Fingersmith

  ‘Miss Lilly,’ he says, as he bends towards me. The lock of hair falls forward, the stained hand lifts to brush it back. His voice is very low, I suppose for my uncle’s sake. He must have been cautioned in advance, by Mr Hawtrey.

  Mr Hawtrey is a London bookseller and publisher, and has been many times to Briar. He takes my hand and kisses it. Behind him comes Mr Huss. He is a gentleman collector, a friend from my uncle’s youth. He also takes my hand, but takes it to draw me closer to him, then kisses my cheek. ‘Dear child,’ he says.

  I have been several times surprised by Mr Huss upon the stairs. He likes to stand and watch me climb them.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Huss?’ I say now, making him a curtsey.

  But it is Mr Rivers I watch. And once or twice, when I turn my face his way, I find his own eyes fixed on me, his gaze a thoughtful one. He is weighing me up. Perhaps he has not supposed I would be so handsome. Perhaps I am not so handsome as rumour has had him think. I cannot tell. But, when the dinner-bell sounds and I move to my uncle’s side to be walked to the table, I see him hesitate; then he chooses the place next to mine. I wish he had not. I think he will continue to watch me, and I don’t like to be watched, while eating. Mr Way and Charles move softly about us, filling our glasses—mine, that crystal cup, cut with an M. The food is set upon our plates, then the servants leave: they never stay when we have company, but return between courses. At Briar we eat, as we do everything, by the chiming of the clock. A supper of gentlemen lasts one hour and a half.

  We are served hare soup, this night; then goose, crisp at the skin, pink at the bones, and with its innards devilled and passed about the table. Mr Hawtrey takes a dainty kidney, Mr Rivers has the heart. I shake my head at the plate he offers.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re not hungry,’ he says quietly, watching my face.

  ‘Don’t you care for goose, Miss Lilly?’ asks Mr Hawtrey. ‘Nor does my eldest daughter. She thinks of goslings, and grows tearful.’

  ‘I hope you catch her tears and keep them,’ says Mr Huss. ‘I often think I should like to see the tears of a girl made into an ink.’

  ‘An ink? Don’t mention it to my daughters, I beg you. That I must hear their complaints, is one thing. Should they once catch the idea of impressing them also upon paper, and making me read them, I assure you, my life would not be worth the living.’

  ‘Tears, for ink?’ says my uncle, a beat behind the others. ‘What rubbish is this?’

  ‘Girls’ tears,’ says Mr Huss.

  ‘Quite colourless.’

  ‘I think not. Truly, sir, I think not. I fancy them delicately tinged—perhaps pink, perhaps violet.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Mr Hawtrey, ‘as depending on the emotion that has provoked them?’

  ‘Exactly. You have hit it, Hawtrey, there. Violet tears, for a melancholy book; pink, for a gay. It might be sewn up, too, with hair from a girl’s head . . .’ He glances at me and his look changes. He puts his napkin to his mouth.

  ‘Now,’ says Mr Hawtrey, ‘I really wonder that that has never been attempted. Mr Lilly? One hears barbarous stories of course, of hides and bindings . . .’

  They discuss this for a time. Mr Rivers listens but says nothing. Of course, his attention is all with me. Perhaps he will speak, I think, under cover of their talk. I hope he will. I hope he won’t. I sip my wine and am suddenly weary. I have sat at suppers like this, hearing my uncle’s friends chase tedious points in small, tight circles, too many times. Unexpectedly, I think of Agnes. I think of Agnes’s mouth teasing a bead of blood from her pricked palm. My uncle clears his throat, and I blink.

  ‘So, Rivers,’ he says, ‘Hawtrey tells me he has you translating, French matter into English. Poor stuff, I suppose, if his press is involved in it.’

  ‘Poor stuff indeed,’ answers Mr Rivers; ‘or I should not attempt it. It is hardly my line. One learns, in Paris, the necessary terms; but it was as a student of the fine arts that I was lately there. I hope to find a better application for my talents, sir, than the conjuring of bad English from worse French.’

  ‘Well, well. We shall see.’ My uncle smiles. ‘You would like to view my pictures.’

  ‘Very much indeed.’

  ‘Well, another day will do for that. They are handsome enough, I think you’ll find. I care less for them than for my books, however. You’ve heard, perhaps’—he pauses—‘of my Index?’

