being pertinent to his philosophical enquiries.
Thus Grieves was certain the story in the newspaper would have intrigued his companion, much as Bonfigliotti might try to pretend otherwise.
‘Very well,’ sighed the Italian, putting away his snuff box with a flourish. ‘I will go with you.’
In truth, he was curious. Irish landlords were reviled abroad for how they treated their tenants – with some justification – yet the class had produced some of the finest mathematicians and scientists in Europe.
It was a paradox which Sir Cecil seemed to epitomise. Here was a man passionate about the heavens and all the wonders they contained, a man who had had a telescope constructed so he might further his investigations in this regard. A man in touch with the divine. Yet his treatment of those who had built this telescope on his behalf suggested a more questionable aspect.
‘And what better way to get the measure of such an individual, than by visiting his home?’ Bonfigliotti reflected.
Grieves sent a letter to his two cousins promising to arrive the following week in the company of a friend and made plans accordingly.
And so it was that the two man found themselves sharing a carriage as it bumped and jolted through the wildest and most inhospitable part of Ireland, the sound of the rain drumming down on the carriage roof nearly drowning out the rattle of its wheels. Bonfigliotti had peeped out the window on a number of occasions, always to be treated to the same sight: a sky filled with black clouds, a rough unkempt countryside that seemed to be comprised entirely of gorse and boulders, interrupted here and there by straggling stone walls or by the squalid homes of the peasants Grieves so despised. These often consisted of little more than a dugout with a sod roof, and were almost indistinguishable from their surroundings but for the occasional plume of grey smoke.
Yet this seemingly remote, uncultivated wilderness was teeming with ghosts. Filthy, ragged figures were everywhere, trudging along the roadside or huddled under some thorn bush or simply sprawled on the muddy ground, staring sightlessly up at the rain-filled heavens even as they breathed their last.
The carriage passed through a series of towns, each smaller and shabbier than the last, and on every occasion countless gaunt, desperate faces would materialise out of the shadows as it rattled by, hands outstretched while a chorus of piteous cries would make Bonfigliotti retreat back into his seat, his normally good-humoured features set in a grimace somewhere between shame and disgust.
He had expected to see some evidence of the blight which had wreaked so much havoc, his mind filled with descriptions he had read in the papers of fields filled with blackened stalks. He saw none. And if any of those starving multitudes had ever tended such crops, they did not do so now, being no better than vagrants.
Sir Cecil’s estate stood on the outskirts of a small town somewhat less mean than those they had passed through earlier. ‘Well?’ Grieves demanded as they neared the gates. ‘Now do you see why they starve? Their idleness is the cause of their ills, nothing more.’
‘I think it reflects even worse on their betters that they be reduced to such penury.’
Grieves sighed. ‘You would have every landlord surrender his crops and livestock so that those ingrates sleep with a full belly? To what end? They would not thank us for it, and the very men you censure would be quickly reduced to penury themselves.’
Despite the torrential rain, a large crew of men were at work on the road just by those gates as the carriage approached, presumably under the auspices of the same scheme that had provided them with employment in relation to the late peer’s telescope. Bonfigliotti could not help noticing that most of them were in the final stages of starvation – something made all the more pronounced by the well-fed appearance of their overseer – and was quick to seize on the fact. ‘What of them? You say idleness is to blame for the ills of the Irish peasantry. Then tell me, my friend, what those men will earn for all their hard work – other than a quicker death?’
The group looked up with little more than a dull indifference as the carriage passed through those great wrought-iron gates. Perhaps a lawless element prevailed in the town but it seemed the vast majority were resigned to their lot and bore the late Sir Cecil no ill will. Several more men were lingering directly inside the gates – clearly local militia, for they were armed – and touched their hat brims as the carriage went by.
Grieves was unperturbed. ‘I would tell you that they are still better off than their peers. A famine ravages the country, Gabriele. Food is in short supply everywhere.’
