Authors: Kingsley Amis
‘Oh,
it’s
extensive
all right,’ said Ware, a little put out at this
irrelevant reminder.
‘Then a
Fellow’s personal papers, found here and inspected soon after the beginning of
the last century, as I understand the case …?‘
Ware
relented a little. ‘It’s possible. There’s an autograph catalogue dating from
the 1740s, when the libraries first started taking an interest in manuscripts
and older stuff generally. We rather led the way there, it seems. Here it is. Or
rather its photocopy. Splendid invention. Underhill. Underwood, Aubrey. Several
verses upon occasions, with part of
Philoctetes,
an heroical poem after
the manner of Mr Dryden. How dreadful. That wouldn’t be your man, would it? No.
Wrong name, for one thing. Nothing by any Underhill. What a pity. I am sorry.’
‘There’s
no other collection it might be in?’ I asked.
‘Not
relating to the date you gave me, no.’
‘But my
author saw it in the 1810s or thereabouts.’
Duerinckx-Williams
peered at the thin regular handwriting. ‘In certain circumstances, such as the
loss or detachment of the first leaf or leaves, might not the diary have been
entered under some general head referring to anonymous writings?’
‘Oh, I
don’t know about that,’ said Ware, momentarily put out again. ‘It’s possible.
Let’s see. Yes, under Anonymous, in fact. Anonymous, a tract discovering the
vices of Popery, notably its Mariolatrous practice, by a gentleman, never imprinted.
Fascinating, but not your quarry, I think. Anonymous, a quantity of sermons,
and prayers, and pious thoughts, by the late rector of St Stephen’s, Little
Eversden. No. Anonymous, of sundry matters, by a man of learning. Not
over-informative, is it? A possibility, I suppose. Anonymous…’
There
were no other possibilities. Ware looked at me with gloomy expectancy.
‘Could
I have a look at those sundry matters?’ I asked.
‘All
these items are kept in the Hobson Room,’ said Ware forcefully, but without
indicating whether I was expected to give a cry of pure animal terror at this
disclosure, or burst out laughing to find my quest so comically and decisively
thwarted, or what. I turned to Duerinckx-Williams.
‘Which,
I believe, is not open to non-Fellows without the written permission of the
Master,’ he said, ‘but in the case of Mr Allington, who is an M.A. of my
college and for whom I am happy to vouch, perhaps this requirement could be
waived.’
‘Of
course,’ said Ware, impatient now, and with a key already in his hand. Resuming
his shopwalker manner, he added, ‘Would you come this way?’
The
Hobson Room turned out to occupy a whole floor of a tower at the opposite angle
of the court, approached by a winding stone staircase and possessing small
windows on three sides. It was cool, the first cool place I had been in for
what seemed like weeks. Most of the available wall-space was filled with deep
oak shelves of Edwardian pattern, and two working-tables and chairs of the same
period completed the furniture. On the shelves stood ranks of grey cloth
folders, presumably containing manuscripts. Ware began to examine the top outer
corners of these like somebody looking through a collection of gramophone
records. I could not watch him; I stood and tried to read a framed quarto page
of some book that hung among others on the stone wall, but failed to take in a
word.
‘Here
we are,’ said Ware. ‘Complete with fly-leaf, I see. Thomas Underhill, D.D.,
olim
Sodalis Collegii Omnium Sanctorum, Universitatis Cantabrigiensis.’
He had
to supply the last part from memory, because I had turned and taken the folder
from him. It contained all or part of an octavo notebook shorn of its
covers—there were traces of glue and stitching—and, apart from a little foxing,
in an excellent state of preservation.
‘An odd
sort of anonymity, with the man’s name plastered all over the front,’ said
Duerinckx-Williams.
‘Thank
you,’ I said. I had seldom wanted anything as much as I wanted the two of them
to go away and let me read what I held in my hands.
Duerinckx-Williams
sensed this at once. ‘We’ll leave you in peace. If you happen to be free at one
thirty or so, I’d be delighted to give you lunch at Matthew’s. Just the
ordinary combination-room stuff, but eatable as a rule. But you mustn’t feel
bound by that.’
‘Perhaps
you’d lock up when you leave and return the key to me in the library,’ said
Ware, handing it to me.
‘Yes,’
I said. I had the notebook open on one of the decks and a reading-light
switched on. Thank you.’
