Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

We walked some distance in silence.

‘Are you happy, Ned?’ Tom suddenly asked.

We stopped, and I looked out across the dancing waves to where the vault of heaven met the shimmering horizon.

‘No, Tom,’ I replied, ‘I am not happy and, indeed, cannot say where happiness can be found in my life. But I am resolved.’ I turned to him and smiled. ‘This has done me good, Tom, as you knew very well that it would. You are right. I have immured myself here for too long. I have another life to lead.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say so,’ he said, grasping my hand. ‘I shall miss you, God knows. The best pupil I ever had – and the best friend. But it would grieve me more if you were to waste away here, and make no mark upon the world.’

‘Oh, I intend to make a mark on the world, Tom, have no fear. From this moment I am reborn.’

It was true. I had felt a surge of energy as I gazed out at the mighty rolling ocean, alive with sunlight – a new consciousness that my life now had purpose and definition. I had made my decision. I would go to London, and from there I would begin my great enterprise.

My restoration.

*[‘Labour conquers’. Ed. ]

*[James Bell (1769–1833), A New and Comprehensive Gazetteer of England and Wales (1833–4). William Cobbett (1763–1835), A Geographical Dictionary of England and Wales (1832). Ed. ]

*[John Burke (1787–1848), A General and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage of the British Empire , first published by Henry Colburn in 1826, and now generally known as Burke’s Peerage . The 1830 edition was the third. Ed. ]

*[Charles Duport (1648–1711) was created a Duke in the Jacobite peerage – a title without legal existence in England. His son, Robert Duport (1679–1741), a stout Protestant, inherited only the Barony. Ed. ]

*[i.e. sagittarius-lions, half-men, half-lions. Ed. ]

†[‘By Endurance We Conquer’. Ed. ]

17

Alea iacta est *

The only person whom I knew in London was my old school-friend and travelling companion, Willoughby Le Grice, to whom I immediately wrote to ask whether he could recommend suitable lodgings. He replied by return to say that a fellow at his Club had suggested I should write to a Signor Prospero Gallini, a former fencing master, who, by all accounts, now kept a good house in Camberwell.

I had taken the decision to abandon my given name of Glyver, except of course with respect to those few, like Le Grice and Tom Grexby, who already knew me. It was not mine by birth but was a kind of alias, imposed on me, without my knowledge or consent, by others. What loyalty did I owe the name of Glyver? None. Captain Glyver was not my father. Why, then, should I bear his name? I was who I was, whatever I chose to call myself; and so, until I could redeem my rightful name and title, I would put on whatever pseudonym suited my present purposes. My whole life would be a disguise, a daily change of dress and character. I would inhabit a costumed world, entering now as one character, now as another, as circumstance demanded. I would be Incognitus . Unknown.

There were, besides, practical considerations. In making enquiries concerning my true self, carrying the name of Glyver might be disadvantageous to my cause. Concerning the plot hatched by Lady Tansor, there were undoubtedly many aspects of which I was as yet unaware; and to use my mother’s married name would immediately reveal my interest and connexion to the protagonists. No, for the time being, it was better to work in the shadows.

I therefore wrote to Signor Gallini as Edward Glapthorn – the name by which I now became generally known in my new life. The following week, after receiving a satisfactory reply, I took coach from Southampton to make arrangements with my new landlord, whom I found to be exactly as Le Grice’s friend had described him: tall, courteous, and quietly spoken, but with a melancholy patrician bearing, like an exiled Roman emperor.

The village of Camberwell – despite the growing proximity of the metropolis – was charming, with open fields and market gardens all around, and pleasant walks through woods and lanes to nearby Dulwich and its picture gallery. Signor Gallini’s house stood in a quiet street close to the Green – not far, as I later discovered, from the birthplace of Mr Browning, the poet. *I was offered two rooms on the first floor – a good-sized sitting-room with a small bedchamber adjoining – at a most reasonable rent, which I instantly agreed to take.

Just as I was leaving, our business having been concluded satisfactorily with a glass of wine and a cigar, both of excellent quality, the front door opened and in walked the most beautiful girl I thought I had ever seen. Already, I liked to fancy myself as a pretty hard-nosed young dog when it came to the female sex; but I confess that I felt like a callow schoolboy when I saw those lustrous black eyes, and the voluptuous figure that her light-blue morning dress and short lace-collared cape did little to conceal.

‘May I introduce my daughter, Isabella?’ said Signor Gallini. ‘This, my dear, is the gentleman who has been recommended to us. I am glad to say that he has consented to take the rooms.’

His English was perfect, though spoken with the still-detectable accent of his native country. Miss Gallini smiled, held out her hand, and said that she hoped I would like Camberwell, to which I could only reply that I believed I would like it very well indeed. So began my connexion with Isabella Gallini, my beautiful Bella.

The time had now come to leave Sandchurch behind me. I set about packing my mother’s journals and papers into three sturdy trunks, and instructing Mr Gosling, her former lawyer, to sell the house. It was hard to let Beth go, for she had been part of the household for as long as I could remember, and had continued to cook and clean for me since my return from the Continent; but it had been agreed that she would perform the same domestic duties for Tom, which eased my conscience a little. Billick took the news of my departure in his usual taciturn fashion: he pursed his lips, nodded his head slowly, as if in silent recognition of the inevitable, and shook me by the hand, most vigorously. ‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, receiving the small bag of coins that I had held out; whereupon he spat out a piece of tobacco, and walked off down the path to the village, whistling as he went. That was the last I ever saw of him.

I was not embarking on my new life entirely without some plan as to what I should do with myself. Ever since the moment that I had gazed upon the photogenic drawing of the great stone king in Professor S—’s rooms in Oxford, the idea had been growing in me that the production of such images might perhaps furnish a means of making a living, or at least of supplementing my income. I had not mentioned this to Tom, fearing that it would produce another disagreement between us, but I had quietly taken steps to acquaint myself more fully with the possibilities and techniques of this wonderful new medium. I flatter myself that I was amongst its pioneers and, but for the subsequent course of my life, I think I might have made my name in the field, and have been remembered by posterity for it, along with Mr Talbot and Monsieur Daguerre. *

I had always been fascinated by the camera obscura and its ability to throw fleeting images onto paper, the creations of an instant, which then, just as rapidly, faded away when the camera was removed. Tom – to my utter delight – possessed one, and as a boy I would often harangue him, once our lessons were done on a fine summer evening, to go out into his little garden and let me look into ‘the magic mirror’. Those memories had been instantly revived by the photogenic drawing displayed in the Professor’s rooms, and I now determined to learn for myself how to catch and hold light and shadow in perpetuity.