Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘Oh,’ says Lizzie, slumping, defeated. ‘I have decided I hate you.’

But Lancaster is not done with her. ‘Who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ashley, I’m not stupid!’ she yells, rallying. ‘Even I know who da Vinci is.’

Lancaster just looks at her. I do not know who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but from the expression on his face I gather that it was not da Vinci. (I am tempted to exclaim that I now know that he designed flying machines that wouldn’t fly — but I restrain myself.)

‘Damn,’ says Lizzie. She turns her attention to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time in too long. ‘Nellie!’

I prepare myself for the bombardment. ‘What?’ I say wearily.

‘You have been decidedly remiss,’ says Lizzie, ‘and I am furious with you. I am completely ignorant about art!’

‘And?’ I say. I am not looking for a fight. I am tired. I want only to read my Milton and find my wife.

‘And it’s all your fault! As my older brother it’s your duty to see I am educated in all things, but I know nothing about art!’

‘Neither do I,’ I say honestly.

‘EXACTLY!’ she yells. ‘I need Simmons. SIMMONS, WHERE ARE YOU?’

Simmons enters, looking aggrieved. ‘Do you know,’ he says, ‘there is a bell.’

‘This is no time for philosophy, Simmons,’ says Lizzie curtly. ‘Something awful has happened. Could you be a dear and run me an errand?’

‘Of course, Miss Elizabeth. Is everything alright?’

‘Oh, everything’s fine ,’ she says. Her voice drips with sarcasm. ‘My silly brother and yourself have left a gaping hole in my education, that’s all. It seems I know nothing about art!’

‘Indeed, miss?’

‘Don’t be coy, Simmons. Who painted Wanderer in a Sea of Fog ?’

‘Friedrich, miss,’ he answers promptly. ‘And I believe it’s Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog .’ How in the name of God did he know that? I must remember never to underestimate Simmons.

Lizzie, however, is displeased with his hidden knowledge. ‘DAMN IT! I am angry with you, Simmons. But I may possibly forgive you if you run out to Tompkins’s bookshop and get me the two best books on art history. And while you’re out, buy me an easel, some brushes, and a set of paints.’

‘What are you going to do with a paint set?’ I demand.

‘You can’t learn anything from the outside in, silly! If you really want to know about it, you have to do it for yourself.’ Well, that is sound. I approve, despite myself. It is as I have mentioned — Lizzie’s brain works maybe a little too like my own; I cannot for long disagree with anything she reasons out fully. ‘Any questions, Simmons?’ she asks.

‘None, miss, but it is my duty to point out that it is approaching midnight.’

‘So?’ When Lizzie has possession of an idea, she sometimes does not think things through in their entirety. I do not know where she learned this trait.

‘So the shops will be closed.’

‘Well, then do it in the morning, Simmons!’

‘Very good, miss.’

‘And when you get back,’ she says, her gaze softening a little, ‘I’ll consider forgiving your educational oversight.’

Simmons bows and leaves the room.

‘Ashley,’ says Lizzie after a moment, ‘when Simmons returns with my things in the morning, would you like to pose nude for me?’

Lancaster turns several colours very quickly.

‘A brother and an Englishman, Lancaster,’ I say, laying my hand significantly on the pistol still perched on my desk. ‘A brother and an Englishman.’*

‘I’m sorry, Lizzie,’ says he, ‘I find that I am otherwise engaged.’

Lizzie sighs prettily and frowns, as though searching for another dreadful tangent to embark upon.

‘Lancaster,’ I say before Lizzie can display yet more slatternly proclivities, ‘how does one go about outfitting an expedition to Hell?’

‘Have you discovered how to get there, by Christ?’ he exclaims, leaping up.

‘No, no, no,’ I say. ‘Hardly. With the two of you prattling like goats I haven’t been able to focus. But if we’re going to chatter, we may as well chatter about something useful.’

‘Just so, just so,’ he says, flirtation quite forgotten. ‘What would you like to know?’

‘Well, to begin, when we do figure out where Hell is, what’s the best mode of transport?’

‘Nellie,’ says Lizzie reprovingly, ‘that’s a silly question. We can’t know how we’re going anywhere until we know where it is we’re going.’

‘She’s right,’ says Lancaster. He’s looking at her in that way I don’t like again. ‘But,’ he goes on, shaking his head as if to clear it, ‘we can still begin outfitting an expedition. Now that you mention it, maybe that is the thing to do. Make us feel useful, eh? All this paging through books is no way to begin an adventure, by Christ!’

I cannot help but say, ‘No — much better to plunge blindly into a black room.’

Lancaster looks at me steadily. ‘Savage,’ he says, ‘I do believe you’re mocking me. But you shouldn’t be, old boy — you shouldn’t be. Let me give you some advice. You can spend your whole life locked in a library and read every book there is to read and think you know everything there is to know — but the fact of the matter is, you won’t be a whit better off than when you started, because all you will have done with your life is sit in a wooden box.’*

Lizzie cuts in before I can reply, which is probably for the best. ‘So how does one prepare an expedition to Hell?’ she asks.

‘Well,’ says Lancaster, ‘first we need to determine what we’ll need. If we’re going north we’ll need skis, if we’re going south we’ll need machetes, and—’ He breaks off. ‘I see,’ he says, frowning. ‘We haven’t the slightest idea what to bring because we haven’t the slightest idea where we’re going. Complicated, that.’

We all look at each other. None of us know how to proceed, but it is clear that someone has to take charge. So I say, ‘Well, what do we know about Hell? Let us begin with that, and perhaps we can piece together its location.’

‘I don’t know a thing,’ says Lancaster. ‘I’m a Buddhist.’

I groan. I have no patience for fads. ‘Very well, then it falls to Lizzie and me. What do we know, sister?’

‘About Hell? Not very much, except that both of us will probably end up there.’

‘I’m being serious,’ I tell her.

‘So am I!’ But she sighs, and thinks, and says, ‘What if it doesn’t have a physical location?’

‘’Course it has,’ says the explorer bluffly. ‘Everything has a physical location.’

‘But that’s not really the case, is it?’ says Lizzie.

‘Let us assume that it has,’ I say before Lancaster can reply. ‘Otherwise we may as well just go hang ourselves.’

‘Agreed,’ says Lancaster. ‘It has a location, and by Christ we’ll find it and go there! I’ll take care of that part of things — it’s rather my area, you know. But what about when we arrive? What happens then?’

‘I’ll handle that,’ I say. ‘The Dev’l and I are on excellent terms — I lent him some Tennyson — and after all, he did what he did only under the misapprehension that it would be a kindness to me. Once we arrive in Hell I’m certain things will be quite easy.’

‘Excellent,’ says Lancaster.

‘But how do we get there ?’ asks Lizzie tiresomely.

The question still baffles us, and the conversation again dies. It is clear we require aid.

‘SIMMONS!’ I cry.

He enters with his usual promptness. ‘Sir?’

‘We need to go to Hell to rescue my wife, but we’ve no notion how to get there.’