The Meaning of Night (23 page)

Concluding the entry in Burke were the following notes:

Creation—By writ of summons, 49 Hen. III, 14 Dec. 1264.

Arms—Quarterly, 1st and 4th Or three piles enarched throughout issuant from the

dexter base gules; 2nd, Per pale indented ermine and ermines on a chevron per pale

indented or and argent five roses gules barbed and seeded proper; 3rd, Argent gutty

d'huile a lion's rear gamb erased azure and transfixed through the thigh by a sword in

bend sinister proper hilted pomelled and quilloned or. Crest—A demi man crowned

royally proper crined and bearded argent vested in a robe gules lined ermine holding in

his dexter hand a sceptre and in his sinister an orb gold. Supporters—Two lion-sagittarii

each drawing a bow and arrow and banded about the temples with a fillet azure.

Motto—Fortitudine Vincimus.

The Tansor arms were illustrated at the head of the entry. Contemplating the

unusual device of the lion-sagittarii,? I knew, with redoubled certainty, that what I had

inferred from my mother’s journals was the truth. On the wooden box that had once

contained my two hundred sovereigns were displayed the same arms.

Fortitudine Vincimus ? was the Tansor motto. It would now be mine.

From time to time, Tom would call and we would talk desultorily for half and

hour or so. But I could see his dismay as he surveyed the sea of paper spreading across

the work-table and spilling over onto the floor; and I also saw that he had observed the

darting look of wild absorption in my eyes, which all too obviously signalled an

eagerness to return to my work as quickly as possible. He had not entirely forgiven me

for passing over the opportunity to go to Mesopotamia with Professor S––, and was

concerned, I could see, that I was making no attempt to secure any other form of

employment. My capital had diminished quicker than I had anticipated, largely as a result

of my years abroad; debts left by my mother, which she had been keeping at bay and it

was becoming imperative to find a source of regular income.

‘What’s happening to you, Ed?’ he asked one spring morning, as I was walking

him to the door. ‘It pains me to see you like this, shut up here day after day, with no firm

prospect in view.’

I could not tell him that I had in fact formed the clearest possible ambition.

Instead I prevaricated by saying that I planned to go to London to find some suitable

temporary position until a permanent course of action presented itself.

He looked at me doubtfully. ‘That is not a plan, Ed,’ he said, ‘but you must do

what you think best. London, certainly, will offer many more opportunities than

Sandchurch, and I would urge you to make your move soon. The longer you stay cooped

up here, the harder it will be for you to break away.’

The following week, he called again and insisted that I leave the house and take

some air, for in truth I had not stepped outside for several days.

We walked along the undercliff, and then down to the smooth area of sand

washed by the wave line. The sky was a perfect blue – the blue of my Heidelberg

memories – and the sun shone in brilliant majesty, throwing down glancing points of

light onto the ever-swelling wave-tops, as if God himself were casting a myriad new-born

stars across the face of the waters.

We walked some distance in silence.

‘Are you happy, Ed?’ Tom suddenly asked.

We stopped, and I looked out across the dancing waves to where the vault of

heaven met the shimmering horizon.

‘No, Tom,’ I replied, ‘I am not happy, and indeed cannot say where happiness can

be found in my life. But I am resolved.’ I turned to him and smiled. ‘This has done me

good, Tom, as you knew very well that it would. You are right. I have immured myself

here for too long. I have another life to lead.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say so,’ he said grasping my hand. ‘I shall miss you, God

knows. The best pupil I ever had – and the best friend. But it would grieve me more if

you were to waste away here, and make no mark upon the world.’

‘Oh, I intend to make a mark on the world, Tom, have no fear. From this moment

I am reborn.’

It was true. I had felt a surge of energy as I gazed out at the mighty rolling ocean,

alive with sunlight – a new consciousness that my life now had purpose and definition. I

had made my decision. I would go to London, and from there I would begin my great

enterprise.

My restoration.

17:

Alea iacta est?

__________________________________________________________________

____

The only person I knew in London was my old school friend and travelling

companion, Willoughby Le Grice, to whom I immediately wrote to ask if he could

recommend suitable lodgings. He replied by return to say that a fellow at his club had

suggested I should write to a Signor Prospero Gallini, a former fencing master, who, by

all accounts, kept a good house in Camberwell.

I had taken the decision to abandon my given name of Glyver, except of course

with respect to those few, like Le Grice and Tom Grexby, who already knew me. It was

not mine by birth but was a kind of alias, imposed on me, without my knowledge or

consent, by others. What loyalty did I owe the name of Glyver? None. Captain Glyver

was not my father. Why, then, should I bear his name? I was who I was, whatever I chose

to call myself; and so, until I could redeem my rightful name and title, I would put on

whatever pseudonym suited my present purposes. My whole life would be a disguise, a

daily change of dress and character. I would inhabit a costumed world, entering now as

one character, now as another, as circumstance demanded. I would be Incognitus.

Unknown. There were, besides, practical considerations. In making enquiries concerning

my true self, carrying the name of Glyver might be disadvantageous to my cause. There

were many aspects of the plot hatched by Lady Tansor of which I was as yet unaware;

and to use my mother’s married name would immediately reveal my interest and

connexion to the protagonists. No: for the time being, it was better to work in the

shadows.

I therefore wrote to Signor Gallini as Edward Glapthorn – the name by which I

now became generally known in my new life. The following week, after receiving a

satisfactory reply, I took coach from Southampton to make arrangements with my new

landlord, whom I found to be exactly as Le Grice’s friend had described him: tall,

courteous, and quietly spoken, but with a melancholy patrician bearing, like an exiled

Roman emperor.

