1836, when George Hogarth invited me to dine with him at the Garrick Club. The club had been founded five years earlier for the purpose of bringing together patrons and practitioners of drama, so that actors and others of the theatre might meet on equal terms with men of education and wealth.
The day was clad in one of the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, and dismal. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of life. In the city, it had a foul stale smell and was a dirt-stained addition to the gutters.
We dined in a large room with richly paneled walls before retiring to the club library. A gentleman witha hook attached to his right wrist approached another man who was standing by the fireplace.
The man by the fireplace was in his mid-thirties with a sharp nose and prominent chin. He was elegantly dressed in a brown suit with a shirt of the finest linen, rich in pattern and scrupulously white. He seemed a bit haughty, as though requiring everyone who wished conversation to come to him. And come they did, each visitor enjoying an audience for so long as he politely allowed.
Think for a moment of a long chain woven around a man that has a hold upon his thoughts for the rest of life. A chain of iron or thorns or flowers or gold. That chain would not exist to bind him but for the formation of the first link on the first day.
For everything that followed in my life, this was that day.
As a writer of fiction, I have been privileged to come and go as I please, to enter through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome all obstacles of distance, time, and place. But the recitation contained in the following pages is truth in its most absolute form. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies were within me, whatever might have been done differently and better, this is as I acted and as it all happened to me.
CHAPTER 2
The man standing by the fireplace in the library of the Garrick Club was not handsome. But he had the carriage of a handsome man and an aura about him that demanded attention. He stood with his arms folded for greater impressiveness of bearing. Everyone in the room was aware of his presence. I watched as he talked with those who ventured to his side and observed how readily they responded to him.
âThatâs Geoffrey Wingate,â George Hogarth told me. âHeâs an ingenious man.â
I knew of Wingate by reputation. Gentlemen on the street raised a forefinger to the brim of their hat as he passed by. He was a man of business who invested with great success on behalf of his clients, who were drawn from the ruling class. His money and the money he had made for them had caused him to be courted and admired.
âI met him at a dinner not long ago,â Hogarth confided. âI think he will remember me. Would you like an introduction?â
I thought that would be interesting, and Hogarth clearly wanted to remake Wingateâs acquaintance. So we crossed the room to the fireplace.
Wingate acknowledged our approach. âMr. Hogarth. It is a pleasure to see you again.â
His voice was deep and rich. It seemed incongruous that a man of ordinary stature should have such a large voice, almost intimidating in the manner of physical bulk.
Hogarth introduced me as âthe young man who is betrothed to my lovely daughter, Catherine.â
Wingate said that he was pleased to meet me, but there was no overdoing of it. He was pleased to meet me in a well-bred, mannered way. Then Hogarth added that I was âbetter known as Boz,â and Wingateâs demeanor changed.
âVery impressive,â he noted. âYou are such a young man. You must tell me how your writing began.â
I was brief in my recitation. Then, to my surprise, Wingate handed me his card with the instruction, âWe must talk
The day was clad in one of the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, and dismal. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of life. In the city, it had a foul stale smell and was a dirt-stained addition to the gutters.
We dined in a large room with richly paneled walls before retiring to the club library. A gentleman witha hook attached to his right wrist approached another man who was standing by the fireplace.
The man by the fireplace was in his mid-thirties with a sharp nose and prominent chin. He was elegantly dressed in a brown suit with a shirt of the finest linen, rich in pattern and scrupulously white. He seemed a bit haughty, as though requiring everyone who wished conversation to come to him. And come they did, each visitor enjoying an audience for so long as he politely allowed.
Think for a moment of a long chain woven around a man that has a hold upon his thoughts for the rest of life. A chain of iron or thorns or flowers or gold. That chain would not exist to bind him but for the formation of the first link on the first day.
For everything that followed in my life, this was that day.
As a writer of fiction, I have been privileged to come and go as I please, to enter through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome all obstacles of distance, time, and place. But the recitation contained in the following pages is truth in its most absolute form. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies were within me, whatever might have been done differently and better, this is as I acted and as it all happened to me.
CHAPTER 2
The man standing by the fireplace in the library of the Garrick Club was not handsome. But he had the carriage of a handsome man and an aura about him that demanded attention. He stood with his arms folded for greater impressiveness of bearing. Everyone in the room was aware of his presence. I watched as he talked with those who ventured to his side and observed how readily they responded to him.
âThatâs Geoffrey Wingate,â George Hogarth told me. âHeâs an ingenious man.â
I knew of Wingate by reputation. Gentlemen on the street raised a forefinger to the brim of their hat as he passed by. He was a man of business who invested with great success on behalf of his clients, who were drawn from the ruling class. His money and the money he had made for them had caused him to be courted and admired.
âI met him at a dinner not long ago,â Hogarth confided. âI think he will remember me. Would you like an introduction?â
I thought that would be interesting, and Hogarth clearly wanted to remake Wingateâs acquaintance. So we crossed the room to the fireplace.
Wingate acknowledged our approach. âMr. Hogarth. It is a pleasure to see you again.â
His voice was deep and rich. It seemed incongruous that a man of ordinary stature should have such a large voice, almost intimidating in the manner of physical bulk.
Hogarth introduced me as âthe young man who is betrothed to my lovely daughter, Catherine.â
Wingate said that he was pleased to meet me, but there was no overdoing of it. He was pleased to meet me in a well-bred, mannered way. Then Hogarth added that I was âbetter known as Boz,â and Wingateâs demeanor changed.
âVery impressive,â he noted. âYou are such a young man. You must tell me how your writing began.â
I was brief in my recitation. Then, to my surprise, Wingate handed me his card with the instruction, âWe must talk