by Wolf, Jack
“You don’t know?” he exclaimed. “Why, she was a true Intellectual, your Mother; the cleverest Woman I have ever met.”
At this Intelligence I surely appeared even more perplext. My Father had given me no Hint that my Mother, excepting in her Jewish Heritage, was anything but commonplace; and as to the Notion that I resembled her closely enough to be her Picture, it was not one with which I was at all comfortable.
“Oh, Good Lord,” Mr Fielding said to my Father. “Have you raised the Boy in a Cave?” Turning back to me, he continued: “So, Tristan, your Father tells me that you insist upon going up to a University, and will not take his Word that it is no necessary Part of a Gentleman’s Education. What have you to say upon that Subject?”
I shut up my Mouth, as it had fallen open. Mustering my Thoughts, which had been scattered as effectively by Mr Fielding’s Speech as by the four Winds, I attempted a Reply. “Well, Sir, I—that is—I wish to continue my Studies, Sir.”
“From what your Father gives me to understand, Study for you at any University would be quite pointless. There is little they can teach you that you do not already know. ’Tis not my belief that our Universities spawn Men of Genius any more than our publick Schools spawn Gentlemen. Tell me, what is your Reading at the Present?”
I answered that I was studying Locke upon the Understanding.
“And what Thought have you upon said Tractate?”
“Upon all of it?”
“Perhaps only that Portion you are reading presently.”
I regarded Mr Fielding with some Surprize and not a little Suspicion. I was neither accustomed to such a Stile of Interrogation, nor to such Questions. I wondered what his Interest in mine Answers could be. “In Truth,” I began, “I am disappointed. Mr Locke hath nothing useful to import upon the Problem of whether Sensation is located within the Body or the Soule. He seems happy to give it up as divine Mystery. But this is a Cavill of mine own; I have a great Interest in that Question and was hoping to find a thorough Refutation of M. Descartes’ Assertion that Sensation is intirely mental.” My Enthusiasm for the Topic beginning to overcome my Diffidence, I drew a Breath, and continued, much more quickly: “None the less, Mr Locke’s Delineation of sensitive Knowledge is compelling and his Argument that the Mind perceive naught but its own Ideas hath perswaded me compleatly. I am quite certain that he is right; and right, too, in his Argument, contra Descartes, that the Mind’s Ideas are not innate, but drawn from Experience. I think, Sir, that if God had truly caused our Ideas to be innate, as Descartes says, then they would never err; yet is it not possible for a Man to perceive Monsters in half-Light?” I stoppt abruptly, in Fear lest my Words threaten to reveal too much of My Self.
Mr Fielding was staring at me. He seemed startled. “How old are you, Tristan?” he asked.
“Nineteen, Sir.”
“So,” said Mr Fielding, shaking his Head. He looked quizzically upon my Father. “Are we still of one Opinion, John?”
My Father knocked his Pipe into the empty Fireplace. “Yes.”
“I have suggested,” Mr Fielding said, “and your Father has agreed, that it would be to your Advantage to return with me to London, should you wish it. Your Stay would not be protracted—a Yeare or two at most—and little would be expected of you beyond Gentlemanly Behaviour. You would have as much Time as you required to pursue your Studies, and I should be happy to introduce you to an Acquaintance of mine who is prominent in the Scientific Circle. That is my Proposal, Master Hart; now, what is your View of it?”
I was forced to be silent for a full half-Minute. Eventually, when the Shock of Mr Fielding’s Offer had receded sufficient for me to speak, I stammered: “And he—my Father—hath he verily consented to this? Have you, Sir?”
My Father grunted in Affirmation at the Grate.
“Then, Yes!” I cried. “Yes, Sir, and gladly! When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow Morn, young Man; so you had better see about your Belongings. I have only Space in my Carriage for two Trunks, and before you fill them both with Books, I have a Library, which you are welcome to peruse. You will need Cloathes. Tell your Housekeeper to pack for you; she seems the practical Sort.”
“Thank you, Mr Fielding,” I said, finally recollecting my Manners. Then I thanked my Father also, altho’ I did not imagine that he cared one Way or the other. He did not raise his Glance from the Chimney-piece, and waved me away. I made a Bow to Mr Fielding, then departed from the Room.
