Читать книгу The Silent Boy - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 18

It is growing dark when Charles is summoned. Mrs Cox sends a maid to tell him that he must go at once to the library.

Monsieur de Quillon is seated in his armchair, his legs wide, stretched towards the fire. Dr Gohlis is in the shadows, idly turning a great globe that stands in the corner.

The Count beckons Charles towards him. ‘What’s this I hear?’ he says in his deep, hoarse voice. ‘You’ve fouled your bed again? It won’t do, do you hear? Not for someone like you.’

Charles wonders whether it would be different if he were like someone else.

‘I was going to have them thrash the nonsense out of you. But the doctor suggests we give you a chance to make amends.’

Charles glances at Dr Gohlis. He is surprised, and made wary, by the kindness.

The Count massages his temples with his fingers. ‘So if you start talking again, we’ll say no more about it. You won’t be beaten. The matter will be closed.’ He looks directly at Charles and says, almost as if they were equals, one man to another: ‘Well? What do you think?’

Charles would like to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ but he can say nothing. He does not even bow.

The Count sighs and throws himself back in his chair.

‘It’s merely a matter of will,’ the doctor says, abandoning the revolving world and coming toward the fireplace. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, my boy. Nothing at all.’ He takes Charles’s chin and tilts it so Charles is forced to look directly up at him. ‘Open your mouth.’

Dr Gohlis prods Charles’s lips with his forefinger, forcing the mouth open. He pushes the lower jaw further down.

‘You see, my lord,’ he says, looking from Charles to Monsieur de Quillon, ‘the tongue, the vocal cords – everything is there for the production of speech, nothing is damaged.’ He releases Charles’s chin. ‘I am demonstrating to him that there is absolutely no medical reason why he cannot speak. The argument is addressed to his intellect – for, though he is still young, he has a rudimentary rational faculty, and we must make this our ally.’

‘I dare say, Doctor.’ Monsieur de Quillon takes up a paper from the table beside him. ‘But I don’t want to hear your lecture on the subject. Get on with it, man, will you?’

Charles glimpses a flicker of anger in the doctor’s face as the Count bends his great head over the paper. He is surprised to find himself entertaining the notion that grown-ups can like or dislike other grown-ups.

Gohlis brings his head down to Charles’s. ‘No one likes pain, do they, my boy? It is abhorrent to any rational being. And you, being human, are capable of reason, capax rationis. You will have enough Latinity for that. In other words, to put it as plainly as I can, this means that, if you have any choice in the matter, you will strive to avoid pain.’

Charles stares at the globe, which is no longer turning. He hears the rustle of paper and Monsieur de Quillon’s laboured breathing.

‘I intend to beat you for fouling your bed like a baby,’ Dr Gohlis says. ‘Unless – and listen carefully now – unless you say to Monsieur de Quillon, “I ask your pardon, monseigneur.”’

The words float into the air. There are black, buzzing insects, swirling, darting, following their own secret paths.

‘That is the rational thing to do, Charles. Your intellect knows that pain is not agreeable, and that it should be avoided if at all possible. You may do this very easily, simply by saying five words.’

Charles has not wronged Monsieur de Quillon. Or Dr Gohlis. He has wronged no one except perhaps the maid who changed his bed, the old woman who will wash his sheet, and the red-headed gardener’s boy who leads the donkey and the laundry cart up and down the back drive. But they would do all these things in any case; they are paid to do these tasks, so he cannot be said to have wronged even them.

‘You must understand what I am saying. I have already demonstrated to you that there is no reason, no physiological reason, for your silence.’

Surely you cannot apologize for something that does not deserve an apology to someone whom you have not harmed? It is not a rational thing to do. Why does the doctor not see that? Perhaps it is the doctor who is not a rational being.

‘Remember, my boy – you are capax rationis.’

Charles knows what the phrase means because the Abbé Viré, the priest who used to give him lessons, explained it to him long ago before he lost his wits. Man is a reasoning being, the old man told him, and that is why Charles is obliged to love God. Reason offers no other choice.

‘Will you speak?’ Dr Gohlis asks. ‘Will you?’

Charles says nothing.

There are footsteps in the hall. Monsieur Fournier enters the library. The doctor clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and goes to stand by the window to look at the rain. Charles shrinks away from him, knocking against the globe.

Fournier’s eyebrows rise at the sight of the boy. His eyebrows are unusual because they have a kink in them in the outer edges. This makes him look elegantly surprised all the time. Charles thinks this may be misleading. Nothing really seems to surprise Fournier at all.

