Hervey placed the marker at the open page, though he did not close the book. ‘My father is Archdeacon of Sarum.’
‘Archdeacon of
‘Ordinarily, perhaps, but in my father’s case it does not. He is only very recently translated thus from an exceedingly poor country living. I beg you do not think us fattened by tithes and extensive glebe.’
Shelley chuckled, still intent only upon the arch and his sketchbook. ‘I am glad he was not so poor that you could not come to Rome.’
‘That expense was my own,’ said Hervey, mildly insistent.
‘The spoils of war?’
‘Only in a manner of speaking.’
‘
‘I was lately in India and was rewarded for service to one of its princes.’
‘India? A vast plundering-house for the Honourable Company!’
Hervey would not be drawn.
‘And we know there is a sister of spirit and education,’ said Shelley, sketching still. ‘Who else?’
‘I had an older brother in holy orders. He died five years ago.’
‘I am sorry for it. How did he die?’
Perhaps it was Shelley’s concentration on the pen strokes that made him so direct, Hervey supposed, but it startled him nevertheless. ‘He died of a winter ague in Oxford.’
‘Fellow of which college?’
Hervey hesitated. ‘He was curate of a parish thereabouts. A poor one, I understand.’
Shelley stopped his sketching momentarily to look across at his companion. ‘I am sorry.’
‘He was a truly good man.’
But Shelley would not allow the mood to be sombre beyond the moment. ‘And no female has secured this sensible military man and his fortune?’
Coming so soon after mention of John Hervey, it was as if a spent ball had struck him square in the breast, knocking out the wind. It did not matter that he knew it must come at some time. ‘I was bereaved of my wife but a year ago.’
Shelley looked up again, his expression horrified. ‘You too? My dear fellow, my dear dear fellow …’ He placed his hand on Hervey’s forearm, squeezing hard to impart his sympathy.
Hervey knew of Shelley’s circumstances, for Elizabeth had told him. Harriet, Shelley’s estranged wife, had taken her own life scarcely two years before. The circumstances could not have been more different from his own, and yet he was not inclined to imagine another’s heartache was less than his. But although he might concede that, he was not yet inclined to entrust this man with his grief. He made no response.
‘Now I see the cause of last night’s melancholy, and the distance generally in your air. I pray you would tell me more of it.’
Shelley had laid aside his book, and he now looked him in the eye with a directness which spoke of candour. Hervey saw in that instant that if he did not now trust his grief to this man, he might never do so to any. He closed his prayer book, took a deep figurative breath, and began his story. He told of the earliest days, of Henrietta in the schoolroom, of his first going on campaign, of his returns and his fumbling courtship, of their becoming wed, and their short-lived bliss, and of the fruit of that passionate union. He told how he had struggled for half a year with his conscience respecting a craven and vindictive commanding officer and the obligation of loyalty to a superior. And then he related the circumstances and manner of Henrietta’s dying: a cold, lonely affair — terrifying, knowing, above all
When he was finished, Shelley, who had sat throughout with arms clasped about his knees like a rapt schoolboy hearing some dorrying tale, gazed silently into Hervey’s eyes and saw what was left unsaid — yet which he knew must not remain so. ‘And your love’s cold grave is of your bringing, you believe.’
‘It is. I could own to no other’s accountability.’
‘Not even your craven commanding officer? His guilt seems amply proven.’
‘And that is the opinion of everyone. At his court martial he was censured for it, though there was no culpability in law. His destruction has given me no relief, though.’
Shelley looked out across the Roman plain. Countless thousands must have died by the hand of others there, and might do so again: why was a single life worth repining over? ‘I would read you some fragments of verse I am composing when you have the inclination to hear them.’
Hervey would not have wished for the consolation of Scripture at that moment. He returned the kindness with a thankful smile.
Shelley reached into his pocket for a second notebook. ‘You have read Goethe, so you will know the legend of Prometheus?’
‘That is to make of my erudition what it is not,’ warned Hervey, frowning. ‘But yes, I know the legend.’
‘You were reading last night of defying power which seems omnipotent.’
Hervey nodded. ‘And convincing it sounded.’
‘I write of Promethean resistance to the Furies, the ministers of pain and fear, disappointment, mistrust and hate. I write of the terrible alternative of giving way to Jupiter’s tyranny.’
Hervey saw a lofty analogy, yet was not dismayed, for Shelley’s was a wholly honest candour. ‘When you are ready to read it, I would listen.’
Shelley grasped his arm again. ‘My dear friend, the eagle tore at Prometheus’ vitals by day, and by night those vitals were restored, so that the evisceration could begin anew in the morning.’
Shelley’s warning, perhaps for its intensity, startled him. ‘Do you tell me the pain must endure, then? Is that how your verse shall end?’
‘No,’ said Shelley, shaking his head decidedly. ‘Jupiter shall be dethroned and Prometheus unbound, though I own I am undecided yet by what means. But until that day, Prometheus shall defy the Furies, or else it can never come. Here, let me read a little, rough-hewn as it still is.’
Shelley read him fragments, turning many pages at a time to find what he thought was most apt or diverting.
Hervey sat spellbound.
‘And this is how I conclude; perhaps you might recognize, now, of what it is I speak:
‘To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
‘To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
‘To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
‘To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
‘From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
‘Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;
‘This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
‘Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
‘This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.’
Hervey did not know by what providence he had come to trust this man, so different in every doctrine and practice was Shelley to himself, but for the first time since Henrietta’s passing he wanted to speak his heart freely. And it seemed that here he might find the means to do so.
CHAPTER THREE. HEARTS OF OAK
