Who it is who shall, at the last, perform this piece of business depends on who shall arrive in the city of St Petersburg first, for it is decided that, all those on the list being equally fit for the task, all should have a fair opportunity. A day shall be set when those who are willing to undergo the journey will be assembled in London, that they might set off together for the Continent and thence, as speedily as they may, to Russia. Though I cannot entirely approve, it is thought this will afford some sport and amusement, both here and in Russia.
Should you wish me to confirm your name, I ask that you call here as soon as you are at liberty to do so, as it is anticipated that the matter shall come off before the end of this year.
Were I a younger man I should be tempted to go myself. The risks are not inconsiderable, but the rewards are likely to be very handsome indeed.
I am your Humble Servant etc Fothergill
James is in London the following week, with Fothergill in Fothergill's garden. There is not a mark left on him from his recent beating. He wears a suit of excellent cloth, has clipped his hair and wears a wig, a new one, expensive and faintly scented.
Though it is possible that Fothergill has heard of the Munro affair, may even, in some way, have been prompted to write by
his knowledge of it, there is no dark hinting, no gesturing at his candidate's questionable moral credentials. James expounds his method of using a charged lancet for the inoculations. Fothergill nods, approves. They drink wine on a bench under a flowering cherry tree. They drink a toast to the Empress. Fothergill says: 'What an adventure, Mr Dyer.'
They have supper with the family, plain fare, the sun setting through the window. Fothergill's daughter blushes at the way James observes her, this beautiful man, as though she were laid on his slab.
After supper Fothergill leads James to a room in the upstairs of the house. It is full of stuffed birds startling from the walls, of bones and fossils, and dead butterflies with wings like cut silk.
'Come,' he says. There is a barrel next to the table. When Fothergill takes off its lid, a waft of tobacco, bitter-sweet, fills the room.
Says Fothergill: 'My agent in North America, Mr Samms, packs his prizes in tobacco dust. This arrived yesterday on a slaver out of Charleston. Pray, hold back my sleeves.'
Fothergill reaches into the dust, draws the creature into the twilight of the room.
James asks: 'What is it, sir?'
'Mephitis mephitis^' says Fothergill, holding it up like a darling. 'The Wood-pussy. The common skunk.'
The houses at Grand Parade are sold. An actor buys one, a retired captain of the East India Company the other. It is July. James's last week in Bath. A crowd is gathered by
the river where a rope slants steeply over the bow^ling green and the Orange Grove to the east tovv^er of the abbey. He walks over and stands at the back of the crowd. Everyone is gazing up at the tower. A small figure is manoeuvring on to the rope, lying down with his chest on some manner of breastplate that balances precariously on the rope. Someone shouts: 'He's coming! He's coming!', and the figure is suddenly in flight, hurtling down the rope, a stream of smoke trailing behind from the friction of the board. A pistol shot, the bray of a trumpet ringing over the hills. The figure plunges like a shooting star, a falling angel. Insane! Astounding!
The crowd cheers. James is pressed forward, until he finds himself looking over the shoulders of those nearest the point where the lower end of the rope is fixed to a scaffold. He sees a man, small and gristly, dressed in a patched coat, and beside him, the trumpet still in her hand, the wind tears still in her eyes, is a girl, fourteen or fifteen, conceivably his daughter. A woman next to James in the crowd says: 'It was her what done it. A short life, eh? Short and merry.'
He is studying the girl. She is laughing, as though her life at that moment could not be more lovely to her. She looks at the crowd, returns for a second James's stare. Such a face she has. Such fierce joy in her eyes.
James shoulders his way out of the crowd, gets free of it and walks, heavy as a corpse, towards the Orange Grove. He cannot think what has disturbed him so. It was a circus act, part of this rage for flying that has swept the country. A thrill for the rabble. He enters the quiet house, goes up to his room. It was always bare, green and bare. Now it is barer. He goes to the mirror, wipes it. Such a face. Is he alive? What is it to be alive? What does the girl feel that he does not?
