiring glances, it felt as if the marble silk crinoline dress she had borrowed from her sister Fanny, with its beautiful sloping shoulders and elegant trim of lace ruche, had been made just for her, as though the long burgundy mantilla her mother had worn when she was younger and which now draped over her shoulders had always belonged to her.
She felt a perfect balance between this glorious costume and her life, her soul and the world. She was aware of the looks she was getting, but she had grown up on the stage and welcomed the attention. She smiled, as much with pleasure at her own appearance as with happiness, when she caught sight of a bearded face on the opposite platform suddenly bobbing up and smiling as their eyes caught—Mr Dickens! And at that moment, the noise grew intolerable and the platform began shaking as a locomotive rolled in, its coupling rod slowing, an oil-blackened engineer leaning out, his white eyes shining like lamplights as the great machine trundled between them.
As the train cut off the sight of the young woman, a large, heavy man turned to Dickens and, leaning down into his ear, more yelled than whispered:
‘In a word, the love of dress is the ruin of a vast number of young women.’
‘Repression may well be the only lasting philosophy,’ said Dickens. ‘But, dear Mammoth, it is not the basis I propose to tell others to live their lives upon.’ He was standing at the centre of a small party he had assembled for an outing to what was being billed as the greatest art exhibition in history, a show so large a building at Old Trafford had been erected especially for it, along with a new railway station for the visiting crowds.
‘I beg for colour,’ said Dickens, smiling and slightly bowing to the approaching Ternans. ‘I crave colour in these cast-iron days.’ He held out his hand and walked forward to the elegant ensemble. ‘For a moment I thought it was the Empress Eugenie herself,’ he said, taking hold of Ellen Ternan’s hand, knowing full well—because she had told him—how she modelled her fashion on that of the young French monarch.
Perhaps it was the freedom of the wondrous steel hoops as opposed to the miles of petticoats his wife wore to keep her dresses puffed out, perhaps it was her youth, or perhaps, he wondered a little fancifully, it was her marvellous spirit, but she moved so freely and lightly, so nimbly and quickly, with her waist so fine. He recalled hearing how a woman had died wearing just such a skirt after she brushed against a candle and the dress went up like a hayrick, but now it was he who was burning. Realising he was not charming but staring, Dickens dropped Ellen Ternan’s hand, made a small leap like a startled bird, and hastened to divert attention from his momentary lapse.
‘Mrs Ternan! What delights await us!’ And then he spoke to Maria, he passed compliments to Fanny, and in the end a frustrated Ellen burst out—
‘Mr Dickens! Do you or do you not like my pomegranate mantilla?’
‘Red,’ said Forster, unable to contain himself. ‘And a dark red, at that, is not pomegranate.’
‘I am told it is the traditional colour for brides in India,’ said Ellen Ternan, wrapping a curl of her blonde hair around an index finger and not bothering even to look at Forster, but eyeing Dickens and smiling as she spoke. ‘Its virtue could not be more widespread.’
As they made their way into the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition, Dickens was reminded of some fabulous cross between the most modern railway station and the wonder of Ali Baba’s cav
e. It was the spectacle of it all, the crowds, the human heat of the thing that excited Dickens far more than the endless old masters, the illustrious moderns, the sixteen thousand works of genius racked row above row, room after room.
Forster became dizzy viewing and was about to resort to the refreshment room for some boiled beef and bitter when they stopped by an old master’s painting of Leda and the Swan, hung, as were all the salacious old masters, on the highest row.
‘It is believed to be a copy of a lost Michelangelo original,’ said Wilkie, passing to Ellen Ternan the opera glasses he had brought along to better admire the loftier works.
‘I never really understood this myth,’ said Mrs Ternan. ‘A bad thing that somehow is seen to be good.’
A young man missing both legs and clad in rags trundled up beside them in a cut-down wooden barrel on wheels, which he paddled along with rudely bandaged hands. He reminded Dickens of a Russian samovar and interested him rather more than the paintings.
‘Harmony and discord is what it means,’ said Forster, who felt the need to offer commentary on everything. Wilkie raised his eyes and moved on to the next gallery. ‘But mostly discord,’ continued Forster. ‘As a result of Zeus’s crime, Leda conceived two eggs, and out of each egg were born two babies: one was Helen of Troy and I can’t remember the others. Trojan war follows, destruction of a people. And so on. That’s what it means.’ And with that he disappeared to the refreshments room.
The samovar suddenly sneezed violently and Maria Ternan was caught up in the dreadful spray. Without waiting to apologise, he swung his barrel around and rolled away. Mrs Ternan and Maria and Fanny moved off to the other end of the room.
Through the jittery glass Ellen Ternan first saw two pairs of babies, each just hatched from an egg, and then her gaze rose above them to a subservient swan happy in the embrace of a serene and naked young woman. It wasn’t as Forster had said at all, she thought. Everybody and everything in the painting—the babies, the swan, the world—all seemed to exist in awe of the naked woman. Ellen Ternan blushed, and the childlike colour it brought to her open face caught Dickens’ eye as she passed the opera glasses to him.
‘I could eat those babies,’ said Ellen Ternan.
They were now by themselves. In the solitude that the odd tumult of a crowd offers, Dickens opera-glassed and, lost with distant thoughts, was momentarily unguarded. She could hear him sucking his tongue.
‘She would be seven now,’ he said.
‘Who?’ asked Ellen Ternan.
Dickens brought the glasses down and looked at her, embarrassed.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Our daughter, Dora. When she was born she was so fresh you half expected to find eggshell on her crown.’
‘I haven’t met Dora,’ said Ellen Ternan.
