“He’s a big dog in a small body. It’s the short legs,” Simpson said. “Great heart, the Skye has, absolutely fearless. They’re bred for hunting but a great family dog. He’ll be easy to have around the house, though you can’t ignore him. He’ll let you know that.”
“Walter, we will call him,” Fanny said, and took him straightaway into her arms. Soon after their departure, Walter became Woggs and then, inexplicably, Bogue.
“He’s the perfect dog,” Fanny cooed.
Louis smiled. “He even looks like you, Fan.”
CHAPTER 38
1881
On the way to Davos, they stopped in London at the Grosvenor Hotel for a week, where they took a suite with an extra bedroom for Sammy and a sitting room in which Louis could receive guests. When Bob, Henley, Baxter, Colvin, and an old literary friend, Edmund Gosse, showed up, Fanny detected the cautious attitude of the men as they gingerly embraced her husband. “We thought the devil had you, Lou,” Gosse said. “But by God, you old stick, you’re looking famous.”
“Both the Louises are looking famous,” Colvin said, pecking Fanny on the cheek.
It had been two years since she had seen her husband’s old crowd. Henley had put on more paunch. So had Bob. They were all changed by age, marriage, children, jobs, and some of the friendships had grown more complex. Baxter, a lawyer, handled legal and financial matters for Louis. Henley was his publisher at London, as well as his literary agent—albeit unpaid, but he had high hopes that their play collaborations would prove lucrative. Colvin, who was paying off a significant loan from Louis in small amounts, acted as an editor and a sort of well-connected sponsor. Together just now, though, they might have been carefree schoolboys.
They had come to see Louis, their beloved Puck, but Fanny enjoyed the talk and stayed through the first evening’s conversation. There was a genial glow in the room, such tenderness toward Louis, and Fanny, for what she had been through with his illness in the States.
Louis, for his part, was elated. He had been among mostly women and children for the past few months, and Fanny saw how it lifted his spirits to be with his old cronies, especially before the “confinement” in Davos.
“You’ll be surprised by the place,” Gosse said. “Symonds is in Davos and plans to stay indefinitely. He has an actual life there. You’ll like his company.”
“Ah, he’s a pompous ass,” Henley opined.
“The man’s earned the right. He’s considered a great Renaissance scholar,” Gosse explained to Fanny.
“Symonds is his name?” Fanny asked. “Does he have a family in Davos?”
“A wife and four daughters.” Henley sniggered, waving a dismissive hand. “Professor Symonds is an expert on Greek love.”
“He just did a translation of Michelangelo’s sonnets,” Louis explained as the others talked on. “As they were written—man to man.”
“I understood Mr. Henley’s remark,” she replied.
“He’s an impeccable scholar. He’s all the talk now in certain circles.” Louis said.
“Are we a little jealous of Symonds’s fame, perhaps?” Gosse asked Henley.
“No more than you.”
“I suppose I should be jealous.” Gosse sighed. “I seem to keep hanging by my eyelids to the outer cliff of fame.”
Fanny stifled a snicker. What high opinions these fellows have of themselves. She excused herself, put Sam to bed, then retired to her own room with a book. When she came back in the parlor near eleven, she found the men in their cups.
“Do bring your wives next time,” Fanny said, gently encouraging them out the door.
Next day was a luncheon at the Savile Club, from which Louis returned drunk. When he had slept off the effects, a new round began. Henley, who had not bothered to nap since lunch, arrived smelling of whiskey, an odor he was now complicating with wine.
“I want you to hear the poem our friend here recited for us today at the club,” Louis said. “He wrote it whilst in hospital with his leg—the year I met him. Do you mind repeating it, old man?”
Aiming his delivery to a corner of the parlor ceiling, Henley let loose a rant against death. He spoke the last lines with a defiant anguish: “‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.’”
“Thank you,” Fanny interjected into the silence that followed.
Louis paced the carpet, a crooked finger over his lips, while Henley looked at his lap.
“You have traveled a hard road, William,” Fanny said.
Henley muttered sadly into his beard, which lay flat upon his chest, “I was a panther once.”
“The man hasn’t a shred of manners,” she steamed when Henley was gone. “It goes straight to my vitals that he ignores your health. It’s one o’clock.”
“Yes, yes,” Louis said absently. He was up then, and out of bed, knocking into furniture as he went for paper and pen. “I must light the lamp for a bit. Sorry, Fan.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“I need to write it: the maimed manhood of Henley.” His voice was feverish. “That is the key to a great character.”
