rooms I had been given were vacated by their present temporary occupant.
I returned to Camberwell elated by my triumph, but saddened at having to leave my comfortable lodgings. Signor Gallini, from whom I had received many kindnesses and attentions in the short time we had been acquainted, was the first new friend I made in London, and it was a real sadness to leave his quiet little house, not to mention the charms of the delectable Miss Bella, and move into the teeming heart of the city. But leave I did, and duly left Camberwell for Temple-street at the end of October. Now settled on this new course, I celebrated Christmas 1848 in the Temple Church, singing my heart out alongside the devout amongst my new neighbours, in a mood of genuine thanksgiving.
The first letter that I received in my new home was from Signor Gallini and Bella (with whom I had determined I should not lose contact), wishing me the compliments of the season and sending their very best hopes that I would prosper in my new career. A few days after Christmas two more letters were delivered, this time to the accommodation address that I had taken in Upper Thames-street, hard by, in order to receive any correspondence that might be directed to Edward Glyver.
One was from Mr Gosling, my mother’s legal man in Weymouth, advising me that the house at Sandchurch had been sold but indicating that, owing to its somewhat parlous condition, we had not achieved the price we had anticipated. The proceeds had been disposed of according to my instructions: the money owed to Mr More had been remitted to him, and this, in addition to other necessary disbursements, had left a balance of ?107 4s. and 6d. This was far less than I had expected, but at least I now had employment, and a roof over my head.
The other letter was from Dr Penny, the physician who had attended my mother in her last illness.
A week later, on a bitter January afternoon, I returned to Sandchurch, for the last time in my life, to see my dear friend and former schoolmaster laid to rest in the little church-yard overlooking the grey waters of the Channel. A keen wind was coming in from the east, and the ground was flint-hard underfoot from several days’ hard frost. I remained alone in the church-yard after everyone else had departed, watching the last vestiges of day succumb to the onset of darkness, until it became impossible to distinguish where the sky ended and the heaving expanse of black water began.
I felt utterly alone, bereft now of Tom’s sympathetic companionship; for he had been the only person in my life who had truly understood my intellectual passions. During my time as his pupil, by generously and selflessly putting his own extensive knowledge at my complete disposal, and by encouraging me in every possible way, he had given me the means to rise far above the common level of attainment. Eschewing the dead hand of an inflexible system, he had showed me how to
I stood by the grave until I was fairly numb with cold, thinking over the days of my boyhood spent with Tom in his dusty house of books. Though I could not comfort myself with the pious certainties of Christianity, for I had already lost whatever allegiance I might have had to that faith, I remained susceptible to its poetical power, and could not help saying aloud the glorious words of John Donne, which had also been spoken at my mother’s funeral:And into that gate they shall enter, and in that house they shall dwell, where there shall be no Cloud nor Sun, no darknesse nor dazling, but one equall light, no noyse nor silence, but one equall musick, no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession, no foes nor friends, but one equall communion and Identity, no ends nor beginnings; but one equall eternity.*
Desperately cold, and with a heavy heart, I left the church-yard, eager now to seek the warmth and comfort of the King’s Head. Yet, despite my discomfort, I could not help first walking up the cliff path, to take one final look at the old house.
It stood in the freezing gloom, dark and shuttered, the garden untended, the little white fence blown over in the late gales. I do not know what I felt as I regarded the creeping desolation, whether grief for what had been lost, or guilty sorrow for having abandoned my childhood home. Above me, the bare branches of the chestnut-tree, in which I had built my crow’s-nest, creaked and cracked in the bitter wind. I would never again clamber up to my old vantage point, to look out across the ever-changing sea and dream of Scheherazade’s eyes, or of walking with Sindbad through the Valley of Diamonds.* But to the inevitability of change, all things must submit; and so I turned my back on the past and set my face into the east wind, which quickly dried my tears. I had a great work to accomplish, but I trusted, at the last, to come into that gate, and into that house, where all would be well; where, as Donne the preacher had said, fear and hope would be banished for ever, in one equal possession.
Death took another friend that cold January: Prospero Gallini, who died of a broken neck after falling down the stairs. Bella wrote to tell me the terrible news, and of course I immediately went down to Camberwell to be with her.
‘I do not know yet what I shall do,’ she said, as we walked back from the church after the interment, ‘but I must leave here, that is for sure. There are debts to be paid, and the house must be sold. I shall go to London and find a position as soon as I can.’
I told her that she must not fail to inform me when she was settled, and begged her to regard me as her friend and protector in London. As I was leaving, she gave me a charming little edition of Dante’s
‘This is for my kind and considerate friend,’ she said, ‘whom I shall always think of with affection.’
‘You promise to write to me?’
‘I do.’
Some weeks later, a letter arrived to tell me that she had found a position as companion to a Mrs Daley in St John’s Wood. I was glad of it, for her father’s sake, and determined that I would thereafter do my best, through regular correspondence, to watch over her. This I did, though it was to be four years until we met again.
The great table at which my mother had spent so many weary hours was now set before the window in my new rooms in Temple-street, Whitefriars. On it, the journals that had revealed my lost self were arranged in order, girded round, as at Sandchurch, by yellowing bundles of paper, dozens of them, each bundle now sorted into chronological order, and carrying a label denoting its contents. Blank note-books, fresh from the stationers, were stacked up in readiness; pencils had been sharpened; ink and nibs laid in. I was ready to embark on my great work, to prove my true identity to the world.
