Conversation Between Two Gentlemen - Henry Mulgrew(1858)
by Dex
All recognizable characters and settings belong to Marvel; I am using them without permission but mean no harm and am making no profit. The plot and original characters, however belong to me. Any and all feedback is appreciated at dexf@netrover.com. Redistribution of this tale for profit is illegal. Please do not archive this story without contacting me first to obtain my permission. This story uses terms and denotations that may be found racially offensive to some. Reader discretion is advised.
"My dear boy; this is perhaps your best effort yet, save for that ghastly pallor you've inflicted dear Nathaniel with. Truly, he more resembles the pallid marbles busts of Hephaestus than the ruddy industrial health of Britain." Lord Thomas Graves smiled indulgently at his newest favorite, who blushed effusively at the mild rebuke.
"But, truly, then our dear Essex would marked in soot black, like the savages of Africa. Indeed, a continence of alabaster white is most superior to a baked glaze of muddy black."
"Tom, you are awful, you realize that?" Nathaniel said from his elegant sprawl on the divan of Persian saddlebags. "Henry's work has always been insouciant in execution. This must assuredly meet his normal exceptional level of genius."
"You gentlemen are too cruel," Henry Mulgrew said, repacking his oils and brushes.
"All art is cruel, Henry. It is art's very nature to be so. You have captured us in a moment, like bugs in amber. That moment is forever lost to us, and cannot be regained. Therefore, you have taken a time of perfection from us, to mount as your own. Does that deserve kindness?" Lord Thomas said, a thin smile quirking his equally thin features. Henry Mulgrew broke into light laughter, a lark's twitter, his features crude but deep in the bloom of youth.
"Then, Lord Graves, damn your forgiveness. I take your youth; your attractiveness with the glee of the armed bandit and mock your protests."
"What an abominable artist you have discovered, Tom. He'll steal your fair looks and then your soul in his canvas." Essex sipped his dry sack.
"Nonsense, Nathaniel. My soul has already been promised to others; the chief of those being Dionysus." Graves waved his hand grandly, his curiously musical voice echoing in the solarium. "And now, Henry, what have you decided to do with this masterpiece? It's not often that we get the esteemed Master Essex out of his dreary laboratory."
"I think it deserves the Grosvenor, at the very least." Essex commented, finally joining the pair before the easel. It was painted in the style of Manet and Millais; a combination of realism and frenetic energy in the piece. The broad span of light from the solarium had indeed rendered Essex a figure in stark illumination, a figure more white and black than flesh.
"I was thinking the Paris Exhibition, myself. A centrepiece for my show."
"Absolutely not, Henry. I must have it, at any cost." Lord Thomas said. He toyed with a pearl button in apparent contemplation before again raising his long lashed eyes to the painter. "Indeed, I must. It will be my moment, for all the eternities. A frozen segment of time, handed to me like Pandora's box, in which time remains as I will it."
"Lord Thomas, you would honour me to take it."
"I shall honour you then, Henry, and place a frame around my praise. You are now a man of honour, abet with clearly defined limits; a nicety which few men can claim to have. Yes, an honour of dark walnut and gilt for you, Henry Mulgrew, save that you never stand on it. Standing on your honour would damage it permanently, and see it hung in disrepair in a forgotten corner." Lord Thomas Graves said, his thin face set in solemn gravity, but his light eyes sparkling.
"Too much! It is too much, Lord Thomas!" Henry cried, gathering his paints into a case of red lacquer. "You must not torment me so."
"Do not fear, Mister Mulgrew. Tom is merely playing with you, in his rather cruel manner. He adores your piece." Nathaniel Essex said to the man, toying with his cup.
"Please, Nathaniel, it is Thomas. Tom is so dreadfully common, like the theft of letters steals away my very presence from Lord Graves to Tom of London; be he coalblack, porter, or gentleman." Lord Thomas straightened with a smile. "Now, Henry, I simply adore the work. Name your price to my servant and he will see to the accounting. Does it need any more work?"
"Only a veneer over the oils, which must wait until they are drier. May I leave it here, Lord Thomas?"
"Indeed, I would have it no other way. When shall you be returning?"
"It will need a day to cure properly."
"Tuesday then. I'll send a hansom to collect you in the afternoon. We can dine later, and take in the theatre. No doubt something will be scheduled. I had an appointment with my dear uncle, but I can wire him with news that I am ill, to free my evening." He said with a wave of his hand, the gold and opal ring on his hand collecting and releasing the light in a fractured series of scintillating beams.
