Bland Beginning (9 page)

“Such a
perfect
piece of prose,” Stuart Henderson panted. “Won’t you read it
all.
”

Blackburn waved him away, and began to read from the essay in his gentle, uninflected voice.

“‘A few years ago the first edition of
Passion and Repentance
came to light, and book-lovers and bibliographers learned with surprise that these beautiful love-poems, which were first offered to the public in 1868, had in fact been written, and privately published, nearly ten years earlier. The full circumstances attending their composition and private publication have not yet, I think, been told; but it seems that there can now be no possible indiscretion in telling a tale which must already be known to many of the poet’s friends.

“‘I have said something of young Martin Rawlings’ wild life and of the reasons, alcoholic, financial and literary, that led him to renounce his native country in 1856, when he was twenty-one years old. Almost penniless, and with a grudge both against his family and against the society that showed no sign of appreciating his rather Keatsian Odes, he left England, as he thought, never to return.

“‘Italy was a natural home for this young man, who found in himself a strong temperamental kinship for the hot sunlight, the aching blue skies, the sharp division into sun and shade, that may be found in the life, as well as in the climate of Southern Italy. This was the country of Michelangelo and Cellini, of Dante and Petrarch; it was also a country where life was lived with a joyousness that seemed to him unknown in colder climes. He had ceased to correspond with his family in England, and there is no record that he troubled to keep in touch with his few English friends; but the wild, erratic young man who was convinced of his own poetic genius found a welcome in the English literary circles of Rome and Florence. Few regarded seriously his claim to literary talent, but all were impressed by his strange and wayward beauty.

“‘Although he mixed with these circles, however, he was not of them. He would vanish for months at a time to reside in some tiny fishing village, where he lived the life of a peasant, fishing and swimming, and writing lyrics, sonnets and odes, most of which were destroyed almost as soon as written. Little is known of this period in his life; and this little would be even less but for the observations he made to a great friend a year or two before his tragic early death. It is to this friend that we owe the story of the astonishment with which those same literary circles greeted the young poetic buccaneer when he returned from one of these expeditions accompanied by a young and beautiful Italian wife, who was unable to speak a word of English, and by their child, Caesar. He brought with him in his pocket also a draft of the book that was to bring him fame.

“‘Martin took up again the life of riotous and indiscriminate enjoyment that had marked his bachelor days; and, not doubtful of his achievement but moved by a feeling of pride and resentment towards the literary society that had accepted him but slighted his work, he kept these poems still in his pocket. One day the literary critic, Garth Mansell, who had always been friendly towards him, exclaimed laughingly that young Martin’s muse was uncommonly silent. The poet then showed him the manuscript, now much worked-over and revised. Mansell read it, and was convinced immediately that these were pieces of exceptional power; but he saw also that such fiery descriptions of physical passion, touched though they were with a repentance which at this time was purely verbal – for Martin’s conversion to Catholicism did not take place until 1865 – would be likely to cause a storm of protest on moral grounds, when they were published.

“‘Martin was elated by Mansell’s good opinion, but, with a prudence that foreshadowed the caution of his later years, was unwilling to run the risk of prosecution. It was agreed finally that a very few copies of the poems should be printed, privately, and that these should be circulated among a chosen few. Accordingly, a small octavo volume was produced in 1860; but there is no record that those who read it thought it other than a chaos of disordered images and violent sentiments. The author had to wait another eight years for open publication, and fame.’”

Blackburn closed the book. Henderson wriggled in his chair and said triumphantly, “There you
are.
I’m ashamed to say I’d
forgotten
that passage, Michael.”

“Jolly clear,” Anthony said. He did not know whether he understood it all or not, but these were the words that seemed expected of him. He nodded like a clockwork toy. “Jolly clear.”

The sunlight shone on Blackburn’s strong face and halo of grey hair. “I am so glad if I have helped to solve your problem, for I feel that I am already in your debt.”

“Debt?” Anthony asked dazedly. His mind failed to make any connection. Was Blackburn making an offer for the book or something like that?

“You have given me so much pleasure on the cricket field that I feel it a poor recompense to offer a little amateur literary knowledge in exchange.”

