From Darkness to Darkness. Read Ch. 10.
Lost.
Hunted.
Alone.
Like the foxes he chased for sport, the Baron Granger fled for his life into the night, and into the woods. Looking like a wastrel, he leaned heavily on his horse as it rode out of town, streaking into the night, seemingly without direction. In his panic, Baron Granger sought only to distance himself from the town and gave his mount little indication of his preference other than to run. Quickly. Leaves and branches lashed at his face and tore at his thighs as he drove deeper into trees, and blood ran unnoticed down his chin. He did not know how long the horse could carry him at such a pace, but because he feared being chewed into dishcloths, he was determined to press his mount as until its legs fell off.
After an hour the horse slowed from a gallop to a trot. In a frenzy, he whipped it, cajoled, it, threatened it, and pleaded with it to no avail. The horse had run its race, and had no more to give. Slowly, at the end of a narrow pathway, the horse stopped. Both horse and rider breathed in the cold; uncertain of their next steps. The good Baron tried to look around, but all he could see was darkness. He knew he had married the widow, and he was afraid.
The reader well knows that there are more than a few childish reasons to fear the absence of light. But there are also a number of good and sensible reasons to fear the darkness, especially if one finds oneself out of doors without victuals or even a warm bed, and especially if one be a baron without tobacco and an ancient bottle. What he wouldn’t give for his brandy and pipe at this moment!
He climbed off his horse and planted his bare feet on the cold rocky ground. The chill from the earth ran straight up his spine and caused him to shiver for the first time since he was a child. He stood for a moment as if he expected someone to bring him a coat, but no one came. A thought occurred to him, as on occasion happened.
“Terrible way to die,” he said to himself, but chose not to dwell on the thought.
For a moment he imagined that Mr. Dick might come to save him, but remembered seeing that blighter Dick lying flaccid on the floor. He was dead, he remembered now. So was the constable. Someone was trying to kill him too, he thought, and strangely the idea pleased him because it permitted his thoughts to return to his preferred subject: himself.
It is a trait peculiar to the progeny of Narcissus that the more suffering one is forced to endure, the more attention one can pay to oneself, until at last one becomes so miserable that all external matters are reduced to ether, and true bliss is finally obtained.
This effect is referred to as the Schoenhauser principal, and it is the primary reason for the success of two of the World’s most popular religions: Catholicism and atheism. The former permits its followers to experience personal misery by holding out the hope of perfection, and then dwelling of their own actions and personal failings. The latter accomplishes the same end by denying existence of an objective good or the possibility of perfection, and thereby removes any purpose or meaning from their suffering that could distract from wholesome self-absorption.
At that moment, the good Baron Granger was practically blissful in his despair. Had he possessed the gift of introspection, he would have recognized that the one thing he feared, like all gentlemen of high station and breeding, was the prospect that there might be some delay between the expression of his desires and their fulfillment. This is what such men mean when they suggest they are alone, and it explains why a thousand celestials crowded together, whistling for the wind, could feel still alone if there was no one there to provide for them.
Of course, Baron Granger did not have such company for his misery, and realized that he was truly alone. It was then that the darkness enveloped him and he gave in to exhaustion. Cold, hungry, afraid and perfectly content in his self-pity, he fashioned a small bed with his horse’s blanket that reeked of nature, and closed his eyes for what he thought may be the last time.
Sometime later he awoke to find himself resting quite comfortably. Remarkable by their absence were the horse blanket, its attendant odor, and stone headrest, replaced as if by magic, with down pillows and exquisite linens. This confirmed, in his mind, that he had not died and woke up in Hell.
An array of E. Rimmell’s Elegant Novelties and lavender waters were displayed on the French cabinets next to his bed, though upon closer examination the blends were all exactly the wrong sort for a man of breeding. This confirmed, in his mind, that he was not in Heaven either.
Having established that he was still alive, he seemed to lose interest in discovering exactly where he was or how he had got there. Indeed, his attention now turned to the trousers that had been placed upon his body. Though constructed of high quality Egyptian cotton, and crafted in the modern style preferred by men of leisure, they seemed to him like iron shackles, and they chafed at both his skin and his dignity. He removed them at once, and made a mental note to give a proper lashing to the brigand who had sullied him in such a fashion.