The village of Camberwell – for such it still was, despite the growing proximity

of the metropolis – was charming, with open fields and market gardens all around, and

pleasant walks through woods and lanes to nearby Dulwich and its picture gallery. Signor

Gallini’s house stood in a quiet street close to the Green – not far, as I later discovered,

from the birthplace of Mr Browning, the poet.? I was offered two rooms on the first floor

– a good-sized sitting-room with a small bedchamber adjoining – at a most reasonable

rent, which I instantly agreed to take.

Just as I was leaving, our business having been concluded satisfactorily with a

glass of wine and a cigar, both of excellent quality, the front door opened and in walked

the most beautiful girl I thought I had ever seen. Already, I liked to fancy myself as a

pretty hard-nosed young dog when it came to the female sex; but I confess I felt like a

callow schoolboy when I saw those lustrous black eyes, and the voluptuous figure that

her light-blue morning dress and short lace-collared cape did little to conceal.

‘May I introduce my daughter, Isabella?’ said Signor Gallini. ‘This, my dear, is

the gentleman who has been recommended to us. I am glad to say that he has consented

to take the rooms.’

His English was perfect, though spoken with the still detectable accent of his

native country. Miss Gallini smiled, held out a gloved hand, and said she hoped I would

like Camberwell, to which I could only reply that I believed I would like it very well

indeed. So began my connexion with Isabella Gallini, my beautiful Bella.

The time had now come to leave Sandchurch behind me. I set about packing my

mother’s journals and papers into three sturdy trunks, and instructing Mr Pringle, her

former lawyer, to sell the house. It was hard to let Beth go, for she had been part of the

household for as long as I could remember, and had continued to cook and clean for me

since my return from the Continent; but it had been agreed that she would perform the

same domestic duties for Tom, which eased my conscience a little. Billick took the news

of my departure in his usual taciturn fashion: he pursed his lips, nodded his head slowly,

as if in silent recognition of the inevitable, and shook me by the hand, most vigorously.

‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, receiving the small bag of coins that I had held out; whereupon he

spat out a piece of tobacco, and walked off down the path to the village, whistling as he

went. That was the last I ever saw of him.

I was not embarking on my new life entirely without some plan as to what I

should do with myself. Ever since the moment I had gazed upon the photogenic drawing

of the great stone king in Professor S—’s rooms in Oxford, the idea had been growing in

me that the production of such images might perhaps furnish a means of making a living,

or at least of supplementing my income. I had not mentioned this to Tom, fearing it

would produce another disagreement between us, but I had quietly taken steps to acquaint

myself more fully with the possibilities and techniques of this wonderful new medium. I

flatter myself that I was amongst its pioneers, and but for the subsequent course of my

life, I think I may have made my name in the field and been remembered by posterity for

it, along with Mr Talbot and Monsieur Daguerre.? I had always been fascinated by the

camera obscura, its ability to throw fleeting images onto paper, the creations of an

instant, which then, just as rapidly, faded away when the camera was removed. Tom – to

my utter delight – possessed one, and as a boy I would often harangue him, once our

lessons were done on a fine summer evening, to go out into his little garden and let me

look into ‘the magic mirror’. Those memories had been instantly revived by the

photogenic drawing displayed in the Professor’s rooms, and I now determined to learn for

myself how to catch and hold light and shadow in perpetuity. To this end, a few weeks

earlier, I had written to Mr Talbot, and he had kindly agreed to receive me at his house at

Lacock,? where I was inducted into the wonderful art of producing photogenic drawings

of the kind I had seen in the Professor’s rooms, and into all the mysteries of sciagraphs,?

developers, and exposure. I was even given one of Mr Talbot’s own cameras, dozens of

which had lay all about the house and grounds. They were perfect little miracles: nothing

more than small wooden boxes – some of them no more than two or three inches square

(Mrs Talbot called them ‘mousetraps’) – made to Mr Talbot’s design by a local carpenter,

with a brass lens affixed to the front; and yet what wonders they produced! I returned

home to Sandchurch, afire with enthusiasm for my new hobby, and eager to begin taking

my own photographs as soon as possible.

Then came the day when I closed the front door of the house on the cliff-top

behind me for what I thought would be the last time. I paused for a moment, beneath the

chestnut-tree by the gate, to look back at the place I had formerly called home. The

memories could not be held back. I saw myself playing in the front garden, eagerly

climbing the tree above me to look out from my crow’s-nest across the ever-changing

waters of the Channel, and trudging up and down the path, in every season and all

weathers, to and from Tom’s school. I recalled how I would stand watching my mother

through the parlour window, doubled over her work for hour after hour, never looking up.

And I remembered the sound of wind off the sea, the cry of sea birds as I woke every

morning, the ever-present descant of waves breaking on the shore below the cliff,

thundering in rough weather like the sound of distant cannon. But they were Edward

Glyver’s memories, not mine. I had merely borrowed them, and now he could have them

back. It was time for my new self to begin making memories of its own.

I was unpacking the last of my mother’s papers, a week or so after arriving at my

Camberwell lodgings, when I made a great discovery.

Temporarily interrupting my exertions to take a glass of brandy and smoke a

cigar, I idly opened one of the journal volumes, which I had just taken out of the trunk.

My eye happened to fall on an entry dated ’20.vii.19’: ‘To Mr AT yesterday: L not

present, but he kindly put me at my ease & explained what was required.’ ‘L’ was, of

course, Laura Tansor; but the identity of ‘Mr AT’ was still unknown to me. On an

impulse, I searched out a tied bundle of miscellaneous documents, all of which dated

from 1819. It did not take long to extract a receipt for a night’s stay, on the nineteenth of

July of that year, at Fendalls Hotel, Palace Yard. Adhering to the back was a card: