Authors: A.S. Byatt
Possession (5 page)
Val put before him grilled marinated lamb, ratatouille and hot Greek bread. He said, “Shall I get a bottle of wine?” and Val said, disagreeably and truthfully, “You should have thought of that some time back; it’ll all go cold.” They ate at a card-table, which they unfolded and folded again, after.
“I made an amazing discovery today,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“I was in the London Library. They’ve got R. H. Ash’s Vico. His own copy. They keep it in the safe. I had it brought up and it was absolutely bursting at the seams with his own notes, all tucked in, on the backs of bills and things. And I’m ninety per cent sure no one had looked at them, ever, not since he put them there, because all the edges were black and the lines coincided.…”
“How interesting.” Flatly.
“It might change the face of scholarship. It
could
. They let me read them, they didn’t take it away. I’m sure no one knew it was all there.”
“I expect they didn’t.”
“I’ll have to tell Blackadder. He’ll want to see how important it is, make sure Cropper hasn’t been there.…”
“I expect he will, yes.”
It was a bad mood.
“I’m sorry, Val, I’m sorry to bore you. It does look exciting.”
“That depends what turns you on. We all have our little pleasures of different kinds, I suppose.”
“I can write it up. An article. A solid discovery. Make me a better job prospect.”
“There aren’t any jobs.” She added, “And if there are, they go to Fergus Wolff.”
He knew his Val: he had watched her honourably try to prevent herself from adding that last remark.
“If you really think what I do is so unimportant.…”
“You do what turns you on,” said Val. “Everyone does, if they’re lucky, if there is anything that turns them on. You have this thing about this dead man. Who had a thing about dead people. That’s OK but not everyone is very bothered about all that. I see some things, from my menial vantage point. Last week, when I was in that ceramics export place, I found some photographs under a file in my boss’s desk. Things being done to little boys. With chains and gags and—dirt— This week, ever so efficiently filing records for this surgeon, I just happened to come across a sixteen-year-old who
had his leg off last year—they’re fitting him with an artificial one, it takes months, they’re incredibly slow—and it’s started up for certain now in his other leg, he doesn’t know, but I know, I know lots of things. None of them fit together, none of them makes any sense. There was a man who went off to Amsterdam to buy some diamonds, I helped his secretary book his ticket, first class, and his limousine, smooth as clockwork, and as he’s walking along a canal admiring the housefronts someone stabs him in the back, destroys a kidney, gangrene sets in, now he’s dead. Just like that. Chaps like those use my menial services, here today, gone tomorrow. Randolph Henry Ash wrote long ago. Forgive me if I don’t care what he wrote in his Vico.”
“Oh, Val, such horrible things, you never say—”
“Oh, it’s all very
interesting
, my menial keyhole observations, make no mistake. Just it doesn’t make sense and it leaves me nowhere. I suppose I envy you, piecing together old Ash’s world-picture. Only where does that leave
you
, old Mole? What’s
your
world-picture? And how are you ever going to afford to get us away from dripping cat-piss and being
on top of each other?”
Something had upset her, Roland reasonably deduced. Something that had caused her to use the phrase “turn you on” several times, which was uncharacteristic. Perhaps someone had grabbed her. Or had not done so. No, that was unworthy. Anger and petulance
did
turn her on, he knew. He knew more than was quite good for him about Val. He went across and stroked the nape of her neck, and she sniffed and stiffened and then relaxed. After a bit, they moved over to the bed.
He had not told her, and could not tell her, about his secret theft. Late that night, he looked at the letters again, in the bathroom. “Dear Madam, Since our extraordinary conversation I have thought of nothing else.” “Dear Madam, Since our pleasant and unexpected conversation I have thought of little else.” Urgent, unfinished. Shocking. Roland had never been much interested in Randolph Henry Ash’s vanished body; he did not spend time visiting his house
in Russell Street, or sitting where he had sat, on stone garden seats; that was Cropper’s style. What Roland liked was his knowledge of the movements of Ash’s mind, stalked through the twists and turns of his syntax, suddenly sharp and clear in an unexpected epithet. But these dead letters troubled him, physically even, because they were only beginnings. He did not imagine Randolph Henry Ash, his pen moving rapidly across the paper, but he did have the thought of the pads of the long-dead fingers that had held and folded these half-covered sheets, before preserving them in the book, instead of jettisoning them.
Who?
He must try to find out.
In this dim place
The creeping Nidhogg, with his sooty scales
Gnaws at the great Tree’s root, and makes his nest,
Curled in the knotted maze on which he feeds
—R. H. A
SH
,
Ragnarök III
R
oland went to Bloomsbury on his bicycle next morning, setting off very early when Val was still applying her workaday face. He went weaving perilously through and through the stinking five-mile worm of traffic across Putney Bridge, along the Embankment, through Parliament Square. He had no office in his old college, but inhabited an office on sufferance, for his few hours’ part-time teaching. Here, in an empty silence, he unpacked his bicycle panniers and went up to the pantry where the bulk of the Xerox squatted amongst unsavoury tea-towels beside a tea-stained sink. Whilst the machine warmed up, in the dim and hum of the extractor fan, he took out his two letters and read them again. Then he spread them face down, to be scryed on the black glass, under which the rods of green light floated and passed. And the machine spat out, hot and chemical-scented, spectrograms
of those writings, black-rimmed by imaged empty space as the originals were edged by a century’s dust. He was honest: he wrote his debt in the departmental notebook on the draining board. Roland Michell, 2 sheets, 10p. He was dishonest. He now had a fair copy and could slip the letters back unremarked into the London Library Vico. But he did not want to. He felt they were his. He had always slightly despised those enchanted by things touched by the great: Balzac’s ornate walking-stick, Robert Louis Stevenson’s flageolet, a black lace mantilla once worn by George Eliot. Mortimer Cropper was in the habit of drawing Randolph Henry Ash’s large gold watch from an inner fob pocket, and arranging his time by Ash’s timepiece. Roland’s Xeroxes were cleaner and clearer than the faded coppery-grey script of the originals; indeed the copy-ink had a black and gleaming freshness, the machine’s rollers must have been newly inked. But he wanted the originals.
