Hugh Kenrick (37 page)

The others were quiet. Mathius, who sat at the opposite end of the table, dipped his quill into an inkpot and continued his note-taking. The sound of his quill across the ledger page seemed to drown out the voices, laughter, singing, and clatter of china, metal, and pottery in the tavern. As he dipped his quill once more, he looked up and said, “I am nearly finished here, sirs.”

After a moment, Steven remarked, “Olympus—or Tyburn Tree?”

“By God, what a provocative position!” exclaimed Claude.

“It skirts the hem of perdition!” said Elspeth.

Abraham frowned. “What you posit,” he said, “needs system.”

“Agreed,” said Hugh, knowing this was only the opening of the discussion. “What I have asserted here, is but a beginning.”

Mathius glanced up from his task. “’tis but the gurgulations of unformed and unconnected opinions,” he ventured.

“I disagree,” replied Muir. “I see in it the elements of an extraordinary but unassembled orrery.”

Tobius looked thoughtful. “Do you presume to criticize Milton?”

Hugh said, “I cannot fault him for his imperfect knowledge. As our own knowledge of liberty and man is imperfect, his was more so. What I am saying is this: Every good point he makes on liberty, tyranny, and superstition is an echo of Aristotle, and a premonition of Locke. Every flaw, inconsistency, and concession to kings and power is an echo of Plato, and a premonition of Hobbes.”

“Where would you place our own Mr. Hume?” asked Claude.

“He is an apotheosis of cynicism and skepticism. It is easier for many men to doubt than to be certain of a thing, easier to defer to authority or popular concurrence than to trouble themselves with establishing individual
certitude. Mr. Hume, from what little I have read of him, seems destined to become the patron saint of the sluggish of mind and those who are dedicated to doubt and humility.”

“Still, one could take exception to your remarks on Milton,” said Tobius.

“I esteem him no less than do you, sir,” answered Hugh. “But, in all his works, he labors to found liberty and right on Scripture. He had not the advantage of reading Locke. I say that if liberty and her sister freedoms are to be better founded and made proof against tyranny, we must avail ourselves of another catapult of reason than Scripture. That is, nature itself, and man.”

“That has always been our Society’s goal,” said Abraham. “To divorce man and his purpose from Scripture and the prerogatives of priests and princes.”

“On this point, we are all united,” seconded Tobius.

“Are we?” asked Mathius. He had put down his quill, and sat forward with his hands folded before him on the ledger. He glanced from face to face. “Is there room here for dissent, or must we all submit to our own abbreviated form of ‘popular concurrence’?”

Steven gestured with his hand. “What is your difference, Mathius?”

“Speak your mind,” urged Tobius.

Mathius said, “Thank you, sirs.” He looked at Hugh. “What, Miltiades, have you to say about our living sovereign? Not about some cold, abstract personage, as you excoriated just now, but His Majesty?”

Hugh shrugged. “Only that I have a wonderment about whether or not he is necessary. He consumes large amounts of Crown revenue, but does nothing.”

“He is the symbol of our unity, sir. He is sovereign.”

Hugh shook his head. “Our minds are our sovereigns, sir, and cost no man a farthing to employ or enjoy. A man’s mind commands a realm greater than that ruled by any man in St. James’s Palace. That is a more practical unity.” Mathius looked doubtful. Hugh explained. “What else could tell you how to live? Say, to buckle your shoes? Pull up your hose? What to eat? To walk? All that we do, every day, is commanded by our minds. You could not afford the bales of paper to record every little action that is directed by your mind on a single day. His Majesty, however, commands nothing.”

“These are trifles you cite, sir,” scoffed Mathius.

“Then let us broaden the vista. Does a sovereign proclaim to a cobbler which leather to fashion into shoes? To a brewer, how long he should boil his hops? To a clockmaker, how to arrange his cogs and wheels? To a physician, which powders and herbs to prescribe?” Hugh gestured with his hands. “The instances are infinite in number, sir. At what point in any of them does a sovereign enter?”

Mathius narrowed his eyes, but averted Hugh’s. “Are you claiming, perhaps, that we have no need of a sovereign?”

The men at the table stiffened at the question. It was a question none of them had ever dared ask or answer, except in his own mind.

