‘When I stayed with him over there, the place was his only home, and yet it wasn’t his. He was an orphan and practically adopted by his uncle and aunt who were quite old childless people. There had been another uncle who had married a village woman, and had one daughter. That couple were very odd squalid creatures, and died off, I think from drink, but the daughter survived and went on living in a cottage in the next parish. She wasn’t left destitute by any means in the way of money; but she lived all by herself, and I think always with a sense of injury upon her that she wasn’t noticed by the county families and such. The remaining uncle and aunt had been kind enough to her and at one time used to invite her over to their place, but she had a very difficult temper and was always on the look out for slights and injuries, and at last they gave up the effort to be cordial, and saw no more of her. It wasn’t to be expected after that that they would pass on the property to her (it was entirely at their disposition, to do what they liked with it) and no more they did. When they died it went to Purdue, about a year before his own death, that was.
‘So there he was, settled, you would say, into a happy life: he’d been brought up in the country and knew all the neighbourhood, places and people, very well; and was interested in farming and forestry and prepared to make himself useful. That last visit I paid him was particularly delightful: he was on such excellent terms with everybody in the village. ‘Master Henry’ to all of them, and just as well liked by the neighbours in the larger houses. I think the only fly in the ointment was that woman Caroline Purdue. She took to attending our parish church and we used to find her in our pew every Sunday morning. She didn’t say much to Henry, but all the service time she sat and looked at him through her veil. A short stout red-faced woman she was, with black hair and snappy black eyes. She used to wait in the churchyard till we had gone out and then set off on her three mile walk home. She gave me the creeps, I couldn’t say why; I suppose there was a flavour of concentrated hostility about her.
‘Henry was anxious of something of the same kind. His lawyer told me after his death that he had tried through them to get her to accept a handsome addition to her income and the gift of a suitable house wherever she liked in some other part of the county. They said she was as impracticable a woman as they had ever come across: she just sat and smiled broadly at them and said she was quite comfortable where she was, and didn’t want to move out of reach of her cousin Henry. “But wouldn’t it be more lively and amusing for you to be in some place where there’s more to be seen—theatres, and that sort of thing?” No, oh no, she had plenty of things to occupy herself with: and—again—she didn’t want to move out of reach of her cousin Henry.
‘ “But, but: your cousin Henry, you know; he’s likely to be a busy man—travelling about a good deal, and occupied with his men friends: it isn’t probable that he’ll be able to see much of you.” Oh, she was quite content to take her chance of that: they would often be meeting when he was riding about, and no doubt there would be times when he was alone at the Court, and she could look in on him. “Ah well, that’s just the point. Are you sure that Mr Purdue will welcome that?” “Yes, to be sure, why not?” “Well, we have reason to think that he doesn’t wish it.” Oh indeed! and pray had he commissioned these gentlemen to tell his own cousin that he had cast her off? A nice thing for a relative to hear, that her own flesh and blood preferred not to have anything to do with her. What had she done, she should like to know, to be treated in that way?
‘There was more to the same effect, and the storm rose quickly, culminating in a short burst of tears, and a rapid stumping out of the room. The gentlemen who had been conducting the interview were left looking at each other and feeling they had not done much to advance their client’s wishes. But at least Miss Purdue left off her attendance at our church, and, we gathered, did not favour any other place of worship in its stead.
‘She was not more popular with the rest of the community than with Henry.
‘How is the rest of this to be told? I have here some papers which bear on it, but they are fragmentary, of course. When Henry Purdue was alone in that big house he did what at other times was rather foreign to his habits—confided his feelings to paper. Here are some entries:
‘ “Letter from CP” (Caroline Purdue, of course). “Infernal woman. May she come and see me and talk over this painful matter. No, she mayn’t.” ’
Oliver’s continuation of the story begins here
‘That one is dated 5th December 1883, a year to the day before his death, as it happens. You can see he wrote on loose sheets of paper, sometimes putting in the date in full, sometimes merely the day of the week. I had the devil of a job arranging them in some sort of order, but I felt, as his sole executor, under an obligation to do so. There is a pocket diary for the year of his death which contains a few terse jottings. That helped me to establish a chronology of events. Here is the next relevant entry.’
