by Anthology
On the edge of the village roared the fair. There were swarms of rustics, clad more or less like my father (for so I had come to think of him). There were a few ladies and gentlemen in more photogenic eighteenth-century attire, with high heels and powdered wigs. Some younger men, I noted, wore their own hair in pigtails instead of wigs. My father’s beard, however, was the only one in sight.
When we got into the crowd, the stink of unwashed humankind was overpowering. Although I, who smelled with his olfactory nerves, found it horrible, William seemed not to notice. I suppose he was pretty ripe himself. From the itches in various parts of his body, I suspected that he harbored a whole fauna of parasites.
Two teams were playing cricket. Beyond, young men were running and jumping in competition. There was a primitive merry-go-round, powered by an old horse. A boy followed the beast round and round, beating it to keep it moving. There were edibles and drinkables for sale; of the fairgoers, some were already drunk.
There were games of chance and skill: throwing balls and quoits at targets, guessing which walnut shell the pea was under, cards, dice, and a wheel of fortune. A row of tents housed human freaks and a large one, a camel. A cockfight and a puppet show, striving to outshout each other, were going on at the further end of the grounds.
My father would not let me squander our few pence on most of these diversions, but he paid tuppence for us to see the camel. This mangy-looking beast loftily chewed its cud while a man in an “Arab costume” made of old sheeting lectured on the camel’s qualities. Most of what he said was wrong.
“Hola there!” cried a voice. I-or rather the William whose body I shared-turned. One of the gentlemen was addressing us-a well-set-up man of middle years, with a lady on his arm.
“Stap me vitals,” said this man, “if it beant old Phil!”
My father and I took off our hats and bowed. My father said: “God give you good day, Mayster Bradford! Good day, your la’ship! ‘Tis an unexpected pleasure.”
Bradford came up and shook my father’s hand. “ ‘Tis good for the optics to see you again, Philip. You, too, Will. Zookers, but ye’ve grown!”
“Aye, he’s a good lad,” said Philip. “The earth hath zwallowed all my hopes but un.”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Tell me, Phil, how goes it betwixt you and Sir Roger?’
“Ill enough,” said my father. “E’er since the enclosure, he hath been at me to sell out me poor little patch to add to his grand acres.”
“Why don’t ye sell?” said Bradford. “I hear he hath offered a good price.”
“Nay, zir, with all due respect, that I won’t. Shirlaws ha’ been there zince memory runneth not to the contrary, and I’ll not be the virst to gi’ it up. And if I did, ‘twould not be to a titled villain who rides his damned vox hunt across me crops. Clean ruined last year’s barley, he did.”
“Same stubborn old Phil! Roger Stanwyck’s not so bad a cully if ye get on’s good side. For all’s glouting humors, he doth good works of charity.” Bradford lowered his voice. “Harkee, Phil, we’re old friends, and ne’er mind the distinctions o’ rank. Sell out to Sir Roger for the best price ye can get, but quit this contention. Otherwise, I shan’t be able to answer for your well-being. Verbum sat sapienti.”
“What mean ye, zir?”
“In’s cups, which is oft enough, he boasts that he’ll have your land or have you dancing on the nubbing cheat ere the twelvemonth be out.”
“Aye, zir?” said Philip.
“Aye verily, no question. I was there, at a party at Colonel Armitage’s. Roger’s the magistrate and can do’t.”
“He must needs ge’ me dited and convicted virst.”
“I’ fackins, man, talk sense! With all the hanging offenses on the books, they can string you up for auft more heinous than spitting on the floor.”
“Fie! Juries won’t convict in such cases.”
“If they happen to like you. I needn’t tell you ye be not the most popular man hereabouts.”
“Aye, Mayster Bradford, but wherefore? I lead a good Christian life.”
“Imprimus, ye loft against the enclosure.”
“Sartainly I did. ‘Tis the doom o’ the independent farmer.”
“Me good Philip, the day of the old English yeoman is past. The country needs corn, and the only way to get it is to carve up all these wasteful commons and put ‘em to grain crops. Secundus, ye are a Methodist, and to these folk that’s worse nor a Papist or a Jew. They’d be tickled to see a wicked heretic swing, specially since we haven’t had a hanging in o’er a year.”