I was so excited by this new Development that I ran the whole Distance up the Stairs back to my Study; then, recalling that it was Cloathing I required and not Reading, the farther Flight to my Bedroom, bellowing all the Time for Mrs H. to attend me. I made so much Row that I awoke Jane from her afternoon Nap, and she presently began to holler for the Housekeeper to come and tell her what was happening. Mrs H. came puffing and blowing up the Stairs in a State of great Agitation at having to answer two competing Claims at once. I seized upon her first, being so much more forward than Jane, who was, I imagined, still undresst, and pulled her into my Chamber.
“You must pack for me, Mrs H.,” I said. “I am to London tomorrow, with Mr Fielding, and I must have Cloathes. Pack me nothing that hath Blood upon it. Mine embroidered Frock—and my fine Wigg, and my silvered Cane. And anything you think fit for a Stay of a Yeare or more—tho’ I shall surely see a Taylor—and quick, quick!”
“What is this, Sir?” Mrs H. wheezed, breathless from her hasty Climb and apparently as confused as I had been not twenty Minutes since.
“I go to London,” I repeated. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes!”
At this Juncture, Jane, who had been continually calling all the while, gave up and came out into the Landing to discover for herself what was the Matter. She appeared within my Doorway, her Gown dishabille, her Expression vexed.
“What is wrong, Brother?” she demanded. I told her what I had twice told Mrs H. Thankfully, Jane was somewhat swifter on the Uptake. “You are leaving?” she exclaimed, dismayed. “And so suddenly? Oh, Tristan!”
“What?” I said. “You cannot be surprized. You know how desperate I have been to go.”
“But you will leave me all alone,” she said.
“You must visit more often with our Aunt,” I answered. “Then you will not have Time to ponder how alone you are. It will be Ridottos all the Way. Step aside, I must run down and inquire of Mr F. whether there is Room for any of mine Instruments. He spoke of having a Library, but that alone will not suffice.”
“But I shall miss you, Tristan,” Jane said.
“Oh, stow your Snivelling,” I said. “’Tis Green-sickness afflicts you, not my Going. Now either assist me with my Preparations or go back to Bed.”
My Sister’s Eyes grew wide as Saucers. “There is no need to insult me,” she said, after a Moment, her Lip trembling. “When I am—I was saddened by your Leaving. Now I think that I shall not miss you at all. The House will be an happier Place with you gone from it.”
“Good,” I said. “Now get out of my Way.”
Jane spun pettishly upon her Heel and flounced back into her Bedroom, doubtless to indulge herself in another Fit of Weeping or some other Tantrum. At that Moment, I could not have given a Fig.
I ran downstairs once more toward my Father’s Library. As I grew closer, however, it occurred to me that perhaps I could learn something if I employed some Stealth, as I could hear Mr Fielding’s Voice clearly resounding from behind the Door. I therefore muffled my Steps as best I could, and, standing stock-still, put mine Ear up to the Wood.
“Well, John,” Mr Fielding said. “I take your Point, and you may rest assured that I shall take no Chances. He seems what they call high strung, but he is remarkably clever; and the Subject of his Discourse, John, suggested to me a Degree of Insight into the Derangement of his Senses that is utterly beyond the Capability of any Lunatick. I suspect that some other Cause may yet be found. We both know how difficult it
can be for Persons of so sensible a Disposition to cope with the blunt Brutality of everydaye Life.”
“’Tis worse,” my Father answered—and I strained to hear him, for he spake so low—“than mere Sensibility. If only ’twere so—but there is a Mania that descends upon him. He becomes delusional, phrenzied, violent. He broke thro’ a barred Door—”
“You have told me,” Mr Fielding interrupted. “And I shall be careful, John. But you did write me for mine Assistance; now you must allow me to offer it.”
“If his Mother had lived,” I heard my Father mutter after a Pause, “things would never have come to this. I suppose you think something similar between Times, Henry?”
“I do. There is not a Daye that I do not think of Charlotte. But it doth no Man good to dwell upon that which he hath lost. She is in Heaven; I pray we shall meet again hereafter.”
“I have not that Consolation,” my Father said.
“I do declare,” said Mr Fielding, “that for all your stubborn Adherence to it, Free-Thinking hath caused more Misery to you than all the Doctrine you could shake a Stick at.”
