“Have you ever noticed,” said Dr. Obispo, reflectively, “the way even the most hard-boiled people always try to make out they’re really good? Even this old buzzard—you’d think he wouldn’t care how he rated, so long as he got his fun. But no; he has to write a long screed proving what a much better man he is than Napoleon. Which, of course, he is by any reasonable standard. But you wouldn’t expect him to go out of his way to say so.”
“Well, nobody else was likely to say so,” Jeremy put in.
“So he had to do it himself,” Dr. Obispo concluded. “Which just proves my point. Iagos don’t exist. People will do everything Iago did; but they’ll never say they’re villains. They’ll construct a beautiful verbal world in which all their villainies are right and reasonable. I’d hoped that old carp-guts would be an exception. But he isn’t. It’s really rather a disappointment.”
Jeremy giggled with a certain patronizing disdain. “You’d have liked him to do the Don-Juan-in-hell act. The calme héros courbé sur sa rapière. You’re more romantic than I thought.” He turned back to the notebook and, after a pause, announced that in 1823, the Fifth Earl had spent some hours with Coleridge and found his conversation deep, but singularly muddy—“characteristics,” he had added, “which are admirable in Fish Ponds, but deplorable in rational Discourse, which should be pellucid and always shallow enough for a man to wade through without risk of drowning himself in an abyss of nonsense.” Jeremy beamed with pleasure. Coleridge was not a favourite of his. “When I think of the rot people are still talking about the rubbish that old dope-addict wrote . . .”
Dr. Obispo cut him short. “Let’s hear some more about the Earl,” he said.
Jeremy returned to the note-book.
In 1824 the old gentleman was lamenting the passage of the Bill which assimilated the transportation of slaves to piracy and so made the trade a capital offence. Henceforward, he would be a matter of eight or nine thousand a year the poorer. But he consoled himself by thinking of Horace living in philosophic tranquillity on his Sabine farm.
In 1826 he was deriving his keenest pleasure from a re-persual of Theocritus and the company of a young female, called Kate, whom he had made his housekeeper. In the same year, despite the curtailment of his income, he had been unable to resist the temptation of purchasing an exquisite Assumption of the Virgin by Murillo.
1827 had been a year of financial reverses; reverses that were connected, apparently, with the death, following an abortion, of a very young maid employed by the housekeeper as her personal attendant. The entry in the note-book was brief and obscure; but it seemed to imply that the girl’s parents had had to be paid a very substantial sum. A little later, he was unwell again and wrote a long and minute description of the successive stages of decay in the human corpse, with special reference to the eyes and lips. A short course of triturated carp restored him to a more cheerful frame of mind, and, in 1828, he made a voyage to Athens, Constantinople and Egypt.
In 1831 he was in negotiations for the purchase of a house near Farnham.
“That must be Selford,” Jeremy put in. “The house where these things came from.” He indicated the twenty-seven packing cases. “Where the two old ladies are living.” He continued his reading. “ ‘The house is old, dark and inconvenient, but stands in sufficiently extensive Grounds upon an Eminence above the River Wey, whose southern bank at this point rises almost perpendicularly in a Cliff of yellow sandstone, to the height of perhaps one hundred and twenty feet. The Stone is soft and easily worked, a Circumstance which accounts for the existence beneath the house of very extensive Cellars which were dug, it would seem, about a Century ago, when the Vaults were used for the storage of smuggled Spirits and other goods on their way from the coasts of Hampshire and Sussex to the Metropolis. To allay the fears of his Wife, who dreads to lose a child in their subterranean meanders, the Farmer who now owns the House has walled off the greater part of his Cellarage; but even that which remains presents the appearance of a veritable Catacomb. In Vaults such as these a man could be assured of all the Privacy required for the satisfaction of even the most eccentric Tastes.’ ” Jeremy looked up over the top of his book. “That sounds a bit sinister, don’t you think?”
Dr. Obispo shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody can have enough privacy,” he said emphatically. “When I think of all the trouble I’ve had for want of some nice cellars like the ones you’ve been reading about . . .” He left the sentence unfinished, and a shadow crossed his face: he was thinking that he couldn’t go on giving Jo Stoyte those Nembutal capsules indefinitely, damn him!
