The Meaning of Night Part 20

He was looking at me, in antic.i.p.ation, I supposed, of some pertinent remark or other; but before I could say anything, Mrs Daunt had spoken again.

'My husband's catalogue has been widely approved, by some of the most eminent authorities,' she said, intimating no doubt that my own praise of Dr Daunt's labours was poor enough by comparison. 'And have you published anything in the bibliographical line yourself, Mr Glapthorn?'

Of course I had to admit that I had not.

'My husband's son is also a published author,' she continued. 'He is, as you may know, a poet of some distinction. He has always had a remarkable gift for literary expression, has he not, Achilles?'

The Rector smiled helplessly.

'Of course, his genius was immediately discerned by Lord Tansor, who has been like a second father to Phoebus. Achilles, I'm sure Mr Glapthorn would be interested to see Phoebus's new volume. Hot off the presses, you know,' she said, watching her husband as he walked over to his desk to pick up the latest production from the pen of P. Rainsford Daunt Penelope: A Tragedy in Verse.

I dutifully flicked through the volume, stopping occasionally to read a line or two, and nodding as if in sage appreciation of the beauties contained therein. It was, of course, stuffed full of his usual hectic and overblown versifying.2 'Remarkable,' I said, 'quite remarkable. Your son has several such volumes to his credit, I believe?'

'Indeed he has,' replied Mrs Daunt. 'And they have all been extremely well received. Achilles, fetch Mr Glapthorn that copy of the New Monthly . . .'

'Pray don't trouble yourself, Dr Daunt,' I said hastily. 'I believe I have read the article in question. What a thing, though, to have a poet in the family! Of course his celebrity precedes him, and I confess I was hoping to have the pleasure of meeting your son while I was in Northamptonshire.'

'I'm afraid he is away. Phoebus enjoys the particular confidence of my n.o.ble relative,' said Mrs Daunt. 'His Lordship, having been a little unwell of late, is recouperating on the Isle of Wight, and has asked Phoebus to undertake a business engagement on his behalf.'

'It will be a great shock for your son when he learns of the attack on Mr Carteret,' I said.

'It will most certainly prostrate him,' replied Mrs Daunt, with solemn emphasis. 'His is a most feeling and compa.s.sionate nature, and of course he has known Mr Carteret, and his daughter, since he was a little boy.'

After a moment or two's silence, I turned to the Rector.

'I suppose, Dr Daunt, that your son's rise in the world now precludes him from following in your footsteps?'

It was a mischievous question, I own, but it was intended for his wife, not for him; and indeed, before he had time to speak, Mrs Daunt was already answering it.

'Our lot here is an extremely fortunate one. We are not rich, but we live in the hand of a most loving and generous master.'

'You allude to G.o.d, perhaps?'

'I allude, Mr Glapthorn, to the beneficence bestowed on us by Lord Tansor. If Phoebus had no other prospects, then I am sure the Church would be a most suitable channel for his talents. But of course he has great prospects, very great prospects, both as an author and . . . ' She hesitated for a moment. I looked at her, eyebrows raised in expectation. But before she could resume, there was a knock at the door and a maid entered with a tray of tea things.

This fortuitous diversion allowed Mrs Daunt quickly to change the subject, and, as she poured out and pa.s.sed around the tea, she began to ask me a number of questions about myself Had I lived in London all my life? Was I a Cambridge man, like her step-son? Was this my first visit to Evenwood? How long had I known Mr Carteret? Was I a member of the Roxburghe Club, like her husband, and had I known the late Mr Dibdin,3 whom they had often had the honour of entertaining at Evenwood? I answered all her questions politely, but as briefly as I could. Of course she perceived my evasion and countered by throwing out still more questions. So we continued in our dance Dr Daunt sitting all the while in silence until the tea had been consumed. Then, placing her empty cup and saucer back on the tea-tray, she asked me if I had been up to the great house. I told her that I had visited the chapel briefly that morning, to pay my last respects to Mr Carteret, but that I hoped to enjoy a fuller acquaintance with Lord Tansor's residence in the very near future.

