Read The Other Nineteenth Century Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
The Other Nineteenth Century (6 page)
“Tregareth, forgive me,” she said. “I am not well. Such sickly fancies cloud my mind … Oh, I know that Shadwell must be living! So great a genius cannot die so young! No age ever had such a poet. Does not Gryphon himself agree? Was he not proud to have the little ship named after his own poem? Oh! I little thought, the day he carved his initials in her mainmast, that she would give us so much grief … I have had such presentiments of evil—such a sense
of oppression that I have not felt for years, not since poor Henrietta …”
of oppression that I have not felt for years, not since poor Henrietta …”
Tregareth felt the little hairs rise on his neck. Never before had he heard the name of Shadwell’s first wife mentioned in this house. It seemed—he scarcely knew why—it seemed dreadful to hear it now on Amelia’s lips, on Amelia’s smiling lips.
“Do you believe she drowned herself?” she asked. He could only stammer. “There are those who say—” Amelia paused.
“No one says—” began Jane.
But the sick woman smiled and shook her head. “Everyone knows of Shadwell and me, how we eloped while he was still a married man,” she said dreamily. “Everyone knows that only Henrietta’s death set us both free to marry. Everyone knows of Shadwell and Clara Claybourne,” she continued. “First she bore Gryphon’s illegitimate child, then she bore Shadwell’s—everyone knows …” Her accusing eyes met those of Jane, who stood by, her face showing her pain. “But only you and I, Jane, know …” And she seemed to fall into a reverie. Then she chuckled.
So pleased were they to have this sign of her mind passing to anything which had power to please her, whatever it might be, that they beamed. “Do you remember, Jane, your first night here? Were you listening? How Wilson said. ‘To think that my wife and I are privileged to be guests under a roof which shelters two such rare geniuses! Archie, the author of that exquisite poem,
Deucalion,
and Amelia, the author of the great novel,
Koenigsmark
—’ Do you remember, Jane, what Shadwell said?”
Deucalion,
and Amelia, the author of the great novel,
Koenigsmark
—’ Do you remember, Jane, what Shadwell said?”
“I did not hear, dear Amelia. What did he say?”
“He said,
‘Koenigsmark!
Ha-ha!’”
‘Koenigsmark!
Ha-ha!’”
For days Tregareth rode the shores, scanning the waves, the scent of the salt sea never out of his nostrils. Some few bits of flotsam from the
Sea Sprite
had come ashore, but this was not proof positive. However, he no longer had doubts. He drove himself, unrelenting, in his quest. Not only grief for his friend spurred him on now, but guilt as well.
Sea Sprite
had come ashore, but this was not proof positive. However, he no longer had doubts. He drove himself, unrelenting, in his quest. Not only grief for his friend spurred him on now, but guilt as well.
“You have travelled so far, Tregareth,” Amelia had said to him; “you are, yourself, that
‘traveller from an antique land’
who brought back word of Ozymandias. In the East, of which you are so much enamored, and of which you have made me so much enamored—do they have love there, as we know it? Or—only lust?”
‘traveller from an antique land’
who brought back word of Ozymandias. In the East, of which you are so much enamored, and of which you have made me so much enamored—do they have love there, as we know it? Or—only lust?”
Tregareth had considered, throwing back his head. After a moment he said, “In the East they have that which is stronger than either love or lust. In the East they have
passion.”
passion.”
She considered this. She nodded. “Yes,” she had said. “For love may fade, and lust must ever repel.
Passion.
Do not think that our English blood is too thin and cold for passion, Tregareth.”
Passion.
Do not think that our English blood is too thin and cold for passion, Tregareth.”
Now he asked himself, again and again, spurring through the sand, was it covetousness to desire a man’s wife for your own—if the man were dead? Would not Shadwell himself have laughed at such squeamishness? Would not Gryphon?
He almost did not see the coast guard until the man called out to him. When he did see, and reined his horse, he still did not imagine. Then the man gestured, and Tregareth looked.
And there on the margin of the sea he saw him.
“There is no doubt of it being Shadwell, I suppose?” Gryphon asked.
Tregareth shook his head. “None. Shadwell’s clothes and Shadwell’s hair, in one pocket Shadwell’s copy of
Hesiod,
and in another, his copy of Blake.”
Hesiod,
and in another, his copy of Blake.”
Gryphon shuddered. He looked at a letter which he held in his hand. “From Amelia,” he said. He began to read.