  Mr Rivers inclines his head. ‘It sounds a marvellous thing.’

  ‘Pretty marvellous—eh, Maud? But, are we modest? Do we blush?’

  I know my own cheek is cool; and his is pale as candle-wax. Mr Rivers turns, searches my face with his thoughtful gaze.

  ‘How goes the great work?’ asks Mr Hawtrey lightly.

  ‘We are close,’ answers my uncle. ‘We are very close. I am in consultation with finishers.’

  ‘And the length?’

  ‘A thousand pages.’

  Mr Hawtrey raises his brow. If my uncle’s temper would permit it, he might whistle. He reaches for another slice of goose.

  ‘Two hundred more then,’ he says, as he does it, ‘since I spoke to you last.’

  ‘For the first volume, of course. The second shall be greater. What think you of that, Rivers?’

  ‘Astonishing, sir.’

  ‘Has there ever been its like? An universal bibliography, and on such a theme? They say the science is a dead one amongst Englishmen.’

  ‘Then you have raised it to life. A fantastic achievement.’

  ‘Fantastic, indeed—more so, when one knows the degrees of obscurity in which my subject is shrouded. Consider this: that the authors of the texts I collect must cloak their identity in deception and anonymity. That the texts themselves are stamped with every kind of false and misleading detail as to place and date of publication and impress. Hmm? That they are burdened with obscure titles. That they must pass darkly, via secret channels, or on the wings of rumour and supposition. Consider those checks to the bibliographer’s progress. Then speak to me, sir, of fantastic labour!’ He trembles in a mirthless laughter.

  ‘I cannot conceive it,’ says Mr Rivers. ‘And the Index is organised . . . ?’

  ‘By title, by name, by date when we have it; and, mark this, sir: by species of pleasure. We have them tabled, most precisely.’

  ‘The books?’

  ‘The pleasures! Where are we presently, Maud?’

  The gentlemen turn to me. I sip my wine. ‘At the Lust,’ I say, ‘of Men for Beasts.’

  My uncle nods. ‘So, so,’ he says. ‘Do you see, Rivers, the assistance our bibliography will provide, to the student of the field? It will be a veritable Bible.’

  ‘The flesh made word,’ says Mr Hawtrey, smiling, enjoying the phrase. He catches my eye, and winks. Mr Rivers, however, is still looking earnestly at my uncle.

  ‘A great ambition,’ he says now.

  ‘A great labour,’ says Mr Huss.

  ‘Indeed,’ says Mr Hawtrey, turning again to me. ‘I am afraid, Miss Lilly, your uncle continues to work you very mercilessly.’

  I shrug. ‘I was bred to the task,’ I say, ‘as servants are.’

  ‘Servants and young ladies,’ says Mr Huss, ‘are different sorts of creatures. Have I not said so, many times? Girls’ eyes should not be worn out with reading, nor their small hands made hard through the gripping of pens.’

  ‘So my uncle believes,’ I say, showing my gloves; though it is his books he is anxious to save, of course, not my fingers.

  ‘And what,’ he says now, ‘if she labour five hours a day? I labour ten! What should we work for, if not books? Hmm? Think of Smart, and de Bury. Or think of Tinius, so dedicated a collector he killed two men for the sake of his library.’

  ‘Think of Frère Vincente, who, for the sake of his, killed twelve!’ Mr Hawtrey shakes his head. ‘No, no, Mr Lilly. Work your niece if you must. But drive her to violence for literature’s sake, and we shall never forgive you.’

  The gentlemen laugh.

&n
bsp; ‘Well, well,’ says my uncle.

  I study my hand, saying nothing. My fingers show red as ruby through the glass of dark wine, my mother’s initial quite invisible until I turn the crystal; then the cuts leap out.

  There are two more courses before I might be excused, and then two more soundings of the clock to be sat through, alone, before the gentlemen join me in the drawing-room. I hear the murmur of their voices and wonder what, in my absence, they discuss. When they come at last they are all a little pinker in the face, and their breaths are soured with smoke. Mr Hawtrey produces a package, bound in paper and string. He hands it to my uncle, who fumbles with the wrappings.

  ‘So, so,’ he says; and then, with the book uncovered and held close to his eyes: ‘Aha!’ He works his lips. ‘Look here, Maud, look, at what the little grubbian has brought us.’ He shows me the volume. ‘Now, what do you say?’