'But you must at least see the Library before you go,' cried Dr Daunt suddenly.

'I'm afraid I must return to London tomorrow.'

'But we could go now, if that would be convenient.'

Nothing could have been more to my liking, and so I eagerly a.s.sented to the proposal. We quickly finished our tea, and Mrs Daunt rose to leave.

'Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn. I do hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon. Perhaps when you next visit Evenwood, fate will look more kindly on us and allow us to introduce you to my step-son.' I said that would be a pleasure I hoped would not be long deferred.

She had drawn herself up to her full height and I found myself held captive by those lovely grey eyes. How old was she now? Fifty-three or fifty-four? I could not remember. But whatever her age, she looked no older than thirty, and still had about her a fascinating look of practised coquetry. I began to see how she had managed matters with Lord Tansor in respect of her step-son: her beauty and charm, in concert with her commanding personality, had no doubt been deployed to the full on his behalf. As she looked at me with those winning eyes it was but for the most fleeting of moments I felt sure she had divined that, in some way that she could not yet comprehend, I was a threat to her prosperous condition, and to that of her precious Phoebus. In short, she disliked and distrusted me, as I did her.

Left to ourselves once more, Dr Daunt and I reverted to an earlier discussion concerning the Neoplatonic philosophy, with particular reference to Taylor the Platonist's4 translations of Plotinus and Proclus. The Rector was discoursing on Taylor's paraphrastic rendering of Porphyry's De Antro Nympharum,5 which led us on to other equally engaging topics concerning ancient theology, a subject in which each of us professed both interest and expertise.

'Mr Glapthorn,' said Dr Daunt at length. 'I wonder if I might ask a favour of you?'

'By all means,' I returned. 'Name it.'

'It is just this. Though I am an admirer of Mr Taylor in general, his philological and linguistic skills do not always match his enthusiastic advocacy of these important subjects. His translation of Iamblichus is a case in point. I have therefore presumed to prepare a new rendering of the De mysteriis,6 the first part of which is to be published in the Cla.s.sical Journal.7 The piece is now in proof and is being looked over by my friend, Professor Lucian Slake, of Barnack. Perhaps you are familiar with Professor Slake's work on Euhemerus?8 The Professor's knowledge of Iamblichus is sound, but not so complete, I think, as yours. The favour I would wish very much to ask of you, therefore, is this: would you do me the greatest kindness by agreeing to cast your eye also over the proofs, before the piece goes to press? '

I told him I would be pleased and honoured to review the work; and so it was settled that Dr Daunt would immediately send word to Professor Slake, asking him to direct the proofs to me at the George Hotel before my departure for London.

'And now,' he said brightly, 'let us be off.'

The Library established by William Duport, the twenty-third Baron, soon after the Revolution in France, was one of the finest private collections in Europe, and bore comparison with those established by the second Earl Spencer at Althorp, and by the third Duke of Roxburghe. The twenty-third Baron had inherited some three thousand volumes, a.s.sembled haphazardly by his forebears over the centuries. Shortly after succeeding to the t.i.tle, he added to this stock by acquiring the entire library of a Hungarian n.o.bleman around five thousand items, and particularly notable for containing many hundreds of the first printed editions of the Greek and Roman cla.s.sics, as well as many outstanding examples of the de luxe printers of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, such as Baskerville and Foulis. He then set about augmenting his collection by methodical and occasionally unscrupulous means, travelling widely in order to seek out early editions of those cla.s.sical authors that had eluded Count Laczko, and gathering along the way a large number of early Bibles, fifteeners,9 and a particular interest of his examples of early English literature. By the time of his death, in 1799, the collection had grown to over forty thousand volumes.

The original library at Evenwood had been housed in a dark and rather damp chamber of the Elizabethan period, on the north side of the building, which was soon overflowing with his Lordship's acquisitions. And so in, 1792, as I have previously described, Lord William wisely determined to refurbish the large ballroom on the West Front, with its famous ceiling by Verrio, into a place fit to hold his rapidly growing collection of bibliophilic treasures. The work took but twelve months to complete, and in the summer of 1793, the books ama.s.sed to that date were transferred to their present home, where they were soon joined by many thousands more.

