The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [56]
‘I’m not exactly sure. More than a month. Many patients do spend time there when it is necessary and return later. And as to my husband, John Clare can hardly have seen him, he is so busy with the wood manufactury.’
‘You didn’t know him in his pride, I suppose. You can only have seen him distraught.’
‘I am used to seeing people distraught.’
‘But you should have seen him as I knew him.’
‘His intelligence is still evident.’
‘Intelligence I’m not so sure about. I mean, no doubt he has a good deal and he was always very astute about people. But the height of his powers, his inspiration - it was something to behold. He lacked rhetoric. He lacked shape and used many unfamiliar words of his own dialect. But the living earth, the world he knew . . . if you will permit me an extravagant formulation, it sang itself through him. England sang through him, its eternal, living nature. Thousands and thousands of lines, and all of it fresh, seen, melodic, real. It was genius, absolutely. How can that power be destroyed, he asks, knowing there is no answer. Excuse me, I simply wanted to think of him then for a moment.You said, didn’t you, something about your husband’s manufactury?’
‘Yes, the carving machine.’
‘Oh, of course. The Pyroglyph. A fine Greek name a sibyl would have liked: the fire mark. He wrote to me on the matter. Unfortunately, I’m in no position to invest at the moment. So, he’s all taken up with that, is he?’
‘Yes. In his headlong fashion. Not to say that he is neglecting the asylum.’
‘And how are you, Mrs Allen? It has been such a long time since I saw you last.’
John Taylor had a certain dry charm, Eliza remembered, appropriate to a literary man, a bachelor, and a scholar. She associated genteel, well-kept rooms with him. In their clean silence she imagined she’d hear only the scratching of a pen or the eager, quiet sound of pages being cut.
‘Not since you brought John.’
‘No, longer, my dear. I saw only your husband then. And your son. Is that correct? No, it was when I published your husband’s book. Some years.’
Eliza smiled. John Taylor regarded her face, softly ageing, handsome in the flaring autumn light.
‘And are you well?’ he enquired.
‘I am. We prosper, I suppose. We are all in health. Dora is now married and lives not too far away.There is the wood carving.’
‘Your husband isn’t neglecting you for it?’
‘No, no. We both have much to do, I suppose. You must come now and see him.’
‘Indeed, I must. I have to settle John’s expenses.’
‘We have guests you might like to meet. Perhaps you have already. Do you know the poet Alfred Tennyson?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not much concerned with poetry any more, but I have heard of him. He’s here, is he? I’m afraid the reviews have chewed him about a bit. They’ve grown no kinder since my poor Keats suffered them. I hope he hasn’t been crushed. He’s a patient?’
‘No, no. His brother is. A melancholic. In fact, the family are here visiting; they comprise the party. No, Alfred is heavy for spells, I understand, but not deranged.’
They turned off the path and towards Fairmead House. They found the party at tea. Matthew Allen was standing, a cup in his hand, holding forth to a party all younger than himself, mostly women, two of whom were examining a piece of wood. He broke off when he saw the publisher, greeting him with his eyes while he finished the sentence.
‘Mr Taylor, what a pleasure. Do take a seat. Fulton.’
Fulton obediently stood to offer his own seat.
‘Oh, no. I’m afraid I can’t stay. So you’re Fulton. You have grown.’
‘Thank you,’ Fulton said and looked down, embarrassed at the stupidity of his answer.
‘Allow me to introduce you. John Taylor, these are the Tennysons.’
‘A number of them,’ one mumbled.
‘Alfred Tennyson you may have heard of. Alfred, this is John Taylor, erstwhile publisher of Keats, Hazlitt, Lamb, our own unfortunate Mr Clare,