His Last Fire by Alix Nathan Page A

night I hear it approaching Babylon. Dragging, dragging its great, scaly body. So, dear lady, I shall heal you before that dreadful day.’
    â€˜You are so kind. But, really, Mr Broughton, I am not in need of healing. As to the Fall with which you threaten us daily, shall I weep or laugh? What say you, Miss Addison?’ Mrs Bewdley beamed at the old lady, whose tongue captured crumbs from her tiny fingertips like a chameleon catching flies.
    Miss Addison rolled her eyes. ‘Tragi-comedy, which is the product of the English theatre, is one of the most monstrous inventions that ever entered into a poet’s thoughts. An author might as well think of weaving the adventure of Aeneas and Hudibras into one poem, as of writing such a motley piece of mirth and sorrow.’
    â€˜Stop her!’ Hadfield urged under his breath at Miss Addison’s relentless, tinkling monotone.
    â€˜But the absurdity of these performances is so very visible that I shall not insist upon it.’
    â€˜She knows her father’s works by heart. Every word. Come Miss Addison,’ said Dr Foart, ‘let me take you upstairs.’
    Hadfield, Broughton and Mrs Bewdley fell on the remaining dishes. Edward signed to me and we left the room.
    Foart had a botanic garden behind the asylum for the recreation of his patients. He had little success; they saw no point in taking on the work of their inferiors. After I left, Edward, shunning company, agreed to dig the ground, though he would eat the herbs, set traps for birds among the bushes. He told me how Foart found him there, absorbed. How he’d questioned him, elicited nothing. Persisted, broke his own declared intention not to use threats, mentioned the new electrical treatment for melancholy. Left Edward weeping.
    Foart believed in the importance of forgetting. When he learned enough for his analysis he decided there was over-exertion of Edward’s mental faculties with, he surmised, some disappointment of passion. He must forget Lapland! All objects and books that might remind him were forbidden. The subject must not be discussed. Not that anyone around the table was likely to raise it. Only metropolitan food was provided, dressed, devilled, fricasséed, jellied.
    The pistols were Hadfield’s. Although forbidden him, since he must forget his attempt on the life of the king, they’d easily been secreted by his old friend Mrs Mason. Hadfield was plotting escape with Broughton and Edward, who borrowed the firearms to practise the hold and feel of them.
    I heard what happened from Edward and the doctor both. It seems that in following Crichton’s Inquiry Foart must go through the exercise of self-analysis , to abstract his own mind from himself, place it before him, as it were, and examine it with freedom and impartiality. This he was doing when Edward burst upon him with two cocked pistols.
    â€˜Where is my reindeer? You have stolen my little reindeer!’
    â€˜Mr Gage, put down the pistols and let us talk together. You know there are no animals in the house. They are not allowed.’
    â€˜You’ve taken my reindeer because you want me to forget. Forget , you say. I cannot , will not forget. It is in your clothing, the reindeer. You’ve stolen it. Take off your clothes!’
    Foart was not within reach of his bell. He took off his well-cut coat. Edward waved a pistol at his stomach.
    â€˜Empty the pockets!’
    Foart pulled out paper scraps, coins, a box of snuff. He scoffed: ‘A reindeer in my pocket!’
    â€˜Cameo. Rose-pink agate.’ Tears welled. ‘You’ve hidden it in your clothing. Off! Off! Take everything off!’
    Foart kicked off his shoes, stripped breeches, stockings, waistcoat, shirt, began to remove the undershirt when his servant stepped into the room behind Edward and snatched the pistols. They were unloaded.
    The doctor never used strait-waistcoats. Edward, crushed, was easily locked in his room. Toast and