I saw this wonderful room for the first time, in the company of the Reverend Achilles Daunt, on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of October, 1853. We had walked through the Park from the Rectory, with the declining sun in our eyes, talking of Mr Carteret.

Away from his wife, Dr Daunt was an altogether different man voluble, energetic, and enthusiastically companionable. In her presence he had seemed somehow lessened, and unwilling to set his own strong character against hers. Now, in the open air, as we strode together down the hill towards the river, he appeared renewed. We spoke of various matters relating to the Bibliotheca Duportiana, and I congratulated him again on his great achievement it was, in my view, a work that would keep its compiler's name alive amongst scholars of the printed book for generations to come.

'The labour, of course, was very great,' he said, 'for the books had not been properly catalogued before, and were in some disorder. There was, to be sure, Dr Burstall's hand-list of the seventeenth-century English books, which he drew up in when was it, now? Eighteen ten, or thereabouts. Burstall, as you perhaps know from his little book on Plantin,10 was a most careful scholar, and I was able to use many of his descriptions virtually verbatim. Yes, he saved me a good deal of work, and of course his hand-list also brought to light a little mystery.'

'Mystery?'

'I allude to the disappearance of the editio princeps of that minor but most n.o.ble work, Felltham's Resolves.11 The book, listed unequivocally in Burstall's list, simply could not be found. I searched high and low for it. The collection contained later editions, of course, but not the first. It was impossible that Dr Burstall had included it in his list in error, and I was sure it had not been sold I expended many hours looking through the records of disposals, which have been most meticulously maintained over the years. The curious thing was that when I mentioned this to Mr Carteret, he distinctly remembered seeing this edition of the work indeed he knew it had been read by Lord Tansor's first wife, some time before her unfortunate death. It is hard to believe it was stolen: a wonderful little book, of course, but not especially valuable. Mr Carteret searched her Ladyship's apartments most a.s.siduously, in case it had not been returned to the Library; but it was nowhere to be found. It has not been found to this day.'

'Speaking of Mr Carteret,' I said, as we approached the great iron gates of the front court, 'I suppose that Lord Tansor will be obliged to find another secretary.'

'Yes, I think that will certainly be necessary. His Lordship's affairs are many and various, and Mr Carteret was a most conscientious and industrious gentleman. It will not be easy to replace him he was no mere amanuensis. It may fairly be said that he performed the work of several men, for besides dealing with Lord Tansor's business and estate correspondence, which is extensive, he was also the de facto keeper of the Muniments Room, librarian, and accomptant. There is an agent for the farms and woods, of course Captain Tallis; but Mr Carteret was, in all other respects, the steward of Evenwood although he was not always treated by his Lordship with that grat.i.tude owed to a good and faithful servant.'

'And you tell me that he was a good scholar besides?'

'Yes, indeed,' replied Dr Daunt. 'I believe he missed his true calling there, excellent though his other abilities were. Mr Carteret's hand-list of the ma.n.u.script collection exhibits a knowledgeable and discerning intellect, which is why, with very little amendment, I was able to incorporate it in its entirety as an appendix to my catalogue. Alas, it will be his only monument, though a n.o.ble one. If only he had lived to complete his great work. That would have been a monument indeed.'

'His great work?' I asked.

'His history of the Duport family, from the days of the first Baron, Lord Maldwin Duport. A mighty undertaking, on which he had been engaged for nigh on twenty-five years. In the course of his duties, he naturally had access to the family papers stored in the Muniments Room a collection of voluminous extent stretching back some five hundred years and it was on the examination of these that his history was to be based. I fear it is unlikely now that anyone else will be found with the requisite talents and capacity for industry to finish what he had started, which I deem a great loss to the world, for the story is a rich and fascinating one. Well now, here we are at last.'

24:.

Littera scripta manet1 __*

We were standing before the great West Front, with its prospect of carefully tended pleasure-gardens and the distant ma.s.s of Molesey Woods. A paved terrace, bal.u.s.traded and lined with great urns that same terrace where I had made the photographic portrait of Lord Tansor stretched the length of this western range.