‘ “18th December. Letter from Hardacre (Lawyers) today saying CP quite impossible, and actually suggesting I talk to her! Am I not paying them handsomely to do this for me? I have no intention of conversing with the woman on any subject and intend to keep her at arm’s length. A figure of speech, of course for I wish her to be at considerably more than an arm’s length from me. I have instructed my gamekeeper that if she is seen on my land she is to be turned off. (Politely of course.)
‘ “Wednesday. Yesterday evening I was in the library. Until recently I have not been at leisure to study my uncle’s collection of books which turns out to contain some unexpected treasures. I have spent several delicious evenings of late slowly examining them, but that is by the by.
‘ “It was four o’clock; evening was already drawing in, and the light was clear, cloudless and wintry. The windows of my library face West. From them one sees a lawn, then the wooded slopes which surround—I might almost say hem in—my property. There is a gap in the trees on the library side through which I can see the sun descend below the brow of the hill. On this evening I noticed that upon this slope a solitary figure was standing in silhouette against the pallid evening sky.
‘ “Instinct told me at once who it was before reason confirmed that the squat, black-bombazined and bonneted figure must be my cousin CP. She was, of course, too far off for me to be certain of it, but I was nonetheless convinced that she was watching me. After trying in vain for some minutes to ignore her presence I rang for Marston.
‘ “I indicated the figure on the skyline and told him to go and send her about her business. Marston seemed reluctant to comply with my instructions and I am afraid I spoke to him rather sharply. He obeyed, but by the time he was walking across the lawn towards her, CP had turned tail and disappeared over the brow of the hill.”
‘The very first note in Henry’s pocket diary for 1884 are the words “CP again” against the date of the 3rd of January. By this time, evidently, his cousin’s visitations had become a regular irritant. Then comes this paper which is headed “20th January”.
‘ “My guests had left not half an hour since, when there comes a banging on my front door. I peep out of the little window that looks onto the porch and there is CP, looking more than ever like Mrs Gamp, complete with umbrella with which she is hammering on my door. I instruct Marston to go to see what she wants but on no account to let her in.
‘ “Marston returns to tell me—as I had expected—that my cousin wishes to see me. I instruct him to inform her that I am indisposed and cannot. He conveys the message but she continues to hammer. It comes on to rain heavily, so I send out Marston to drive her home in the dogcart, but she will have none of it. She puts up her gamp and stumps off home by herself through the wet. Impossible woman!
‘ “Friday: I hear from the Rector’s wife that CP has caught a chill from her adventure in the rain. Feeling some small responsibility for her condition I sent Mrs Burns [his housekeeper] round to CP’s cottage with a bowl of broth and some calves’ foot jelly. Needless to say the offering is indi
gnantly refused. I now wash my hands of her completely.
‘ “25th of January: The chill, no doubt exacerbated by CP’s stubborn refusal of any assistance from myself and others, has finally done for her. A pulmonary infection had set in and the Rector found her dead in her bed when he paid a call on her this morning. Naturally I will see to all the proper funerary arrangements. God forgive me if I feel more than a little relieved that this dreadful incubus has now departed for good.”
‘In Purdue’s diary against the date 4th of February are the words “CP Funeral, St Jude’s”. These words have been heavily underlined three times in black ink. We now return again to the papers.
‘ “3rd March. Most unexpectedly and very much to my annoyance Hardacre informs me that my wretched cousin, CP has left me something in her will. It is only a parcel of books, but still, it is a nuisance. Perhaps she had heard tell of my bookish tastes, for I made no secret of them. Doubtless they are all so much valueless trash and barely worth sending to the church jumble sale.