  It is a common novel in a tawdry binding, but with an unfamiliar frontispiece that renders it rare. I look and, despite myself, feel the stirrings of a dry excitement. The sensation makes me queasy. I say, ‘A very fine thing for us, Uncle, without a doubt.’

  ‘See here, the fleuron? You see it?’

  ‘I see it.’

  ‘I don’t believe we have considered the possibility of such a thing. I am sure we have not. We must go back. And we thought that entry complete? We shall return to it, tomorrow.’ He stretches his neck. He likes the anticipation of pleasure. ‘For now—well, take your gloves off, girl. Do you suppose Hawtrey brings us books to have you press gravy into the binding? That’s better. Let’s hear a little of it. Do you sit, and read to us. Huss, you must sit also. Rivers, mark my niece’s voice, how soft and clear she reads. I coached her myself. Well, well.—You crease the spine, Maud!’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Lilly, she does not,’ says Mr Huss, gazing at my uncovered hands.

  I place the book upon a stand and carefully weight its pages. I turn a lamp so that its light falls bright upon the print.

  ‘How long shall I read for, Uncle?’

  He puts his watch against his ear. He says, ‘Until the next o’clock. Now, note this, Rivers, and tell me if you suppose its like may be encountered in any other English drawing-room!’

  The book is filled, as I have said, with common enough obscenities; but my uncle is right, I have been trained too well, my voice is clear and true and makes the words seem almost sweet. When I have finished, Mr Hawtrey claps, and Mr Huss’s pink face is pinker, his look rather troubled. My uncle sits with his spectacles removed, his head at an angle, his eyes screwed tight.

  ‘Poor words enough,’ he says. ‘But I have a home for you, upon my shelves. A home, and brothers, too. Tomorrow we shall see you placed there. The fleuron: I am certain we have not thought of that.—Maud, the covers are closed, and quite unbent?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He draws on his eye-glasses, working the wires about his ears. Mr Huss pours brandy. I button up my gloves, smooth creases from my skirt. I turn the lamp, and dim it. But I am conscious of myself. I am conscious of Mr Rivers. He has heard me read, apparently without excitement, his eyes upon the floor; but his hands are clasped and one thumb beats a little nervously upon the other. Presently he rises. He says the fire is hot and scorches him. He walks a minute about the room, leaning rigidly to gaze into my uncle’s book-presses—now his hands are behind his back; his thumb still twitches, however. I think he knows I watch. In time he comes close, catches my eye, makes a careful bow. He says, ‘It is rather chill, so far from the fire. Shouldn’t you like, Miss Lilly, to sit closer to the flames?’

  I answer: ‘Thank you, Mr Rivers, I prefer this spot.’

  ‘You like to be cool,’ he says.

  ‘I like the shadows.’

  When I smile again he takes it as a kind of invitation, lifts his coat, twitches at his trousers and sits beside me, not too close, still with his eyes upon my uncle’s shelves, as if distracted by the books. But when he speaks, he speaks in a murmur. He says, ‘You see, I also like the shadows.’

  Mr Huss glances once our way. Mr Hawtrey stands at the fire and lifts a glass. My uncle has settled into his chair and its wings obscure his eyes; I see only his dry mouth, puckered at the lip. ‘The greatest phase of eros?’ he is saying. ‘We have missed it, sir, by seventy years! The cynical, improbable fictions which pass for voluptuous literature nowadays I should be ashamed to show to the man that shoes my horse . . .’

  I stifle a yawn, and Mr Rivers turns to me. I say, ‘Forgive me, Mr Rivers.’

  He bows his head. ‘Perhaps, you don’t care for your uncle’s subject.’

  He still speaks in a murmur; and I am obliged to make my own voice rather low, by way of answer. ‘I am my uncle’s secretary,’ I say. ‘The appeal of the subject is nothing to me.’

  Again he bows. ‘Well, perhaps,’ he says, while my uncle talks on. ‘It is only curious, to see a lady left cool and unmoved, by that which is designed to provoke heat, and motion.’

  ‘But there are many ladies, I think, unmoved by that you speak of; and aren’t those who know the matter best, moved least?’ I catch his eye. ‘I speak not from experience of the world, of course, but from my reading merely. But I should have said that—oh, even a priest would note a palling in his passion for the mysteries of his church, if put too often to the scrutiny of wafer and wine.’

