Sir William (10 page)

In Cavendish Square, George groaned, stirred, and woke into an atmosphere of roiling darkness, linseed oil and turpentine. The walls were lined with faces he could not even see. His night vision was nonexistent. A sound was what had waked him. It was the constant purring irregular motion of a spinning wheel, wettened fingers, and bobbin and thread. There was a quick, brisk, metallic snip.

“I have cut the thread,” said a voice in the dark.

“The thread is too short,” the old woman whined.

“It is always short,” said the voice in the dark.

“The next is his,” the old woman whined.

“It is long but short,” said the voice in the dark.

“Aye, it always is,” said the old woman’s whine.

Out of the darkness came a wave of breasts and arms and thighs and heads and draperies, crashed down on him, and ebbed and sobbed away again. It would be back. It always came back, and each time more featureless than before. It had already caught its only light.

George put the pillow over his head, but the spinning wheel whirred on anyway.

In Edgware Row, Emma smiled, stretched, snuggled into the comforter, and went to sleep again.

*

Not everyone matures; some have maturity thrust upon them, like a package no one else will carry. Greville, in the library downstairs, was writing letters again, for he had heard an alarming thing. Sir William was seen much these days in the company of Lady Craven, a woman apt to marry almost anyone (eventually she married the Margrave of Brandenburg-Anspach, who, whatever else might be said for him, was certainly not an Englishman), and who was still fecund. “If you did not choose a wife, I wish the Teamaker of Edgware Row was yours,” he suggested. He had been flushed. The question
with Lady Craven was not whom she should marry, but who would take her. She was a dangerous, fortune-hunting woman.

*

Well, thought Sir William, why not? I am fifty-four, my position is secure, so why should I not? I need not remarry. I am a widower, and a widower is acceptable in all those places where a bachelor is not, and so need not go to the inconvenience of a wife. I do not need money. And besides, it would be agreeable to have the house well run.

Though garish in England, in this climate the Romney lacked color. However, as he remembered, its subject did not. He smiled.

*

Greville did not care for the terms. If she was merely to be packed off, where went his bargaining? He wrote Sir William:

My brother does, my nephew does not, thought Sir William. And which brother, by the way, Charles, or the Archdeacon of Raphoe? He wrote right back:

In half of that suggestion, Greville saw a solution, a way to get her out there without scenes. How pleasant of his uncle to have thought of it. He was now down to the fine work of bargaining, which is best done in the darkness of privacy, so he packed Emma off to the seaside again.

She found it much the same in Cornwall as it had been at Parkgate, except that this time there was not even a winklewoman to disrupt the view. The only grumbling here was done by the sea itself, in the motion of the tides against the pebbles, and her elbows itched again.

*

“I told you in my letter of thanks for the signed bond, that sealing and signing was nothing without a witness’s name; you will, therefore, be so good as to send it back with that addition,” wrote Greville, but raised the figures on the bond. Emma’s traveling expenses would be thirty guineas, payable in advance, and “If Lord Middleton was made sure that I was your heir, then my proposal for his daughter might meet with more favourable a reception than,” concluded Greville lamely, “if not.”

*

“Very well, have done with it,” snapped Sir William, and sent fifty pounds and signed the bond as well. Greville was too particular in his terms, as well as stingy.

*

“You must tell her,” said Greville to Mrs. Cadogan, “that all she is asked to do is to spend six months with my uncle, with yourself as chaperone.” And went to the country for the weekend. He hated scenes.

*

“George, I am to be sent to Italy for six months. It is a holiday. And Greville is to join us later.”

George broke his brush. He would have believed it if she had not said it all at once, but a woman with a joyous secret is a cautious animal and only shows you a bit of it at a time, hints at it, nags at it, brings it into the conversation, and drives you crazy until at last she consents to wear the new dress and show it to you. He heard the spinning wheel.

“We shall come back very different, I expect,” she said, with a slight quaver at the mouth.

George did not look at her, but at his easel. That was how she had looked six weeks ago.

“You have been to Italy,” she said.