“I believe what the Almighty and the Good Book tell me.”
“Tertius, ye wear that damned beard.”
“I do but obey the divine commands, zir. Zee Leviticus nineteen.”
“And quartus, ye are learned beyond your station. I don’t mind; I like to see the lower orders better themselves—within reason, o’ course. But the villagers think ye give yourself airs and hate you for’t.”
“I only strive to obey God the more wisely by me little laming. Zee Proverbs one, vifth verse. As for zelling out to Zir Roger, I’ll come to the parish virst.”
Bradford sighed and threw up his hands. “Well, say not that I failed to warn you. But hark, if ye do sell, ye shall have a good place with me for the asking. ‘Twon’t be arra clodhopping chore, neither, but a responsible post with good pay. Ask me sarvents if I beant a good master.”
“Well, thankee, zirr but—”
“Think it o’er.” Bradford clapped Philip on the shoulder and went away with his wife.
We strolled about, bought a snack of bread and cheese, and watched the contests. William would have liked to spend money on the freak shows and the gambling games, but Philip sternly forbade. Then a shout brought us about.
“Hey, Shirlaw! Philip Shirlaw!”
We were addressed by a stout, red-faced man with a strip of gold lace on his three-cornered hat. He came swiftly towards us, poling himself along with a four-foot, gold-headed walking stick. With him was a gorgeously dressed young man, tall and slender. The young man carried his hat beneath his arm, because it could never have been fitted over his wig. This wig, besides the curls at the sides and the queue at the back, shot up in a foot-high pompadour in front.
The youth was as pale as the older one was ruddy and had black beauty spots glued to cheek and jaw. He languidly waved a pale, slender hand as he spoke.
“I’ll have a word with thee, sarrah,” said the red-faced one.
“Aye, your honor?” replied Philip.
“Not here, not here. Come to my house this afternoon-after dinner-time will do.”
“Father!” said the youth. “You forget, Mr. Harcourt and’s wife are dining with us.” I noted that the young man dropped his final r’s, like a modern Englishman, whereas the others with whom we had spoken did not.
“So he doth, so he doth,” grumbled Sir Roger Stanwyck. “Make it within the hour, Shirlaw. We’re about to depart the fair, so tarry not!”
It was a long walk back from the fair to Sir Roger’s mansion, but the squire would never have thought to offer us a lift in his coach.
Stanwyck House so swarmed with servants that it was a wonder they did not fall over one another. One of them ushered us into Sir Roger’s study. I had little chance to observe the surroundings, save as William’s vision happened to light on things; and he had been here before. There was, for instance, a pair of swords crossed behind a shield on the wall-but all made of glass, not steel.
Sir Roger, wineglass in hand, glowered at us from a big wing chair, then put on a forced smile. His son, seated at a harpsichord and playing something by Handel, left off his strumming and swung around.
“Now, Shirlaw!” barked Sir Roger. “I have argued with thee and pleaded with thee, to no avail. Art a stubborn old fart; s’bud, I’ll give thee credit. To show me heart’s in the right place, I’ll raise me last offer to an hundred guineas even. ‘Tis thrice what thy lousy patch is
worth and will set thee up for life. But that’s all; not a brass farden more. What say ye? What say ye?”
“Zorry, zir,” said Philip. “I ha’ gi’en you mine answer, and that’s that. Me land stays mine.”
They argued some more, while the son patted yawns. Sir Roger got redder and redder. At last he jumped up, roaring:
“All right, get out, thou Hanoverian son of a bitch! I’ll Methodist thee! If one method won’t sarve, there’s a mort more in me locker. Get out!”
“Your honor may kiss mine arse,” said Philip as he turned away.
Behind us, Sir Roger hurled his wineglass at us but missed. The glass shattered, and Sir Roger screamed: “John! Abraham! Throw me these rascals out! Fetch me sword, somebody! I’ll quality them to run for the geldings’ plate! Charles, ye mincing milksop, why don’t ye drub me these runagates?”
