me no harm.
I drink down the draught. The King is amused and delighted and slaps his thigh.
'Good!' he says. 'Now we shall start work upon the toad.'
It would be vain to remind King Charles, I decide, that very many months have passed since I held a scalpel or a cannula in my hands and that, by an act of will, I have consigned my dissecting skills to oblivion. I sense also, that he is eager to anatomise the toad himself, demonstrating to me the deftness of his long fingers, the neatness and care of his work. So I say nothing, as the toad is taken out of the bell jar and laid upon the tray and His Majesty rolls up his sleeves. I merely watch and, as I do so, I find myself unaccountably invaded by an intense happiness, such as I have not known since the far-off days of Rosie Pierpoint, of tennis lessons, of games of Rummy, of the gift of dinner napkins.
The King cuts, flays and pins the whitish skin of the toad's belly.
'The gut,' he says as he makes his first incision in the flesh, 'has a jewelled sheen to it, as we shall see…'
Careful as he is, the intestines spill out, so that their precise arrangement is lost to us. Across time, the voice of Fabricius snarls in my ear, 'Do not tangle with the bowel, Merivel! You are not a Laocoon!'
'Ah!' says the King. 'See the colour?'
I am staring at the toad's intestines and I am aware that the soft coils have a silvery patina. But I am a little distracted, for the word 'colour' has reminded me suddenly of my attempts at painting and the frenzy of mind that seems to accompany them, and without really intending to, I begin to tell the King of my desire to paint, to capture the essence of people and nature, 'before they dissolve or change, you see, Sir, for everything on earth, or so it seems to me, is in a state of perpetual motion, even inanimate objects, for the light upon them changes, or the eye with which we beheld them yesterday is today re-shaping what it sees…'
I babble on. The King does not speak, but works methodically, unhurriedly at his dissection until all – heart and lungs and spleen and windpipe and sperm sacs – is laid out before us. I speak about my painting of my park and Finn's loathing of it. I try to describe the painting but hear myself, as if my voice is no longer mine, as if it belonged to Pearce's worm-filled lunatic, describe instead the feelings that drove me to painting: my terrible fear that the King had abandoned me, no longer loved me or found any need of my company. 'I was your Fool,' I hear myself wailing, 'and however serious may be the business of government, do not tell me that the King has no need of laughter!'
I am crying again. Tears are coursing down my face and onto the toad on the tray, over which, finding myself now tired to my very marrow, my body has slumped.
I see the King's hands put down his instruments. He picks up a cloth and wipes blood and viscera off his fingers. And then I lose him. I do not know what happened except that I hear myself talking on and on, to the King I believe, who is no longer near me but in the shadowy laboratory somewhere, moving up and down as he always does, restless and tall and never still… but he is not there. I am alone in the place. He has gone out into the sunlight and I am lying down in the dark, under the oak work bench. I am getting into my grave.
I am woken by an elderly man, wearing the garb of an apothecary. I am parched. The old man understands this and gives me cool, sweet-tasting water in a beaker.
Food is brought to me. I am seated at a little table. I eat some bread. A liveried servant hands me a letter.
I am in the Physic Garden. The sky above me is bright. I break the seal of my letter.
Signed, Charles Rex
I look over to the sundial. What I wish to say to the King is, 'Let me make my entrance again. Let me arrive again, knowing what I know about the Drops.' But of course he is no longer there.
Chapter Seven. Water
I did not linger at Whitehall.
Though greeted warmly by a posse of gallants in whose chambers I once played at cards, forfeits and music-making, I found I was in no mood for their company. My head ached intolerably and the thoughts fashioned by my brain seemed to have the quality of dreams. I had a terrible longing to lie down, not necessarily to sleep, but simply to rest my brain. Fain would I have gone to that first chamber of mine, where I had performed my cure-of-neglect upon Lou-Lou, and put on a clean nightcap and lain upon the soft pillows and listened to the great orchestra of the river.
Dinnertime found me at the Leg Tavern where I drank a good quantity of ale to slake the thirst that still burned in my stomach, and then slept an hour on one of its hard settles. I was hungry when I woke and was served a most peculiar meal, a turnover of starlings and a pigs trotter pickled in olives. 'Starlings,' said the pretty wench who served me, 'having blackish flesh and strong-tasting, cure all men of mopish humours,' and it is true that, when I had eaten, I felt my thoughts to be more sensible. Either the starlings had worked some humoural change upon me, or merely the potent effect of the King's Drops was now at last abating.
When I emerged from the Leg, I found the street burnished with most beautiful winter sunlight. I am very susceptible to weather. In a Norfolk wind, I sometimes feel my sanity flying away. My good spirits replenished, then, by the starling turnover and the afternoon sun, I decided to make my way to the house of Rosie Pierpoint. To supplement Pierpoint's meagre wage as a bargeman, Rosie had set herself up, in 1661, as a laundress, and it was among her crimping irons and her vats of starch and her great coal-burning stove that I hoped to find her. If I could not persuade her to let me touch her Thing, I would content myself with watching the sunset from her window while she washed my shirt and removed the quail stains from my coat pocket.
She was at home and hard at work. So great was the heat in the workroom, she was stripped down to her bodice and her soft arms were moist and pink – a pink so very pretty that I would dearly love to arrive at the precise colour on my palette. Even as I approached Rosie and she rested her flat iron on the stove top and we embraced each other with a good deal of joy, I remembered seeing, in some great painting, a cherub the colour of Rosie's arms and fell to wondering how, in his winged existence, the little fellow had got so hot.
What followed was most sweet and delectable, reminding me that there is scarcely any more agreeable thing on earth than the meeting of parted lovers. To the ease of mind engendered by this Act of Forgetting is added the balm of pleasant memory. As the brain banishes its ever-present consciousness of death, so the body finds itself enraptured by rediscovery. It is not, I think, fanciful to say that such meetings are both Acts of Oblivion and Acts of Remembrance.
I stayed with Rosie until the sun went down. We lay on a rumpled pile of soiled sheets, shirts, petticoats, lace collars and table cloths and on this dirty linen made a very fine feast of each other, a feast of which, if I live to be an old man, I may well, in my clean and lonely bed, find myself dreaming.
We got up at last and Rosie lit two rushlights and by the light of these would work on at her ironing table till Pierpoint came home and they had their supper of whelks and oysters and bread and ale.
And I made my way to Hydes Wharf at Southwark where I hired a tilt-boat and asked the tilt-man, who had a foxy and mischievous face, to paddle me to Kew.
' Kew is a fairish way,' this tilt-man said, 'and it will be black pitch night 'fore we get to there, Sir.'
'I know,' I replied, 'but my day and the best part of last night both put me into a lather of heat and I have a great mind to feel the cool of the river.'