As we entered the Library, the late-afternoon sun, streaming through the line of tall arched windows, transformed the interior of the great room into a dazzling confection of white and gold. Above us, Verrio's ceiling was a misty swirl of colour; around us, rising from floor to ceiling on three sides of the huge s.p.a.ce, was a glorious vista of white-painted book-cases, arranged in colonnaded bays. My eyes gorged on the sight that lay before me: row upon row of books of every type folios, quartos, octavos, duodecimos, eighteenmos exhibiting every facet of the printer's and binder's art.

Taking a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket, and placing them carefully on his hands, Dr Daunt walked over to one of the bays and reached up to remove a thick folio.

'What do you think of this?' he asked, gently laying the volume down on an elaborately carved giltwood table.

It was a perfect copy of Jacobus de Voragine's Legenda Aurea, translated and printed by Caxton at Westminster in 1483: a volume of superlative rarity and importance. Dr Daunt procured another pair of cotton gloves from the drawer of the table and offered them to me. My hands were shaking slightly as I opened the ma.s.sive folio and gazed in awe at the n.o.ble black-letter printing.

'The Golden Legend,' said the Rector, in hushed tones. 'The most widely read book in late medieval Christendom after the Bible.'

Reverently, I turned over the huge leaves, lingering for some moments over an arresting woodcut of the Saints in Glory, before my eye was caught by a pa.s.sage in the 'Lyf of Adam': G.o.d had planted in the begynnge Paradyse a place of desyre and delytes . . .

A place of desire and delights. No better description of Evenwood could be found. And this paradise would one day be mine, when all was accomplished at last. I would breathe its air, wander its rooms and corridors, and take my ease in its courtyards and gardens. But greater than all these delights would be the possession of this wondrous library for my own use and pleasure. What more could my bibliophile's soul ask for? Here were marvels without end, treasures beyond knowing. You have seen the worst of me in these confessions. Here, then, let me throw into the opposite side of the balance what I truly believe is the best of me: my devotion to the mental life, to those truly divine faculties of intellect and imagination which, when exercised to the utmost, can make G.o.ds of us all.

'This', said Dr Daunt, laying his hand on the great folio that had so entranced my soul, 'was the first volume for which I wrote a description. I remember it as if it were yesterday. October, 1830. The tenth day a day of wind and rain, as I recall, and so dark you could hardly see beyond the terrace. We had the lamps burning in here all day long. The book was not in its proper place you will observe that the bays in this section of the library are arranged in alphabetical order by author and I thought at first to remove it to where it belonged, and make my acquaintance with it at some later date; but then, on a whim, I decided to deal with it then and there. And so it has retained a special place in my heart.'

He was smiling to himself as he stroked his long beard and gazed fondly at the open folio. I felt a great closeness to the dear old fellow in that moment, and caught myself wishing that I had had such a man as my father.

He returned the book to its place, and then took down another: Capgrave's Nova Legenda Angliae, printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1516. As he left me to pore over this, he strode over to another bay and brought back the first printing of Walter Hylton's great mystical treatise, the Scala Perfectionis, the Ladder of Perfection, printed again by de Worde in 1494, and the first book to which he put his name. I had hardly begun to examine it when he hurried back with yet another treasure a probably unique copy of Pynson's reprint of the Ars Moriendi. Then off he went again, returning this time with St Jerome's Vitas Patrum, Caxton's translation, completed on the last day of his life and exquisitely printed in folio by de Worde in 1496.

And so it went on, until darkness began to fall and a servant appeared to bring us lights. At length, while the Rector was replacing a particularly fine copy of Barclay's Sall.u.s.t, I began to make my own perambulation of the room.

In a recess between two of the arched windows that gave onto the terrace I stopped to look into a little gla.s.s-topped display case containing a curious piece of vellum, dirty and browned, a few inches wide and two or three inches from top to bottom, placed on a piece of blue velvet. It had plainly been folded up for a long period of time but had now been opened out for display, held down at each corner by round bra.s.s weights, each of which had been stamped with the Duport coat of arms.