‘ “Friday: The parcel of books that CP left me has arrived and, as I expected, there is little of value or interest. There are some religious tracts, a large old family Bible which I suppose I must keep, and several volumes of eighteenth-century sermons of the dullest possible kind. Not even a Sherlock, let alone a Sterne, among them!
‘ “There is perhaps one item of interest. It is a small volume, quarter octavo, entitled: The Child’s Keepsake. Improving Rhymes Composed Expressly for Young Persons by A Lady. There is no date, but from the style of printing and the crude woodcuts which adorn the text I would guess it to be very late eighteenth or early nineteenth century, and I have no doubt that the ‘Lady’ in question was some member of an Evangelical sect, an Enthusiast at any rate, perhaps one of Hannah More’s circle. My bibliophilic tastes do not extend to early literature for children, but I can recognise a rarity when I see one. The condition is excellent too, with the original boards, bound no doubt by a provincial bookseller, but a competent one.
‘ “The text is addressed to the young and consists of tales told in verse of an improving and moral character. At the head of each poem is a rectangular woodcut depicting an incident from the story. Here is a fair example. Its title is, REVERENCE FOR THE AGED ADVISED, and it begins:
Mock not the old in youth, young friend
Lest you should meet a bitter end . . .
‘ “It then goes on to tell the biblical story from Kings [II Kings, 2 vv 23-24] about the children who derided Elisha for his baldness. He put a curse on his tormentors whereupon two she-bears came out of the wood to destroy them. The cut which accompanies this rhyme depicts the offending children being torn to pieces in a most savage manner. One of the she-bears has a small child’s head clamped between its merciless jaws.
‘ “I was not very favourably struck. That Biblical tale has always exemplified for me the savagery—dare I say it, the inhumanity?—of the Old Testament, and it seems to me a cruel legend to tell to a child. Perhaps I am something of a sentimentalist in these matters, not having any children of my own.
‘ “Most of the verses are of the same punitive character, dwelling more on sin and retribution than virtue and reward. One in particular impresses me with its horrid severity. It is entitled:
‘ “THE DREADFUL FATE OF YOUNG MASTER HENRY WHO STOLE AN APPLE FROM AN OLD WOMAN
‘ “(My name happens to be Henry!) In it a young boy steals an apple from a poor old woman and runs away home. Once there he secretes himself in a cupboard under the stairs in order to devour the purloined fruit in peace. He hears his mother calling for him but does not dare come out until he has finished eating. When he does, he encounters a woman whom he takes to be his mother, but she has a veil over her face.
. . . And when he drew aside the veil
The wicked child let out a wail,
Transported by a sudden fear
For it was not his mother dear.
The face he met was quite unknown,
A pale and hollow mask of bone
For Death Itself had found him there
In cupboard dark beneath the stair.
‘ “I cannot say much for the Lady’s versifying abilities, but I must reluctantly admit that I found the tale rather hard to put out of my mind. Added to which, the accompanying woodcut is quite dreadful. If I were not so absurdly reverential of all books I would have torn it out on the spot lest some young friend of mine accidentally encountered it. It depicts, crudely of course, but with considerable vividness, a dark corridor with a staircase going up on the right hand side. You can just see the door of the cupboard under the stairs lying open and a slice of blackness within.
‘ “In the corridor stands a strikingly disagreeable female figure. She is thin and wears the high-waisted gown of a woman of Jane Austen’s period. The head is covered by what appears to be a dark muslin veil through which the engraver’s cunning has allowed the more horrible features of her face to be seen. There is a hollow-eyed skull with just a few rags of skin clinging to the cheeks, and a gaping mouth full of horridly sharp teeth. Although common sense dictates that the eye-sockets must be empty the viewer forms the distinct impression that he is being watched by the ghastly figure on the page.