Dora was something Dickens didn’t talk about, not even with Catherine. It wasn’t reducible to risible anecdote or ridiculous dialogue. Against her death he seemed to be able to offer neither defence nor explanation. But that day he found himself telling the short story of her life brickfaced, with few words, ending with him leaving her sick that fateful day of his speech to the General Theatrical Fund.
‘We have in our lives only a few moments,’ said Dickens, but then he stopped. Words for him were songs, a performance. But he was not singing or performing now. ‘A moment of joy and wonder with another. Some might say beauty or transcendence.’ He swallowed. He had been talking about Dora, but now he realised it was about something else. ‘Or all those things. Then you reach an age, Miss Ternan, and you realise that moment, or, if you are very lucky, a handful of those moments, was your life. That those moments are all, and that they are everything. And yet we persist in thinking that such moments will only have worth if we can make them go on forever. We should live for moments, yet we are so fraught with pursuing everything else, with the future, with the anchors that pull us down, so busy that we sometimes don’t even see the moments for what they are. We leave a sick child in order to make a speech.’
He stopped talking, put the opera glasses to his eyes, then took them away. He looked not at Ellen Ternan, but straight ahead at the wall.
‘The thing is,’ he said, but he said no more.
It was then Ellen Ternan told him something no one had. It was as if she had heard something beyond his words. It felt like an absolution.
‘You’re not to blame,’ said Ellen Ternan.
9
ON HEARING THE DOOR creak open—the vice-regal mansion’s ramshackle nature meant it moved up and down and sideways, and, in consequence, everything was loose or jammed or, improbably, often somehow both—Sir John turned from the window, where he had been watching a storm front make its way up the Derwent. Lady Jane was looking at him with her eerie light-blue eyes, which he had once, if only for a short time, found so enchanting, but whose odd expression he came to realise he would never understand.
‘You’ll pay,’ said Sir John.
‘What do you—’
‘What?’ snapped Sir John, who now remembered what he had been trying to recall for the previous several minutes. ‘What Montague said to me, that’s what. That I’d pay.’ Once Sir John had prided himself that he forgot nothing. Now he had trouble recalling even a small thing said a few moments before. More strangely, large things once simple and obvious were becoming ever more diffuse and vaporous. And just as reports and memoranda more and more frequently blurred as he stared intently at them, he had the disconcerting impression that so too was his wife now blurring and dissolving into a stranger.
‘When did Montague say such a thing?’ he could hear her asking.
‘When I refused his nephew a land grant,’ said Sir John. ‘That’s when. And after Pedder’s brother-in-law was not awarded the wharf contract, he said something similar.’
‘But that was years ago—’ Lady Jane began, but Sir John was waving a hand back and forth in a gesture of futility.
‘And now he and our enemies have triumphed,’ he said. ‘It is beyond imagining.’
Outside, a storm of terrible force finally broke. Several boats were sunk in the chaos, houses unroofed, trees blown over, drays and carts tossed about as if children’s toys. A fine bay stallion owned by Mr Lord was impaled when a spar was tossed like a toothpick from an adjacent sawpit into the poor beast’s belly. And inside Sir John’s head, the dark cloud of a growing melancholy broke now into a storm just as ferocious, as hopes, desires and memories were thrown hither and thither, smashing his sense of himself as a good man and a noble leader. As much as to battle an odd vertigo that had suddenly enveloped him as to explain himself, Sir John picked up some official papers and brandished them in front of Lady Jane.
‘It has not been as it should,’ he said, and his voice was for a moment—but only a moment—a snarl. ‘Here,’ he said, rustling the papers. Then he dropped them as though they were burning his fingers. ‘Orders arrived from the Colonial Office this morning. Signed by the Secretary himself.’ His body was shaking, almost wobbling with rage. ‘I am to be recalled.’
And having said this, Sir John felt suddenly spent. Lady Jane shot him a look he recognised as being at once utter shock and pure contempt. And how, he wondered, am I to blame for a humiliation as public as this? He recalled their triumphant reception on first arriving in Hobart, the accolades, the extraordinary joy as if he were liberating the people from a tyrant. And yet deep within his soul he sensed his crime was somehow linked to his failure to offer the reassurance of a new tyranny.
‘Why?’ asked Lady Jane, her voice implacable iron.
It was bewildering, thought Sir John. What was it Crozier had said in his cups? You set out to discover a new land because you sense you have always been lost.
‘Because…it seems they have persuaded the Colonial Secretary I am incompetent and corrupt and—’
‘But in truth?’
‘In truth? Perhaps because I wasn’t corrupt. But I’ve been a fool.’
‘Until you took this wretc
hed commission in this godforsaken island,’ said Lady Jane suddenly, and uncharacteristically furious, ‘we had no enemies. We were sought as ornaments to power, never disposed of as its necessary sacrifice.’
It was true he had not sought the commission, that all this was his wife’s work—but then, his entire life since meeting her had been her work. She had relieved him from his most secret vice, his own immeasurable lack of ambition. Was he to blame for that? For submitting to her so completely? He had once overheard Montague say he was a ‘weak character’. And was not this the unspoken heart of the Colonial Secretary’s accompanying letter, in which he wrote of ‘the inappropriate weight given to others’?
This confused Sir John more than anything else. Was it weakness to be at ease with what life brought—be it suffering and starvation in the polar ice, or pleasing another human being by doing as she wished—or was it wisdom?
‘Trust to it,’ Montague had said when they first arrived, gesturing with a thin arm in the direction of the dilapidated capital and, beyond it, the ceaseless vegetation walling in the city, the endless nameless mountains, the mapless rivers.
But trust to what? A weird land predating time, with its vulgar rainbow colours, its vile, huge forests and bizarre animals that seemed to have been lost since Adam’s exile?
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