“Well, he buys the house,” said Jeremy, who had been reading to himself. “And he has repairs and additions made in the Gothic manner. And an apartment is fitted up in the cellars, forty-five feet underground and at the end of a long passage. And to his delight he finds that there’s a subterranean well, and another shaft that goes down to a great depth and can be used as a privy. And the place is perfectly dry and has an ample supply of air, and . . .”
“But what does he do down there?” Dr. Obispo asked impatiently.
“How should I know?” Jeremy answered. He ran his eyes down the page. “At the moment,” he went on, “the old boy’s making a speech to the House of Lords in favour of the Reform Bill.”
“In favour of it?” said Obispo in surprise.
“ ‘In the first days of the French Revolution,’ ” Jeremy read out, “ ‘I infuriated the adherents of every political Party by saying: The Bastille is fallen; long live the Bastille. Forty-three years have elapsed since the occurrence of that singularly futile Event, and the correctness of my Prognostications has been demonstrated by the rise of new Tyrannies and the restoration of old ones. It is therefore with perfect Confidence that I now say: Privilege is dead; long live Privilege. The masses of mankind are incapable of Emancipation and too inept to direct their own Destinies. Government must always be by Tyrants or Oligarchs. My opinion of the Peerage and the landed Gentry is exceedingly low; but their own opinion of themselves must be even lower than mine. They believe that the Ballot will rob them of their Power and Privileges, whereas I am sure that, by the exercise of even such little Prudence and Cunning as parsimonious Nature has endowed them with, they can with ease maintain themselves in their present pre-eminence. This being so, let the Rabble amuse itself by voting. An Election is no more than a gratuitous Punch and Judy Show, offered by the Rulers in order to distract the attention of the Ruled.’ ”
“How he’d have enjoyed a modern Communist or Fascist election!” said Dr. Obispo. “By the way, how old was he when he made this speech?”
“Let me see.” Jeremy paused for a moment to make the calculation, then answered: “Ninety-four.”
“Ninety-four!” Dr. Obispo repeated. “Well, if it wasn’t those fish guts, I don’t know what it was.”
Jeremy turned back to the note-book. “At the beginning of 1833 he sees his nephew and niece again, on the occasion of Caroline’s sixty-fifth birthday. Caroline now wears a red wig, her eldest daughter is dead of cancer, the younger is unhappy with her husband and is addicted to piety, the son, who is now a Colonel, has gambling debts which he expects his parents to pay. Altogether, as the Earl remarks, ‘a most enjoyable evening.’ ”
“Nothing about those cellars,” Dr. Obispo complained.
“No; but his housekeeper, Kate, has been ill and he’s giving her the carp diet.”
Dr. Obispo showed a renewal of interest. “And what happens?” he asked.
Jeremy shook his head. “The next entry’s about Milton,” he said.
“Milton?” exclaimed Dr. Obispo in a tone of indignant disgust.
“He says that Milton’s writings prove that religion depends for its existence upon the picturesque use of intemperate language.”
“He may be right,” said Dr. Obispo irritably. “But what I want to know is what happened to that housekeeper.”
“She’s evidently alive,” said Jeremy. “Because here’s a little note in which he complains about the tediousness of too much female devotion.”
“Tedious!” Dr. Obispo repeated. “That’s putting it mildly. I’ve known women who were like fly paper.”
“She doesn’t seem to have objected to an occasional infidelity. There’s a reference here to a young mulatto girl.” He paused; then, smiling, “ ‘Delicious creature,’ ” he said. “ ‘She combines the brutish imbecility of the Hottentot with the malice and cupidity of the European.’ After which the old gentleman goes out to dinner at Farnham Castle with the Bishop of Winchester and finds his claret poor, his port execrable and his intellectual powers beneath contempt.”
“Nothing about Kate’s health?” Dr. Obispo persisted.
“Why should he talk about it? He takes it for granted.”
“I’d hoped he was a man of science,” said Dr. Obispo almost plaintively.
Jeremy laughed. “You must have very odd ideas about Fifth Earls and Eleventh Barons. Why on earth should they be men of science?” Dr. Obispo was unable to answer. There was a silence, while Jeremy started a new page. “Well, I’m damned,” he broke out. “He’s been reading James Mill’s ‘Analysis of the Human Mind.’ At ninety-five.
