The Meaning of Night (26 page)

hungry and wish to eat – copiously. Where shall we go?’

‘The Ship and Turtle! Where else!’ exclaimed Le Grice, throwing open the door.

‘My treat, old boy. London awaits. Take up your coat and hat, Mr Glapthorn, for I shall

be your guide.’

January the twenty-fifth, 1850. The great table at which my mother had spent so

many weary hours is now set before the window in my new rooms. On it, the journals

that had revealed my lost self are arranged in order, girded round, as at Sandchurch, by

yellowing bundles of paper, dozens of them, each bundle now sorted into chronological

order and carrying a label denoting its contents. Blank note-books, fresh from the

stationers, are stacked up in readiness; pencils have been sharpened; ink and nibs laid in.

I am ready to embark on my great enterprise, to prove my true identity to the world.

I have made an excellent beginning. The agreement drawn up between my mother

and Lady Tansor, which lent its circumstantial weight to my claim, is now in my

possession; and, by an unexpected stroke of luck, I have secured employment at

Tredgolds, Lord Tansor’s legal advisers. What might come of this situation, I cannot

foresee. But some advantage, surely, will present itself, if I can gain the complete

confidence of Mr Christopher Tredgold.

And an advantage, however small, is everything to the resourceful man.?

(

Settled before a roaring fire in Le Grice’s rooms in Albany, with a glass of brandy

in my hand, it was hard to believe that only five years had passed since leaving

Sandchurch for London. It seemed as if a whole lifetime had gone by – so many

memories crowding in, so much rosy hope, and so much bleak despair. Faces in the

flames; the smell of a September morning; death and desire: impressions and

remembrances floated before my eyes, coalesced, and separated again, a multitude of

ghosts in an eternal dance.

‘I’ve never told anyone, you know,’ Le Grice was saying quietly, head thrown

back, watching the smoke from his cigar curl upwards towards the ceiling, deep in

shadow. ‘Never said a word, about this life you’ve been living. Whenever one of the

fellows asks, I always say you’re travelling, or that I haven’t heard from you. That’s

right, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted?’

He lifted his head and looked directly at me, but I did not reply.

‘I don’t know where all this is leading, G., but if what you say is true . . .’

‘It’s all true. Every word.’

‘Then of course I understand. You weren’t Edward Glyver, so you may as well be

Edward Glapthorn. I thought you must have the money-lenders on your tail, or some

such, though you wouldn’t admit it. But you had to keep things close, I see that, until

everything could be made right. But what a story, G! I won’t say I can’t believe it,

because I must believe it, if you tell me it’s true. There’s more to come, though, that’s

clear, and I’m all ears, old boy. But do you want to go on now, or sleep here and carry on

in the morning?’

I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to two.

‘No sleep tonight,’ I said.

Intermezzo

1850–1853

I Mr Tredgold’s Cabinet

II Madame Mathilde

III Evenwood

IV The Pursuit of Truth

V In the Temple Gardens

(

I

Mr Tredgold’s Cabinet

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Mr Christopher Tredgold had been as good as his word, and had duly advised that

shining ornament of the legal profession, Sir Ephraim Gadd, Q.C., that he could do worse

than engage my pedagogic services to dispense linguistic knowledge to candidates

requiring admission to the Inner Temple who lacked the necessary University

qualifications, over which persons Sir Ephraim exercised authority as a Bencher. These

duties were not in the least arduous to me, and I fulfilled them easily alongside my daily

employment at Tredgolds, of which I shall speak presently.

The marked partiality Mr Tredgold had shown towards me at our first meeting

had again been apparent on the first day of my employment. On my arrival in

Paternoster-row, I was immediately taken up to his private office on the first floor by

Fordyce Jukes. He was one of the longest serving of Tredgold’s clerks, and occupied an

exalted position behind a high desk by the front door of the establishment, where, as the

house’s gatekeeper, he would welcome clients and conduct them up to one or other of the

partners.