There
was a short pause while they presumably looked at each other or, for all I
cared, went through a complicated mime of impotent fury, and then there was the
clank of the iron latch.
Underhill
had written a good clear hand, and had not used any private shorthand system:
abbreviations were few and immediately understandable. He began, on June 17th,
1685 (he had died in 1691), by boasting to himself about how learned he was and
listing and briefly describing the books he had read. Evidently he had had a
considerable private library. Most of the works and authors mentioned were
unknown to me, but I did recognize references to the Neoplatonist philosophers,
who had been contemporaries of his at Cambridge, quite possibly acquaintances:
Cudworth’s
intellectual System,
More’s
Divine Dialogues
and a
couple of others. I remembered from somewhere that More had been part of, or
on the edge of, a circle that practised magic, including a sinister-sounding
Dutch baron. What had he been called? Never mind—an interesting lead, perhaps,
to the scholar, but I am no scholar, and my interest in Underhill was not
scholarly.
I read
on, found more of the same, together with mystical speculations either
unintelligible or trite, and began to get bored. Was this all there was going
to be? Then I came to the entry for September 8th:
‘My man
Gurney, on Instruction, adviz’d me that the Girl-child of Widow Tyler was come
to the door, to sell Fruits & Vegetables. When this was done, enquir’d of
her, Whether she wou’d take a cup of Chocolate w. mee in my Parlour, the day
being so foul? She v. prettily consentg, we talk’d there together about half an
hour. Told her of the Wonders I cou’d work, & how I was us’d to reward such
as pleas’d me. She listen’d to all, & I warrant beleev’d all. At last, bid
her, did she desire a fair Husband & Health, Wealth & Good Fortune all
her life long, come to me the night following at ten of the clock, but privily,
& to tell none on pain of losing all her Benefits, for did she but breathe
a Word I wou’d most infallibly know of it, thro’ my Art. But, says shee, She
was afear’d of the Dark of the Night. To wch I reply’d, That she must hold in
her hand this Crucifix (givg it to her, a worthless Toy), & she wou’d enpoy
the surest Protection, both of our Lord J.C. in Heaven, and of myself on Earth.
She ask’d, If I wou’d say a strong Spell for her? My strongest, my Dear (smilg).
Then (says she) I will come indeed.
‘Of
middle stature, good Carriage, full Bosom. Unlike the Country Folk, her Cheek
not ruddy, but a fine rose, her Teeth white, her Hand small, a Lady’s hand. Of
fourteen year. I dare aver, Kg Solomon had not a finer Wench.’
After
this interview, Underhill had evidently returned to his reading with the same
diligence as ever: that afternoon, a Latin work on anemomancy, or divination by
means of observing the strength, direction and steadiness of the wind, by a certain
Alanus Candidus; after dinner, a life of another man I had never heard of by a
third such. I felt that this detachment boded no good to Widow Tyler’s
daughter. With dread and fascination I turned on through Underhill’s entry for
the next day.
‘Upon
her most punctual arrival, gave my Visitor a Potion, compounded of Claret &
Brandy-wine, w. certain Additions, after the Prescription of Jacobus Magus in
his De Inductione Luxuriae. Set going my Brazier, & threw thereon an artful
Succession of Incenses, Powders, & caet. from my store, thus producg most delightfull
& lascivious Perfumes & also strange & many-colour’d Smoaks. When
all these had sufficiently work’d upon her, caus’d her to beleeve she heard
sweet Musick from many Voices, warblg amorous and wanton Airs. Then, conjur’d
up Shapes to appear, at first pleasg, as, Shepheards & Shepheardesses,
Nymphs, Gallants, Revellers, Catamites, Masquers, Hero’s, Queens of Antiquity,
some consortg carnally one w. another. Next, desir’d her to remove her Cloaths.
‘Why,
Sir, (says shee) you ask me to commit a Sin. Not so, my Dear, (says I) it is
not at all sinful to requite w. a show of your Beauties, those who have labour’d
to entertain you, & who so labour yet. See, (indicatg a Grecian Youth &
a Maid in concourse) what these two are even now about, & solely to make
you Sport. Solely? (asks she, slily). In part, you must allow (says I). Why
then, (says she) how can I bee less
liberal
(a stroak of wit that delighted
me). & at once stript herself to her naked Skin. O quae deliciae!