"I don't wish to impose."
"Nonsense. I dined with my uncle on Friday, and joining the family more then once a week is simply excessive. More so since the dialogue is to be the very same as it always is. Admiral Graves shall place his hands on the table and begin to attack the Tory backbenches, and thunder about his youth in the service of England. Notable, but has a disheartening effect on the digestion. Should he speak too long, I'm forced to assume the position of Tartuffe in agreement, if for no other reason than the conciliatory effect on the humours." Graves eased himself back into a chaise lounge, edged in braidets of gold thread. "It is a shame that one can not choose the family into which one is born. In my life, the only single factor that resists my capacity to change is my essential Graves-ness. I would appeal to the church, but I fear they'd make a fuss about my requests for retroactive reincarnation into a more suiting family. I suppose one must suffer their Graves in one way or another until the grave, in which the Graves are left, for other natures."
"You astound me, sir. I cannot fathom the words that flow from your lips. Like the paint from my brush, it lives in rich bold colours that dazzle the mind and stir the imagination." Henry Mulgrew said, putting on his longcoat of grey wool. "I must leave lest I become as entranced with your art as you are with mine, and find myself demanding it framed for my own."
A sharp bark of laughter met his comments from the two men, and Henry Mulgrew, with a final look at his work, left the house. Lord Thomas Graves watched him leave the house, turning back to his guest when the heavy inlayed doors had swung shut.
"We were discussing Mister Darwin, I believe, were we not, Essex?" Lord Thomas smiled at him over the back of the divan.
"Quite right, Thomas. I wanted to talk about his evolutionary chain from--"
"In good time, Nathaniel. I believe luncheon is in order. Will you accompany me to the club? I'm afraid that nothing here is to my taste. My manservant's mother died last night, leaving me in wretched shape for entertaining." Lord Thomas Graves stood and pulled on his overcoat. Essex followed, mimicking the movements of his host. Nathaniel Essex and Thomas Graves were complete polar extremes in temperament and humour, but somehow, during the early days of Eton, they had been united in friendship. Essex drew on his own overcoat and hat, before picking up the ebony cane with the silver head that Rebecca had purchased for him. The head was a sumptuous cloisonné silver knob, that fitted Essex' hand as if made for him especially.
They left into the street, climbing into Lord Graves' waiting hansom, and pulled into the thronging mass of London Proper. They plodded past laden tram carts coming up from the docks, swarmed over by rough porters like ants on a piece of forgotten meat. Traffic slowed them past South Audley Street, bringing the hansom to a near standstill despite the efforts of Lord Grave's coachman.
"It's terribly trying to be consistently thwarted in one's endeavors by the packed mass of humanity, wouldn't you say, Nathaniel?" Lord Thomas said, peering idly out the window at the throng of Londoners that streamed past the hansom. Essex followed his look, seeing old matrons in faded violet hats and crude young men in thigh vests and flat Topper caps.
"I don't know, Tom. As a scientist, it's my job to toil for that which will raise them up. Ennoble this mass to greatness one day."
"And is that the true reason? Come, dear Essex. Surely you don't believe the trollop with her nutbrown teeth and gnarled hair is the true inheritor of your genius? Or that fishmonger with the expansive waist and nose like a smashed tomato perhaps? Are these your true masters in science?"
"I had not considered it in that light."
"No. Scientists have a wonderful sense of cultural myopia when confronted with the heirs of their labours. Herakles did his Labours at the will of the gods, Nathaniel. You squander yours for these scraps?"
"Come now, Tom. My work will one day touch every man, from the meanest orphans to the greatest king. That is hardly a small inheritance."
"Yes, but a thinned one. You don't wish to work for something better, Nathaniel?"
"What, science for only the nobility, Tom? Indeed, that would be a great boon if we could prevent the flaws inbreeding leaves them with." Essex smiled coldly. "Erase the genetic errors, wash away the factor that cause such disastrous infirmities against the noble children."
"You cut to the mark, Nathaniel. It's the first time I've heard passion stir your voice since I was able to pry you away from your dreary estate. So, tell me why holding your genius for those who deserve it is so horrific a possibility?"
"It's vulgar and cruel. It's un-British. We are not the doomed nobles of Versailles, stuffing and hoarding while the country moans, Tom. We are a people of Parliament, and civilized manners. The very touch makes me shiver."
"Yes, it's curious that to be British must be treated like a rash. Endured always, no matter how we wish to relieve ourselves of it, and according ourselves false honour for that endurance."