“To Rome. You will see Raphael. He is a very great painter, Raphael.”

“And he will paint me too?”

“He is dead.”

“I am sorry. I forgot. There is so much to remember.” She could not sit still. “Oh, George, I am distracted. Please hold on to me.”

He held on to her.

*

Towneley stretched lazily his immaculate and silken legs, and his eyes were soft with a kind but contemptuous glow.

“You have brought it off,” he said, as though to say, Now you are locked in with me.

With a glance at the door, which was open to an empty room beyond, Greville reached for the decanter, which was half full.

*

George sat alone and wrote:

Certainly Greville did not want it; as certainly, he did
not wish to let it go. It was the same with everything. He replied:

As indeed he had.

But then, if we are not so fortunate as to be born of tempered steel, why then we must do the next best thing and temporize.

Indubitably he would die a bachelor.

*

They were upon the Continent. Emma had been at her most superbly theatrical. If the heart stops, beat the breast and it will soon start up again, like a turnip watch. They sat in a coach with Gavin Hamilton, the painter, a connection of Sir William’s, up on the box for company as far as Rome, though so far they were only in Dijon, opposite a
charcuterie.

“Just look at the lovely sausages!” cried Mrs. Cadogan. “Pray stop.”

“My heart is broken. How can you be so cruel? I am oblivious to scenery. I am indifferent to the picturesque.”

“Ah, ducks, how can you say so?” asked Mrs. Cadogan, leering out the window with the pursy eyelids of a born cook, and she banged on the roof until the coach stopped, and then scuttled into the
charcuterie,
though she was back soon enough, empty-handed.

“An écu for a Polish sausage,” she said indignantly. “It is not to be borne. It is too much.”

Gavin Hamilton leaned down obligingly from the box. “Indeed, madam, it is,” he said. “Nothing is cheap in France except the people.”

So on they drove, past Avignon, past Arles, past Marseilles, Nice, Savoy, Milan, and finally Rome, where Hamilton left them and they were turned over to a Mr. Graffer, who had been sent out to Naples to install an English garden there. But he was delayed, so they continued alone until at dusk they reached Gaeta, where the air shimmers and is all overture until the babble and chatter cease, and the first arioso is there to be listened to.

It was a simple lesson in pedagogy: if the child cannot learn the lesson, supply it with an easier, more agreeable one, and thus—learning that learning is not to be feared—it may be guided through the most intricate curriculum, insulated by its ignorance, and so escape unscathed, not having learned a thing at all.

But before that it must sleep while its elders make the
classroom agreeable by erasing traces of imminent toil, removing advanced pieces from the piano, and pinning funny animals on the walls.

It is the gateway to Naples, Gaeta.

A
DAGIO
, sings one of the competing singers in Mozart’s
Impresario,
and makes something quite pretty out of it, too. But then the Impresario is a very wise man.

From nowhere, but they have an incipiently Italian look, cherubim assemble in vast quantity—for the plush folds of night are rich and heavy—to kick themselves into position with pink rudder toes; the orchestra of dawn chirps up again, now a rooster, now a flute; and with a flumpy heave, aside the curtains go upon the loveliest of painted scenes. The dawn floods up like a chorus from Glück, and there it is, the harmony of the world, wet and dripping, in a tonal net. And there is the great globe itself, the loveliest piece in the Cosmic Opera House, for if it does not contain everything, everything may be seen from there, or from the boxes.

Signor Pomposo, otherwise Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies, enters on a white horse. No matter what the opera, it is always written into his contract that he be allowed to do this. Nobody knows why. Signora del Largo, Maria Carolina herself, in other words the Queen, but no match for the
castrati,
putters about and beats the scenery. The arrangement is frontal, after Metastasio. Demofoönte steps forward and accosts the Principessa Arethusa, who should be in Syracuse where she belongs,
but of that no matter. She is a short, Levantine, bad-tempered creature.

“Who is this woman?”

“I do not know. Perhaps she is
hors
de
Syrie
,” replied Sir William, with full orchestra; he never stoops to a pun, but he cannot resist this one.

