Sir William Read Free

though the invisible had snapped its fingers; and the street musicians find their strings drawn taut, so that their fiddles sound an octave higher, with a shrill, emasculate, castrato sound not unlike the tone of a glass harmonica. London is white. There is a foundation of dirty snow, reticulated by sleet, upon which stands a burned-out edifice of trees. The sky, a half-formed cataract, shows here and there the blind blue of vision, hardened and rimed over. In Covent Garden the horses blow steam over the vegetables. Down near Blackfriars Bridge, the shores of the Thames are a similitude of asbestos and isinglass, cracked to the edges of water which looks a glossy black.
    In Portman Square, Mr. Greville does not mind any of this. Being interested in little except appearances (it is why he has bought the house), Mr. Greville does not mind much of anything except being snubbed. Lacking other qualities, he has made a virtue of vertu, which has no need of heat, and is himself an object of vertu, so he seldom feels the cold—in the weather, in the world, or in anything. Mr. Greville is pettifogging, pusillanimous, pretentious and pink, but he is also the younger son of the Earl of Warwick (and thus the Honorable Charles Greville), so somehow he hangs on. He is an amateur, adilettante, a kleinigkeitskrämer , a pococurante. Call him what you will, he has made the Grand Tour, he is much the same in all languages. He is not ill-favored, despite the affronted eyes of the perpetual diner-out: his mouth is shapely, his voice a sonorous squeak; his manner is adroit; he does have a heart, small, well-regulated, but sufficient to keep his cheeks aglow. If it fits in with his plans, he contrives to be kind; and so he takes in everyone except his betters. And Emily is not among his betters, as he himself would be the first to state.
    He is reading a letter, an excellent example of the papermaker’s art, since he has provided the paper himself, but the writing, though legible, is a servant’s copperplate, too genteel to be correct, too emotive for gentility. He catches a word here and there:
    … believe me I am allmost distrackted, I have never hard from Sir H….. what shall I dow, good God what shall I dow …. I think my friends looks cooly on me, I think so….. O dear Grevell write to me … Don’t tell my mother what distress I am in and dow aford me some comfort.
    He is delighted. Things have worked out to plan. He will afford her some comfort, if not much. Though he feels ambition to be vulgar, and no doubt he is right, Greville does have plans. This time they have been successful. At the cost of handing the girl a bundle of franked covers, he is now in a position to have her on the cheap. He is pleased, for though knocking up tuppence tarts in Green Park does well enough for a commoner, it is not prudent; it is not comfortable; it is not sedate; it does not satisfy. And besides, there is always the Peril to Health. So he can afford to be generous. Not only is the girl prepared to be discreet, but her mother will make an excellent gouvernante of small economies.
    “My dear Emily,” he writes, and considers he is being kind, as indeed, for him, he is, and tells her she has been imprudent (she has: she is with child), and extravagant (Sir H. allowed her the use of a carriage). It is best, in emotional matters, to establish the business arrangementsin writing. He says he will look after the child. He has no love of children, being one himself—he has no love of rivalry in anything, for there is the risk of failure, the no less embarrassing possibility of success—but these things are sometimes important to women, and besides ( noblesse oblige ) the child may just be his. He would not dream of acknowledging it, but he cannot bring himself entirely to reject it, either. He is like this in many things, which no doubt explains why he has just lost his seat in Parliament.
    He has not kept his seat, but he wishes to keep Emily.