Read The Other Nineteenth Century Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
The Other Nineteenth Century (5 page)
“I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
—Shelley,
Ozymandias.
Ozymandias.
It was in April 1822, on the third day after his friend had sailed off into a lead-grey, oil-smooth sea only a few hours before the storm broke, that Tregareth, fearing the worst, made his way to Lord Gryphon’s villa, to consult with him. Was not Gryphon the nominal head of the English
literati
hereabouts?
literati
hereabouts?
The time was past noon, Gryphon had already had his cup of strong, green tea, and was lunching on the invariable biscuit and soda-water as he lay abed. He looked up when the tall figure entered, long black hair in disarray, striking his fist into palm.
“Surely there is
some
news, Tregareth,” Gryphon said. “Are they safe? Have they been . .
. found?”
some
news, Tregareth,” Gryphon said. “Are they safe? Have they been . .
. found?”
Tregareth shook his head. “I have no news, my lord,” he said, trying to mask his agitation with formality. “Every vessel putting into Leghorn has been questioned, but there has been no sign of the
Sea Sprite,
of Shadwell or Wilson or the ship’s boy. I thought that you might have had a letter, or at least a note, from their wives at the Villa Grandi, saying that they had arrived.”
Sea Sprite,
of Shadwell or Wilson or the ship’s boy. I thought that you might have had a letter, or at least a note, from their wives at the Villa Grandi, saying that they had arrived.”
“I have had nothing!” Gryphon cried.
“Fulke Grant has heard no word, either. He blames himself, poor fellow—‘It was to welcome me and get me settled that they sailed to Leghorn,’ he says.”
“Oh, God, Tregareth!” Gryphon moaned, covering his fat, pale face with a trembling hand. “They have been drowned! They have surely been drowned!”
Tregareth, looking away from him, turning his gaze out of the window to the hot sandy plain, said sturdily, “It does not follow, my lord. Not at all. I conceive of at least two other possibilities—no, three. First, they may have been carried away off course—to Elba, perhaps, or even to Corsica or Sardinia. Second, assuming the vessel
did
come to harm, which Heaven forbid—though she
was
cranky and frisky—there were so many other craft at sea that evening—” Tregareth spoke more and more rapidly, his broad chest rising and falling as his agitation increased. “Surely it is not unreasonable that they have been taken aboard one of them and are even now disembarking in some port. And, third, I fear we must also consider the possibility that a piratical felluca may have ridden them down—pretending accident, don’t you know, my lord—and that presently we shall receive some elegantly worded message which in our blunter English speech spells ‘ransom’”
did
come to harm, which Heaven forbid—though she
was
cranky and frisky—there were so many other craft at sea that evening—” Tregareth spoke more and more rapidly, his broad chest rising and falling as his agitation increased. “Surely it is not unreasonable that they have been taken aboard one of them and are even now disembarking in some port. And, third, I fear we must also consider the possibility that a piratical felluca may have ridden them down—pretending accident, don’t you know, my lord—and that presently we shall receive some elegantly worded message which in our blunter English speech spells ‘ransom’”
Gryphon had begun slowly to nod; now his face had cleared
somewhat. He reached for his silver flask, poured brandy into the tiny silver cup. “What must we do?” he asked. “You have been a sailor—in fact, if we are to believe your own account of it—wilder than any tale
I
dared to write!—you have been a pirate, too. Command me, Tregareth! Eh?” He drained the cup, looking at the Cornishman with raised brows.
somewhat. He reached for his silver flask, poured brandy into the tiny silver cup. “What must we do?” he asked. “You have been a sailor—in fact, if we are to believe your own account of it—wilder than any tale
I
dared to write!—you have been a pirate, too. Command me, Tregareth! Eh?” He drained the cup, looking at the Cornishman with raised brows.
Ignoring, in his concern, the implication, the other man said, “I thank you, my lord. I propose, then—in your name, with your consent—to obtain the governor’s permission to have the coast guards scan the beaches. Perhaps some flotsam or wreckage will give hint of—” He did not finish the sentence. Gryphon shuddered. “And also, I will have couriers sent out on the road to Nice, enquiring of news, if any, of their having reached another port. In the event of their having been captured by brigands, we must await that intelligence.”
Gryphon muttered something about—in that event—the British Minister—
Tregareth’s grey eyes grew fierce and angry. “Let Shadwell’s
wife,
my lord, let poor Amelia appeal to the minister and to diplomacy. Let me, but hear of where they are constrained—give me a file of dragoons—or if not, just a brace of pistols and a stiletto—I have stormed the corsair’s lair before!”
wife,
my lord, let poor Amelia appeal to the minister and to diplomacy. Let me, but hear of where they are constrained—give me a file of dragoons—or if not, just a brace of pistols and a stiletto—I have stormed the corsair’s lair before!”
“Yes, yes!” Gryphon cried. He rose from bed, thrust feet into slippers, and, with his queer, lame, gliding, walk, came across the room. “And I shall go with you! This is no coward’s heart which beats here—” He laid his hand on his left breast.