His host had set out a tray with a selection of Feculina Cakes (Cherry, Cocoa Nut, and Currant), a vessel of hot water, and a selection of Sou-chong teas: as if he was expected to somehow combine the two seemingly unrelated substances on his own. Surely he would rather die than suffer such indignity. Again he made a note to himself to let is host know that his lack of kindness would not be pardoned.
He moved easily beyond the tray, to a cabinet that held within its doors a surprisingly fair selection of liquors and tobaccos. He removed a bottle of Eau-de-Vie Pure Pale Brandy and decanted it into an acceptable glass. His body warmed as he imbibed, and his mind evened until it found a pleasing equilibrium. Nibbling on a crescent biscuit he walked back to the cabinet and removed some Capstan Navy Cut tobacco, and an ivory pipe, the phallic shape of which escaped him . Resting in an armed chair, he lit the pipe and sank into leisure. “This will do” he muttered to himself, and decided that he would stay there until he could find someone to replace Mr. Dick and take him back to Granger Manor. In the meantime his host would need to find him more suitable linens and perfumes.
The smoke from his pipe slowly crawled under the door, into the hallway, and to the kitchen. At the table, two people were waiting for the Baron to awake, and the smell form the pipe signaled that he had finally left his slumber. After three days. Determined to put their plan into place the two quietly made their way across the hall. The more portly of the two, though otherwise well attired, donned a purple Dinstingue mantle, Harrington stick, and his least favorite timepiece . After knocking, and obtaining leave to enter, the large man extended his height, cocked his chest, and took in a breath as if he expected to inhale courage.
He entered the room and saw the Baron Granger sitting in his chair. Looking at the Baron he began a prepared oratory, only to be interrupted by a visibly upset Baron Granger.
“Though I understand you to be less than a man of quality,” he began (as politely as he was capable) “I fully expect that the accommodations here will be improved for the duration of my stay. I trust there is a larger room in this dwelling, and I shall make that my quarters. The linens are to be cleaned every morning and warmed just prior to sundown. As for my meals, I expect they should be … I SAY! Your manners, as your accommodations, sir, are little better than a savages. Are you going to take my instructions, or shall I take your cane and teach a lesson in civility? ”
“No Sir, I will not be scrivener to your demands,” the man began, “and I will not suffer these indignities any further. My name, as you well know, is Pumpkin, sir. YOU are in my home, YOU are taking my drink, breathing my leaf[ , and WE, Sir, have business to transact.”
Earlier that morning, Mrs. Grampus had been to market, seeking the day’s meats for her master when she spied a bundle near the road, about a half mile from the city gates. At first she mistook it for a lost bag of turnips, which she intended to add to the days meal. On closer inspection, she could see that it was a man wrapped in a horse blanket. From the odor he emitted, she thought the man a stable boy, but when she looked at his soft white feet and bare, unsullied, backside, she knew immediately who it was, and ran to get Mr. Pumpkin, who, being deep in liquor, was of little assistance other than to misdirect the hired hands that rescued the baron from almost certain death, or worse, public humiliation.
The Baron, as the reader has rightly concluded, had given his horse no direction, and as such, the horse simply ran around the town several times until it could run no longer. Baron Granger, such as he was, did not list horsemanship or navigation among his skills, and found himself deposited, after several hours of riding, amongst a hedgerow no more than 2 leagues from his own home. Battered, and despairing, he simply knew know better than to wallow in his own self-immolation. Which is precisely where he was when Mrs. Grampus had found him.
Mr. Pumpkin, after begin apprised of the circumstances thrice, saw the hand of fate in this matter, and determined to take the advantage that was presented. He and Mrs. Grampus hurried from his lodgings, taking sufficient cloth and apparel to conceal the Baron’s identity during transport. After some struggle, the two managed to bring the Baron back to Pumpkin’s apartment, and placed him in the guest’s quarters, where Mrs. Grampus cleaned him, clothed and assembled tray which Baron Granger found so objectionable.
By the time Pumpkin had finished his exhortations against Baron Granger, it became clear that the Baron had already forgotten that Mr. Pumpkin was in the room, and had returned to his pipe, blissfully unconcerned with his host’s presence. While the full details of Mr. Pumpkin’s reaction to this final insult remains the subject to some debate by historians, Mrs. Grampus’ account of what she found after the incident remains uncontroverted to this day.
[…] December 30th, 2011 § 0 comments Written by: Alfred D Orson for The Literary Dandy.on December 30, 2011.Which treats of a dray, a drayman, and a defenestration. Read Ch. 11 […]