For a week the old friends came back to visit. Fanny kept Louis in bed much of the day, then stepped in and out of the evening scene in the parlor. Often she felt the air in the room was charged with something. Competitiveness? The men appeared to be jockeying for closer position to Louis. After the first night, she stayed in Sammy’s room or her own until around ten or eleven, when she took a seat among them, hoping her yawns might signal that there were others in the suite eager for sleep. She listened silently to their repartee, which grew less clever with the ticking of the clock. What a collection of friends Louis had gathered! Colvin affected a look of bemusement most of the time. He kept his neat little head cocked and his nostrils half flared, as if he had picked up the scent of an overripe cheese. When he spoke, his words amounted to stiff nothings. Gosse’s manner was smooth as silk, but he was hopelessly conceited. Henley, by contrast, revealed signs of a heart, mightily injured as it was. He bore the mark of suffering not only in his body but in his conversation. He had come from a big, poor family and his childhood had been a sorrowful struggle. Despite it, he was a self-made man who turned his miserable luck into heroic poetry. And yet in the midst of all his high talk, he diminished himself when he gossiped, or when he chewed his food like a sheep, with his mouth half open and his chin rotating in a circle while he spewed cracker crumbs into his red whiskers, where they rode out the remainder of the evening. Baxter, the lawyer, whom Fanny found to be one of those brown-haired young men who was indistinguishable from the next, remained insistently drunk. Only Bob Stevenson still pleased her, though she wanted to strangle him for staying on. The room was so filled with smoke that she could barely stand it, and she was a smoker herself.
Their planned week at the hotel turned into two as the men’s visits melded
into one long bout of false humility and intellectual one-upsmanship. There were no pretenses now. When she made a rare comment, they talked over her. No one but Louis noticed when she retired to bed.
Unable to sleep, she sat up and was shocked when tears spurted from her eyes. Why are you crying, you fool? And then she knew. It felt like an arrow every time Louis’s friends came and made her feel like an unwanted outsider. It hurt. When Henley got on to the subject of American culture, his frequent use of “barbaric” seemed aimed directly at her.
She wiped her eyes and comforted herself by formulating caustic remarks she wanted to deliver to each of them. “How fortunate for you, Mr. Henley, that you have never had to bother your head with the annoyance of notoriety … How perfectly suited you are to be a sponsor of talent, Mr. Colvin. Borrowed limelight is better than none.”
She picked up a pen and began a letter to Louis’s mother. I cannot bear London, she wrote. It is unhealthy for both my body and my mind.
One night Henley’s shouts, booming like cannon reports through the thin walls, were especially infuriating. If they were ke
eping her awake, then Sam was wide awake in his bed on the other side of the sitting room. Sam adored Henley because he thought of him as a jolly musketeer; just now the boy was getting a full dose of the blackguard side of his hero.
She gave up trying to block out the voices and listened. They were gossiping about a journalist who had recently died whose name she didn’t recognize. All of them were roasting the man on a spit. “I suppose I have some time left,” Louis said. “God seems to want only the bad writers up there.”
She would have smiled at another time, when her head wasn’t throbbing. She got back under the covers. At two o’clock, when Henley’s laugh roared once more, a rush of holy rage shot her out of bed and into the parlor.
“For God’s sake, go home—all of you! Am I going to deliver a dead man to Davos?” she shouted. “You have kept him up until the morning hours every single night we have been here. And to what end? So you can assassinate someone’s character! Have you no self-respect? Are you not men?”
Baxter sat up in his chair, bristling like a cornered cat. Henley set his jaw. Colvin leaped to his feet. In the space of a minute, the sodden party stumbled out of the hotel room, leaving behind half-finished cigarettes and whiskys. When they were gone, Fanny leaned, quaking, against the door. Outside, she could hear the men in the hall, waiting for the lift. “What did I tell you?” Henley’s gravelly voice demanded.
It dawned on Fanny what she looked like. Her hair was undone, wild as Medusa’s; her heavy breasts, hanging loose under a violet-printed nightgown, quivered with every thud of her heart.
In the bedroom, Louis held his tongue, though he was clearly crestfallen.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, still shaking. “I’m not a diplomat! I can afford to say what I think.”
There was no leaving the Grosvenor Hotel, however, until the staggering bill was settled. Fanny was stunned to see that they had burned through fifty pounds. That was nearly one fourth of the annual sum Louis’ father had promised them. How was it possible? She could only picture Henley finishing off bottles of Talisker when she considered the bill. But he hadn’t done it alone. In the hotel restaurant, she and Louis had ordered freely, with no eye to the budget. Now they would have to eat humble pie by asking his father for more money. Louis leaned on Colvin, too, to come up with some cash. Fanny felt better about that; it was owed to him, after all.
When Colvin showed up with a check, he enjoyed witnessing their embarrassment. “What innocents you are,” he teased them, “taking the dearest suite in the hotel.”
CHAPTER 39
Louis grasped the brass handles on either side of the clinic’s large scale and mounted it. He was not naked, but for Davos, nearly. He wore no shoes or jacket, just trousers and a thin shirt.
“Let go of the handles now,” Dr. Reudi said as he peered at Louis’s official weight. “Two pounds,” the doctor announced. The small group of patients gathered in the hall politely applauded.
Louis alighted with a sheepish grin. “Pathetic,” he whispered as he took his seat next to Fanny.
“Your weight?” she asked.
“This gathering.”
By the end of the meeting, every patient had taken his turn at the weekly weighing. Then they returned to their places in the community, as pharmacist, furniture maker, postal clerk, chocolatier. This working community of tuberculars in Davos was but one innovation of Dr. Reudi, who prescribed fresh air, exercise, and a positive outlook along with any medications he handed out. Dr. Reudi would have none of the old thinking about tuberculosis that romanticized the pale beauty of the afflicted, lying about on fainting couches.