Hugh held Mathius’s unwavering, challenging glance. “I am saying that a king has very little to do with our lives, except to impose on us an extraordinary and burdensome cost.”

Mathius shook his head. “Quite the contrary, sir. A sovereign is the keystone of any reasonable polity. Thus the extraordinary cost, which may be a burden to some.”

Hugh sat back in his chair. “The evidence does not support your statement, sir.”

Mathius sighed. “To a mind so young and impressionable as your own, sir, it is not evident, I concede. But while it is the purpose of education to put the evidence in it, as forcefully as possible, clearly your education has failed in this respect.”

All the other men frowned. Steven said, “Mathius, that is a personal attack, and is not permitted in Society discussion.” He glanced at Hugh, then back at Mathius. “You will please apologize to Miltiades.”

“I will not, sir,” retorted the offender. “It is one thing to meet for informative speculation on serious matters. It is another to speak blasphemy and sedition, as this young gentleman does this evening, and in doing so solicits our willing complicity.”

Claude barked a laugh of contempt. “If we limited ourselves to what you misconceive as ‘informative speculation,’ sir, we should be no better than a chess club. I, for one, would resign.”

“And I,” added Abraham.

“I stand by my charge,” said Mathius, looking at Hugh.

“You must present your evidence,” replied Hugh.

“No, sir!” exclaimed Mathius, rising from his chair in agitation. “You must find better instruction!” His expression changed into one of barely disguised malice. “Is it merely the sovereign you question, sir, or is it the
Crown itself?”

“You needn’t answer that question, Miltiades,” said Steven.

“No, he need not,” seconded Tobius. “The question need not be recognized.” The other men nodded in agreement. Tobius rose and turned to Mathius. “Mathius, are you ill? What has taken possession of your mind?” he asked, some anger in his words. The men of the Society had had heated discussions in the past, but had never descended to personal invective. It was a serious infraction of the Society’s rules. A second offense by a member resulted in automatic dismissal, and the members moved the venue of their meetings to another tavern or coffeehouse. This had happened only once before, ten years ago.

“Do you begrudge Miltiades for his ideas, or for his youth?” asked Muir.

“We are your friends, Mathius,” said Elspeth. “Tell us what burr sits beneath the saddle of your senses.”

“The buckram of patriotism is most unbecoming to you, sir,” commented Claude. “It does not sit well on active minds.”

Mathius paused before answering. He suddenly fell back in his chair, put his hands over his face, and gave a heavy sigh. He dropped his hands and looked around at his colleagues with a pained expression. “I…I am very sorry, sirs, for my outburst. I have been, these past weeks, in the grip of a fever of grief. You see, my dear, beloved wife…left this world…and it seems that a part of me has left with her…I have not been myself…not good company to anyone…I even struck a beggar who asked me for a pence this morning…” He faced Hugh. “My most humble apologies, sir, for my words to you. I fear I have insulted you beyond forgiveness.”

Hugh nodded once. “I was not so much offended by your words, sir, as surprised by your manner. I accept your apology.”

The men around the table sighed in relief. Steven rose and bowed to Mathius. “Our sincere condolences, Mathius. I am certain that the loss of your wife is as much a blow to you as the loss of your company would be a blow to us.”

“Hear! Hear!” agreed the men.

“What did she die of?” asked Tobius.

Mathius shook his head. “Some pox or other,” he said with a sigh, “one that rotted her innards and inflamed her skin. I paid three surgeons to treat her, but they could make nothing of her condition, though they charged me a small fortune for their coincidental remedies. She was in agony, and in
the end, insensible to everything around her. One morning, as I was giving her water, her lips refused to part, even though a moment before she had asked me for a drink…her first words to anyone in days.” Mathius seemed to be seeing the scene as he spoke of the event, then he rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands again. Abruptly, he turned away.

Steven glanced around the table, then rose. “Gentlemen,” he said with reluctance, “I move that we end this meeting. But, before we depart, we should settle on a date for our next supper, and also…well…help to defray our friend’s expenses, for, as we all know, death is a costly affair, to the soul, and to the purse.”

“I second that idea,” said Muir.

All the men, including Hugh, reached into their pockets or purses and, a moment later, presented Mathius with a handful of crowns. Mathius accepted the money. He was shocked to see a golden guinea among the coins. This had been donated by Hugh, though he did not know this. “You…are the most generous friends a man could have,” he said, his head bowed.