“La, Father, you know that I—” began the young man. The rest was lost in the distance as Philip and William walked briskly out, before the hired help could organize a posse. Behind us, the clock struck four.
I was myself filled with rage, both from that I got from William’s mind and on my own account. If I had been in charge of William’s body, I might have tried something foolish. It is just as well that I was not. In those days, a peasant simply did not punch a knight or baronet (whichever Sir Roger was) in the nose, no matter what the provocation.
We left the grounds by another path, which led across a spacious lawn. At the edge of this lawn, the ground dropped sharply. There was a retaining wall, where the surface descended almost vertically for six or eight feet into a shallow ditch. From this depression, the earth sloped gently up on the other side, almost to the level on the inner lawn. This structure, like a miniature fortification, was called a ha-ha. Its purpose was to afford those in the house a distant, unobstructed grassy vista and at the same time keep the deer and other wild life away from the inner lawns and flower beds.
We descended a flight of steps, which cut through the ha-ha, and continued along a winding path. This path led over a brook and through a wood. On the edge of the brook, workmen were building a tea house in Chinese style, with red and black paint and gilding. As we followed the winding path through the wood, a rabbit hopped away.
“Hm,” said Philip Shirlaw. “That o’erweening blackguard . . . And us wi’ noft but bread and turnips in the house. Harkee, Will, Zir Roger dines at vive, doth he not?”
“Aye,” said William. “ ‘Twas vour, but that craichy zon o’ his hath broft the new vashion vrom London.”
“Well, now,” said Philip, “meseems that God hath put us in the way of a bit o’ flesh to spice our regiment. Wi’ guests at Stanwyck House, the Stanwycks’ll be close to home from vive to nigh unto midnight. Those ungodly gluttons dawdle vive or zix hours o’er their meat, and the pack o’ zarvents’ll be clustered round to uphold Zir Roger’s hospitality. By the time they’re throf, Zir Roger’ll be too drunk to know what betides.”
“Dost plan to nab one o’ his honor’s coneys?”
“Aye, thof it an’t Zir Roger’s but God’s.”
“Oh, Vayther, have a care! Remember Mayster Bradford’s warning—”
“The Almighty will take care of us.”
Another half hour brought us to our own farm and house. The house was little more than a shack, not much above the level of the houses of comic-strip hillbillies. Furnishings were minimal, save that a shelf along one wall bore a surprising lot of books. This must be what Bradford had meant when he spoke of Philip Shirlaw’s being learned above his station.
Since William did not fix his eyes on this shelf for more than a few seconds at a time, I could not tell much about Philip’s choice of books. I caught a glimpse of several volumes of sermons by John Wesley and George Whitefield. There were also, I think, a Bible, a Shakespeare, and a Plutarch.
Philip Shirlaw climbed up into the loft and came down with a pair of small crossbows. I was astonished, supposing these medieval weapons to have been long obsolete. I later learned that they were used for poaching as late as the time of our adventure, being favored for their silence.
William unhappily tried again to dissuade his sire: “Don’t let thy grudge against Zir Roger lead thee into risking our necks. Colonel Armitage’s vootman, Jemmy Thorne, hath told me ‘tis a hanging offence to ‘trespass with intent to kill rabbits.’ Them are the words o’ the statute.”
I followed the argument with growing apprehension. What would happen to me if William were killed while I shared his body?
But Philip Shirlaw was not to be swayed. “Pooh! Put thy trust in Providence, zon, and vear noft. Nor do I, as a good Christian, bear Zir Roger a grudge. I do but take my vair share o’ the vruits o’ the earth, which God hath provided for all mankind. Zee the ninth chapter o’ Genesis.”
The steel crossbow bolts were about the size of a modern pencil. With a pocket full of these and a crossbow under his arm, William set out behind his father.
They scouted the woods between the Stanwyck estate and the Shirlaw farm, seeing and hearing none. The sun sank lower and disappeared behind the clouds, which thickened with a promise of rain.
As Philip had surmised, all the service personnel of Stanwyck House had gone to the mansion to wait upon the master and his guests.
At last-it must have been nearly six-we roused a rabbit, which went hippety-hoppity through the big old oaks. William made a quick motion, but Philip stayed him with a geture. Carefully, they cocked their weapons, placed their bolts in the grooves, and scouted forward.
