Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘I shall read it later,’ I said, throwing the magazine onto my work-table. ‘I’m hungry and wish to eat – copiously. Where shall we go?’

‘The Ship and Turtle! Where else?’ exclaimed Le Grice, throwing open the door. ‘My treat, old boy. London awaits. Take up your coat and hat, Mr Glapthorn , for I shall be your guide.’

In November 1854, settled before a roaring fire in Le Grice’s rooms in Albany, with a glass of brandy in my hand, I found it hard to believe that only six years had passed since I had left Sandchurch for London. It seemed as if a whole lifetime had gone by – so many memories crowding in, so much rosy hope, and so much bleak despair! Faces in the flames; the smell of a September morning; death and desire: impressions and remembrances floated before my eyes, coalesced, and separated again, a multitude of ghosts in an eternal dance.

‘I’ve never told anyone, you know,’ Le Grice was saying quietly, head thrown back, watching the smoke from his cigar curl upwards towards the ceiling, deep in shadow. ‘Never said a word, about this life you’ve been living. Whenever one of the fellows asks, I always say you’re travelling, or that I haven’t heard from you. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted?’

He lifted his head and looked directly at me, but I did not reply.

‘I don’t know where all this is leading, G, but if what you say is true …’

‘It’s all true. Every word.’

‘Then of course I understand. You weren’t Edward Glyver, so you may as well be Edward Glapthorn. I thought you must have the money-lenders on your tail, or some such, though you wouldn’t admit it. But you had to keep things close, I see that, until everything could be made right. But what a story, G! I won’t say I can’t believe it, because I must believe it, if you tell me it’s true. There’s more to come, though, that’s clear, and I’m all ears, old boy. But do you want to go on now, or sleep here and carry on in the morning?’

I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to two.

‘No sleep tonight,’ I said. ‘And now, let me tell you a little more about Mr Tredgold.’

*[‘Hence these tears’ (Terence, Andria). Ed.]

*[Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826), whose most celebrated work, Physiologie du goût , was published in 1825. Ed. ]

†[Giambattista Marino (1569–1625), Italian Baroque poet, whose extravagant and sensuous images had an influence on the English poet Richard Crashaw. Ed. ]

*[About £12,500. Ed. ]

*[‘A Sermon Preached at White-hall. Feburary 29. 1627’. In XXVI Sermons (1660). Ed. ]

*[Described in the Second Voyage of Sindbad the Sailor, in The Thousand and One Nights. Ed.]

INTERMEZZO

1849–1853I Mr Tredgold’s CabinetII Madame MathildeIII EvenwoodIV The Pursuit of TruthV In the Temple Gardens

I

Mr Tredgold’s Cabinet

Mr Christopher Tredgold had been as good as his word, and had duly advised that shining ornament of the legal profession, Sir Ephraim Gadd, QC, that he could do worse than engage my pedagogic services to dispense linguistic knowledge to candidates requiring admission to the Inner Temple who lacked the necessary University qualifications, over which persons Sir Ephraim exercised authority as a Bencher. *These duties were not in the least arduous to me, and I fulfilled them easily alongside my daily employment at Tredgolds, of which I shall speak presently.

The marked partiality that Mr Tredgold had shown towards me at our first meeting had again been apparent on the first day of my employment. On my arrival in Paternoster-row, I was immediately taken up to his private office on the first floor by Fordyce Jukes. The latter was one of the longest-serving of Tredgolds’ clerks, and occupied an exalted position behind a high desk by the front door of the establishment, where, as the house’s gatekeeper, he would welcome clients, and conduct them up to one or other of the partners.

His admiration of the Senior Partner knew no bounds; but soon his professions of regard for me, whom he barely knew, became hardly less immoderate. He was continually obliging, ever affable, looking up eagerly from his work to smile, or nod ‘good-day’, as I passed.

I disliked him from the first, with his bull neck and thick flat nose. He wore his hair short, like a workhouse terrier crop, brushing it up at the front into a crown of little black spikes. The straightness of the line where the hair met the flesh of his neck, and around his ears and temples, made the whole arrangement appear like some strange cap or hat that he had placed over a perfectly normal head of hair. I hated too his moth-eaten little dog, his puce, clean-shaven face, and the leering quality of his look. He was always clicking his fingers, shaking his head, or scratching his crown of spikes, whilst in his small green eyes one detected a flickering, unquiet energy, which would never quite show itself plain, but perpetually hid and ducked, like some pursuing assassin melting into doorways and alleys to baffle his victim. All this rendered him repulsive in my eyes.

Before long, so insistent had his attentions become, whenever I appeared at the office of a morning, that I took to avoiding the front door altogether, and instead would gain my room by means of the side stairs; but still I would often encounter him, at the end of a day, hovering in the street, waiting for me. ‘There you are, Mr Glapthorn,’ he would say, in his strange high-pitched voice. ‘I thought we might walk back together. A little company and a friendly chat at the end of the day, so pleasant.’

Jukes’s most unwelcome interest in me had begun on my very first morning in Paternoster-row. As I entered through the front door, he jumped down from his desk and began bowing obsequiously.

‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, shaking my hand furiously as he spoke, ‘honoured . I hope we may see much of each other, in a social as well as a business capacity. Neighbours, you know. New blood always welcome, sir – lubrication for the great Tredgold engine, eh? We must move forward, mustn’t we, Mr Glapthorn? Yes, indeed. So clever of the SP to bring you to us, but then we expect no less of the SP.’

He went on in this vein until we reached the door of Mr Tredgold’s office. He conducted me into the room, giving yet another oily obeisance, and then, with reiterated bobbings of his head, closed the door softly behind him.

The Senior Partner rose from his desk, beaming.

‘Welcome, welcome, Mr Glapthorn!’ he said, shaking me warmly by the hand. ‘Please sit down, sir. Now, is there anything you require? Shall I ring for some tea? It is a little cold this morning, is it not? Would you like to move nearer to the fire?’

He continued in this warmly considerate manner for some minutes, until I convinced him at last that I was not in the least bit cold, and that I did not require any warming beverage to fortify me. I then asked him what duties I would be expected to undertake at the firm.

‘Duties? Yes, of course. There are certainly duties.’ He gave his eye-glass a little polish, and beamed.

‘Might I ask, Mr Tredgold, what those duties might be?’

‘Of course you may. But first, Mr Glapthorn, you ought to know something of my colleagues. We are called Tredgold, Tredgold, & Orr, but there is only one Tredgold now – myself. Mr Donald Orr is the Junior Partner; and then there is Mr Thomas Ingrams. There are six clerks, including Mr Jukes, who is the most senior of their number. It is a varied practice. Criminal work, divorce, bankruptcy and insolvency (the particular interest of Mr Donald Orr), probate, the management of estates and properties, and so on; and of course we represent the interests of a large number of distinguished persons.’