'Well, another day will do for that. They are handsome enough, I think you'll find. I c a r e l e s s f o r t h e m t h a n f o r m y b o o k s , h o w e v e r . Y o u ' v e h e a r d , p e r h a p s ' — 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.'
133
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 Frere 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.
'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 o f t h e c l o c k t o b e s a t t h r o u g h , a l o n e , b e f o r e t h e g e n t l e m e n j o i n m e i n t h e 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, 134
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