It was crammed with tiny writing, elegantly executed, and peppered with many little flourishes and curlicues, contractions and abbreviations. A magnifying gla.s.s lay on top of the cabinet, and with this I slowly began to make out the opening words.

HENRICUS Dei gratia Rex Angliae Dominus Hyberniae et Dux Aquitaniae dilecto et fideli suo Malduino Portuensi de Tansor militi salutem.2 As I mouthed the words to myself, I realized it was the original writ, sent out by Simon de Montfort in the name of King Henry III, summoning Sir Maldwin Duport to attend Parliament in 1264 a doc.u.ment of extraordinary rarity, and probably unique of its kind. How it had survived seemed little short of miraculous.

I was momentarily transfixed, both by the rarity of the doc.u.ment, and by what it signified. Believing that I was descended from Sir Maldwin Duport, what qualities of character, I wondered, had I inherited from this man of iron and blood? Courage, I hoped, and a bold, enduring will; spirit not easily cowed; resolve above the common; and the strength to contend until all opposition fails. For I, too, had been summoned, like my ancestor not by the will of some earthly monarch, but called by Fate to reclaim my birthright. And who can deny what the Iron Master has ordained?

I lay down the magnifying gla.s.s and continued my inspection of the Library. At the far end was a half-open door, which, as my readers will already know, I am unable to resist. And so I put my head round it.

The chamber beyond was small, and appeared to be windowless, although on closer examination I made out , high up, a row of curious glazed apertures, triangular in shape, that admitted just enough light for me to be able to discern its general character and contents. Picking up one of the lighted candles left earlier by the servant, I entered.

From its shape, I realized that this must be the ground floor of the squat octagonal tower, of Gothic design, that I had noticed ab.u.t.ting the south end of the terrace. Standing against the angled wall containing the triangular apertures was a bureau overflowing with papers; the rest of the room was fitted out with shelves and cupboards, the former stacked with labelled bundles of doc.u.ments that reminded me irresistibly of those on my mother's work-table at Sandchurch. Tucked away in the far corner was a little arched door, behind which, I surmised, must be a staircase leading to an upper floor.

But what had instantly caught my attention on entering the chamber was a portrait that hung above the bureau. I raised the candle to observe it more closely.

It showed a lady, full length, in a flowing black dress of Spanish style. Her dark hair, crowned with a cap of black lace rather like a mantilla, was drawn back from her face and fell about her bare shoulders in two long ringlets. A band of black velvet encircled her lovely throat. She was looking away, as if something had caught her attention; the long fingers of her left hand rested on a large silver brooch attached to the bust of her dress, whilst her right hand, in which she held a fan, dangled languorously by her side. She appeared to be leaning against a piece of ancient stonework, beyond which a bright moon could be seen peeping out from behind an angry ma.s.s of dark clouds.

It was altogether an arresting composition. But her face! She had the most strikingly large eyes, with intense black pupils and pencil-thin black eyebrows; striking, too, was her long but slender retrousse nose, and her delicate, beautifully formed mouth. The effect of her physical loveliness, combined with the expression of wilfulness in repose, which the painter had so skilfully captured, was utterly ravishing.

I held the candle closer, and discerned an inscription: 'R.S.B. fecit. 1819'. I knew then, without a doubt, that this was Lord Tansor's first wife my beautiful wayward mother. I tried to reconcile this surpa.s.sing beauty with the memories I still had of sad, faded Miss Lamb, but could not. The artist had painted her in her prime, at the pinnacle of her beauty and pride in the very moment before she took the fateful step that was to change her life, and mine, forever.

Mr Carteret had been right: there was something of her about me, though the resemblance lay less in the individualities of the physical features than in her expression of contained energy and purpose. I had seen that same look a thousand times in my morning mirror. And Mr Carteret had seen it too.

There was a noise behind me. Dr Daunt was standing in the doorway, a book in his gloved hands.

'Here you are,' he said. 'I thought you would like to see this.'

