said
Dwight. 'The only copy? Jesus, how do you sleep sound at night?'
'A lot easier than you do, I
suspect,' responded Albacore. 'My handwritten pages hold no
attraction for a burglar. A computer on the other hand is something
worth stealing, as are disks. Also no one can hack into manuscript
and see what I'm up to, or copy chunks in a couple of seconds to
pre-empt my ideas. Your electronic words, dear Dwight, are by
comparison the common currency of the air. Someone coughs a continent
away and you can catch a killing virus.'
I headed off what might have been
a provoking defence of the computer by asking Albacore to what extent
he felt his book might bring Beddoes in out of the cold at the
perimeter of British romantic literature and into its warm centre.
'I don't even try’ he
retorted. 'It's my thesis that to understand him we must treat him
not as a minor English but as a significant European writer. He was -
most appositely at this present period in our history - a very good
European. Byron's the only other who comes close to him. They both
loved Europe, not merely because they found it warmer and cheaper
than back home, but for its history and culture and peoples.'
He expanded on this for a little
while, almost addressing me directly. It was as if now that he'd won
our little contest he wanted to put the memory of the arm-twisting
and near-bribery behind us and demonstrate that he was a serious
Beddoes scholar.
The others listened happily too,
sitting on the deep leather armchairs and sofa which the spacious
room afforded, drinking from their brandy balloons and puffing on
their genuine Havanas till the aromatic smoke almost hid the
decorated ceiling. I sometimes think that it will not be the least of
the twentieth century's philistinisms that it has destroyed the art
of enjoying tobacco. Like the poet said, a fuck is only a fuck, but a
good cigar is a smoke.
Long before he
bored his audience (the great talkers are also masters of timing)
Albacore stopped talking about Beddoes and invited us all to admire
the copy of the Vita S. Godrid which he mentioned to me
earlier and which he'd brought from the secure room of the college
library for our delectation. Merely to handle something of such
beauty and antiquity was enough for most of us, but Dwight with that
lack of embarrassment about money which is the mark of a civilized
American, cut to the chase and said, 'How much would it fetch on the
open market?'
Albacore smiled and said, 'Why,
this is a pearl worth more than all your tribe, Dwight. Think what
you have here. A contemporary copy of the contemporary life written
by a man who actually visited Godric in his hut at Finchale, Reginald
of Durham, a man himself of such piety and erudition that these
qualities are said by tradition to be accorded to all subsequent
clerks who bear that name and title. In other words you are touching
the book that touched the hand of a man who touched the hand of the
saint himself. Who could put a price on something like this?'
'Well,' said Dwight, unputdown,
'I know a dealer called Trick Fachmann in St Poll who'd take a shot
at it.'
Even Albacore laughed, and now
the conversation became general, running like quicksilver from tongue
to tongue, good thing following good thing, wisdom and wit doled out
in a prodigality of plenty, and I felt tears prick my eyes at the
sense of privilege and pleasure in being part of this company in this
place at this time.
If it were now to die, 'twere now
to be most happy. . .
I could have stayed there
forever, but all things have their natural foreordained ends, and
finally we dispersed, some to their student staircases, Dwight and I
making our unsteady way back to the Q's Lodging, arm in arm for
mutual support.
I undressed
and climbed into bed, but I could not go to sleep. At first it was
because of my excitement at the world of profit and delight which
seemed to be opening up before me. But then a sudden and complete
reversal took place ..
Dwight. 'The only copy? Jesus, how do you sleep sound at night?'
'A lot easier than you do, I
suspect,' responded Albacore. 'My handwritten pages hold no
attraction for a burglar. A computer on the other hand is something
worth stealing, as are disks. Also no one can hack into manuscript
and see what I'm up to, or copy chunks in a couple of seconds to
pre-empt my ideas. Your electronic words, dear Dwight, are by
comparison the common currency of the air. Someone coughs a continent
away and you can catch a killing virus.'
I headed off what might have been
a provoking defence of the computer by asking Albacore to what extent
he felt his book might bring Beddoes in out of the cold at the
perimeter of British romantic literature and into its warm centre.
'I don't even try’ he
retorted. 'It's my thesis that to understand him we must treat him
not as a minor English but as a significant European writer. He was -
most appositely at this present period in our history - a very good
European. Byron's the only other who comes close to him. They both
loved Europe, not merely because they found it warmer and cheaper
than back home, but for its history and culture and peoples.'
He expanded on this for a little
while, almost addressing me directly. It was as if now that he'd won
our little contest he wanted to put the memory of the arm-twisting
and near-bribery behind us and demonstrate that he was a serious
Beddoes scholar.
The others listened happily too,
sitting on the deep leather armchairs and sofa which the spacious
room afforded, drinking from their brandy balloons and puffing on
their genuine Havanas till the aromatic smoke almost hid the
decorated ceiling. I sometimes think that it will not be the least of
the twentieth century's philistinisms that it has destroyed the art
of enjoying tobacco. Like the poet said, a fuck is only a fuck, but a
good cigar is a smoke.
Long before he
bored his audience (the great talkers are also masters of timing)
Albacore stopped talking about Beddoes and invited us all to admire
the copy of the Vita S. Godrid which he mentioned to me
earlier and which he'd brought from the secure room of the college
library for our delectation. Merely to handle something of such
beauty and antiquity was enough for most of us, but Dwight with that
lack of embarrassment about money which is the mark of a civilized
American, cut to the chase and said, 'How much would it fetch on the
open market?'
Albacore smiled and said, 'Why,
this is a pearl worth more than all your tribe, Dwight. Think what
you have here. A contemporary copy of the contemporary life written
by a man who actually visited Godric in his hut at Finchale, Reginald
of Durham, a man himself of such piety and erudition that these
qualities are said by tradition to be accorded to all subsequent
clerks who bear that name and title. In other words you are touching
the book that touched the hand of a man who touched the hand of the
saint himself. Who could put a price on something like this?'
'Well,' said Dwight, unputdown,
'I know a dealer called Trick Fachmann in St Poll who'd take a shot
at it.'
Even Albacore laughed, and now
the conversation became general, running like quicksilver from tongue
to tongue, good thing following good thing, wisdom and wit doled out
in a prodigality of plenty, and I felt tears prick my eyes at the
sense of privilege and pleasure in being part of this company in this
place at this time.
If it were now to die, 'twere now
to be most happy. . .
I could have stayed there
forever, but all things have their natural foreordained ends, and
finally we dispersed, some to their student staircases, Dwight and I
making our unsteady way back to the Q's Lodging, arm in arm for
mutual support.
I undressed
and climbed into bed, but I could not go to sleep. At first it was
because of my excitement at the world of profit and delight which
seemed to be opening up before me. But then a sudden and complete
reversal took place ..
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