His admiration of the Senior Partner knew no bounds; but soon his professions of

regard for me, whom he barely knew, became hardly less temperate. He was continually

obliging, ever affable, looking up eagerly from his work to smile, or nod ‘good-day’, as I

passed.

I disliked him from the first, with his bull neck and thick flat nose. He wore his

hair short, like a workhouse terrier crop, brushing it up at the front into a crown of little

black spikes. The straightness of the line where the hair met the flesh of his neck, and

around his ears and temples, made the whole arrangement appear like some strange cap

or hat that he had placed over a perfectly normal head of hair.

I hated too his moth-eaten little dog, his putty-coloured clean-shaven face, and the

leering quality of his look. He was always clicking his fingers, shaking his head, or

scratching his crown of spikes, whilst in his small green eyes one detected a flickering,

unquiet energy, which would never quite show itself plain, but perpetually hid and

ducked, like some pursuing assassin melting into doorways and alleys to baffle his

victim. All this rendered him repulsive in my eyes.

Before long, so insistent had his attentions become whenever I appeared of a

morning, I had taken to avoiding the house’s front door and instead would gain my room

by means of the side-stairs. But still I would often encounter him, at the end of a day,

hovering in the street.

‘There you are, Mr Glapthorn, ‘he would say, in his strange high-pitched voice. ‘I

thought we might walk back together. A little company and a friendly chat at the end of

the day, so pleasant.’

As I entered through the front door on my first morning, Jukes jumped down from

his desk and began bowing obsequiously.

‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, shaking my hand

furiously as he spoke, ‘honoured. I hope we may see much of each other, in a social as

well as a business capacity. Neighbours, you know. New blood always welcome, sir –

lubrication for the great Tredgold engine, eh? We must move forward, mustn’t we, Mr

Glapthorn? Yes, indeed. So clever of the SP to bring you to us, but then we expect no less

of the SP.’

He went on in this vein until we reached the door of Mr Tredgold’s office. He

conducted me into the room, giving yet another oily obeisance, and then, with reiterated

bobbings of his head, closed the door softly behind him.

The Senior Partner rose from his desk, beaming.

‘Welcome, welcome, Mr Glapthorn!’ he said, shaking me warmly by the hand.

‘Please sit down, sir. Now, is there anything you require? Shall I ring for some tea? It is a

little cold this morning, is it not? Would you like to move a little nearer to the fire?’

He continued in this warmly considerate manner for some minutes, until I

convinced him at last that I was not in the least bit cold, and that I did not require any

warming beverage to fortify me. I then asked him what duties I would be expected to

undertake at the firm.

‘Duties? Yes, of course. There are certainly duties.’ He gave his eye-glass a little

polish, and beamed.

‘Might I ask, Mr Tredgold, what those duties might be?’

‘Of course you may. But first, Mr Glapthorn, you ought to know something of my

colleagues. We are called Tredgold, Tredgold, and Orr, but there is only one Tredgold –

myself. Mr Donald Orr is the Junior Partner; and then there is Mr Thomas Ingrams. There

are six clerks, including Mr Jukes, who is the most senior of their number. It is a varied

practice. Criminal work, divorce, bankruptcy and insolvency (the particular interest of Mr

Donald Orr), probate, the management of estates and properties, and so on; and of course

we represent the interests of a large number of distinguished persons.’

‘Such as Lord Tansor?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And in which particular area of the practice will my duties lie?’

‘You are a great one for duty, I see, Mr Glapthorn, and it is apparent you are keen

to be at it.’

‘At what, Mr Tredgold?’

‘Well, now, let me see. I thought, to begin with, you might wish to cast your eye

over some papers relating to a bankruptcy case we recently conducted. Would that please

you?’

‘I am not here to be pleased, Mr Tredgold,’ I replied, ‘I am here to please you,

and to earn a living.’

