John Harwood - The Asylum

Childe Harold

must have been written especially for him (though nowadays he prefers

Don Juan,

which I have never been allowed to possess—we are going to read it together). For years afterward, his greatest ambition was to

be

Lord Byron: he acquired a black cloak, and used to stride about the moors in it, doing his best to look like a tragic hero wrapped in a cloud of gloom.

And, though his disposition is naturally cheerful, he has had much to be gloomy about. There is—again I beg you not to be anxious; five minutes in Felix’s company will set your mind at rest—there is a disposition toward melancholia, and sometimes even madness, in his family, especially upon the male side. His mother died when he was ten years old, worn out, Felix believes, by the strain of living with his father, who could not bear to be crossed in the smallest particular. His father’s temper was uncertain at the best of times, and when the fit was on him, he could be very violent: he disinherited his eldest son, Edmund, for trying to have him certified insane, and then the second son, Horace, for marrying without his consent, which is why Felix is determined to share with them. He says that if his father had not been carried off by a seizure, he would have been disinherited in turn, and the whole estate would have gone to some distant relation in Scotland. Poor Horace is presently confined to an asylum after a complete nervous collapse—all the more distressing because he has an infant son.

Even Felix, who is the kindest and gentlest of men, has been sadly afflicted by melancholia. It came upon him without warning, in the autumn of his second year at Oxford. He went to bed one night a healthy young man and woke in the grip of the most appalling horror; he felt, he said, as if he had committed a capital crime. At times his mind would race beyond control, whirling from one dreadful prospect to the next, all fraught with the most hideous anxiety; then his thoughts would slow until to think at all was like trying to wade through quicksand, and he would sink into a lethargy so profound that even to leave his bed seemed an intolerable effort. And over all was cast a leaden blackness of spirit, a thing worse than the worst pain he had ever experienced, because it consumed his entire being, suffocating all joy and hope as if he were being smothered by ashes.

After a month in this terrible state, he abandoned his studies and went home to Cornwall. It was, he said, the worst thing he could have done, because Tregannon House is a dismal place even in summer: dark and damp, with great thick walls and tiny windows. In those bleak surroundings, he sank even deeper into the pit, constantly tempted by the thought of suicide, until some instinct of self-preservation prompted him to flee the house and take passage to Naples, where within a few weeks he was his old self again. He returned to Oxford in the spring, believing himself cured, but the following autumn he felt it coming on again.

This time he did not wait for the darkness to engulf him but sailed at once for Italy, where again his spirits were restored. He has wintered abroad ever since. The English climate, he says, brings out the dark strain in the Mordaunt blood, which is why he is determined to sell the estate. Edmund, sadly, does not agree: he has some absurd idea of turning Tregannon House into a private asylum, but Felix hopes that the rift will heal once things are settled and Edmund has money in his pocket. And he is certain that with me at his side, he will never sink into melancholia again.

Felix, as you can see, has been absolutely candid; he wished me to hear the worst about his family from him, rather than from some malicious tattle-bearer, and, knowing that you are my dearest friend in all the world, asked if I would relate it to you. He very much hopes that you will allow him to call at Nettleford when he returns to Cornwall in a week or two, especially since you and Godfrey will be the sole keepers of our secret. Felix does not want to say anything to his brother until the estate is settled.

We intend to marry as soon as I am of age, and since we cannot hope for my father’s blessing, it would be a joy to Felix—and of course to me—if you would give him yours. I should love, more than anything, to be married from your house, with you and Godfrey as witnesses.

Six months does not seem so very long to wait, now. I shall have Felix’s letters to look forward to, and he will come up to London as often as the business of the estate allows; I am sure I shall be able to slip out and see him sometimes. I shall even try to be kinder to Aunt Harriet!

And now I must make an end of this long letter. We mean to live abroad—somewhere warm and light, where I pray that you will come to visit us—and travel a great deal. It is sad to think that in all of England, the only people I shall sorely miss are you and Godfrey—and Lily. I would love to keep her with me, but I know she would pine for her Arthur, and for London—she is a London girl through and through, whereas I cannot wait to leave here.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

Saturday, 12 May 1860

Dearest Emily,

The worst has happened. All yesterday I waited for my father to return; no one knew when to expect him, and I dared not leave the house. I had thought that two whole days with Felix would be enough for me to live on, but from the moment I woke this morning, I was consumed by doubts, which grew worse as the hours I might have spent with him crawled by. What if he had changed his mind? What if his way of amusing himself in London was to extract pledges of marriage from foolish girls? I thought I had banished such fears forever, but they came swarming back to torment me. Five minutes—a single minute—or a line of his writing would have set my mind at rest: I stood for ages at my window, praying that he would appear in the street below, even though I knew that he would be engaged on business all day.

My father did not return until late in the afternoon. I was waiting in the drawing room, and at the first glimpse of his face, my heart turned to lead.

“Mr. Bradstone—the gentleman I spoke of—will dine here this evening; you will join us at seven and make yourself agreeable to him.”

I had forgotten all about Mr. Bradstone. My horror must have shown, for his face darkened, and he asked very sharply if I had not heard him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I feel my headache returning”—I am sure I looked stricken enough for it to sound plausible—“and I hope you will excuse me.”

“Headache or no, you will present yourself at seven, if you know what is good for you,” he replied, and left me without another word.

I dragged myself upstairs, feeling as if I had stumbled into a nightmare, and dressed as severely as I could, with no jewellery except a small silver cross; I had Lily pull my hair back so tightly it hurt. But nothing could have prepared me for the man my father has chosen.

Mr. Giles Bradstone is perhaps forty years old, tall and powerfully built, with a long, boney face and a leprous complexion. His nostrils flare slightly when he breathes, and his eyes are very prominent: the coldest, palest blue I have ever seen—they fix you with a look of amused contempt. He is a widower, and I can give you no better idea of the man than to say that when he told me—with, I would swear, a flicker of a smile—that his first wife (he actually

said

“my first wife”) died in an accident, I felt certain he had murdered her. His voice is cool and contemptuous, like his stare, and of course he is a man of business; he deals in property, like my father, and holds the same views. I kept my eyes lowered, as far as possible, but all too often he addressed me directly—just for the pleasure, I am sure, of forcing me to look at him. My father gave one of his disquisitions upon the idleness of the poor, and how much more work could be got out of them if they were not so leniently treated by the law; he had no sooner finished than Mr. Bradstone said,