They raised the rabbit again, but again it bolted before they got within range. Being old hands at this, they spread out and continued their stalk.
The woods thinned, and they reached the edge of the outer lawns, not far from the ha-ha. In the depression that ran along the foot of the ha-ha sat their rabbit, nibbling.
Philip’s crossbow twanged. The quarrel whined. The rabbit tumbled over.
“Got un!” said William.
The Shirlaws ran out from the wood to seize the game, when a bellow halted them. Atop the ha-ha stood Sir Roger Stanwyck and his son Charles. Sir Roger held a musket trained upon them; Charles, a pistol.
“Ha!” roared Sir Roger. “Said I not I’d have you? The divil set upon me if I don’t see you twain dangling from the hempseed caudle!”
“O Gemini, they mean it!” muttered William. “Get ready to vlee!”
“Drop those crossbows!” came the high voice of Charles Stanwyck.
William’s bow was still cocked and loaded. Without thinking, the young man whipped up the weapon and discharged it at Sir Roger. He missed, and the whistle of the bolt was drowned by the roar of the musket. I heard the ball strike Philip, who fell backwards with a piercing scream. William dropped his crossbow and ran for the woods.
Another flash lit up the evening landscape. The report came to William’s ears just as a terrific blow struck him in the back . . .
And then I was back in Madame Nosi’s room, on my feet but staggering back from the wall. About the floor lay the shattered remains of Balsamo’s mirror. To my left lay my friend. Madame Nosi was not to be seen, but I had a dim memory of terrible shrieks and crashes just before my “awakening.”
I dashed to the head of the stair. At the foot, in an unlovely sprawl, lay Madame Nosi.
After a second’s hesitation, I went back to the room. My friend was sitting up on the floor, mumbling: “Wha-what hath happened? I thought I was shot . . .”
“Come, help me!” I said. We descended to Madame Nosi.
“Pull her up,” said my friend. “It’s not decent for her to be lying upside down like that.”
“Don’t touch her!” I said. “Shouldn’t move an injured person until the doctor comes.” I felt for her pulse but found none.
A policeman appeared, followed by a couple of neighbors. The cop asked: “What goes on? What’s the screaming and crashing-oh!” He sighted Fatima Nosi.
In due course, the ambulance came and took M
adame Nosi. For the next few days, my friend and I spent hours answering questions by the coroner and other officials.
As nearly as we could reconstruct the events, my friend and I had leaped out of our chairs at the moment when, in our eighteenth-century lives, we were shot by the Stanwycks. I had blundered into the wall and broken the mirror. Whether in sudden panic at the success of her spell, or for some other reason, Madame Nosi had run out of the room. She had died, not from the effects of the fall, as we at first supposed, but from heart failure before she fell. Her physician testified that she had suffered from heart disease.
The officials, although puzzled and suspicious, let us go.
They swept up the fragments of Balsamo’s mirror for “evidence,” but I could never find out what became of the pieces. I had some vague idea of putting them together but let it go in the rush of cramming for spring finals. I suppose the pieces were thrown out with the trash.
When it was over, my friend sighed and said: “I fear me that the eighteenth century, which I have idealized all these years, never really existed. The real one was far dirtier, more narrow-minded, brutal, orthodox, and superstitious than I could have ever conceived without seeing it. Gawd, to be cooped up in the body of a bewhiskered amateur theologian and not be able to say a word to controvert his fallacies! The eighteenth century I visualized was a mere artifact-a product of my imagination, compounded of pictures in books which I saw as a child, things I had read, and bits of Colonial architecture I’ve seen.”
“Then,” I asked, “you’ll settle down and be reconciled to your own twentieth century?”
“Good heavens, no! Our experience-assuming it to be genuine and not a mere hallucination-only serves to convince me that the real world, anywhere or in any age, is no place for a gentleman of sensitivity. So I shall spend more time in the world of dreams. If you like, Willy, I shall be glad to meet you there. There’s a palace of lapis lazuli I must, show you, atop a mountain of glass . . .”
BEEN A LONG TIME