“Will you still be able to write up tonight’s minutes, Mathius?” asked Steven. “One of us could volunteer to perform the task. And it is your turn to chair our next meeting.”

“She is buried,” replied Mathius plaintively, “and the task will help me to…rediscover my regular frame of mind. Yes, the next meeting… It will be all right. Thank you for the offer.”

“Very well.” After the members agreed on the date of their next meeting, Steven picked up the ornamented walking stick and struck the floor once with it. “Gentlemen of the Society, our usual concluding toast would mock the sad occasion, and we shall forgo it this one instance. We will meet again on this same date in August. Claude, it will be your turn to challenge our minds then. Steven, you will please act as recorder.”

The members rose and left the room one by one.

When he left the Fruit Wench that evening, Mathius hired a hackney that took him to the home of the Marquis of Bilbury, where, from Brice Blissom, he received the gratitude of the young aristocrat, a promise, and a small sack of money, in exchange for the Society’s ledger of minutes and an oral report on the meeting itself. No one suspected that William Horlick had resigned that evening from the Society of the Pippin.

*  *  *

As no member of the Society of the Pippin knew the marital status of his colleagues, nor their professions, nor their places of residence, nor even their names, no member could have known, or even suspected, that Mathius had lied—that he was married to a hectoring, “whither-go-ye?” woman who begrudged her husband his every free moment and nagged him constantly to abandon writing and find a more secure trade, that he had recently been dismissed from his part-time position with the wine merchant, and that beneath his mild, amenable, tolerant personality seethed envy for Hugh Kenrick’s mind and eloquence, and jealousy for the special esteem paid him by the Society.

No member had reason to doubt Mathius. His wife’s alleged illness and death could explain the man’s erratic behavior over the last few months. Glorious Swain did not suspect the truth; nor did Hugh. They stayed behind in the tavern, and talked about things they had in common. At one point, Swain suggested, “You ought to think of publishing a book of some of your ideas, my friend. Under another name, of course. You have the means, and need no patron.”

It was so obviously feasible an idea that Hugh was astonished that he had not had it himself. His face brightened. Then he frowned. “It would need to be published in the Netherlands,” he said after a moment. “I don’t believe any printer here would risk it. You heard Mathius. My theme disturbed him, and he is a friend. Think of how the clergy would sputter about it, and all the High Tories.” Then he shook his head once. “No, not yet, Mr. Swain. Abraham was right, too: What I have to say, needs system. And you were right: I have tonight expressed merely the elements of a philosophy, shown you the unassembled parts of a golden orrery, and I am not certain I have them all. There are so many links and connections that must be made clearer in my own mind first, before I could put them on paper and broadcast them to the world.”

Swain took his mug of ale and clicked it against Hugh’s. “And a golden orrery it will be, sir, when you have completed that task, an orrery, not for comprehending the sun and its children, but for serving as a guide for men to grasp a reason and means for living. It will employ all the limbs of philosophy.”

“But I don’t want to be a philosopher,” protested Hugh.

Glorious Swain laughed. And Hugh, realizing the irony of his own
words, joined him in the laughter.

“My friend,” said Swain, “these are exciting times! I feel fortunate to have witnessed them. I thank you for that.”

O
N THE LAST DAY OF
J
ULY
, H
UGH
K
ENRICK STOPPED BY
L
ION
K
EY TO BID
Benjamin Worley farewell until September. Worley, however, boarded the family coach with him and gave Hugh some letters and business papers to deliver to his father. He left the coach on the Surrey side of London Bridge and shook Hugh’s hand through the window. “Give my regards to milord and his lady, sir!” With another snap of the coachman’s whip, the coach rumbled away again to begin the long leg to Canterbury.

From his window, Hugh watched the city recede. In the still summer air, a vast, unmoving lid of brown and black lay over the city, as though preparing to suffocate it. It was created by the thousands of fires in taverns, coffeehouses, the kitchens of homes, and manufacturing establishments. The mass of St. Paul’s loomed beneath the lid, a dirty gray silhouette commanding the countless spikes of church steeples and columns. This was not one of London’s “glorious” days. Hugh was glad to be leaving the city, if only for a while.