He adjusts his cravat. Chill, dexterous fingers. He thinks of Russia, Russia, Russia . . .
FIFTH
Rev J Is Lestrade to Lady Hallam
Paris, 22 October 1767 Dear Lady Hallam^
Forgive me for not having written sooner. The truth is that I have been very loath to to do anything at all and find the smallest task wearying beyond description. This, I fear, makes me very poor company to your friend Monsieur About, who begs that I send his warmest regards and says with what fondness he recalls his stay at the Hall.
I do not believe you have ever been in his house which is on the Quai de Bourbon and but a minutes walk from the cathedral of Notre Dame. Do you admire the Gothic styled I was in there the other day and the air was so charged with incense it made my head spin. The windows are very fine things.
Alas! The city has too many palaces, too many churches, too many monuments. It would, I suppose, be the same for a foreigner coming to London, but I have no enthusiasm and I am glad to say Monsieur About does not bully me. As you know he is a man of business, though I am not certain what business, only that he seems to work for some Jews in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Often, I have been left in the care of his friend Mme Duperon, a very elegant and witty lady with whom I may practise my poor
French. Her English is eccentric to say the least, and her accent renders the most innocuous statements curiously improper.
Thisy however, is by the by. I have been stung into this tardy correspondence not only by the recollection of my promise to write to you, but by a very odd turn of events, such that it now seems we are to abandon Paris and set off - lest a nighfs sleep puts paid to the notion —for Russia! I do not myself quite understand how we came to this. I am not at all sure it is wise, but About is all for it, says he has been three or four times to St Petersburg and that he would rather be there than Venice or Rome or any of the great cities of the South. We were all at supper when he made the suggestion and doubtless somewhat inflamed by his hospitality, which is never less than generous.
I say 'we' and should, as a matter of good manners, introduce the company. About, of course, and myself and Mme Duperon. In addition, an English couple by name of Featherstone whom we met last week in the Tuileries when About was able to assist Mr Featherstone, the latter having suffered the indignity of having his purse stolen. The matter was so happily resolved we agreed to visit Versailles, ensemble, that same afternoon. We did not see the King but saw some strange things in the menagerie, viz: a small black stag of China, a young elephant, and a rhinoceros with its horn broken. The Featherstones have been our companions ever since.
Mr Featherstone is a man of middle years, robust, wealthy I think, and very recently wed. His new consort is half his age, pertly pretty and I believe a very good match for him. They are honeymooning in Paris. He has been here before on business. She has never been outside of Hereford and is wondefully unimpressed by Gallic sophistication. At least once an hour she tells About, or Mme Duperon — who does not understand at all — that the place is full of vile odours and execrable manners. Even, it seems, in matters of fashion, the women of Hereford have it over their Parisian sisters. I must confess I find them somewhat
^wearing, though in my present state I find almost all company so, which indeed makes ME very tedious. Also perhaps a somewhat muddled correspondent. Was I not writing of Russia? Permit me to explain.
The whole matter was precipitated by this extraordinary race between the doctors. I feel sure your Ladyship will have read of it or heard talk of it. A - what is the collective noun for doctors? - say, a
funeral' of physicians, has set out from London. They are to pass through Paris and afterwards Berlin on their road to St Petersburg where one of their number shall gain immortality by inoculating the Empress against the smallpox. The rules - Mr F is my informant - are these: the first into Paris will be the first to leave again the following day, his departure being as many hours ahead of the other competitors as was his arrival The same shall apply in Berlin after which they go pell-mell to St P's. There are receptions arranged both here and in Prussia with the British ambassadors, and when the first of the doctors came in today at the Place Royale there was a little crowd to receive him, though at least half of the locals appeared to be expecting one of the Kings mistresses.