“I know it, my lord,” the other said, touched.
And, telling him that he must make haste, Gryphon thrust a silken purse into Tregareth’s hands, bade him godspeed, and gloomily prepared to dress.
The two ladies met the Cornishman with flushed cheeks—cheeks from which the color soon fled as he confessed that he brought them no news. Jane Wilson essayed a brave smile on her trembling lips,
but Amelia Shadwell shrieked, pressed her palms to her head, and repeated Gryphon’s very words.
but Amelia Shadwell shrieked, pressed her palms to her head, and repeated Gryphon’s very words.
“Oh, God, Tregareth! They have been drowned!”
But Mrs. Wilson would not have it so. She knelt by the side of her hostess’s cot in the “hall” of the Villa Grandi—a whitewashed room on the upper story, not much larger than the four small whitewashed rooms which served for bedchambers—and taking the distressed woman by the hand, began to comfort her. Wilson was an excellent sailor, she said. No harm could come to Shadwell while Wilson was aboard. The storm had lasted less than half an hour—surely not enough to injure such a stoutly built vessel as the
Sea Sprite
. Tregareth added his assurances to Jane’s, with an air of confidence he did not feel.
Sea Sprite
. Tregareth added his assurances to Jane’s, with an air of confidence he did not feel.
By and by the cries gave way to moans. Amelia pressed a handkerchief to her lovely eyes and turned away her head. Tregareth would have lingered, but Jane drew him gently away. They descended the stairs together. The sea foamed and lapped almost at their feet.
For a moment they were silent, looking out over the beautiful Gulf of Spezia to the terrace. To one side was the tiny fishing village of Sant’ Ursula; to the other side, a degree nearer, the equally tiny town of Lorenzi.
At length Jane spoke. “Poor, poor, dearest Amelia!” she said. “She has been far from well. It is not only her body which is weak, you know, Tregareth. She has been sick in spirit, sick at heart. It is the loss of her dear children. To bid farewell to two such sweet babes in so brief a time—no, no, Tregareth, man knows nought of what woman feels. It is too much.” And so she spoke, mantling her own concern for the missing. Even when her husband’s name, it was only in connection with Amelia’s illness.
“Did you know, Tregareth, that scarcely more than a week ago, when she was in truth barely able to turn on her couch, that we missed her one night? Wilson found her down below, her slippers sodden and her hem drenched, and she seemed like one who walks in a dream. I have not dared to part from her for even a moment since. We had better go back—but no word of this.”
Amelia smiled at them as they returned, a sad and worn little smile. “I am ready to hear what you have to tell me, now, with more composure,” she said.
And so Tregareth recounted to her what he thought she might safely hear. How Shadwell and Wilson came sailing the trim little
Sea Sprite
over the wine-dark sea to greet the poet Fulke Grant and his family. How Grant and Shadwell had fallen into one another’s arms for joy. How they had settled the new arrivals in satisfactory quarters. And how, finally, it was decided that the
Sea Sprite
and the
Liberator
—Lord Gryphon’s vessel—would return together, with Tregareth captaining the latter, while Gryphon stayed behind.
Sea Sprite
over the wine-dark sea to greet the poet Fulke Grant and his family. How Grant and Shadwell had fallen into one another’s arms for joy. How they had settled the new arrivals in satisfactory quarters. And how, finally, it was decided that the
Sea Sprite
and the
Liberator
—Lord Gryphon’s vessel—would return together, with Tregareth captaining the latter, while Gryphon stayed behind.
“Oh, why did you not do so, Tregareth?” cried Amelia Shadwell. “With a skilled sea-captain such as you to convey them—”
It was the fault of the harbormaster, Tregareth explained. At the last minute he had refused clearance to the
Liberator
on some petty point or other. And so Shadwell and Wilson, by now impatient to see their wives once more, had sailed off alone, with only Antonio, the ship’s boy, for crew. Not for worlds would he have told her of his fears. Of Wilson’s being—for all his wife’s pride—but a gentleman-sailor. Of how awkwardly Shadwell handled the craft. Of what others had said—
Liberator
on some petty point or other. And so Shadwell and Wilson, by now impatient to see their wives once more, had sailed off alone, with only Antonio, the ship’s boy, for crew. Not for worlds would he have told her of his fears. Of Wilson’s being—for all his wife’s pride—but a gentleman-sailor. Of how awkwardly Shadwell handled the craft. Of what others had said—
“Crank as an eggshell, and too much sail for those two sticks of masts,” remarked the master of a Yankee ship, spitting tobacco. “She looks like a bundle of chips going to the fire.”
And the
Liberator’s
first mate, a Genoa-man: “They should have sailed at this hour of the morning, not the afternoon. They’re standing in too close to shore—catch too much breeze. That gaff topsail is foolish in a boat with no deck and no real sailors aboard.”
Liberator’s
first mate, a Genoa-man: “They should have sailed at this hour of the morning, not the afternoon. They’re standing in too close to shore—catch too much breeze. That gaff topsail is foolish in a boat with no deck and no real sailors aboard.”