“The
cricket
field.” Stuart Henderson charged in again. “But how exciting. You must look simply
wonderful
among all those stumps and pads and things.”

Anthony scowled at the publisher. He felt dislike of him growing with every sentence he spoke. Perhaps Blackburn sensed this, and it was for this reason that he turned to Miss Cleverly and said, “And is our severest critic satisfied?”

“Can’t say I am.” Her small jaw was thrust forward aggressively. Henderson held up his hands in comic despair. “That’s not evidence. It’s just something told you by someone else.”

Blackburn was playing with an ivory paper-knife. “Surely the same observation might be made about every statement made by every biographer – except those unfortunate enough to be directly known to their subjects, who can be accused of plain untruths.”

The girl’s voice was thin. “Your story is based on what Martin Rawlings told ‘a great friend’. Who was the friend?”

There was another pause, and this time it was obvious even to Anthony that it was a painful one. Blackburn tapped the paper-knife on his palm. He seemed to be considering what the girl had said. “You are a confirmed materialist, Miss Cleverly, are you not? But still, I see no reason why I should withhold the name of my informant. The story came to me through James Melton Cobb.”

Cobb? Where, Anthony wondered, had he heard the name? From Henderson’s little pant of astonishment it was obviously an important one. Ruth Cleverly sat still in her chair.

“If you wish to pursue your investigations still further – though I really can’t understand why Shelton here should be so eager to prove that he owns a forgery – I must leave you to do so through James Cobb. I am sure that he will acquit me of any deception – or should I say, with a cautious legality that you will appreciate, any
intentional
deception. Further than that –” He did not shrug his shoulders, but he gave the impression that only good manners caused him to refrain from adding some scathing observation.

Henderson was on his feet. “But Michael, Anthony and I are altogether convinced – aren’t we?
Of course
we are. It’s been so good of you, Michael, to –” He had backed sinuously to the door, and the others followed him.

“Very good of you,” Anthony said. He did not really know at all what had been going on.

“And of Mrs Blackburn to make tea for us,” Ruth added.

“I dare not disengage her from
The Dolly Dialogues,
or I would ask her to come down.” Blackburn’s hand rested again, lightly, on Anthony’s tweed jacket. “Do remember, my dear fellow, if you are playing at Lord’s this season, that I shall be watching you enviously.”

Anthony mumbled incoherently. There seemed no need, after all, to say that he was not likely to be seen at Lord’s that season.

From the back of the car Henderson kept up a stream of reproaches against Miss Cleverly for her rudeness to Michael Blackburn. “He asked me if I was satisfied, didn’t he?” she said at last.

“Yes, but really –”

“At least we know who to approach next,” she said thoughtfully. “But Cobb may be difficult.”

Henderson squeaked. “
Cobb
? You can’t mean to say you want to get in touch with Cobb?”

“That’s your pigeon,” she said to Anthony, and he moved his broad shoulders uneasily. How had he got into all this?

“I’ve said I’m satisfied.” Even as he spoke the words he knew they were not true. For some unknown reason, he felt extremely dissatisfied.

There was silence until they reached Camden Town. Then Henderson said, “You can put me down here. Thank you very much. Don’t let this girl’s wild theories lead you away Anthony.” Anthony shook his head, resenting the use of his Christian name. “And do come and have lunch one day when you’re in London. Remember – I shall be watching, too, when you’re playing at Lord’s.”

Anthony drove on, and there was another silence. Her small nose was wrinkled with distaste. “Isn’t he a beastly man?”

He grunted. “Appalling. Don’t know how you can bear to work for him.”

“Not Porky Henderson. He’s just foolish. I meant that man Blackburn. There’s a snake in the grass for you. No doubt about that.”

“He seemed to me quite charming. I must say I thought you were rather rude to him.”

They approached Regent’s Park. Her monkey face was slightly puckered. “Look,” she said, “You’d like to call off this dinner party, wouldn’t you? I mean, there’s no point in it now you’re convinced that little book’s genuine, is there? Call it off, then – that will be all right as far as I’m concerned.” As she spoke these last words her voice suddenly rose to a wail. Anthony was alarmed.

