Childish Loves

by Benjamin Markovits

  ‘I think you don’t mean Elizabeth. I think you mean my mother.’

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth talks about you, too.’

  There was a short general pause while we turned to look at the view, which had expanded beneath us until it included much of Castleton in a fold of the hills. The sound of the Peakshole was already becoming louder, and we could see the water falling and making its way, by fragments, perhaps a hundred yards ahead of us; and then, appearing again beneath our feet, more sluggishly and silently, as it approached the village.

  ‘I have an idea,’ I said, ‘that I am always happiest among hills. Flat lands oppress me. I was raised among hills in Aberdeen; perhaps that accounts for it. And there is a view from Harrow Hill I am greatly attached to.’

  ‘Your mother complains that you have no notion of returning.’

  ‘Confess, Mrs Pigot – my mother is always complaining.’

  ‘I will just say this much, that she shares with you a passion for opposition.’

  ‘I have no such passion. It is just because I wish to live peacefully that I mean in future to keep my distance from her and Harrow. There is a master there who abuses his rights over me. It must come to blows in the end, and as I have no particular liking for scrapes, or for myself in a rage, it seems only sensible to put myself out of the way of temptation.’

  ‘But where will you live?’

  ‘At Newstead. Lord Grey makes no objection.’

  ‘There are certain objections a mother might make to Lord Grey,’ she said. ‘Besides, I think you mean Annesley.’

  We continued our ascent and said nothing for several minutes. Mrs Pigot had grown quite pale, and we both laboured somewhat against the loose stones of the path. Peak’s Cavern eventually made its appearance above our heads, like a great faceless cowl, all black within, in spite of the afternoon sun.

  ‘I must say,’ she said, ‘I have never understood this appetite for nature. I have come along to be pleasant, but left to myself I had much preferred a good provincial town, with a church not too far, to be walked to and looked at, before you return quite pleased with yourself to dine at the hotel.’ And then, ‘Miss Chaworth is a very pretty, spirited sort of a girl.’

  ‘She appears not at her best in company. I believe she is not very happy.’

  ‘That is because you are in love with her. We always suppose that someone must be miserable, if we are in love with them – probably because it makes us a little miserable ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Pigot, I had rather you mocked me, as your daughter does, because then I should be less inclined to burst into tears. Perhaps you mean to, after all; you are smiling.’

  ‘My dear, sweet child, not for the world,’ she said. ‘It is only because, for a moment, you sounded so much like the boy from Aberdeen Lizzy is always teasing you for being. Och, Mrs Pigot. But it was not a smile; indeed, I did not smile.’

  And with that, we reached the top.

  The others had arrived already. Our guide struck a light and then distributed the torches he had been carrying in his sack to each of the gentlemen in turn. I received mine, too. The entrance to the cave looked mean and dirty, but the view was very fine across the valley, broken up into fields, with the shallow grey glitter of Castleton to the east. Above us, a high forehead of limestone reared itself covered in trees and mosses – I grew quite dizzy, leaning back with my hands on my hips to glimpse the top. The path had broadened towards the cliff-face, and the entrance itself was as wide as the clearing in which we stood. But the colour of the cave-mouth had lightened from black to dreary. Mr Musters and John had already advanced some distance, torches in hand, to examine the walls. Most of the women followed uncertainly behind.

  Mrs Pigot left me to join her daughter, and for the first time I became aware of the fact that Mary stood some way apart, with her back to the entrance – as if her attention were entirely taken up by the view. I remembered she had been walking with Mr Musters. I called to her, approaching, and she turned around with a smile and took my arm, but said nothing; and together we followed the others into the cave.

  The air was much cooler inside, and damp and stony.

  ‘It smells of Newstead,’ I said, ‘where the river has got into the cellars.’

  And my words changed as we walked, first diminishing, and then growing again in volume as they found their echo. Gradually the light of day behind us was replaced by the uncertain glow of our torches, and the cold deepened. Miss Wollaston’s voice reached us, doubled and redoubled by the cavern walls. She had found something to laugh at, and then her laughter frightened her, and her fear amused her again. Ahead of us we could see, by torch-light, Miss Wollaston on the arm of Mr Musters; Elizabeth and her mother, walking together; and John and Mr Becher arm in arm. The first chamber gave way to a second, and here indeed a perpetual fall of water curtained one of the walls and disappeared again, into God knows what depths. The sound of the water was loud enough to absorb any other, and we all stood silently for a minute – there is an intensity of noise that acts with the force of a blow.