It is a comedy by Paisiello. It is called
Timante,
or
The
Kingdom
of
the
Two
Sicilies.
It is not one of the maestro’s better efforts, but it cannot be denied the scenery is superb. Hackert, the King’s painter, always puts in a lot of sky, but then, at Naples there always is a lot of sky, all of it blue, and every shade of blue, for it shifts, it alters, it rustles like a peacock’s tail; at night it has a thousand eyes. The sea, which has no tide to be taken at the flood, though sometimes it turns stormy, is green to purple at the deeps, and celadon elsewhere. It is layered with minnows, though farther out there are San Pietro and even pike, all beautiful, though the taste is muddy.

“Lady Hamilton has been laid up with a fever, and I was obliged to undertake her cure, which I completed in five days,” wrote Sir William once. “Luckily there was a lake close by and I amused myself with catching pike.” The Bay of Naples is very like a lake, and Sir William likes very much to fish. He is, after all, a diplomat. So does the King. He is a glutton.

Sir William has decided that Emma, who has learned manners, must now learn that quite different subject, the manners of the world. That should keep her occupied for some time, since the manners of the world are not seen through in a day.

He has been up since dawn, and is at the moment eating breakfast on his terrace and admiring the view, an unnecessary but pleasant occupation, since the view is already admirable. Dawn, in his case, is an event put ahead to eight o’clock, for though he rises earlier, his time until then is taken up by such chthonic exercises as answering dispatches and dispatching answers, so that he may have the day free for such diplomatic chores as hunting with the King and dining
with him afterward; which is something like hunting with the hounds and running with the fox, but necessary. Today, however, is to be different. Today Graffer is to arrive, at last, with plants selected by Sir Joseph. And so is Emma.

*

Graffer has been delayed. To Sir William’s left, Vesuvius rocks like a moored ship, its funnel smoking, a visible symbol of latent industry.

Who could not be happy here?

The answer is, Emma. She has been here four days, and all she does is write to Greville.

That is when he said he would come out.

Nonetheless, she was to have them all. Unlike his nephew, Sir William did not find generosity incompatible with thrift, and to do him justice, was exactly the same, even when he had less money.

“I know, from the small specimen during your absence from London, that I shall have at times many tears to wipe from those charming eyes,” he told Greville. Graffer had arrived. If he had not Emma, he had at least the English garden to divert him.

“I have a very good apartment of 4 rooms, very pleasant-looking to the sea,” wrote Emma. Why would he not answer?

He had not the time. He had turned to commerce and was busy with a scheme to settle a colony of American fishermen at Milford, to carry the whale fishery from thence to the South of Falkland Islands. Americans in those days being a practical people, the fishermen had gone to the Falkland Islands direct, but the scheme was none the worse for that, so it engrossed him and he engrossed it. Let her wait.

*

Emma opened the
Triumphs
of
Temper.
A leaf fell out. She had picked it that last afternoon at Edgware Row, but now it was dead. Also, this far south, the
Triumphs
of
Temper
did not read well, so she put both away.

It was the fifth day.

On the contrary, she knew exactly what to make of it. It was a siege.

“Mother, help me,” she demanded.

“Daughter, help yourself,” said Mrs. Cadogan, who liked the look and scale of things here, had never liked Greville, and certainly did not care to see her daughter behaving like a willful fool.

“There seems a great deal,” she added kindly, “to help yourself to.” She had two cooks, a housekeeper, three housemaids, an equerry, a butler, a coachman and six tweenies under her already, and since they did not understand her and she could not understand them, the household was functioning smoothly. So long as she kept them down, she might pilfer from the household accounts as she liked.

By God, he was the “heir apearant,” not she. Would she ruin everything?

The thoughts of children on their birthdays are sometimes bitter ones, but at least there were gifts: a carriage fresh-painted, a coachman, a footman, a boat and sea bathing from it, a cashmere shawl, some of Lady Hamilton’s summer jewelry, new muslin dresses and Alençon lace to trim them with. There were concerts at home, and for the first time in two years Sir William had accompaniment for his flute. There were walks in the insect clatter of the Via Reale at night.