‘ “After that, I must say I leafed through the book rather rapidly, but encountered nothing so terrible. However there is something of interest at the very end of the book.
‘ “On the flyleaf, after the last printed page, another verse has been copied out by hand in a fair but childish copperplate. (Could it have been CP’s handwriting? Possibly, but the orthography looks older, around 1800, perhaps contemporaneous with the book’s publication.) It has no title and is in the same moralising vein as the printed verses; yet it is different, more enigmatic. I note it down simply as a curiosity because it may represent quite an early reference to a particular children’s game, now popular. It runs as follows.
Let us play the Game of Bear
Let us find out who is there.
Let us find out where you are:
Be you near, or be you far?
Are you in a state of Grace,
Pure of soul, and clean of face?
Are you in the mire of Sin,
Sinking deeper, deeper in?
Do not be in any doubt
That your sins will find you out.
Let the wicked child beware
When he plays the Game of Bear
‘ “Having now sorted through my Uncle’s books I have extracted a good few which, though of some antiquarian value, are of no interest to me. I intend to send them up to London to be sold or exchanged for more congenial volumes. I shall add The Child’s Keepsake to this pile. Or perhaps family pietas will forbid me.
‘ “10th April. Lovely spring day. Rode over to Aylsham to see M. In the evening after dinner I was just crossing the hall to go to the library and was by the main staircase when I heard a voice, so close to me it was almost in my ear. It said:
‘ “ ‘Let us play the Game of Bear
Let us find out who is there.’
‘ “The voice was elderly, but whose it was, or even whether it was male or female, I could not tell. It had a breathy sort of tone, sotto voce, as the Italians say. There was no-one in the hall. I rang for Marston and he came eventually, but I am sure it was not him. The verse reminded me of that book The Child’s Keepsake which my cousin left me and which I still have somewhere, but I could not find the thing when I searched for it just now in the library.
‘ “The voice must have been some kind of auditory hallucination. I think I should get away from this place and travel for a while. If it were not for the progress I am making with M, I would go at once.”
‘Incidentally,’ said Mr A, ‘M was a Miss Mary Mills, daughter of a local landowner over at Aylsham. I will spare you the various eulogies he composes about her in these papers. Suffice it to say that it was a thoroughly suitable match for a young man of Henry Purdue’s station in life. Well, over the m
onths of April and May there are a number of random jottings concerning the house: he mentions rats, odd whisperings and other inexplicable sounds such as those of heavy footsteps where none should have been, various minor domestic mishaps, that kind of thing. They all seem to weigh on him rather more heavily than perhaps they should have done, and several times he writes “I must get away” with the word “must” heavily underscored. Then under the heading “5th June” comes the following:
‘ “When I went for my walk in the grounds after dinner it was rather close and oppressive. Must create more avenues in the trees that surround me. A curious thing: usually at this time of day the park is full of bird song and a nightingale often starts up in a nearby brake, but this evening there was not a sound to be heard. The air was thick and silent as if stuffed with cotton wool. I went indoors and just as I was about to mount the stairs in the hall I heard that voice again. It said:
‘ “ ‘Let the wicked child beware
When he plays the Game of Bear.’
‘ “What the deuce does it mean? I think the words come from that book I can’t find. I must get away.”
‘Well,’ said Mr A, ‘in July he did get away. The diary records his journeyings through France and Italy with nothing more enterprising than the name of a place written against a date. By September he was back in England and in October I met him in London. It was, as it happens, the last time I was to see my friend Henry Purdue. By this time Miss Mills had consented to be his bride and he seemed excessively pleased with life. It may be hindsight, but I do think that I detected a touch of feverishness in his high spirits. He was unusually excitable. I remember how he started violently in the smoking room of my club when an old member on a nearby sofa suddenly began to snore. He begged me to come to stay with him in the country which I agreed to do, but somehow, and to my everlasting regret, I never got round to it.
The Ballet of Dr Caligari Page 11