  After a hundred paces the path began to taper. The walls of the cavern encroached upon the ceiling, and the space in which a man might walk upright narrowed, as I heard Mr Becher saying, ‘to a shoulder’s breadth, look out, look out’. The farmer’s son crouched by the side of the wall to let us pass, then stuck a torch into the ground. It had grown dark enough by this stage that the light of day behind us had become indistinguishable from the mineral glow and vague aqueous gleams brought out by our own lights, and since the walls of the cavern to either side gave way in many places to several smaller passages and false fronts, he wished, I suppose, to mark the path of our return. Kindling another torch against the flames of the first, he crept alongside me again to the front of the party. Mary, who had begun to shiver against my arm, said, ‘I don’t want to go on. I can’t go on.’

  ‘It is only the cold,’ I said, ‘it is nothing worse than the cold.’

  ‘I have begun to feel very strange. I have begun to feel that you are all strangers to me.’

  ‘It is only the strange sounds.’

  ‘That none of you can be trusted.’

  ‘What do you mean,’ I said, feeling her panic suddenly myself. ‘I am only your dear little Byron.’

  This struck me almost as a confession of love, and perhaps it struck her in the same light, for it seemed to calm her, and she said nothing in reply.

  By this point, we could no longer hear the others. There was a glimmer of light reflected ahead of us, and then that light disappeared. I gave Mary the torch (she was most unwilling to take it) and walked ahead for fifteen or twenty paces, where I was stopped first by an overhang of rock, and then by the body of slow-moving water beneath it – the source of the reflection, and also, of renewed noises, echoing along the surface. I could hear the slap and glide of a boat, and more distantly, the sound of human voices. But then, Mary’s cries interrupted them and forced me to retrace my steps, for she was calling, ‘Do not leave me, Byron; Byron, Byron, come back.’

  I returned to her and took the torch from her hand again; and after another minute, another torch appeared, and then, in its light, the face of the farmer’s son. He was dripping, and wet through from the waist. ‘Are you the last?’ he said. His accents were not at all rough, but sensible rather than kindly. ‘You’ll have to lie down in the boat. You’ll get a knock if you try sitting up.’

  ‘There isn’t room for you in it,’ Mary said when she saw the boat, a shallow wooden punt, which was tied to a post by the shore of the river – if one may speak of shores in those dark spaces.

  ‘That’s all right. I’m used to pushing.’

  And with a strange sort of obedience, she lay down in the boat and I lay down beside her.

  The journey lasted no more than a minute or two, but I don’t know that I have ever passed a minute of such intensity in my life before, and perhaps never will again. All the time we were conscious of the farmer’s son at our
feet, pushing his way through cold water, with bowed head; but we could not see him or anything else for that matter. The rock bore heavily down upon us, and I could hardly have turned over to kiss her had I wanted to. Indeed, I could think of nothing else. The punt was so narrow the length of my side pressed against the length of hers, and I could feel, against my hip, her sharp little bones. Water in the boat sluiced up occasionally against the back of my knee and the small of my back. Once one is a little wet, one only becomes wetter. Also, the caverns were very cool; I began to shiver. After about a minute, the weight of the rock over our faces grew truly intolerable – it might just as well have been the weight of the world – and I could only refrain with difficulty from letting out a great shout, when Mary took my hand blindly in her own, and pressed it so hard, and we pressed them together, finger upon finger, which gave some relief. I discovered at this point that the darkness was owing in part to the fact that I had shut my eyes. I opened them again, and the sense of sliding helplessly in space struck me for the first time. Torch-light exposed above our faces the growing roof of the cavern, covered in calceous streaks and wet broken gleaming stony teeth, and then the rest of our party appeared at the far shore (by this time we could lift our heads in the boat). My hand almost ached and I suppose she felt the same, for she let go of mine as soon as the punt touched ground and sat up.