‘Now show’d
her Creatures not as attractive, as, Hippogriffs, Apes, Turks, Centaurs,
Harpies, Chimaera’s, Caribans, Executioners, Worms, all fightg & murtherg
& devourg one another. Fill’d her ears w. cries of wild Beasts, &
Thunders, & Groans of the Damn’d. She shreik’d without cease, &
entreated mee to have done, & to banish these Sights. Shreik as you will,
(says I) there is none to hear, my Servants are abroad, & these are no Sights,
see how they are all about you & but for mee wou’d rend you in peeces (not tellg
her they were mere Apparitions & cou’d not do any thing save affright her).
When as I judg’d, she had reach’d the Pitch of Terror, ravisht her upon the
Floor, & shortly thereupon drove her from my Presence, throwg her wretched Cloaths
after her, & warng her it were best she spoke no word of what had past,
else my Devils wou’d pursue her to the Grave & beyond, & she wou’d come
to me again whenever I requir’d it of her, & she was mine.
‘Took a
glass of small Ale to quench my thirst, & retir’d to my Chamber, & open’d
Johannes à Ponte upon the Venom of Toads & Serpents, but found the matter phantastick
beyond credence, & ill set out, & being much fatigu’d, (tho’ in ease of
mind) took myself to my Bed.’
The
Hobson Room seemed a good deal less cool than at first. I would have to have a
drink soon—I had been mad not to bring a flask with me—but I had to put my
thoughts in order first, or at least recite them to myself. Not in any order,
then:
I did
not know whether Underhill had really conjured up apparitions and noises and
the rest of it, or even what that meant, but I believed that he and the girl
thought he had, and the experience seemed to have been quite frightening enough
to seal her mouth permanently, for I had never come across the least suggestion
that he had gone in for any kind of sexual adventure. I could not remember the
date of Mrs Underhill’s death, but fancied that it had been later than 1685, so
that she had presumably been living in the house throughout this period, but
without once being mentioned, not even in the entry I had just read. She must
have known better than to interfere when she heard the girl’s screams. I
understood how Joseph Thornton had been too much of a scholar to conceal the
existence and location of Underhill’s diary, but too much of a moralist, or
human being, not to warn his readers against it, and not to let it remain as
hard to find as when he had managed to find it. Similar motives, the desire to
preserve alongside the desire to thrust out of sight, must have worked on
whoever had catalogued the diary seventy years before Thornton’s time. And I
would have liked to do something about Widow Tyler’s daughter, but she had been
dead for two and a half centuries, if not longer.
Ten
minutes later, having been out and returned, I was eating a ham sandwich which
I had coated with mustard-substitute from a tube, washing the result down with
Scotch and bottled soda-water, and going on with the Underhill diary. By the
time I was coming to the end of the year 1685, I became aware that the
character of this was changing. The reading summaries became briefer, some
works receiving no more than the notice that they were or were not useful to
some ‘purpose’ kept in mind. At first, it seemed to me that this purpose had to
do with the Tyler girl, who, also briefly, was described by Underhill as having
‘return’d to [his] Embraces’ every week or so, and/or with another girl called
Ditchfield (I hated his way of ignoring their Christian names), aged twelve,
whom he drew into his clutches in the first week of December, no doubt by a
similar technique, though he was not very explicit about that. What had clearly
been more interesting to Underhill at this stage was this long-term purpose of
his, or, as it became in the entries for January 1686, his purposes.
Maddeningly, just when I would have welcomed full information on the books he
was reading, he started to mention nothing beyond authors and titles, often in
a shortened form. I could do nothing with, for instance, ‘Geo
s
Verul.:
Of spirits, & caet.’ beyond concluding that at any rate Underhill’s
preoccupations had remained constant.
Then,
at April 29th, 1686, I came to the following:
‘Must
cast aside fleshy Delights, & all such Concerns (for the moment.) Have now refin’d
my Method, whereby I may cease to take heed to those who trouble mee. The place
is fit, (id est, v. dense, horrid, of much Verdure & Timber sufficient.)
What I hold een now, w. due words deliver’d, will most assuredly secure me such
Power, as never was seen in this Kingdom, not even in it’s Gothick or Saxon
age, but only in the rude beginnings of our Folk, before the Ministry of Our
Lord J.C., when men worshipt only Trees & Bushes, (in their silly Ignorance,
or their Knowledge? Mem. to consider curiously upon this, & in time
deliver Judgment.) I thank the chance that deliver’d this Engine to mee, &
the Talent that empowers me to have learnt its true Employment.