The Queen she had not met. No matter what their own morals, queens are not permitted to receive kept women.

There was even a visit to Pompeii.

“Shovel some pretty little trinket in,” said Sir William, “so the girl can grub it out. I want to please her.”

But though he pleased her, he was not Greville. Why did she take that attitude? Did she want to ruin him?
Did she not realize she was a gift, a premium upon a signed bond, an anything, but most assuredly not his?

“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t,” said Emma.

“You have a true friend in Sir William,” wrote Greville, months away. “Go to bed.”

“The girl is pretty, stubborn, foolish and desperate,” advised Sir William. “She proposes to return to England to persuade you, and I have thought it best to say that in that event I would pay her passage there.” And in that event …

An inoperative threat, for who was she to make any man marry her? Greville did not reply.

Since he wished not love but complicity, and so was no rival for her affections, Sir William merely handed this epistle to Emma and went to Caserta to inspect the beginnings of the English garden. He now knew the outcome he might expect, but though he had broken horses in his time, this had taken longer and was more difficult and left him as sad.

For the afternoon, he diverted himself with Graffer’s gardening plans; as one passion begins to fail, it is necessary to form another, since the whole art of going through life tolerably is to keep eager about something. The moment one is indifferent,
on
s
’
ennuie
.

This evening, perhaps.

sang Emma, banging away at that latest thing, a pianoforte, which having a hard touch, could most satisfactorily be banged.

“What is that caterwauling?” demanded Mrs. Cadogan, who had heard it three rooms—and what was worse, four servants—away, and did not care for the sound of it.

“It is not caterwauling. It is an impromptu,” said Emma. “I have reached a decision: I have given in.”

It had not been so bad. Besides, afterward he had soothed her when despite herself she had burst into tears. He was almost as good as George. Poor George; these last few months life had been so disturbed, she had not thought to write to him.

“Apart from that, I do not care a
fig
for Greville!” she shouted.

Mrs. Cadogan had never before seen her in this mood. It was a new mood. She had changed in the night. She was not what formerly she had been. She would now impersonate herself and ape sincerity. From now on not even her mother should know some things.

Undressed, Sir William had looked like a badly peeled banana.

“I shall marry Sir William. Wait and see. I shall be safe. I shall be secure. I shall be untouchable. And I shall have a nephew.”

Mrs. Cadogan, though not regular in her attendance at church, recognized sacrilege when she saw it. “Well, I never,” she snapped. “What an idea!”

“It is not an idea. It is a plan. It is
le
plan
Hamilton!”
shouted Emma. “Since it is all he cares about, I shall disinherit him.”

“You could certainly do far worse,” said Mrs. Cadogan.
“But you will have to keep your temper.”

She kept her temper.

*

“Delphiniums won’t hardly grow in this soil,” said Graffer. “Neither will ’olly’ocks. And me kids don’t much care for it, either.”

She was indeed wonderful. She did not lose her temper once, not even when tempted to do so by its constant tugging at the leash.
Le
plan
Hamilton
took five years.

And had. But the more we do the quicker it ages us, and just as we think we’re catching up with ourselves, we find we’ve lost what we were; we are now only the things we do, and so we grow worldly instead. Though to grow worldly, you must first have entree to it, and that would not be possible until she was married. She had made an agreeable discovery: it is possible to be a tart at night and a silly girl by day, both Thais and niece and a young matron too, for if we no longer care, we may be plural and so all things to all
men—except what they really want, and when they get it, throw it away.

*

“You have a lovely voice, my dear,” said Sir William. “We must train it.” He would have said the same thing to a canary.

She went to two retired
castrati
singing masters. At any rate, they were retired from the stage; to retire from one’s own condition is more difficult. One was called Giuseppe Aprile, the other Giuseppe Millico, but she called them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They taught her much. Aprile could sound like a bell up to
E
above the treble stave, and had a warm and sympathetic character.