Yearn: Tales of Lust and Longing

“A duel would resolve nothing and would quite possibly result in a great literary loss for England,” I announced, passing my verdict. The men surrounding the two biographers murmured in agreement. D’Arcy, still transfixed by Tuttle’s dangling glove, appeared vaguely aware that I’d been both diplomatic and strategic enough not to clarify the death of which biographer might be considered a great literary loss. Then to D’Arcy’s visible relief, Tuttle dropped his glove. The younger biographer turned back to me.

“What do you suggest then, sir?”

“I suggest that such a duel is really Posterity herself and it is the one duel we writers all engage in whether consciously or unconsciously, willingly or unwillingly. Let both biographies be published. The reading public and history will decide which is the better book,” I concluded a little grandly. After which the whole of the reading room burst into spontaneous applause and D’Arcy was left with the vague but uncomfortable sensation of having lost. However, I couldn’t help noticing that it was he and not Tuttle who retrieved the dropped white glove—the property of his nemesis. Intrigued by the possibility of a further twist of plot, I said nothing.

• • •

That night D’Arcy dreamt he was attacked by copies of Tuttle’s manuscript raining down upon him like a fatal hail, only to be rescued by me, the epitome of the successful Victorian novelist, smiling banally down upon him; apparently I opened an umbrella to protect him. It was not a good dream and he awoke with a frightful headache.

On arising, D’Arcy forfeited breakfast and went straight to the library of the Royal Institute, determined to discover in Joseph Banks’s archives some missed piece of research that might elevate his own biography. After greeting the librarian he retrieved the well-thumbed collection of journals, sketchbooks, essays, and general reportage Sir Joseph Banks himself had bequeathed to the library. Fighting a strong sense of hopelessness, he laid out the collection in order of events and scanned it mournfully. The collection was so well known to him after his six years of study that if he closed his eyes and placed his finger down blindly upon a page he would have been able to recite the paragraph from memory. In fact the travel diary of the young Joseph Banks, written during his trip on the Endeavour to Polynesia, was so vivid to D’Arcy that sometimes he became confused between his own memories and that of the naturalist himself.

Resigned to a fruitless search, he flicked through a hundred or so more pages, then, as the study clock chimed three, closed the journal. There was nothing he’d missed, no new scandalous tidbit of behavior, anthropological observation, love affair, or even a base sexual liaison between those well-worn pages. It was futile. His biography would have to stand as it was written thus far. He was condemned. No doubt Horace Tuttle’s biography, whether superior or not, would eclipse his own by mere dint of Mr. Tuttle’s reputation. It was an unfair world, he reflected, and now one in which he was convinced he was about to lose reputation, hearth, and possibly his engagement. He might even be reduced to working for his father. Deeply depressed, the young biographer stared out the window. As if in response the sky was darkening with a summer storm. He would have to run home to avoid the downpour.

He arrived half an hour later at his aunt’s house, half-drenched from the deluge (which he hadn’t managed to avoid). He shook himself dry in the entrance hall, only to be informed by the housekeeper that there was a gentleman waiting for him. “A financial gentleman judging by his frock coat and miserable

demeanor, sir,” she added in a lowered voice.

Convinced his life was about to engender further misery as well as a possible new creditor, D’Arcy contemplated climbing out a side window and escaping to Calais, but as he turned back his father’s lawyer confronted him in the entrance hall. The lawyer—an austere, humorless individual whose face wore an expression of perpetual disappointment, as if life had cheated him of some great prominence despite his professional success—snorted in disapproval.

“Master Hammer. Going somewhere?” D’Arcy winced; he hated the way all of his father’s employees still addressed him as “master.”

“I had just remembered I had forgotten something. . . .”

“It can wait; we are due for a little talk.” With a notable lack of decorum, the lawyer pulled him into the drawing room. They stood in uncomfortable silence until the lawyer, realizing no hospitality would be offered voluntarily, took it upon himself to help himself to a small glass of port from a bottle sitting on a side table. “As you are aware, your father has, for some time now, expressed considerable unhappiness at your choice of profession, eager as he was to have his only son join him in partnership at the shipping company.”

“Come to the point, Stanley; I am damp and there is supper waiting,” D’Arcy interrupted rudely, eager to avoid one of the longiloquent monologues the lawyer was prone to.

