Is there love between Gunilla and Hulda? On Hulda’s side I am sure it is so, and whether either of them expects it to last, as marriage is expected to last, I cannot say. It was Hulda’s initiation into that sweet ecstasy; Gunilla is a woman of great experience. It was she, for instance, who introduced Hulda to what they called the Love Potion.
It was a sort of jam, really. Jam was the heart of it; the very best raspberry jam made by Crabtree and Evelyn. With the jam was mixed honey and a few chopped walnuts. Gunilla would spread a path of it on Hulda’s tender belly, beginning at the navel and extending downward. Having licked the jam out of the navel, Gunilla would lick slowly and gently in a southward direction and in time—it all had to be done lentissimo e languidamente—to the pintle of ecstasy, and then there were sighs and sometimes cries. After a restful period of kissing, Hulda took her turn, anointing Gunilla’s belly and performing the same slow ritual. With Gunilla it always ended in quite loud cries. It was she who most appreciated the walnuts, which gave, she said, a sort of traction that was very exciting.
All innocent and delightful, concluding with a bath together (enlivened with a couple of aquavits apiece) and a refreshing sleep. Who was harmed? Nobody. And there was no resorting to the bordel, simply as a convenience.
That is what I envy them. For it was in the bordel, somewhere—I cannot tell in what city of the many where I pursued my career—it came about that I acquired the disease that was one of the contributing elements in my early death. I underwent a cure, of course, but the cures in those days cured nothing except the debts of the physicians. I thought I had been cured, but later I knew better. That was in 1818, and when I became horribly ill and died in 1822 I knew that it was not simply the liver ailment that grew from all that champagne, or the mysterious paralysis that was at last diagnosed as tabes dorsalis—one of the many names given to the old, old disease—that carried me off. As it carried off poor Schubert, who, as I saw from the vantage of Limbo, was brought to wearing an absurd wig, to disguise the baldness that syphilis had brought upon him. And Schumann, who died of a self-inflicted starvation: but it sprang from the madness that had so long possessed him—madness that arose from the Morhus Gallicus.
It was my legs that first became useless to me, then the paralysis settled in my hands and I could not hold a pen. I was determined to complete Arthur of Britain if I could, and when writing was impossible I dictated my music to my wife, my dear faithful Michalina, who was a skilled amanuensis. But I could achieve nothing but sketches for the music I wanted—the sketches from which Schnak is so cleverly divining what was in my mind. The disease that made me unable to control the pen seemed to enlarge and enrich my musical imagination; I have long believed that certain poisons—tobacco and wine, to name two of the commonest—may do that in minds of fine quality, where the poisons do not induce the usual stupor. A truly Romantic notion, some would say. But the tortures and wrenchings that came with the inspirations were terrible, and it was to them that I at last succumbed.
It is the disease of genius, many people have said, because so many men of note, and many of them my contemporaries, died of it, or were hastened to the grave because syphilis underlay whatever it was the doctors said had killed them. Would I have sacrificed my genius to avoid the pain and degradation? Fortunately there is no necessity to answer that question.
V
1
“I simply adore Canada! What I’ve seen, that’s to say. Which isn’t the whole thing, of course. Really only Toronto and the Royal Winter Fair. I’m going to try for a stop-over in Montreal on my way home—try out my French, you know—but I mayn’t be able to spare the time. Must get back to my stud, you see. So much to be done at this time of year.”
“I’m glad you approve of us,” said Darcourt. “Now, about your father—”
“Oh, yes. Daddy. That’s what we’re here to talk about, isn’t it? That’s the reason for this lovely lunch in this absolutely super restaurant. Because you’re writing about him, aren’t you? I scribble a little myself, you know. Pony stories for children. They sell a few hundred thousand, to my surprise. But just before we get onto Daddy, there’s one thing—rather hush-hush, but I know you’re discreet—that I think isn’t just the way it should be in Canada, and unless something is done before it goes too far it could let you down fearfully. I mean, it could bring about a drop in world prestige.”
Ah, politics, thought Darcourt. Politics, which rages like the hectic in the veins of every Canadian, and quickly infects visitors—even Little Charlie, otherwise Miss Charlotte Cornish, who sat before him digging into the poached salmon.
“And what is that?” he asked, without wanting to know.
Little Charlie leaned forward conspiratorially, a loaded fork poised like a wand in her hand; there was a flake of salmon clinging to her lower lip.
“It’s your farriery,” she whispered. The flake was detached by the whisper and sped across the table toward Darcourt’s plate. She was the sort of woman who combines acceptable table manners with obvious greed; the lapels of her excellent tweed jacket carried evidence of hasty, joyous gobbling.
“Farriery?” he said, puzzled. Had Canada’s farriery gone to pot, and he had not noticed? Had the word some significance unknown to him?
“Don’t imagine I’m faulting your vets,” said Little Charlie. “First-class, so far as I can judge. But it’s the degree below the vet; the farrier groom who is the real companion and confidant of the pony. The vet is there for the big stuff, of course: colic, and farcy, and strangles and all those dreadful things that can ruin a fine creature. But it’s the farrier who gives the hot mash when the beastie is a wee bit sicky-pussy from a chill, or a tumble. It’s the farrier who pets and comforts when things haven’t gone just the way the beastie would like at a show. I call the farrier the pony’s nurse. In fact, in my stud I have this most wonderful girl—well, she must be my age, but she’s a girl to me—her name’s Stella, but I always call her Nursie, and believe you me she lives up to her name. I’d trust Stella far beyond most vets, let me tell you.”
“How lucky you are to have her,” said Darcourt. “Now, about the late Francis Cornish, I suppose you have some memories of him?”
“Oh, yes,” said Little Charlie. “But just a moment; I want to tell you something that happened yesterday. I was judging—head of the judges, really—and the most exquisite little Shetland stallion was brought in. A real winner! Eyes bright and well spaced; fine muzzle and big nostrils, deep chest and splendid withers, marvellous croup—a perfect picture! I tell you, I’d have bought him, if I could raise the cash. Won’t tell you his name, because I don’t want this to get around—though of course I trust you—and at his head was this groom, not a bit the kind of fellow you’d expect to see with such a little sweetie, and when the pony tossed his head—as they’ll do, you know, because they know they’re being judged, and they have pride—he jerked the bridle and said, ‘Hold still, damn you,’ under his breath! But I heard, and I tell you my heart went out to that little creature. ‘Are you the farrier?’ I said to him—not sharply, but firmly—and he said, ‘Yeah, I look after him,’ almost insolently. And I thought, well, I’ve seen quite a lot of that this last few days, and it sickens me. Then he jerked the bridle again and the pony nipped him! And he hit the pony on the nose! Well, of course that was that as far as judging goes. Show me a biter and I’ll show you a potential bolter and probably a jibber. And all because of that brute of a groom!”