  ‘You are very cruel to have left us,’ she said to no one in particular, in her own natural teasing petulant voice.

  ‘The inveterate cousins!’ Mr Musters cried. ‘You see, I mean to adopt Miss Pigot’s excellent phrase.’

  He gave her his hand, and she stepped delicately from the boat.

  ‘I don’t like this cave,’ Mary continued. ‘We thought you had all gone. I don’t see what is so wonderful about a cave. It is like going to a great house and making sure to visit the cellars or the pantry, or any other dark, dirty corner. It is a low taste.’

  ‘I agree with you entirely, Miss Chaworth,’ Mrs Pigot said. ‘A low taste, and what is worse, it requires lying down in a boat, which I mean to do once more, on our return, and then never again as long as I live.’

  ‘For shame, Mother. There is someone here who must do justice to this cave. I have not come all this way, to see so little (I quite agree with you about dirty and dark) without at least some elevating reflection, on the nature of eternity, or anything you please. But Lord Byron is silent. He has been struck; he suffers what cannot be spoken of – and what we, who speak, have not the sense to feel.’

  And in this way we passed through another succession of caverns, all dripping, all dark, and made our way back out into the sunshine at last.

  *

  Mary had considerably recovered her spirits by the time we returned to the farm. The farmer’s wife came to greet us, with cakes and tea and fresh cheese, which we consumed standing up before disposing ourselves again in the two carriages. Mary claimed Elizabeth for herself. She didn’t care who joined them besides, but she was determined to sit in the barouche. It was now just after five o’clock and the sun declining cast a strong level warmth against our faces. I rode with John and Mr Becher and Mrs Pigot and pretended to fall asleep. There were still two hours ahead of us to Matlock, and then I did fall asleep and awoke to the echo of hooves between the walls of a village street; and five minutes later we pulled in front of the Old Bath Hotel.

  Mrs Pigot put her hand to my forehead. ‘You are hot. I believe you have caught a chill.’

  ‘It is only the side of my face; it is only where I have been sleeping.’

  ‘Your mother would never forgive me. It was that dreadful cave.’

  ‘He isn’t a child, Mother,’ John said, stepping out.

  Mr Becher and I had been given a room together, and we made our way upstairs to wash and change. I thought he might speak to me of Mary, but instead, as he sat on the bed (there was only one bed) and pulled off his muddy shoes, he asked my opinion of Mr Musters. He dressed again with more attention than I had supposed him capable of – standing for a long time before the mirror and combing his beard in place. Meanwhile I told him what I knew: that he lived at Colwick Hall, which was generally supposed to be a very fine residence, and had perhaps fifteen thousand pounds to his name. Miss Wollaston said he was engaged to Miss Chaworth, though Miss Chaworth denied it. Lord Grey knew him slightly and described him as ‘a man of method’ but was very strange altogether on the subject and would not explain himself.

  ‘He paid Miss Pigot a great deal of attention,’ Mr Becher said, fixing and un-fixing his cravat, ‘but that is often their way. I should not like to see my sister married to him. Any man who has been to a public school knows sufficiently the nature of certain temptations to judge no one harshly who yields to them. But there is a season for such things, and I should guess that in his case he had outlived it.’

  ‘I have no great reason for liking him,’ I said. ‘But I don’t suppose you have any better reason for disliking him than that he flirted with Miss Pigot.’

  Mr Becher looked at me with a sudden smile. ‘Is not that enough?’ he said.

  We could already hear the orchestra tuning and went downstairs to find the dining room being cleared of tables, which were all pushed to the side. A light supper was then laid out upon them, and a punchbowl produced, musical with ice, to great acclaim. Guests had already begun to arrive; our own party made its appearance in little groups. Elizabeth and Mary and Miss Wollaston; John and Mr Musters together. Mrs Pigot descended at last and took a plate to herself, and a glass of punch, and sat down at one of the card-tables in the adjoining room. She looked very small, in a puffed dress and a large blue turban – like a bird with a nest on its head. Mary wore a green satin gown covered in strings of leaves. Her hat was also crowned with leaves, in gold and silver. When I took her hand to kiss it, her glove had nothing of its heat and was cool as silk.