  He does not blink. At last he almost laughs.

  ‘You are very uncommon, Miss Lilly.’

  I look away. ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Ah. Now your tone is a bitter one. Perhaps you think your education a sort of misfortune.’

  ‘On the contrary. How could it be a misfortune, to be wise? I can never be deceived, for instance, in the matter of a gentleman’s attentions. I am a connoisseur of all the varieties of methods by which a gentleman might seek to compliment a lady.’

  He puts his white hand to his breast. ‘Then I should be daunted indeed,’ he says, ‘did I want only to compliment you.’

  ‘I was not aware that gentlemen had any other wants, than that one.’

  ‘Perhaps not in the books that you are used to. But in life—a great many; and one that is chief.’

  ‘I supposed,’ I say, ‘that that was the one the books were written for.’

  ‘Oh no.’ He smiles. His voice dips even lower. ‘They are read for that, but written for something keener. I mean, of course, the want of—money. Every gentleman minds that. And those of us who are not quite so gentlemanly as we would like, mind it most of all.—I am sorry to embarrass you.’

  I have coloured, or flinched. Now, recovering, I say, ‘You forget, I have been bred to be quite beyond embarrassment. I am only surprised.’

  ‘Then I must take a satisfaction from the knowledge that I have surprised you.’ He lifts his hand to his beard. ‘It is something to me,’ he goes on, ‘to have made a small impression upon the evenness and regularity of your days.’

  He speaks so insinuatingly, my cheek grows warmer still.

  ‘What do you know,’ I say, ‘of those?’

  ‘Why, only what I surmise, from my observation of the house . . .’

  Now his voice and his face are grown bland again. I see Mr Huss tilt his head and observe him. Then he calls, pointedly: ‘What do you think, Rivers, of this?’

  ‘Of what, sir?’

  ‘Of Hawtrey’s championing, now, of photography.’

  ‘Photography?’

  ‘Rivers,’ says Mr Hawtrey. ‘You are a young man. I appeal to you. Can there be any more perfect record of the amatory act—’

  ‘Record!’ says my uncle, peevishly. ‘Documentary! The curses of the age!’

  ‘—of the amatory act, than a photograph? Mr Lilly will have it that the science of photography runs counter to the spirit of the Paphian life. I say it is an image of life, and has this advantage over it: that it endures, where life—the Paphian life, the Paphian moment, in especial—must finish and fade.’

  ‘Doth not a book endure?’ a
sks my uncle, plucking at the arm of his chair.

  ‘It endureth, so long as words do. But, in a photograph you have a thing beyond words, and beyond the mouths that speak them. A photograph will provoke heat in an Englishman, a Frenchman, a savage. It will outlast us all, and provoke heat in our grandsons. It is a thing apart from history.’

  ‘It is gripped by history!’ answers my uncle. ‘It is corrupted by it! Its history hangs about it like so much smoke!—you may see it, in the fitting of a slipper, a gown, the dressing of a head. Give photographs to your grandson: he will study them and think them quaint. He will laugh at the wax tips of your moustaches! But words, Hawtrey, words—hmm? They seduce us in darkness, and the mind clothes and fleshes them to fashions of its own. Don’t you think so, Rivers?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘You know I won’t allow daguerreotypes and nonsense like that into my collection?’

  ‘I think you are right not to, sir.’

  Mr Hawtrey shakes his head. He says, to my uncle: ‘You still believe photography a fashion, that will pass? You must come to Holywell Street, and spend an hour in my shop. We have albums made up, now, for men to choose from. It is all our buyers come for.’

  ‘Your buyers are brutes. What business have I with them? Rivers, you have seen them. What is your opinion as to the quality of Hawtrey’s trade . . . ?’

  The debate will go on, he cannot escape. He answers, then catches my eye as if in apology, rises, goes to my uncle’s side. They talk until the striking of ten o’clock—which is when I leave them.

  That is the Thursday night. Mr Rivers is due to remain at Briar until Sunday. Next day I am kept from the library while the men look over the books; at supper he watches me, and afterwards hears me read, but then is obliged to sit again with my uncle and cannot come to my side. Saturday I walk in the park with Agnes, and do not see him; Saturday night, however, my uncle has me read from an antique book, one of his finest—and then, when I have finished, Mr Rivers comes and sits beside me, to study its singular covers.