Bookman's promise

Burton’s inclination was to dismiss this as silly, but before he could seriously object I went inside and made the arrangements. I didn’t want a trumped-up studio shot; something on the street would be much better, a picture that captured some semblance of the city and her architecture. Burton did protest then—he wanted no part of it— but the photographer was so young and eager for the business that his equipment was already out on the sidewalk, and I so clearly wanted it done that he stood still for it at last. The photographer fussed over the light: it was high noon and the sun was harsh, and Burton was such a reluctant subject that the young man knew he couldn’t keep us waiting long. He tried to chase away two little colored boys but Burton insisted they be left alone, and he gave each of them a penny. At last the photographer stood us on the walk near a palmetto tree, with the old Exchange Building rising dramatically behind us: Richard smiled and draped his arm over my shoulder, and there we were. The picture we took that day long ago was perfect, and remains one of my dearest possessions.

We lunched at the hotel, and I finally broached the dreaded subject. “You must know Lord Palmerston well.” I said this innocently, I thought, but Richard looked hard in my eyes: there was no fooling him, and his answer was vague. “We’ve met a few times in social gatherings.”

I pushed the point. “What do you think of him?”

“A colorful man. Not one you’d want to trifle with or have as an enemy. Rather like Calhoun was, I would imagine, like some of your fire-eating Southerners of today when he’s opposed.” A long moment passed while he leveled me with those eyes. “Why do you ask?”

Another long moment, and I saw that there could be no lying or evasion. “Richard,” I said, looking straight at him.

He waited.

“I’ve become uneasy about a few things.”

“I could sense as much.”

I felt my insides trembling: my God, I did not want to lose him! In those few seconds a dozen thoughts flooded through my mind. I imagined him taking dire offense, wounded in the heart. I saw him getting up from the table, walking away without a word, checking out of the hotel and disappearing into the bright sunlight. I saw myself rushing along beside him, pleading, I didn’t mean it, you’ve taken me wrong! But in fact if I offended him, he would be taking me exactly right.

I mustered myself and as calmly as I could said, “I would rather cut out my tongue than say this.”

Then to my amazement, he said it for me. “You are worried that I am spying against your country.”

“No,” I lied quickly. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“Please…Charlie.”

“All right, yes. I can’t help it, the thought crossed my mind and it won’t go away. I just wouldn’t have put it so bluntly.”

“Sometimes bluntness is the best way. The only way.”

“The thought never once occurred to me until we were in the backwoods, and you seemed so preoccupied with everything and everybody.”

“I told you, I do that everywhere. It’s my way.”

“Of course it is and I know that. I know as well as anyone how your books were compiled and written. I know these things and yet…”

“No,” he said. “You may think you know them, but you can’t understand the volume of material that runs through my mind in the course of a work. In India, just as an example, I had to make my notes in conditions that only one writer in ten thousand would endure. Impossible working conditions, yet there I worked, sitting under a table in an endless rain, the air so hot I could barely breathe, the paper shredding and falling apart even as I wrote on it.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand that. What’s the point of it?”

“Discipline, Charlie, discipline! And it did serve its purpose. Once I had written it down I had it committed to memory, even if the notes themselves didn’t survive.”

Well, at least I could believe that. I smiled wanly and said, “All right,” and we ate for a time in silence. I thought the discussion was over: if so, it had been wholly unsatisfactory from my point of view, for Richard had not yet answered the most difficult question in plain language. I decided to say no more about it, to forget it, but I had made such resolutions before and what had they come to? Once a dark thought crosses the mind, it is there forever.

Then Richard said, “I sympathize with your worry. This is a very bad time for your young nation, more so than I imagined from the other side of the sea. Anything could tip you into war.”

England, for instance, I thought: Britannia, who could not defeat us in two staunch attempts when we were united but might have far easier pickings if we so stupidly divided ourselves. But I said, “Nothing will come of this. These people are noisy braggarts but they are not going to destroy the Union.”

“If you think that, you are naive.”

I shook my head. “In fact, I don’t think that.”

“No. This is a powder keg. It will take just one incident, and these people are itching for that excuse. It is inevitable.”