There had been only a slight wind. But in the southwest were dirty rags of clouds. “Smoke on the sea,” said the mate, shaking his head. “A warning …” as the fog closed around the trim little
Sprite
. The air was sultry, hot and heavy and close. Tregareth had gone below to his cabin and fallen into a doze. He dreamed of Shadwell, his dark-fair hair only touched with grey, ruffled by the breeze, the light of genius in his eye, the look of exaltation on his face—a boy’s
face still, for all he was approaching thirty—a boy’s fair skin and light freckles, and a boy’s look of eagerness. The world had never gone stale for Archie Shadwell …
Sprite
. The air was sultry, hot and heavy and close. Tregareth had gone below to his cabin and fallen into a doze. He dreamed of Shadwell, his dark-fair hair only touched with grey, ruffled by the breeze, the light of genius in his eye, the look of exaltation on his face—a boy’s
face still, for all he was approaching thirty—a boy’s fair skin and light freckles, and a boy’s look of eagerness. The world had never gone stale for Archie Shadwell …
Tregareth had thought, as he often did, of his own good fortune in being the friend of Shadwell and of Mrs. Shadwell; and somehow he found himself envying Wilson, who not only had a beautiful wife of his own—Tregareth’s wife was dead—but the company of the beautiful Amelia Shadwell … and then he had fallen asleep.
And then had come the gust of wind—the
temporale
, the Italians called it—and the squall broke. It thundered and lightninged and he rushed on deck to help make all trim. In twenty minutes the storm’s fury was spent, but Jane Wilson was wrong in thinking that was too brief a time for deadly damage. Twenty seconds could do for so light a boat as the
Sea Sprite.
temporale
, the Italians called it—and the squall broke. It thundered and lightninged and he rushed on deck to help make all trim. In twenty minutes the storm’s fury was spent, but Jane Wilson was wrong in thinking that was too brief a time for deadly damage. Twenty seconds could do for so light a boat as the
Sea Sprite.
Thus three days had passed—three days of ceaseless enquiry. From Gryphon, Tregareth had gone directly to the governor, mentioned the name of
il milord Gryphon
, doucely slid the purse across the desk.
il milord Gryphon
, doucely slid the purse across the desk.
“A courier? As far as Nice? Of course! And the coast guards to patrol the beaches all about? Certainly!” The purse vanished. Orders were given, messengers scurried. Tregareth had left in a flurry of assurances, and come straight to the Villa Grandi.
He had intended to leave as quickly, to pursue his own search, to flag (and flog, too, if need be!) the coast guards into vigilance—for who knew if any of Gryphon’s gold would trickle down to them? But Amelia would not hear of it.
“Tregareth, do not leave us!” she begged. And he, looking at her sweet face, could not refuse to tarry a little while. Jane summoned a servant to make fire for tea. Jane herself was busy pretending the matter was no more than that of, say, a diligence whose lead-mule had delayed the schedule by casting a shoe; she bustled about with needles and thread. But Amelia would not play this game.
“Oh, Jane, in Heaven’s name, be still,” she pleaded.
“I am looking for the beeswax, to help thread my needles,” Jane
explained, hunting and peering. “I promised dear Shadwell to finish that embroidered shirt for him. Where can it be? Is that not strange? A great lump of unbleached beeswax—”
explained, hunting and peering. “I promised dear Shadwell to finish that embroidered shirt for him. Where can it be? Is that not strange? A great lump of unbleached beeswax—”
Amelia began to weep. “Shall he ever wear a shirt again? And this creature wants to kill me with her talk and her scurrying—”
But the next moment Tregareth himself was kneeling and holding her hand and vowing that Shadwell would live to wear out a thousand shirts, ten thousand. She smiled, allowed her tiny white hand to become engulfed in his great brown one. But she gave a little cry of pain.
“Why, what is this, Amelia?” he asked, astonished, opening her fingers, and looking at the scarce-healed marks there.
“I was sawing wood, kindling, for the fire,” she said in a small voice; Jane and Tregareth exclaimed against such foolishness. There were servants. Amelia pouted. “They care nothing for me,” she said. “Look at that slut, there—do you suppose she cares about me?”
The servantgirl, perhaps sensing she was being mentioned, turned at that moment. She smiled. Not at all an ill-looking wench, Tregareth observed, almost abstractedly—though of course one could not even consider such coarse charms in the presence of lovely Amelia. The girl smiled, “The
signore
will soon return,” she said.
signore
will soon return,” she said.
Amelia spat at her, cursed, called her
puta,
struggled to rise.
puta,
struggled to rise.
“Madame!” cried Tregareth, shocked.
“She meant but to reassure you, dearest Amelia,” said Jane, as the girl scuttled away, frightened.
“She did not mean to! She meant to scorn me! Does she think I am blind? Does everyone think I am blind? Do
you
, Jane?” But the hysteria passed almost as soon as it had come.
you
, Jane?” But the hysteria passed almost as soon as it had come.
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