The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  I had made an excellent beginning. The agreement drawn up between my mother and Lady Tansor, which lent its circumstantial weight to my claim, was now in my possession; and, by an unexpected stroke of luck, I had secured employment at Tredgolds, Lord Tansor’s legal advisers. What might come of this situation, I could not foresee. But some advantage, surely, would present itself, if I could gain the complete confidence of Mr Christopher Tredgold.

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

  My first visitor to Temple-street had been Le Grice, who arrived unannounced, late one snowy afternoon, a few days after I had returned from Tom’s funeral. His thundering ascent of the wooden stairs, and the three tremendous raps on the door that followed, were unmistakable.

  ‘Hail, Great King!’ he bellowed, pulling me towards him and slapping me on the back with the flat of his huge hand. He stamped the snow from his boots and then, removing his hat and taking a step back, surveyed my new kingdom.

  ‘Snug,’ he nodded approvingly, ‘very snug. But who’s that awful little tick on the ground floor? Poked his horrid nose round the door and asked whether I was looking for Mr Glapthorn. Told him, politely, to mind his own business. And who’s Glapthorn, when he’s at home?’

  ‘The tick goes by the name of Fordyce Jukes,’ I said. ‘Mr Glapthorn is yours truly.’

  Naturally, this information produced a look of surprise in my visitor.

  ‘Glapthorn?’

  ‘Yes. Does it bother you that I’ve adopted a new name?’

  ‘Not in the least, old boy,’ he replied. ‘Got your reasons, I expect. Creditors pressing, perhaps? Irate husband, pistol in hand, searching high and low for E. Glyver?’

  I could not help giving a little laugh.

  ‘Either, or both, will do,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I won’t press you. If a friend wants to change his name, and that same friend wishes to keep his reasons to himself, then let him change it, I say. Luckily, I can continue to call you “G” in either case. But if assistance is required, ask away. Always ready and eager to oblige.’

  I assured him that I needed no assistance, financial or otherwise, requesting only that any correspondence sent to Temple-street, or to my employer’s, should be directed to Mr E. Glapthorn.

  ‘I say,’ he said suddenly, ‘you’re not working for the Government, in some secret capacity, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘nothing like that.’

  He seemed disappointed, but was true to his word and did not press me further. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded copy of the Saturday Review.

  ‘By the way, I came across this at the Club. It’s a few months old now. Did you see it? Page twenty-two.’

  I had not seen it, for it was not a periodical that I often read. I looked at the date on the cover: 10th October 1848. On the page in question was an article entitled ‘Memories of Eton. By P. Rainsford Daunt’, from which I have previously quoted.

  ‘Seems to be a good deal about you in it,’ said Le Grice.

  So many years had gone by since Daunt had betrayed me; but my desire to make him pay for it was as strong as ever. I had already begun to assemble information on him, which I kept in a tin box under my bed: reviews and critical appreciations of his work, articles that he had written for the literary press, notes on his father from public sources, and my own descriptive impressions of his first home, Millhead, which I had visited the previous November. The archives were small as yet, but would grow as I searched for some aspect of his history and character that I could use against him.

  ‘I shall read it later,’ I said, throwing the magazine onto my work-table. ‘I’m 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.’

  In November 1854, settled before a roaring fire in Le Grice’s rooms in Albany, with a glass of brandy in my hand, I found it hard to believe that only six years had passed since I had left 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. ‘And now, let me tell you a little more about Mr Tredgold.’

  *[‘Hence these tears’ (Terence, Andria). Ed.]

  *[Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826), whose most celebrated work, Physiologie du goût, was published in 1825. Ed.]

  †[Giambattista Marino (1569–1625), Italian Baroque poet, whose extravagant and sensuous images had an influence on the English poet Richard Crashaw. Ed.]

  *[About £12,500. Ed.]

  *[‘A Sermon Preached at White-hall. Feburary 29. 1627’. In XXVI Sermons (1660). Ed.]

  *[Described in the Second Voyage of Sindbad the Sailor, in The Thousand and One Nights. Ed.]

  INTERMEZZO

  1849–1853I Mr Tredgold’s CabinetII Madame MathildeIII EvenwoodIV The Pursuit of TruthV In the Temple Gardens

  I

  Mr Tredgold’s Cabinet

  Mr Christopher Tredgold had been as good as his word, and had duly advised that shining ornament of the legal profession, Sir Ephraim Gadd, QC, 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 that 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. The latter was one of the longest-serving of Tredgolds’ 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 immoderate. 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, mad
e 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 puce, 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 at the office of a morning, that I took to avoiding the front door altogether, 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, waiting for me. ‘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.’

  Jukes’s most unwelcome interest in me had begun on my very first morning in Paternoster-row. As I entered through the front door, he 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 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, & Orr, but there is only one Tredgold now – 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 that 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 whether 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 that 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 appetizing 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 woman of about my own age, regarding me with a similar impassivity. These two persons – whom I had been told were husband and wife, Albert and Rebecca Harrigan by name – were the only other inhabitants of the building on the Sundays when 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 the second 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 to ask my further opinion on some matter of typography or provenance. On this occasion, he had been speaking of some of the unusual testamentary provisions that 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 eyeglass. ‘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 that 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 re-locked the cabinet, and returned to his seat.

  To my astonishment, it was the exquisitely rare 1798 Paris (P. Didot) edition of Aretin
o’s sonnets, with engravings by Coiny after Carrache, something I had never seen before in all my bibliographic searchings.

  ‘I have presumed, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, ‘that such a work is interesting to you – as a scholar and collector. I hope I have not offended in any way?’

  ‘By no means,’ I replied, turning over the volume slowly in my hands to admire the binding. With the content of the illustrations, as well as the accompanying verses, I was naturally familiar: the muscular bodies, fiercely entwined limbs, and tumescent members, the urgent couplings against tasselled cushions beneath great canopied beds. That my employer should also be familiar with them, however, was wholly unexpected.

  The production of the volume led to a more general discussion of the field as a whole, and it soon became clear that, in this department of bibliography at least, Mr Tredgold’s knowledge was considerably in advance even of my own. He invited me back over to the cabinet, unlocked the doors again, and we spent a pleasant hour or so admiring together the gems of venereal literature that he had collected over the course of some twenty years.

  ‘These, too, may perhaps interest you,’ he said, taking out and opening one of the slim green boxes that I had noticed earlier.

  It contained a complete collection, laid lovingly on a bed of soft embossed paper, of those prints by Rowlandson in which the artist had depicted various accommodating ladies in the act of revealing their charms to the fervid male gaze. The other boxes held prints and drawings of a similar nature, by some of the finest practitioners.

  My amazement was now complete.

  ‘It appears, sir,’ I said, smiling, ‘that you have hidden depths.’

  ‘Well, well,’ he replied, beaming back at me. ‘The law, you know, can be a dreary business. A little harmless diversion is certainly required, from time to time. As a corrective.’