“A Man cannot be preached into Belief, for all the Comfort Belief may give him,” my Father said.
I was astonished. My Father, a Free-thinker?
My Father, the beloved—at least, according to Mrs H.—country Squire, who for all his Eccentricities seemed no rarer than Mud, a Follower of Toland and Woolston?
Egad, I thought in Admiration. ’Tis small Wonder, then, if I am mad, sprung thus all unknowing from a Free-thinker and a—but I could not let My Self think the Word “Jewess”, and so I pulled my Thought to an abrupt Surcease.
I did not know what I was now to do. If I was to knock, their marvellous Conversation must end; worse, they might suspect that I had heard it; but I knew that I could not continue with mine Ear against the Door for very much longer. My Request, I decided, would have to wait. I straightened my Spine and on tiptoes I crept silently away to mine own Study, to digest in Privacy the strange Meal of which I had just partaken. I had an uneasy feeling in the Pit of my Stomach.
My Father, a Free-thinker. A Deist, or an Atheist; and it pained me suddenly that I did not fully comprehend the Difference between the two. I had never read any of the Free-thinkers’ Works.
I made my Way to a low Sopha I had positioned in front of my Fireplace, and sate down upon it.
“I have not that Consolation,” my Father had said, and he had been talking about my Mother. He had loved her, then. Another Surprize.
Yet, truly, I thought, it ought not have been. Why else the Depth of his Mourning, that seemed ceaseless? My Father had loved my Mother, and when she had died he had lost her so utterly that a Part of himself had died also. What had I thought? That his Refusal to wear any Colour, or to take a second Wife, was mere Stubbornness? No, if he was indeed a Free-thinker, believing in no God, no Forgiveness, no Resurrection, he could have no Consolation, for he could not expect her in Heaven, nor awaiting the last Trump on Judgement Daye. His World was one of black Despair and everlasting Grief.
An horrible Thought came to me: How can a Man who hath no Faith be truly good? I held my left Hand up before mine Eyes, and struggled to bestill the Trembling that had come upon it, but I might as well have tried to calm the shivering Grass.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the Morrow, the fifteenth Daye of July, I left Shirelands in Company with Mr Fielding, and we travelled post-haste across Country to London, arriving at his Bow Street House a mere thirty-six Houres after our Departure.
We crosst a Landscape Sunneshine-bright with Wheat, and verily pleasing to the Eye, with Villages and Cottages spread out upon it as decorative Shapes upon a Pie-crust. Here and there on our first Daye of Travel we would pass an Hostelry, its Sign hanging above its Door and chearful Parson outside smoaking on his Pipe; but we did not stop until very late, at a small roadside Inn whose Landlord I do not remember, for I fell straight into my borrowed Bed and slept solid for five Houres, after which Time Mr Fielding roused me, and we resumed our Journey.
I was most curious about Mr Fielding, whom I had now discovered to be none other than the celebrated—or rather, notorious—Author of Tom Jones, A Foundling. I found it astonishing that such a Personage should be known to my Father, and even more so that he should have known my Mother; but I was too shy to ask him about these Matters. Instead, I concentrated my Questioning upon Mr Fielding himself, and wherefore he had made the seeming odd Change of Profession from Novellist to Westminster Magistrate.
“When I wrote my Literary Works,” Mr Fielding replied, “I wrote of things as they appear, not as they might be if we lived in a perfect World; I hoped perhaps to stir some Modicum of Human Compassion in my Readers’ Breasts for those less fortunate, and possibly less virtuous, than themselves; but all my Achievement has been to make a convincing Fiction out of mine Impressions. My Tales have no Substance beyond their Pages. I have realised that ’tis far better to attempt to make a Difference beyond my Quill. So, Sir, I have downed it for the nonce—as far as Novels are concerned, at least.
“This Country,” he continued, over the Rumble of the Carriage, “is presently undergoing a Period of great Consequence to its History, tho’ most People know’t not and could not care less if they did. The Whole of Europe is being tried and tested; worn out Philosophies, and the legal Edifices that sit upon them, are crumbling; the Discoveries and Decisions we make now will determine whether in two Centuries our Descendants are living under Civilisation or Barbarism. The Nation which we now create will form the Backbone of that future one—and I would ensure it—and to this End you may be sure that I use all my Influence—that they should habit in a World that is governed by fair and coherent Laws, in which Rich and Poor alike have no Fear to walk the Highways lest they be attacked in broad Dayelight. Indeed, that is a World I should fain live in My Self! I do my very best to ensure not only that our Laws are respected and upheld, but that they are just; for unjust Laws lend Legitimacy to future Tyrannies. As Magistrate, Tristan, I do not merely convict, I judge; and ’tis to be hoped I do so fairly.”