“‘You have heard me tell that my grandmother, a Scotswoman, was reputed to have been fey, and to have visualized the Prince’s defeat at Culloden before it happened. I, too, at times, have had presentiments of future misfortunes. I had them at the time of poor Henrietta’s death. But never so strong as during this Springtime did I feel the burden. The landscape and seascape I saw seemed not of this earth. My mind wandered so, as if enchanted, and oftimes I was not sure—and still am not sure—if the things I saw and did were real—or were the products of an ensorcelled mind, musing on ancient
wrongs: and all the time, the waves murmuring,
Doom, Doom, Doom …”
wrongs: and all the time, the waves murmuring,
Doom, Doom, Doom …”
They were silent. “What shall be done with the body?” Gryphon asked. “The nearest Protestant cemetery is in Rome.”
Tregareth said, “Shadwell a Protestant? If ever there lived a man who was a pagan in whole heart, body, and soul—Besides, in this weather, it is out of the question to convey the corpse to Rome.”
Distressed, almost petulant, Gryphon flung out his fat hands. “But what shall we
do?”
he cried.
do?”
he cried.
“He was a pagan,” said Tregareth, “and shall have a pagan funeral. The Greeks knew how. And I have seen it done in India.”
Gryphon began to quiver. He reached for the silver flask.
The widow received the tragic news with an agony of tears. Presently she recovered somewhat, and said, “I knew it would be so. I have had no other thought. Now he is young forever. Now,” her voice trembled and fell,
“mine
forever.”
“mine
forever.”
They parted with a gentle embrace, she accepting Tregareth’s counsel not to attend the immediate funeral. Later, he said, when a second interment would be held at Rome, if she felt stronger …
Tregareth’s emotions, as he rode back, were mixed. In great measure his activity on Shadwell’s behalf had absorbed the grief he would otherwise now be experiencing at Shadwell’s death. Moreover, thoughts he had earlier suppressed rose now and had their will. Had there not been, in Shadwell’s friendship for him, some measure of condescension? Had Shadwell not indicated from time to time—though less openly than Gryphon—a lack of complete belief in the stories Tregareth told of his youth in Nelson’s Navy and his adventurous career as the consort of buccaneers in India?
But—sharpest of all—Shadwell was dead! And he, Tregareth, was alive! It was dreadful about the former, but it was impossible not to feel gratitude and joy in the latter. As he rode between the forest and the sea, Tregareth felt the keenness of delight in the fact that he lived and could experience all the rich pleasures of the living world.
The body had come ashore near a place called Via Vecchio. A
small crowd had gathered, but the dragoons scarcely needed to hold them back. The people looked on, half fascinated, half horrified at the strange scene, and kept crossing themselves.
small crowd had gathered, but the dragoons scarcely needed to hold them back. The people looked on, half fascinated, half horrified at the strange scene, and kept crossing themselves.
Tregareth was in full, undisputed charge.
“I might have spared myself the trouble of bringing wood,” he said. “See—not only is the forest there full of fallen timber, but here are all these broken spars and planks cast up on the shore.”
He gave directions in loud and resonant tones. The workmen dared not resist, though they looked as if they would have mightily liked to. A pyre was soon built up, and the body lifted onto it. Tregareth heaped on more wood. One piece he glanced at, put it under his arm.
Gryphon was pale and ill at ease, but gentle little Fulke Grant did not even trust himself to stand, and remained sitting in the carriage.
“I think all is ready,” Tregareth said. He cleared his throat. Hats came off in the crowd.
“Surely Shadwell’s shade is watching us,” he said, “as we prepare to bid farewell to his clay. Behold the verdant islands floating on the azure sea he loved so much, and which he took to his final embrace! Behold the ruined castles of the antiquity whose praises he sang in incomparable numbers, ‘for the numbers came’! Behold the snowy bosoms of the ever-lofty mountain peaks! All these, Shadwell loved. Shadwell!
Vale!”
Vale!”
He poured over the body a quantity of wine and oil, then took the waiting torch and thrust it under the pyre. The wood was tinder-dry and flared up directly.
“Vale,
Shadwell!” Tregareth cried again. He cast into the fire the copy of Blake which had been in the drowned poet’s pocket. He tossed on a handful of salt, and the yellow flames glistened and quivered as they licked it up.
“Vale,
Shadwell!” Tregareth cried again. He cast into the fire the copy of Blake which had been in the drowned poet’s pocket. He tossed on a handful of salt, and the yellow flames glistened and quivered as they licked it up.
“Behold!” he exclaimed, “How peacefully the once-raging sea is now embracing the land as if in humility, as if to crave pardon! O Shadwell, thou—”
But here Gryphon interrupted him. “Tregareth, cease this mockery of our pride and vainglory,” he said in a stifled, low, voice.
Tregareth, his long black hair floating on the wind in magnificent disorder, looked at him with some surprise. Then he looked over to Fulke Grant. But little Grant, still in the carriage, now had the silver flask in his hand. The only sound he made was a hiccup.
Tregareth shrugged. He tossed in a handful of frankincense. The flame mounted higher. The heat grew more intense.