“The ‘point,’ Master Hammer, is simply that your stipend will cease altogether by the fourth of next month, after which your father expects you to be able to support both yourself and your future wife through the profits of your profession. He also expects your stipend to be paid back in total by the time you are thirty-five. There is a biography due to be published, is there not?”

“There is, but—”

“There are no buts, Master Hammer, not this time. Your father’s decision is final,” the lawyer concluded, and then, after reading the young man’s expression, placed a clammy hand on his arm. He was not a cruel man and, having known the writer since he was a child, was rather fonder of D’Arcy than the writer was of him. “I am sorry, Master Hammer.”

Overwhelmed by this latest turn of events, D’Arcy sat down abruptly. Then, in a feeble attempt to conceal his reaction, he covered his brow with his hand. It felt as if the whole world was conspiring to cause his downfall. How could he possibly afford to marry Clementine now, never mind keep her as a wife, without his father’s financial support? And how could he possibly rely on his biography being a success now that his rival planned to publish the same biography? And as for the stipend to be repaid within three years—the only way he could imagine that to be possible would be to sell his very soul, an option that would not, in any case, bring him any great fortune, as he suspected he might have sold it already, thanks to his extracurricular activities with Prudence O’Malley. Life looked very bleak indeed. “I do not blame my father, Stanley; he has been generous to have supported me thus far.” D’Arcy’s voice was small, broken, as he now wallowed in self-pity.

“Indeed,” the lawyer added, then subtly placed a banknote on a side table. “This should see you through until then, D’Arcy.” And then, to avoid further humiliation for our now penniless author, he left, closing the door silently behind him.

• • •

Later that afternoon D’Arcy, still dazed by the reversal of fortune that had left him unable to recognize the confident writer of some twenty-four hours earlier, sat at his desk staring blankly out the window in a manner young writers are so often apt to do. Outside the storm had cleared and late afternoon sunshine now streamed across the town square, transforming the tall, leaf-covered chestnut tree branches into luminous green giants, comforting in their optimistic beauty.

“I am defeated,” he said out loud, glancing across at his manuscript, untouched since the previous morning. “I cannot even muster the enthusiasm to finish. I have been pipped at the post even before publication.” He finished his address to the bust of Joseph Banks; it sounded depressingly like an apology. His gloomy reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door, which he had intended to ignore, except that it occurred twice and then thrice. “Come in!” he yelled, a little more bad-tempered than he intended. A chimney sweep bearing brushes entered. He tipped his cap politely.

“Sorry, Gov, the housekeeper told me you wouldn’t be in. Should I leave, sir? Seeing you’re working and all . . .”

“No, please continue with your task. The chimney does need cleaning. . . .” Despite his anxiety D’Arcy welcomed the distraction. The sweep, a handsome lad of about twenty, appeared to be somewhat of a dandy within the confines of his uniform. His cap was set at a rakish angle, there was a yellow carnation in the buttonhole of his worn overalls, and his mustache was groomed. There was an intelligence in his gaze and he seemed blessed with that particular optimism found in the working classes, D’Arcy noted, envying the simplicity of both the man’s life and profession. After all, in that moment, cleaning chimneys appeared an honest day’s work from D’Arcy’s jaded perspective. Whistling, the sweep began to unpack his brushes. “You a writer then, sir?” he asked after glancing at the pile of papers.

“A biographer. I write about other people’s lives.”

“Sounds like a pretty living.”

“It is precarious like all others.”

“You’re not wrong there, sir. Course it must help arriving at a life worth telling—wouldn’t be much in me own, that’s for sure. I’d be quite boring to read. Although what I’ve seen of others—now that would be worth telling.” The sweep laughed, a salacious chuckle that made D’Arcy a little uncomfortable, as if he too had unwittingly partaken in the workman’s voyeurism.

“I only write about great men, men that have inspired and made a contribution to our great nation,” D’Arcy replied haughtily, then immediately regretted the sound of his own pompous voice. “Like Joseph Banks,” he continued, “the subject of my current work—although I am somewhat stultified having arrived at an impasse.” To his surprise the sweep immediately stopped unpacking his brushes and stood amazed.

“Joseph Banks—Sir Joseph Banks?” he asked, astonished.