When they arrived at Davos, the taciturn doctor had come over to the chalet where they were keeping house to have a look at Louis. He itemized the patient’s conditions: chronic pneumonia; infiltration and bronchitic tendency; enlarged spleen. He did not say the feared word “tuberculosis.”
“You will need to stay here a minimum of eighteen months,” he said. “I make no promises, but you have a chance to stabilize your lungs if you stick to the regimen.” Reudi prescribed a diet that called for warm cow’s milk, red meat, and plentiful wine. He limited Louis’s work sessions to three hours and outlawed cigarettes, though he permitted him three pipes per day. After giving Louis a good talking-to, he turned a cool eye on Fanny, pronounced her fat, and put her on a diet of meat, lemons, health tonics, and a low dose of arsenic.
“One of those custard pastries with apricots,” Fanny said as they walked through the snow back to their chalet after the weighing session. “If I could have anything I wanted to eat, that’s what I would choose.”
“I wouldn’t have food. I’d have six cigarettes straight in a row.”
“I’m fat,” she said sighing, “but I want you to know I don’t approve of it.”
“Plumpness is fashionable in Paris, Fan,” he comforted her.
“How many pipes have you smoked today?”
“All three.”
“Mmmm. It’s going to be a long night.”
“There’s wine.”
“Ah, there’s that,” she said, linking her arm with his as their chalet came into sight.
Since their arrival in October, Louis had done his best to partake of what Davos offered. When she saw him heading outside with his ice skates or bundling up for tobogganing, Fanny demurred. She’d always hated cold weather. There were plenty of inside activities, such as whist, and charity bazaars to knit for, but Fanny mostly stayed on the couch in the big open room on the second floor, slowly reading her way through a pile of novels and Lancet medical journals she’d found at the sanitarium library.
As the weeks wore on, she began to worry aloud that Davos was not a healthy place for her son. Sammy was pleased enough to spend his days with Louis, printing stories on his little press and waging vast and long military campaigns against each other with lead soldiers. Thought tutors were interspersed between the entertainment, she decided Sammy would be far better educated at a small private school in Bournemouth, England. Louis embraced the boy heartily as he departed, shouting to him as the train began to move, “Be diligent, Sam, especially in play!”
Now it was down to three of them, counting Bogue.
With the boy away, the health resort full of sunburned optimists began to feel oppressively artificial even to Louis, though he tried not to show Fanny. She, on the other hand, could not conceal her growing misery.
“Did you ever see one of those snow globes?”
“The paperweights you shake? With the sparkly snow that swirls around inside? Yes, in Paris. They’re delightful.”
“I feel as if I’m living in one. I am the figure inside, wearing a frozen smile.”
Louis patted her knee. “We won’t be here forever, little man.”
“What does that mean?’ Fanny asked crossly.
“My health is much better.”
“I mean ‘little man.’”
Louis laughed. “You are tiny, and you have the heart of a courageous man. It’s a
compliment.”
Fanny was losing her sense of humor—fearful, no doubt, that they would have to live out
the remainder of his days in the Alps.
Symonds, the Renaissance scholar, was one of Dr. Reudi’s patients who had accepted his fate and built a permanent home in Davos. “You will notice a certain nervous strain from the high altitude among the people who reside here,” he warned one day as Louis sat in the man’s study, “particularly sensitive souls like yourself. You may find yourself a bit grumpy.”
“So that’s what’s wrong with us.”
“You’ll get accustomed to the climate because you must,” Symonds pronounced.
Louis could not conceive of calling Davos home. The landscape presented itself in black, white, and blue, without a hint of natural smell. The snow had its own beauty but was nothing to the brown and green of a Highlands meadow fragrant with life. He would never concede defeat the way Symonds had, though he welc
omed the man’s company and gladly listened to his lectures about Shakespeare and Italy and the Council of Trent. They helped fill the time.
As the days stretched into weeks, people went missing. It happened without fanfare. A knitting companion of Fanny’s would be unavailable. The man who regularly sat at the next dining table stopped appearing for dinner. A new postman replaced the old. All around, fellow inmates were quietly dying—many of them young, athletic, cheerful, and the least likely candidates for the undertaker.
Louis was positively spruce by comparison and tried to help the others with a good turn. He spent one afternoon desperately searching for a birthday gift for a twelve-year-old girl who was not expected to see another birthday. Hearing that another resident had received roses at Christmas, he went to her quarters and talked the woman out of her flowers, then delivered them to the sickly girl.
He was hungry for the company of his old friends, but only Colvin visited briefly. When an unexpected guest did show up at their house in January, it was Fanny Sitwell. She had brought her eighteen-year-old son, Bertie, for treatment. He had just finished a school term when he was stricken with a galloping consumption. It moved Louis to see his wife rise up from her depression to shower kind attentions on his first love. No one could better understand her sorrow. He tried to find hopeful words, but even Fanny Sitwell could see the boy’s condition was plummeting. By April, when signs of a thaw began, Bertie Sitwell was dead and buried at Davos in a cemetery for boys and girls. Fanny Sitwell went home stricken, silent, and childless.