He handed me a copy of Sir Thomas Browne's Pseudodoxia Epidemica, the first edition of 1646.

I smiled, thanked him, and began to examine the book, another constant companion of mine, but my mind was elsewhere.

'So you have found you way into Mr Carteret's sanctum. It seems strange to be here and not see him sitting in his customary place.' He gestured towards the bureau. 'But I see you have also found my Lady. Of course I did not know her she died before we came to Evenwood; but people still remember and speak of her. She was, by all accounts, an extraordinary woman, though one gathers she was not over-scrupulous in the observance of her wifely duties to Lord Tansor. The portrait is unfinished, as you will have noticed, which is why it hangs here. Goodness me, is that the time?'

The clock in the library had struck the hour of six.

'I'm afraid I must return to the Rectory. My wife will be expecting me. Well, then, Mr Glapthorn, I hope the afternoon has not been too unpleasant for you?'

We parted at the head of the path that led through a gate in the Park wall, past the Dower House, to the Rectory.

It was bright, clear night, which made our walk back both easy and pleasant. We had continued to speak of bibliophilic matters until we reached the point on the carriage-drive where we were to take our leave of each other. The Rector paused for a moment, looking towards the lights of the Dower House.

'That poor girl,' he said.

'Miss Carteret?'

'She is alone in the world now, the fate above all others that her poor father feared. But she has a strong spirit, and has been brought up well.'

'Perhaps she may marry,' I said.

'Marry? Perhaps she may, though I wonder who would have her. My son had some hopes once in that direction, and my wife I mean my wife and I, of course would not have been against the match. But she would not have him; and I fear also that her father was not fond of him. Mr Carteret was not a rich man, you know, and his daughter will now be dependent on Lord Tansor's generosity. And then she has such decided opinions on matters that really ought not to concern a young lady. I suppose that comes of her time abroad. I have never been abroad, and hope I never have to do so. My son, though, has expressed a wish to go to America, of all places. Well, we shall see. And now, Mr Glapthorn, I must bid you a very good-evening, and hope we may have the pleasure of seeing each other again very soon.'

As he made to leave, my eyes strayed towards the baronial towers of the South Gates, and something that I had been half conscious of all day suddenly rose to the surface.

'Dr Daunt, if you don't mind my asking, why do you suppose Mr Carteret rode home through the woods? Surely the quicker route from Easton to the Dower House is through the village.'

'You are right,' he replied. 'The only reason to come into the Park through the West Gates from the Odstock Road would be if there was a need for Mr Carteret to go up to the great house, which is closer to that entrance than to this.'

'And was there such a need, do you know?'

'I cannot say. And so, Mr Glapthorn, I'll wish you another good-evening.'

With that, we shook hands and I stood watching him as he walked off towards the gate in the wall. As he pa.s.sed through, he turned and waved. And then he was gone.

I took the path that led into the stable yard. There I encountered Mary Baker, the kitchen-maid crossing the yard, lantern in hand.

'Good-evening, Mary,' I said. 'I hope you're feeling a little better than when I last saw you.'

'Oh, yes, thank-you, sir, you're very kind. I'm sorry you had to see me like that. It took me hard, that's the truth. The master had been so kind to me so kind to us all. Such a dear man, as I'm sure you know. What made it worse, I think, was coming so soon after my sister.'

'Your sister?'

'My only sister, sir Agnes Baker as was. A little older than me, and a mother to me, too, after our own mother died when we were still little. She worked in the kitchen up at the great house, under Mrs Bamford, until that brute came and took her away.'

She hesitated, as if in the grip of some strong emotion.

'I'm sorry, sir, I'm sure you don't wish to hear all this. I'll say good-evening, sir.'

She turned to go, but I called out to her to stop. Something was stirring in a dark, unvisited corner of my memory.

'Mary, don't go, please. Sit down a moment and tell me about your sister.'

With a little more gentle persuasion, she agreed to postpone the task she had been engaged upon and we sat down on a roughly made bench constructed around the thick, gnarled trunk of an old apple-tree.