  She had already engaged herself to Mr Musters for the first two dances. Even John Pigot had managed to inscribe his name upon her card. But she promised me another dance later in the evening. ‘I suppose we shall all be forced to make do with each other,’ she said. ‘I cannot imagine, in this town, there will be a very splendid choice of partners.’ Then she added, with an air of relenting, ‘Poor little Byron. You have not much heart for these games, have you?’

  ‘I flatter myself that I have seen you in earnest – and like you better for it.’

  ‘When I am in earnest, I am most unlike myself. I had rather you liked me for anything but that.’

  ‘There are men enough who will care for you when you are happy.’

  ‘I believe you positively wish me miserable,’ she said, sharply. ‘To be as miserable as you.’ She turned on her heel, and I did not see her again until the dancing began.

  As I was partnerless, I found Mrs Pigot at her card-table and sat down.

  There is often a sort of hesitation at the beginning of these country balls, for the first dances are claimed by acquaintances, and no one is yet very warm; and it is sometimes awkward, after the usual exchange of pleasantries, to touch hands suddenly and begin to ‘put it about’.

  I said as much to Mrs Pigot. ‘It is almost as good as a play, to stand aside and observe.’

  She had left a little ham on her plate, and I picked at it. The first dance finished, and I noticed Mr Becher bowing deeply to Elizabeth. He was unused to the exercise, and the skin of his neck beneath his beard had reddened. But he was a fair dancer, though he did not smile.

  ‘Have you no partner?’ Mrs Pigot said to me. ‘For shame, Lord Byron, at your age. Don’t think of asking me at mine.’

  ‘I should ask Elizabeth, but she seems happily engaged.’

  ‘Do ask her. I am sure she had much rather dance with you.’

  ‘I have also Mr Becher’s preference to consider.’

  ‘No, no. It is all one, at a dance; one may do as one pleases. And a reverend who sets himself up as a beau can expect no special consideration.’ But after a minute, she add
ed, ‘Though I suppose you had rather dance with Miss Chaworth. Perhaps you are waiting for Miss Chaworth.’

  ‘Mr Musters claimed her for the first two dances, and your son had the jump of me – and has engaged her for the next.’

  ‘Oh, she is cruel, is Miss Chaworth. She knows very well what she is about.’

  And yet, as we watched her, she seemed less sure of herself. There were about a dozen couples, and between passes, Mary and Mr Musters had a great deal to say to each other, of an intimate, urgent, disagreeable nature. Whenever the music brought them together, they began talking at once and separated again with an air of impatience – as if they could not wait to be disagreeable again.

  We sat quietly observing them until I said, ‘Has he no expectation of success? Mr Becher, I mean.’ I did not want Mrs Pigot to believe my thoughts were entirely taken up with Mary.

  ‘He is a kind-hearted, respectable young man; and my Elizabeth is a good sort of a girl, with some beauty and not much money to her name. It is an acceptable match, but I do not think she has much appetite for what is acceptable.’

  ‘She struck me always as a clear-headed, well-judging person.’

  ‘You mean, because she judges you well enough. But for herself, I fear, she wishes for something more than her deserving. I have told her, you might look a great deal farther, and do no better, than Lord Byron. Lord Byron in time will cut a very fine figure, and Newstead is a handsome estate. But I’m afraid she thinks of you only as a brother, and it may be, even on your end, the attraction is wanting – that you wish for nothing better than a sister.’

  By this time, the room itself had grown hotter, and the women, between reels, permitted the gentlemen to cool them with their fans. Elizabeth and Mr Becher stood together, and there was that in his face I almost envied him – not satisfaction exactly, but a kind of intensity. The master of ceremonies was a florid ageless sort of man. He began to make his introductions, in a loud voice; he was one of those men who mistake embarrassment for good humour. Then John claimed Mary for the next dance, and Mrs Pigot pushed me on my feet, in the direction of Elizabeth. Mr Becher, meanwhile, had found another object for his exertions, a red-haired girl in a lace dress, and I found myself at the end of a row.