“I cannot endure to remain much longer in Italy,” Gryphon said. “Every valley, every brook, will cry aloud his name to me … We must go off together somewhere, Tregareth, you and I. For now I have no one left. America, Greece—somewhere far off.” He sobbed aloud, then turned and walked away. The fire crackled and hissed.
Tregareth stood all alone by the pyre. Slowly he took from under his arm the piece of driftwood. It seemed a portion of a ship’s mast. On it were carved the initials
G. G.
He clearly called to mind that happy day, only a short while back, when Gerald, Lord Gryphon, had carved the letters. The top of the piece was all rent raggedly. But on the lower part the breach was only partly so. The rest of it—
G. G.
He clearly called to mind that happy day, only a short while back, when Gerald, Lord Gryphon, had carved the letters. The top of the piece was all rent raggedly. But on the lower part the breach was only partly so. The rest of it—
He could envision the scene. The sudden trumpets of the storm, the terribly sudden blast of wind, the foremast crashing down before the frightful pressure of the wind-caught sails, mast and sail falling as dead weight upon the gunwales, and the ship careening and filling and then going over, going down, as the sea rushed in and the lightning served only to make the blackness deeper …
Tregareth ran his fingers over the smoother surface of the wood. Someone, plainly, had sawn half through the mast and then hidden the cut with unbleached beeswax of the same color.
He lifted his fingers, bent his head. Despite the wash of the sea and the scouring of the sand, Tregareth could still note the scent of the wax. He thought, for just a moment, that he could even detect the scent of the soft bosom in which the wax must have rested to soften it—but this was only fancy, he knew. It need not, however, remain only fancy.
Love, he reflected, can fade; and lust must ever repel—but passion is stronger than either.
He came as close to the pyre as he could, threw in the shattered section of the mast, and watched it burn fiercely.
Then he turned and went to join the others.
Postscript to “Traveller from an Antique Land”:
A Letter from Avram Davidson to Robert Mills, 03 October 1960
October 3/60
410 West 110th St.
NYC 25
410 West 110th St.
NYC 25
Dear Bob,
Thank you for sending along Fred Dannay’s very interesting comments on TRAVELLER FROM AN ANTIQUE LAND. I think I see exactly what he means. Some of the changes he suggests have been already made, others, I shall make. For instance:
| Historical Names | Fictional Names |
|---|---|
| Trelawney | Tregareth |
| boat “Don Juan” | boat “Sea Sprite” |
| boat “Bolivar” | boat “Liberator” |
| Mary | Amelia |
| Harriet | Henrietta |
| Claire Clairmont | Clara Claybourne |
| “Epipsychidion” (poem) | “Deucalion” |
| “Frankenstein” (novel) | “Koenigsmark” |
| Villa, Casa Magni | Villa Grandi |
| Via Reggio | Via Vecchio |
| Williams | Wilson |
| copy of Keats* | copy of Blake |
| Leigh Hunt | Fulke Grant |
| Lord Byron | Lord Gryphon |
| Shelley, Percy | Shadwell, Archie |
forget actual names of towns I call: Sant’ Ursula and Lorenzi “if other vol.* was really Sophocles—so, change to Hesiod (The cities of Nice and Rome are, of course, both fictitious.)
The letter from Mary/Amelia is from an original. I should have liked to essay another in the same vein, but I eliminate as directed. Fred does not mention my having pointed out that much of the funeral oration is in Trelawney’s (and, to a much lesser extent, Leigh Hunt’s) own words. I guess he simply forgot, and, as I am sure he does not want it to stand so, I have paraphrased.
I am sure I do not know what he means about asking me not to play any tricks or try to fool him. “The ox knoweth his stall, and the ass his master’s crib …”
On second thought, I
will
try to compose another Mary/ Amelia letter. If not desired, it may be eliminated, so that this part of p. 12 would then read simply, “Gryphon shuddered. They were silent.”
will
try to compose another Mary/ Amelia letter. If not desired, it may be eliminated, so that this part of p. 12 would then read simply, “Gryphon shuddered. They were silent.”
The date I supply as directed on p. 1 is the actual one; if this was not what was wanted it may safely be changed to—say—five years before or after. I trust these revisions will do the trick. I did not feel up to retyping the whole MS a third time.
Yours,
Avram Davidson
Avram Davidson
Other books
Alpha 1472 by Eddie Hastings
The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes
The Fall of Ossard by Colin Tabor
Actually Love - Jessie & Zach by Melanie Shawn
The Small Miracle by Paul Gallico
Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York by Paul Gallico
Regency Christmas Pact 02 - A Gentlemen's Pact by Jerrica Knight-Catania
Dead on the Level by Nielsen, Helen
Blackbird's Fall by Jenika Snow
The Last Stand (Book 3) (The Repentant Demon Trilogy) by Johns, Samantha