‘Still silent?’ he says.

‘It’s quite ridiculous,’ says the Count.

Fournier smiles and the crooked eyebrows ride even higher. ‘Mum’s the word,’ he says in English, though they have been talking in French until now. ‘That’s what the English say. Is it not droll?’

‘I confess the humour escapes me at present.’

Monsieur Fournier cocks his head. ‘It may have to escape you for longer. You remember the gardener’s boy?’

‘No,’ the Count said. ‘Why the devil should I?’

‘The one you thrashed the other day.’

‘Oh yes – what of him?’

‘His grandmother has been to see the Vicar, who is also the magistrate here. There is talk of an action for assault.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake – he’s only a peasant, and our own servant too. What is the difficulty?’

‘This is England,’ Fournier says.

‘Do they not beat their servants here?’

‘Yes, of course. But not as we do. You know the English – they do things differently. When it suits them.’

‘More fool them.’

‘Besides, in theory he’s in the employ of Mrs West. I think a few shillings should resolve it, as far as the boy and his grandmother are concerned. But it will be inconvenient if we upset Mr Horton any more than we already have.’

‘A village curé?’ the Count says. ‘What a country this is! What an absurd country.’

‘Yes, indeed. But Mr Horton is a gentleman, and a man of much influence in his own parish.’ Fournier smiled. ‘We would do well to make him obliged to us. And, fortunately, there is a solution to hand: Charles.’

‘Dear God, you speak in riddles this afternoon.’

‘It’s quite simple. Mr Horton believes in the power of prayer.’

‘Superstitious nonsense,’ Gohlis muttered.

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ Fournier says. ‘I shall write to Mr Horton before dinner. And you would do well—’ He breaks off and cocks his head. ‘What’s that?’

‘Someone coming up the drive, sir,’ Gohlis said. ‘We have a visitor. In a cart, of all things.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

Fournier glances at the Count. For a moment the men do not move or speak. Everyone is listening. Rain patters on the long windows at the end of the room. Dr Gohlis laughs, a high, nervous giggle. Monsieur de Quillon scowls at him.

‘Charles,’ the Count says, ‘go upstairs. Go to your room and stay there until you are summoned.’

Fournier says nothing. He watches them with his bright eyes.

Someone knocks on the front door.

‘Use the main stairs,’ Monsieur de Quillon says to Charles. ‘Go. Go now.’

Fournier accompanies Charles into the hall. Joseph the footman is moving towards the front door.

‘Just a minute,’ Fournier says to the servant in English. ‘Who is it? Do you know?’

The footman changes course. He goes to a small window that commands a view of the forecourt in front of the house.

Charles climbs the stairs. He turns at the half-landing and continues up the next flight.

‘It’s Mr Roach’s cart, sir,’ he hears Joseph say. ‘And there’s a man sitting beside him. Don’t know him from Adam.’

‘You may open the door now,’ Monsieur Fournier says.

Charles hears the click of the library door closing. He glances down the stairs but he can see little of the hall below. What he can see, however, is the great mirror that hangs at the turn of the stairs so that the ladies and gentlemen may look at themselves as they go to dinner. The mirror is set in a gilt frame that is no longer golden but a dirty yellow brown. The glass is spotted with damp. The silvering near the bottom has quite worn away. Charles has hardly noticed the mirror’s existence before because usually he uses the back stairs.

In the foggy world of the reflection, a boy wavers in the depths of the mirror. Ignoring the voices in the hall below, Charles steps up to it and stretches out his right hand towards the boy he sees there. In the mirror the reflected boy mimics his action.

Charles’s right hand almost touches the boy’s left hand. The mirror glass is all that divides them, that and the layer of candle grease and dust that has settled along the bottom rail of the frame and spread slowly higher over the years.

‘Gentleman’s had a mishap on his way here,’ he hears a man say below in the rolling, comfortable voice that the peasants use in this place. ‘His chaise turned over in Parker’s field.’

Charles wonders whether he has lost his reflection as well as his voice. He does not recognize the boy’s face, his ragged clothes or his untidy hair – he is a stranger. Yet it is he, Charles. But he looks like someone else, not the boy who used to examine himself in Maman’s looking glass.

‘My name is Savill,’ says another voice, a man’s. ‘The Count de Quillon is expecting me.’

Charles turns and runs up the stairs.