I thought Mr Fielding’s Ambition exceeding grand, as for the Life of me I could not apprehend how the Law, which by my Reckoning was more Fetter than Leash, could lead a culpable Nation out of Darkness and Ignorance, when Centuries of Religion had not managed it. Science, I thought, was far better suited to that Task, and had a stronger Chance of Success. But I kept my Peace.
Several Houres later, tired out and hungry after the Travel, I sate beside the Window in Mr Fielding’s drawing Room, and listened to the City’s Noises. Dogges barked, Children wailed, Wives argued, Horses neighed, Carts rumbled, Bells rang. I wondered for a Moment how I should stand to be immersed in all this Din and Filth, but before I could begin to be alarmed I heard Footsteps and a rattling Sound behind me. I turned to see the Lady of the House, to whom I had been but briefly introduced, entering the Room with a tea Tray in her Hands. Mrs Fielding smiled, put the Tray down upon a small Table, and began to stir the Tea with a long-handled silver Spoon. “Good Evening to you, Mr ’Art,” she said, dropping her H upon the Floor and trampling on it. “’Ow do you like your Tea?”
Somewhat taken aback, but compleatly fascinated, I left the Window and took up a Seat opposite Mrs Fielding. I was aware that I was staring and I tried to recollect my Manners, but when she let the Spoon fall with a Clatter on the Tray and began to pour out the Tea, I could not help My Self.
Mrs Fielding did not seem to mind; unabashed, she presst into mine Hands a hot steaming Cup of sweet Tea, almost white with Milk. “There you go, Sir,” she said. “Get that down you and you’ll soon feel right as Rain.” She smiled. She had a round, warm, pleasant Face that reminded me a little of Margaret. I thought she must be young; eight-and-twenty, perhaps. I smiled in return and took a tentative Sip from my Cup. The Tea tasted of Milk and Sugar and very little else.
“I’m sorry if ’tis weak,” Mrs Fielding said. “But they are old Leaves. I
would see about acquiring some Fresh, but we are practising Economy.”
“Aha,” I said.
Presumably in the Interest of Economy, Mrs Fielding did not take Tea herself, but instead sate with me whilst I drank, making light Conversation out of the Contents of the Pantry and the Price of Starch. When I had finished, she got to her Feet and had just lifted the Tray to take it back to the Kitchen when Mr Fielding appeared in the Doorway.
“Mary!” he cried, his Tone that of the most intense Anguish. “Put it down, Woman, for God’s Sake!”
Mrs Fielding quickly replaced the tea Tray on the Tabletop, and rang the Bell for the parlour Maid. Then, she looked to be at something of a Loss, and after making a quick half-Curtsey to me, she left the Room.
Mr Fielding sighed, and came across to the Table, where he peered down at the tea things with an Expression not unlike that with which a convicted Man may look upon the Noose. “I must apologise for my Wife,” he said. “She forgets her Place sometimes.”
“I like her immensely,” I said.
Mr Fielding looked at me somewhat strangely. “Do you?” he said. “Well, so did I—so do I. She is a good Woman, despite…” his Voice trailed off. Then he cleared his Throat. “’Tis no Secret,” he said, “but you may not know it: Mary is my second Wife; she was my first Wife’s Maid.”
“I see.” I said, slowly.
“Do you, indeed? Do not you presume to smile at me, young Man. I am not proud of my Actions, but I did what my Conscience—and Justice—required of me.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Don’t you ‘Yes Sir, No Sir’ at me, either, Tristan Hart. If you have something to say, then you must say it.”
Brought thus unexpectedly to Scratch, I struggled to find the right Words with which to answer him. “I think, Sir,” I said, carefully, “that Mrs Fielding is not a Wife of whom you need feel ashamed. Altho’ I was somewhat startled by her Manner at first, she seems goodhearted, and kind.”