“Miss Cleverly – Ruth –” Her face was covered by an enormous white handkerchief, into which she was sniffing. He was painfully conscious of the appearance they must present. “Please,” he said in agitation, “don’t cry here in the street.” She wailed again.

“You’ve been so awful – agreeing with that snake – about everything. I hate you.” Her wail was changing to a roar. Reluctantly he drew the Bentley to the kerb, and patted her shoulder. He gently drew down the handkerchief from her face, and saw the marks of tears. “Why,” he said with an unhappy jocosity, “I didn’t know you were the sort of girl who cried.”

“Well, you know now. Take me home, please.”

He put in the clutch obediently, and then said, “I don’t know where you live.”

“Red Lion Square, Holborn.” She remained huddled in the opposite corner from him, a small and sniffing figure, for the rest of the journey. Anthony’s mind was a maelstrom of emotions, in which a confused and disturbing tenderness seemed to be uppermost. When they pulled up outside a dingy block of flats he said, “I say, look here, old girl – Ruth – I’m terribly sorry. Please come to the party. It won’t be the same without you.” She sniffed, and to his dismay Anthony heard himself stammering as he said, “Do c-come – p-please.”

The sniffing ceased. She looked at him alertly. “You must give me fifteen minutes to change, and I can’t ask you up because it’s a one-room flat, and it’s in an awful mess.”

Anthony beamed. “I say, that’s wonderful. Look here, old girl, if you aren’t down in fifteen minutes, I shall come up and fetch you.”

He did not have to go up.

Was it her change of clothes, he wondered, when she came back (she was wearing a simple black evening dress with a cameo brooch), or her added touch of colour, that made her seem so different, that made her talk so vivaciously?

She told him her uneventful history. She was the third of four daughters of a country solicitor who had married, surprisingly, a chorus girl. The marriage had not been altogether successful, because her father had been given to drink, and his practice had always been a struggling one. He had been disappointed that his wife had not borne him a son, but his daughters after all had not been a burden on him. “Nobody ever called us the beautiful Miss Cleverlys,” she said with some complacency, “but we’ve not done badly.” Margaret, the eldest daughter, had been old enough to be a VAD in the war, and had married a Colonel whom she nursed back to health. “Romantic,” Ruth said briefly. Ellen, the second daughter, had married a rich boot-manufacturer in Northampton, and two months ago Claire, the youngest, who was only just twenty-one, had married the son of a neighbouring squire. “He has expectations,” she said. “Dad’s very pleased. I’m the black sheep.”

“You’re not married?”

She flashed her ringless left hand. “You’re an unobservant ox, Anthony Shelton.”

“Nor engaged?” She shook her head. “I’m engaged,” Anthony said with a slight sigh.

“I suppose you’re rich?” she said, and he was rather taken aback. “Don’t ask me why I think so,” she went on hurriedly. “Anyone who can afford to buy books for a hundred guineas is rich to me. I live on my income and a pound a week which Dad allows me. Not that he always sends it.”

“I suppose I
am
well-off.” He pondered deeply. “Do you know, I don’t know what my father does, except that it’s something in the City. Something to do with stocks, I mean.” He pondered again. “I must ask him. Does money mean a lot to you?”

“Not really. I’m sick of living in one room, that’s all. I long for a little luxury – just one or two mink coats, and a necklace dripping with diamonds. Like most poor girls, I’m vulgar at heart.”

“It’s funny,” he mused, “Vicky doesn’t care about money.” She made no reply, and he said, “Who’s this chap Cobb? I’ve heard something about him, but I couldn’t quite place it.”

“Don’t you remember Henderson mentioned him as an authority? He’s an old, old man.”

“What’s he an authority on?”

“Bibliography – that means pretty well everything connected with books except the writing of them. Friendly with Swinburne, Browning, Tennyson. Used to correspond with them about their first editions, all that kind of thing.”

“Is he more important than Blackburn?”

“You can’t quite put it like that. Blackburn has a reputation as an essayist – pretty inflated one, if you ask me. He happens to know a lot about Martin Rawlings, because he wrote an essay on him. But he isn’t an authority on first editions. Cobb is. If he tells us Martin Rawlings told
him
that he had that booklet printed in 1860 –”