"Lord Thomas! You are not suggesting--"
"No, Nathaniel, I am not suggesting any sort of action against the Empire. I would not trade my station for the French guillotinists or the American natives. However, that does not blind me to the nature of my loyalties. Look quietly on your England, Nathaniel Essex, and consider the recipients of your efforts."
Nathaniel Essex pondered Lord Graves words as he watched the crowd outside the hansom. In a cracked and broken alley gate, he watched a gang of youths bring down a man, kicking and gouging as he fell. The shrill whistle of the constabulary rang sharp in his ear as a female thief scampered through the crowd, her skirts hiked in a most obscene fashion to speed her escape. He heard cries for alms, food and baser pleasures through the glass of the window, his hand resting lightly on his temple. His dark eyes took in everything as his mind worked feverishly.
Were these really the ones whom his research would be the great benefactor to? Would the slattern and the drunk care about his belief that the same factors that caused evolutionary change could also cause the great burdens of man: deformities, birth defects, brain fevers? Would they care that his efforts cost him his son, and very nearly his wife as well? Nathaniel Essex turned his face towards the cushions, wishing to hide the anguish which twisted his features.
Lord Thomas Graves watched Essex with utmost satisfaction. He had always been enthralled by the workings of the mind, more so those of a great thinker and scientist like Nathaniel Essex. Graves vivisected minds in the same manner that Essex vivisected animals for his experiments. How wonderful to understand what brewed dark inside the mind of the scientist. To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotionally coloured life of the intellect -- to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point that operated in tandem, and what point they reacted as polar opposites. Yes, Essex could have his dreams of where man came from. Graves was only interested in what he was.
The attendant drew open the door of the hansom, breaking the reverie of the two men within. Nathaniel Essex eased himself out first, unable to look at the liveried attendant. Lord Graves followed with a small smile quirking his lips. They stepped to the walk, and Lord Thomas paused to point at a nearby gaslight being lit.
"Look at Lord Palmerston's gift to London, Nathaniel. A mere four years past, that light would be a delicate island of light in an otherwise coal black mist. Now, it has the ability to grey the walls around with soft light. That is the march of progress, my friend. To create nature into another environment entirely, and then seek to restore it to a semblance of nature. Science is but the art of paradox."
"You are a positive Philistine, Lord Thomas. Shall we dine?"
"Indeed. The most direct route to social Coventry is to be delivered at your club, and then seek to eschew it for the walk in front. Come, Nathaniel."
One of the club attendant ushered them to a private room, where they were seated. A second waiter appeared, with their meal on his moving tray. Lord Thomas Graves inspected the wine bottle and nodded. The plates had been set and the attendants departed before either of them spoke again.
"Your esteemed Mister Darwin is speaking in Cambridge this weekend, I'm told."
"Yes, he is. Have you read the book, Thomas?"
"I have perused it, although doubtless with less scrutiny than yourself, Essex." Lord Graves sipped his wine, ignoring his food in favour of diverting his full attention to Nathaniel Essex.
"It's an extraordinary work. Obviously influenced by the French naturalists of the turn of the century, but unlike them, offering real evidence to support his claims. Consider it, Thomas. The climb from the earliest days of the earth to the position of man today; from trees to far flung empires of steel and coal. Evolution. It's an astonishing process."
"Indeed, since it grasps your passions so tightly, Nathaniel. I wonder if your wife is jealous of your new mistress."
"Rebecca is a God-fearing woman, and not tolerant to such beliefs which may question Him."
"And as a woman, it's to be expected. They are wonderful creatures at a distance, but when tied to them, a nature based on emotion is revealed. Emotion is the diluting of passion, and the befuddling of intellect. One must never trade grand passions for minor feelings. It sullies the mind, and gives rise to thoughts of shoe blacking, Parliamentary fares and politics. What do you think, Nathaniel? Do you believe in Him?"
"Most certainly I--"
"You see? You're allowing emotion to dilute passion; indignance clouding your fine scientific mind. I do not ask Nathaniel Essex, man of society in the British Empire, conditioned to his worship and morality. I ask the man of scientific thought and reason, divorced from his morality and his emotions. I ask his passion and his logic. Do you believe in God, Nathaniel?" Lord Thomas examined the colour of the wine as Essex sat in silence, his face downturned.
"I-I don't know. When Adam died, I went to our chapel, where nine generations of Essexs have prayed, and I asked God why my child need be taken from me. The fever that took him - I could not stop it. I have slaved and worked my entire life in the crucible of science, but I could not save my own son. And God... He would not save him. Adam was not worthy of His attention." Essex face was ugly with grief. Graves regarded him quietly before taking the brandy decanter from the sideboard and pouring a healthy measure for the scientist. Essex gulped at it, seeking comfort in the fire it burned down his throat.