But Bonfigliotti was already struck by the difference between the wilderness through which he had just travelled and what awaited him within those gates. Sir Cecil’s estate consisted mostly of lush, open pasture, adorned here and there by enormous beech trees, and on which large numbers of cattle were busily grazing. True, the very vividness of the grass in contrast to the gloomy sky above only served as a reminder that weather was as inclement within the walls of that estate as without, the sheer greenness of the grass no doubt due to it being sodden with moisture.
In the distance, rising above one copse, was the telescope that Sir Cecil had been working on before his death.
‘In short supply everywhere?’ the little Italian gently remonstrated. ‘Outside these walls, perhaps –’
‘Enough!’ snapped Grieves. ‘I would appreciate if you kept such sentiments to yourself while being entertained by my cousins.’
Bonfigliotti inclined his head. ‘I will do my best, amico mio.’
But even as he spoke, he felt a pang of doubt. Like any Italian, his was a passionate temperament and when his passions ran high, reining in his tongue proved particularly difficult.
Grieves’ cousins were waiting to greet them on the steps of the family home – a stern, grey building wholly devoid of any exterior decoration – and a short while later the two found themselves sitting down to supper in a room that seemed even damper than Grieves’ lodgings back in Dublin: although a fire crackled bravely in the grate, that big, gloomy dining room was pervaded by a general muskiness, and dominated by a portrait of the late peer, which hung above the mantelpiece. Again and again, Bonfigliotti found himself glancing up at this while he ate.
He had not known what to expect. The painting captured Sir Cecil at a point in his life when his greatest achievements lay behind him but before he had succumbed to his final illness. He sat at his desk, pen in hand, regarding the viewer with a pleasant, but faintly condescending expression on his lean, handsome face. Those eyes were very blue and very penetrating.
Both the pose and the expression suggested a man sure of his place in the world; more than that Bonfigliotti could not say.
The hallway had been crammed with objects brought back by Sir Cecil from southern climes (such expeditions being the only means by which he could view certain constellations) and which had established his reputation as an orientalist, specifically idols of brass, marble or wood, some very wicked in appearance, some extremely benign. Bonfigliotti’s studies meant he was more than familiar with some of the religions which those idols represented, specifically their more diabolical aspect – sufficiently familiar to avoid dabbling in them. And yet Sir Cecil seemed to have embraced all faiths with equal enthusiasm.
‘Except, of course, the faith of his tenants,’ Bonfigliotti reflected.
He was not surprised to see the main course consisting of beef, and whatever the shortcomings of the house itself, this was superlative.
‘I must congratulate you on your livestock, ladies. Seldom have I seen animals so large or so well-fed.’
‘Why thank you, Mr Bonfigliotti,’ Sir Cecil’s eldest daughter was a friendly soul, but so pale – pallid, almost – like something rarely exposed to sunlight, her mousy brown hair tied back in a bun. ‘But all credit must go to our dear departed father who – when he was not at work on his beloved telescope or abroad – spent all his time attempting to increase the size of his herd.’
‘In
deed,’ agreed the other sister, a smaller, dumpier version of her sibling. ‘It was not easily done, Mr Bonfigliotti! He had to move a great many tenants off the estate so that the land be converted to pasture.’
Bonfigliotti busied himself with his knife and fork. ‘And met with some considerable resistance I should imagine.’
‘He was as unhappy about the matter as they, but the choice was not his to make.’ A certain defiance crept into the younger woman’s voice as she continued – ‘You cannot stand in the way of progress, Mr Bonfigliotti. If land can be put to a better use than formerly, then its owner has no choice but to comply. In any event, this is not the only part of my father’s estate. He allocated his tenants new plots of land, albeit on high ground.’
‘I am guessing those holdings decreased in size as more and more land was converted to pasture.’
The older sister smiled wryly. ‘Our cousin has already warned us of your egalitarian tendencies, Mr Bonfigliotti, but it is just as my sister says: one cannot halt the march of progress. Indeed, our father always believed some divine providence made it so and saw himself as no more a master of his destiny than his tenants.’
Bonfigliotti dabbed his mouth with his napkin, a dim memory of some article he had read about the peculiar appeal of the potato