It was more or less by chance we were there. Mr F wished to see the fortress of the Bastille which is no great way from Place Royale. Ten minutes after we entered the square a very dusty chaise bowled in with a most comically flamboyant postillion in a bright yellow coat, yodelling to the horses and cussing the crowd. The doors opened, we all craned our necks and down hopped Dr Dyer and his attendant, the doctor dapper as you like, the other with the expression of one who will never again be amused by anything in the world, which put me rather in sympathy with him!
The next in - though we did not see him come - was Dr Dimsdale, three hours after Dyer, and apparently already accusing the others of foul play. What sorry creatures we are! My companions, however, were very struck by the whole adventure,
still full of it when we gathered here at chez About for dinner. We were on the meat when M. About, in his most droll manner, tapped his glass with his ring and proposed our jaunt. He threw it off so lightly none of us I think took him at his word, but then he fixed us with such a questioning eye it began to dawn on me, and then on Mr F, that our host was quite in earnest.
It was Mrs F who took up the gauntlet, turning to her husband and seconding About's proposal. Mr F, no more than any new husband, cares to be seen as lacking in manly resolve, and thus met his wife's zeal with a greater one of his own. Then only your correspondent remained to be seduced. About addressed me in French, that we might have the privacy afforded by the Fs' ignorance of the language, and put it to me that a man in my condition could only benefit from the effect of such a journey, one to stimulate the body and rouse the mind with so many delightful impressions I should be quite freed of my present melancholy. He spoke so sympathetically, and as it seemed at the time, so wisely, I was, with the help of his cellar, won over.
Mr F then enquired when it was proposed we should set out. To our amazement About replied that it must be tomorrow morning, that he would take care of the arrangements and that all we needed to do was prepare our bags. We should buy all we needed on the way. No special preparation was necessary. We would follow the same route as the racing doctors, even perhaps contrive to arrive in St Petersburg before them!
lean only say that in the light of his candles the scheme appeared delightful and we admired ourselves greatly for having the bottom to undertake it with such a show of nonchalance. It is now, by my watch, a quarter before three in the morning. The city of Paris is quiet though I can see a boat gliding on the river and can hear what sounds to be the sobbing of a woman in the street below. I have become quite an expert on these little-visited hours of the night. Sailors, I believe, call them the 'graveyard watch', and it
is odd to think of them, even as I write, steering by wind and star over the great desolate oceans of the world.
It is also, perhaps, the hour of fanciful thoughts. I beg your Ladyship's indulgence. I do not believe I have properly thanked you for your goodness to me over this matter. The somewhat public decay of my faith must have been an embarrassment to you if not indeed an affront to your own strong belief and Christian righteousness. To be treated so graciously places me for ever in your debt. It is my profound wish that one day I may find the means to repay it.
I shall now lie down, close my eyes and at least play-act the part of a sleeper. Morpheus may then take pity and come to me. I shall write again in the next days and give you news of the Great St Petersburg Expedition, though I fear - hope? ~ it will be quite forgotten by the time we drink our morning chocolate.
I remain, Madam, your most humble, grateful, wayward servant,
Julius Lestrade
Rev Jls Lestrade to Miss Dido Lestrade
Paris, 22 October 1767
My dear Dido,
A word from your errant brother. I hope you are not still in a pet with me. I know my actions have caused you much uneasiness. I can but ask for your tolerance and patience and assure you of a brother's love. Paris is pretty enough. My French holds up though is not as elegant or correct as your own. How are things at Cow? Is Mrs Cole taking care of you? What of your headaches? Does Dr Thome's medicine give you some relief?
Listen, my dear, there is some talk here that we may go to St Petersburg in Russia. Do not be alarmed! Monsieur About, whom you would like mightily, has persuaded me to it though I cannot say if it will come off. Not very likely, I think, yet it
may be better than kicking my heels here. I have written to Lady Hallam. Do you ever see her? How does she seem? I do not know why I ask you all these questions; Lord knows where you could send a reply.
