Dr. Obispo shrugged his shoulders. “Whenever you like,” he answered. “I’m through with them.”
Jeremy tried not to show his delight and, with a cough, returned to the note-book. “ ‘The Marquis de Sade,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘was a man of powerful genius, unhappily deranged. In my opinion, an Author would achieve Perfection if he combined the qualities of the Marquis with those of Bishop Butler and Sterne.’ ” Jeremy paused. “The Marquis, Bishop Butler and Sterne,” he repeated slowly. “My word, you’d have a pretty remarkable book!” He went on reading. “ ‘October, 1833. To degrade oneself is pleasurable in proportion to the height of the worldly and intellectual Eminence from which one descends and to which one returns when the act of Degradation is concluded.’ That’s pretty good,” he commented, thinking of the Trojan Women and alternate Friday afternoons in Maida Vale. “Yes, that’s pretty good. Let me see, where are we? Oh, yes. ‘The Christians talk much of Pain, but nothing of what they say is to the point. For the most remarkable Characteristics of Pain are these: the Disproportion between the enormity of physical suffering and its often trifling causes; and the manner in which, by annihilating every faculty and reducing the body to helplessness, it defeats the Object for which it was apparently devised by Nature: viz.: to warn the sufferer of the approach of Danger, whether from within or without. In relation to Pain, that empty word, Infinity, comes near to having a meaning. This is not the case with Pleasure; for Pleasure is strictly finite and any attempt to extend its boundaries results in its transformation into Pain. For this reason, the infliction of Pleasure can never be so delightful to the aspiring Mind as the infliction of Pain. To give a finite quantity of Pleasure is a merely human act; the infliction of the Infinity we call Pain is truly god-like and divine.’ ”
“The old bastard’s going mystical in his old age,” Dr. Obispo complained. “Almost reminds me of Mr. Propter.” He lit a cigarette. There was a silence.
“Listen to this,” Jeremy suddenly cried in a tone of excitement. “ ‘March, 1834. By the criminal negligence of Kate, Priscilla has been allowed to escape from the subterranean place of confinement. Bearing as she does upon her Person the evidence that she has been for some weeks past the subject of my Investigations, she holds in her hands my Reputation and perhaps even my Liberty and Life.’ ”
“I suppose this is what you were talking about before we started reading,” said Dr. Obispo. “The final scandal. What happened?”
“Well, I suppose the girl must have told her story,” Jeremy answered without looking up from the page be fore him. “Otherwise how do you account for the presence of this ‘hostile Rabble’ he’s suddenly started talking about? ‘The Humanity of men and women is inversely proportional to their Numbers. A Crowd is no more human than an Avalanche or a Whirlwind. A rabble of men and women stands lower in the scale of moral and intellectual being than a herd of Swine or of Jackals.’ ”
Dr. Obispo threw back his head and uttered a peal of his surprisingly loud, metallic laughter. “That’s exquisite!” he said. “Exquisite! You couldn’t have a better example of typically human behaviour. Homo conducting himself like sub-homo and then being sapiens in order to prove that he’s really super-homo.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is really heavenly!” he said; then added, “Let’s hear what happens now.”
“Well, as far as I can make out,” said Jeremy, “they have to send a company of militia from Guildford to protect the house from the rabble. And a magistrate has issued a warrant for his arrest; but they’re not doing anything for the time being, on account of his age and position and the scandal of a public trial. Oh, and now they’ve sent for John and Caroline. Which makes the old gentleman wildly angry. But he’s helpless. So they arrive at Selford; ‘Caroline in her orange wig and John, at seventy-two, looking at least twenty years older than I, who was already twenty-four when my Brother, then scarcely of age, had the imprudence to marry an Attorney’s Daughter and the richly merited misfortune to beget this Attorney’s Grandson whom I have always treated with the Contempt which his low Origin and feeble Intellect deserve, but to whom the negligence of a Strumpet has now given the Power to impose his Will upon me.’ ”
“One of those delightful family reunions,” said Dr. Obispo. “But I suppose he doesn’t give us any of the details?”
