periodical index, one for each
book, in both cases a substantial review in the Piccadilly Recreation, a
thrice weekly folio sheet, but giving no personal details. hannah: And where was this (the book)? Bernard: Private collection. I've got a talk to give next week, in
London, and I think Chater is interesting, so anything on
him, or this Septimus Hodge, Sidley Park, any leads at all
... I'd be most grateful.
(Pause.) hannah: Well! This is a new experience for me. A grovelling
academic. Bernard: Oh, I say. hannah: Oh, but it is. All the academics who reviewed my book
patronized it. Bernard: Surely not. hannah: Surely yes. The Byron gang unzipped their flies and
patronized all over it. Where is it you don't bother to teach,
by the way? Bernard: Oh, well, Sussex, actually. hannah: Sussex. (She thinks a moment.) Nightingale. Yes; a
thousand words in the Observer to see me off the premises
with a pat on the bottom. You must know him. Bernard: As I say, I'm in your hands. hannah: Quite. Say please, then. Bernard: Please. hannah: Sit down, do. Bernard: Thank you.
(He takes a chair. She remains standing. Possibly she smokes; if
so, perhaps now. A short cigarette-holder sounds right, too. Or
brown-paper cigarillos.)
22
hannah: How did you know I was here?
Bernard: Oh, I didn't. I spoke to the son on the phone but he
didn't mention you by name . . . and then he forgot to
mention me. hannah: Valentine. He's at Oxford, technically. Bernard: Yes, I met him. Brideshead Regurgitated. hannah: My fiance.
(She holds his look.) Bernard: (Pause) I'll take a chance. You're lying. hannah: (Pause) Well done, Bernard. Bernard: Christ. hannah: He calls me his fiancee. Bernard: Why? hannah: It's a joke. Bernard: You turned him down?
hannah: Don't be silly, do I look like the next Countess of-BERNARD: No, no - a freebie. The joke that consoles. My tortoise
Lightning, my fiancee Hannah. hannah: Oh. Yes. You have a way with you, Bernard. I'm not
sure I like it. Bernard: What's he doing, Valentine? hannah: He's a postgrad. Biology. Bernard: No, he's a mathematician. hannah: Well, he's doing grouse. Bernard: Grouse?
hannah: Not actual grouse. Computer grouse. Bernard: Who's the one who doesn't speak?
HANNAH: GUS.
Bernard: What's the matter with him?
hannah: I didn't ask.
BERNARD: And the father sounds like a lot of fun.
hannah: Ah yes.
Bernard: And the mother is the gardener. What's going on
here? hannah: What do you mean? Bernard: I nearly took her head off- she was standing in a
trench at the time. hannah: Archaeology. The house had a formal Italian garden
23
until about 1740. Lady Croom is interested in garden history. I sent her my book - it contains, as you know if you've read it - which I'm not assuming, by the way - a rather good description of Caroline's garden at Brocket Hall. I'm here now helping Hermione.
Bernard: (Impressed) Hermione.
HANNAH: The records are unusually complete and they have never been worked on.
Bernard: I'm beginning to admire you.
Hannah: Before was bullshit?
Bernard: Completely. Your photograph does you justice, I'm not sure the book does. (She considers him. He waits, confident.)
hannah: Septimus Hodge was the tutor.
Bernard: (Quietly) Attagirl.
hannah: His pupil was the Croom daughter. There was a son at Eton. Septimus lived in the house: the pay book specifies allowances for wine and candles. So, not quite a guest but rather more than a steward. His letter of self-recommendation is preserved among the papers. I'll dig it out for you. As far as I remember he studied mathematics and natural philosophy at Cambridge. A scientist, therefore, as much as anything.
Bernard: I'm impressed. Thank you. And Chater?
hannah: Nothing.
Bernard: Oh. Nothing at all?
hannah: I'm afraid not.
Bernard: How about the library?
hannah: The catalogue was done in the 1880s. I've been through the lot.
Bernard: Books or catalogue?
hannah: Catalogue.
BERNARD: Ah. Pity.
hannah: I'm sorry.
Bernard: What about the letters? No mention?
hannah: I'm afraid not. I've been very thorough in your period because, of course, it's my period too.
BERNARD: Is it? Actually, I don't quite know what it is you're . . .
24
hannah: The Sidley hermit.
Bernard: Ah. Who's he?
hannah: He's my peg for the nervous breakdown of the Romantic
Imagination. I'm doing landscape and literature 1750 to 1834. Bernard: What happened in 1834? hannah: My hermit died. BERNARD: Of course. hannah: What do you mean, of course? BERNARD: Nothing. hannah: Yes, you do.
Bernard: No, no... However, Coleridge also died in 1834. hannah: So he did. What a stroke of luck. (Softening.) Thank
you, Bernard.
(She goes to the reading stand and opens Noakes's sketch book.)
Look-there he is.
(BERNARDgoes to look.)
Bernard: Mmm.
hannah: The only known likeness of the Sidley hermit.
Bernard: Very biblical.
hannah: Drawn in by a later hand, of course. The hermitage didn't yet exist when Noakes did the drawings.
Bernard: Noakes. . . the painter?
hannah: Landscape gardener. He'd do these books for his clients, as a sort of prospectus. (She demonstrates.) Before and after, you see. This is how it all looked until, say, 1810 - smooth, undulating, serpentine - open water, clumps of trees, classical boat-house -
Bernard: Lovely. The real England.
hannah: You can stop being silly now, Bernard. English landscape was invented by gardeners imitating foreign painters who were evoking classical authors. The whole thing was brought home in the luggage from the grand tour. Here, look - Capability Brown doing Claude, who was doing Virgil. Arcadia! And here, superimposed by Richard Noakes, untamed nature in the style of Salvator Rosa. It's the Gothic novel expressed in landscape. Everything but vampires. There's an account of my hermit in a letter by your illustrious namesake,