"Then why believe in God still?"
"I don't know if my belief is still for the God of the church, but a god born from man."
"I don't quite follow."
"Are we the pinnacle of evolution, Thomas? There has been a thought that has plagued my mind for months, but I refused to voice it, lest it destroy my belief. Your words have brought it to the forefront of my imagination. What if evolution is on-going?"
"You claim that we continue to evolve? The physical factors in Darwin's work are hardly present, Essex."
"But what if that is only part of the process? If the creature possess a packet of genetic information that is capable of not only slow hereditary advancement but also rapid cataclysmic change? If so, then a man could evolve ahead of others."
"Evolve to what?" Graves said, sipping his wine and smiling. His subtle words had taken root and were producing most fantastic fruit in the mind of Nathaniel Essex, and Graves eagerly awaited the harvest.
"God. If man can move past man, what is left? Men with the attributes of the gods themselves. Who can challenge Him in His lofty perch. There is a God, Thomas, and he is Man."
"Remarkable. So, you intend to challenge God Himself in His own arena? In the Lancashire manner, of course."
"Not challenge, Thomas. To demand answers from Him about the atrocities He has blithely given us."
"Such is the true nature of science, Nathaniel." Graves noted the fevered look in Essex's eyes, and poured him more brandy. "Science is the act of challenging God on the business of creation, and outdoing Him. Do you intend to bring forward your new god soon?"
"I don't understand."
"Why, my dear Essex. Surely you have a plan to bring the gods to heel. If your theory that change can be rapid is true, then surely there must be examples somewhere of its change. Those forward of the scale you speak of."
"I had not considered it. If so, breeding two advanced specimens would produce a more powerful child."
"And a more powerful child is your measure towards your goal. Have you met my cousin, the Earl of Trumshire? He has vast estates in America, you know. Obsessed with the horse races. Claims that one day he'll have the finest stable of horses in America, which is almost as well considered there as a pig farm. He claims that in five years, he'll be breeding his own champions."
"No. What you suggest, its abominable."
"I do not suggest a thing, dear Nathaniel. But, a mind such as yours made that jump immediately. You consider as we speak."
"The right subjects... no."
"Nathaniel, consider it not with your emotions, which weaken you, but with your passions, which embody you. Do you wish to see your child; your new Adam, bring the cause of your suffering to responsibility for His actions?"
"Yes--" Essex choked out, his eyes bright with unshed tears and his voice raw from the liquor. "I--I need backing. I need new facilities and--"
"Of course, Nathaniel. You always have my support. I shall send someone to take your financial accounting in due time. Are you unwell?" Lord Graves cocked his head to the side and watched Nathaniel tremble.
"I must go. I must make arrangements."
"Indeed. You must dine with me next Wednesday, Nathaniel. You can tell me all about your project then."
"Yes, of course. Thank you, Thomas. I have no words to convey--"
"Then allow your actions to do so. The French are an ideal example of words before action. Theirs is a nation of fanciful poets and constantly terrorized borders." Lord Graves said, as Nathaniel Essex drew on his coat and left the room.
Lord Thomas Graves sat for a long time in the private room, his eyelids drooping to allow him to think. There was an irony in the fact that Essex will deny the conventions of man and take endless pains to create a new man, he thought, when he had accomplished that feat in mere hours. No, Nathaniel Essex' was one of the foremost minds of the Empire today, and what his efforts are to produce would serve as most excellent distraction.
Graves returned to his home late in the evening, and found himself back in his solarium. The lamps had all been lit, and a clear white light illuminated the room. He found himself before the portrait that Mulgrew had painted, minutely examining the bismuth-like cast to Essex' face. A smile quirked his features again, and Graves muttered to himself.
"It is curious, Nathaniel, that the pure white pallor truly does suit you far more effectively then the ruddy flash of humanity. I wonder if you are to be like a marble statue or a ceramic cast; formed for one pure purpose, divorced from the curse of humanity to accomplish it. I shall ever consider your visage pale, and deem you my monument to the perfection of passion. Mayhaps you, like passion, will outlive all things of rude humanity. A curious fancy indeed."
Lord Thomas Graves took a lamp, and adjourned from the solarium to his chambers, to sleep, leaving behind the painting in the stark illumination, and his word hanging like motes in the air after him.
FIN