Jeremy shook his head. “No details,” he said. “Just an outline of the negotiations. On March the seventeenth, they tell him that he can avoid prosecution if he makes over his unentailed property by deed of gift, assigns them the revenues of the entailed estates, and consents to enter a private asylum.”
“Pretty stiff conditions!”
“Which he refuses,” Jeremy continued, “on the morning of the eighteenth.”
“Good for him!”
“ ‘Private madhouses,’ ” Jeremy read out, “ ‘are private prisons in which, uncontrolled by Parliament or Judiciary, subject to no inspection by the Police and closed even to the humanitarian visitations of Philanthropists, hired Torturers and Gaolers execute the dark designs of family Vengeance and personal Spite.’ ”
Dr. Obispo clapped his hands with delight. “There’s another beautiful human touch!” he cried. “Those humanitarian visitations of philanthropists!” he laughed aloud. “And hired torturers! It’s like a speech by one of the Foundling Fathers. Magnificent! And then one thinks of those slave ships and little Miss Priscilla. It’s almost as good as Field-Marshal Goering, denouncing un-kindness to animals. Hired torturers and gaolers,” he repeated with relish, as though the phrase were a delicious sweetmeat, slowly melting upon the palate. “What’s the next move?” he asked.
“They tell him he’ll be tried, condemned and transported. To which he answers that he prefers transportation to a private asylum. ‘At this it was evident that my precious nephew and niece were nonplussed. They swore that my treatment in the Madhouse should be humane. I answered that I would not accept their word. John talked of his honour. I said, An Attorney’s honour, no doubt, and spoke of the manner in which a lawyer sells his convictions for a Fee. They then implored me for the good name of the Family to accept their offers. I answered that the good name of the Family was indifferent to me, but that I had no desire to undergo the Humiliations of a Public Trial or the pains and discomforts of Transportation. I was ready, I said, to accept any reasonable Alternative to Trial and Transportation; but I would regard no Alternative as reasonable which did not in some sort guarantee my proper treatment at their hands. Their word of honour I did not regard as such a Guarantee; nor could I accept to be placed in an Institution where I should be entrusted to the care of Doctors and Keepers in the pay of those whose Interest it was that I should perish with all possible Celerity. I therefore refused to subscribe to any Arrangement which left me at their Mercy without placing them to a corresponding extent at mine.’ ”
“The principles of diplomacy in a nutshell!” said Dr. Obispo. “If only Chamberlain had understood them a little better before he went to Munich! Not that it would have made much difference in the long run,” he added. “Because, after all, it doesn’t really matter what the politicians do: nationalism will always produce at least one war each generation. It has done in the past and I suppose we can rely on it to do the same in the future. But how does the old gentleman propose to put his principles into practice? He’s at their mercy all right. How’s he going to put them at his?”
“I don’t know yet,” Jeremy answered from the depths of the recorded past. “He’s gone off on one of his philosophizing jaunts again.”
“Now?” said Dr. Obispo in astonishment. “When he’s got a warrant out against him?”
“ ‘There was a time,’ “ Jeremy read, “ ‘when I believed that all the Efforts of Humanity were directed towards a Point located approximately at the Centre of the female Person. Today I am inclined to think that Vanity and Avarice play a more considerable part even than Lust in shaping the course of men’s Actions and determining the nature of their Thoughts.’ And so on. Where the devil does he get back to the point again? Perhaps he never does; it would be just like him. No, here’s something. ‘March 20th. Today, Robert Parsons, my Factor, returned from London bringing with him in the Coach, three strong boxes containing Gold coin and Bank Notes to the value of two hundred and eighteen thousand pounds, the product of the sale of my Securities and such Jewels, Plate and works of Art as it was possible to dispose of at such short notice and for