Do not be angry with me, Diddy. You and I should always endeavour to be well together. See that George Pace fixes that hole in the roof before the weather is really bad, and do, I beg you, give some attention to the garden.
I am your affectionate, foolish brother.,
Julius
Rev J Is Lestrade to Lady Hallam
Berlin, 31 October
My dear Lady Hallam.,
I am writing to you from the Hotel Bristol in Berlin where I have a very dainty room and a better desk than in my study at Cow from which to write to you.
I cannot quite believe that I am here. About is a magician, a benign Faustus. His energy is prodigious. We left Paris a week ago, the servants rousing us before first light on the morning of our departure, and all of us gathering, with vague remembrance of our undertaking of the previous night, at the breakfast table for hot chocolate and buns. About was there already, tucking in and looking as if he had slept twelve hours.
Mr and Mrs F and myself, carefully avoiding one another's eyes, were forced to display a zeal we in no way felt. Yet which of us cared to stand revealed in the character of a mere talker? A blabbermouth! Within a minute About had us toasting St Petersburg, the Empress, the travelling life. Thus a mans concern with how he looks to the world will allow him to be dragged halfway across its suface. It was, I assure you, a very comical scene. I dare say it would come off to good effect in the theatre. , After breakfast, our trunks were hastily assembled, and we
mounted into our chariot. It is a rather old machine, very brown inside and out, apart from the spokes of the wheels which have some old yellow paint on them. The stuffing in the seats has bunched in places, one of the windows will not completely close, and there is a continuous eerie lament from the rear axle, but we have become quite attached to it, for it is a very sturdy machine with a good, dry smell and plenty of space for us all, even Mrs F's hoops.
By the time we made our first stop, a pretty inn outside the town of Compiegne, we were all remarkably resigned, the more so when the innkeeper regaled us with an exquisite stew of duck and bacon, and About persuaded him to part with a half-dozen bottles of his best red wine from his 'cave'. The weather, which had been grey in Paris, ripened into a glorious autumn afternoon. Our coach, which glories in the name of 'Mami Sylvie', after one of About's elderly female relatives, quite consumed the distances, racing between the hedgerows and bouncing us through settlements which, despite their evident poverty, were picturesque to us. That night I had my first good sleep in many weeks, at least seven hours of blissful slumber. I wonder now how much of our suffering, our mental anguish, is occasioned by the lack of it. It may be that the cure for many of our ills is no more than the administration of a potent sleeping draught.
>
You may consider, madam, that we are an oddly assorted band of voyagers, but I must report that we agree with each other very well. Mr and Mrs F are honest folk, easily ruffled, I fear, and Mr F never far ffom bluster, but essentially well-meaning, and one cannot ask for more. They are delightfully and consistently contemptuous of all things un-English. All that we see - cows, trees, buildings, the very men and women we pass upon the road - have to the Featherstonian mind a more lovely counterpart in Albion. This, far ffom exasperating About, makes him roar
with laughter, and where a smirk might offend, such open amusement is taken in good part. Mrs F is cuter than her husband. I catch her sometimes with a very shrewd expression on her face. Before this honeymoon is over she shall have Mr F well tamed.
As for our Captain, Monsieur About, you already know something of his character and abilities. Did you not find something — how shall I say? — something mysterious about him? I have not fathomed him at all and yet I have a pefect confidence in him. If any man may bring all safely and expeditiously to the Imperial court it is he.
At Brussels we had a look at Dr Dimsdale and another of the competitors, a Mr Selkirk, and in Hanover we saw Ozias Hampshire. We could not tell which of them was leading but upon our arrival in Berlin we discovered that Dyer was still the front-runner and that the accusations against him, and against his man, grow ever more furious. There is even some talk of his having hired brigands to waylay Dr Lettsom's chaise and certainly Dr Lettsom would seem to be out of the race.
Ingenious Pain Page 19