‘But I am pleased,’ he cried, ‘and will be even more so if you will kindly consent

to look over these papers.’

‘May I enquire if you require me to do anything other than read the documents?’

‘Not at this time. Come!’

And with that, he took me by the arm and ushered me down the corridor and into

a dark little room, with a large desk in the centre, and a cheerfully crackling fire.

‘Wait here, if you please,’ he said. A few minutes later he returned with a large

bundle of papers and set them down on the desk.

‘Will you be comfortable here?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Then I shall leave you to your labours. I shall be out of the office today. Leave

when you wish. Good-day, Mr Glapthorn.’

I duly applied myself to the documents Mr Tredgold had given me. When I had

finished reading them, having nothing else to occupy me, I returned to Temple-street. For

the remainder of the week, I would come into my little room every morning to find

another bundle of papers waiting for me, which I would diligently read through, to no

apparent purpose, and then return home. On Friday, as I was about to depart, the door of

Mr Tredgold’s office opened.

‘An excellent week’s work, Mr Glapthorn. May I have the pleasure of your

company on Sunday, at the usual time?’

Once again, I found myself in Mr Tredgold’s private residence, enjoying a most

appetising collation. Afterwards, as always, we fell into talking about books. As I was

being conducted down the side stairs by the man, Harrigan, he handed me a key.

‘Please to use this, sir, at Mr Tredgold’s request, when you next come. No need to

knock’

Astonished at this sign of my standing with the Senior Partner, I looked at

Harrigan for a moment, but his face showed no expression. As I did so I noticed, just

behind him, a girl of about twenty or twenty-five, regarding me with a similar

impassivity. These two persons – whom I had been told were husband and wife – were

the only other inhabitants of the building on the Sundays I was entertained by Mr

Tredgold. I would catch glimpses of them from time to time, going about their duties

silently, and never saying a word to each other.

Another week passed. Every day I walked from Temple-street to Paternoster-row,

read carefully through whatever papers Mr Tredgold had left on my desk, and then

walked home. As I was leaving my room on Friday afternoon, a beaming Mr Tredgold

issued another invitation to join him on Sunday in his private residence. This time, I had

my key, and let myself in by the side door.

After luncheon was over, and we had settled ourselves on the ottomans in front of

the fire, the conversation soon turned towards books. During our bibliographic chats, Mr

Tredgold would often get up to pick out some volume from his collection to make a

point, or ask my further opinion on some matter of typography or provenance.

On this occasion, Mr Tredgold had been speaking of some of the unusual

testamentary provisions the firm had occasionally been asked to prepare, which led me to

mention the mock last will and testament drawn up by Aretino? for Pope Leo X’s pet

elephant, Hanno, in which the poet solemnly bequeathed the beast’s private parts to one

of His Holiness’s Cardinals.

‘Ah, Aretino,’ said Mr Tredgold, beaming and polishing his eye-glass. ‘The

infamous Sixteen Postures.’

Now having become something of a connoisseur in the history of warm literature

during my time in Heidelberg (and possessing, as I did, good editions of Rochester and

Cleland,? as well as rare examples of the genre from earlier periods), I was instantly

familiar with the reference, but taken aback somewhat by my host’s unabashed mention

of this celebrated masterpiece of the erotic imagination.

‘Mr Glapthorn.’ He put down his red silk handkerchief and looked steadily at me.

‘Would you mind giving me your opinion on this?’

He stood up and walked over to a large walnut-fronted cabinet I had often noticed

standing between the two doors that gave access to the room. Taking out a key on a

delicate gold chain from his waistcoat pocket, Mr Tredgold unlocked this cabinet to

reveal six or eight shelves of tightly packed books, as well as a number of slim,

dark-green wooden boxes. Taking down one of the volumes, he relocked the cabinet and

returned to his seat.

To my astonishment, it was the exquisitely rare 1798 Paris (P. Didot) edition of