When Dr Williams’s library opened he presented himself and asked to see the manuscript of Crabb Robinson’s monumental Diary. He had been there before, but had to use Blackadder’s name, to remind them, though he had no idea of showing Blackadder what he had found, not yet at least, not until his own curiosity was satisfied and the papers restored.
He started reading in 1856, the year of publication of
Gods, Men and Heroes
, which Crabb Robinson, indefatigable, had read and commented on.
JUNE
4 Read several dramatic poems from Randolph Ash’s new book. I noted particularly those purporting to be spoken by Augustine of Hippo, the ninth-century Saxon monk, Gotteschalk, and “Neighbour Pliable” from
Pilgrim’s Progress
. Also a singular evocation of Franz Mesmer and the young Mozart playing their glass harmonica at the court of the Archduke in Vienna, full of sounds and strange airs, excellently conceived and embodied. This Gotteschalk, a precursor of Luther, even to renouncing his Vows, might be thought in his intransigent predestinarian vision to figure some of the later Evangelicals of our day, and Neighbour Pliable perhaps a satire upon those like myself, who
believe that Christianity does not consist in the idolatrous presence of the Deity in a piece of bread, nor yet in the five points of metaphysic faith. As is his wont, Ash treats Pliable, with whom he might be supposed to sympathise, with more apparent spleen than he directs towards his monstrous monk whose ravings have a certain real sublimity. It is difficult to know where to
have
Randolph Ash. I fear he will never become a popular poet. His evocation of the Black Forest in “Gotteschalk” is very fine, but how many of the public are prepared to endure his theological strictures to come to it? He convolutes and wreathes his melodies with such a forcing of rhyme and such a thicket of peculiar and ill-founded analogies, that his meaning is hard to discern. When I read Ash, I think of the younger Coleridge, reciting with gusto his epigram upon Donne:
With Donne whose muse on dromedary trots
Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots.
This passage was already well known to Ash scholars and had been extensively quoted. Roland liked Crabb Robinson, a man of indefatigable good will, intellectual curiosity, delight in literature and learning, and yet full of self-deprecation.
“I early found that I had not the literary ability to give me such a place among English authors as I should have desired; but I thought that I had an opportunity of gaining a knowledge of many of the distinguished men of the age, and that I might do some good by keeping a record of my interviews with them.” He had known them all, two whole generations, Wordsworth, Coleridge, De Quincey, Lamb; Mme de Staël, Goethe, Schiller; Carlyle, G.H. Lewes, Tennyson, Clough, Bagehot. Roland read through 1857 and embarked on 1858. In the February of that year Robinson wrote:
Were this my last hour (and that of an octogenarian cannot be far off) I would thank God for permitting me to behold so much of the excellence conferred on individuals. Of women, I saw the type of her heroic greatness in Mrs Siddons; of her fascinations, in Mrs Jordan and Mlle Mars; I listened with rapture to the
dreamy monologues of Coleridge—“that old man eloquent”; I travelled with Wordsworth, the greatest of our lyrico-philosophical poets; I relished the wit and pathos of Charles Lamb; I conversed freely with Goethe at his own table, beyond all competition the supreme genius of his age and country. He acknowledges his obligations only to Shakespeare, Spinoza and Linnaeus, as Wordsworth, when he resolved to be a poet, feared competition only with Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton.
In June, Roland found what he had been looking for.
My breakfast party went off very well indeed, as far as talk was concerned. I had with me Bagehot, Ash, Mrs Jameson, Professor Spear, Miss LaMotte and her friend Miss Glover, the last somewhat taciturn. Ash had never met Miss LaMotte, who indeed came out exceptionally to please me and to speak to her dear Father, whose
Mythologies
I have had some hand in bringing before the English public. Discussion of poetry was animated, especially of Dante’s incomparable genius, but also of the genius of Shakespeare in his poems, especially the playfulness of his young works, which Ash particularly admires. Miss LaMotte spoke more forcefully than I would have expected: she is surprisingly handsome when animated. We discussed also the so-called “spiritual” manifestations, about which Lady Byron wrote to me with great feeling. There was talk of Mrs Stowe’s claim to have conversed with the spirit of Charlotte Brontë. Miss Glover, in one of her few interventions, said warmly that she believed such things could and did happen. Ash said he would require foolproof experimental conviction and did not imagine it would be forthcoming. Bagehot said that Ash’s presentation of Mesmer’s belief in spiritual influences showed he was less rigorously confined by positive science than he now claimed to be. Ash replied that the historical imagination required a kind of poetic belief in the mental universe of his characters and that this was so strong with him, that he was in danger of having no beliefs of his own at all. All appealed to Miss LaMotte on the question of the rapping spirits; she declined to express an opinion, answering only with a Monna Lisa smile.