De Laurency scowled and made a small noise expressive of impatience.
Sir James frowned and said, “Young man, as a scientist, you must learn to be comfortable with a degree of ambiguity. As a system of epistemology, science relies on theories tested and not yet disproven; but even the solidest theory is grounded on quicksand by comparison to the only two things that we can truly know, in the strong philosophical sense of ‘to know.’”
“And those are?”
“I know that I exist, because I experience my existence,” replied Sir James. “And I know that the Creator exists, through faith. And some would argue with the latter as an adequate proof.”
“Is there no hope for her?” I said.
Sir James turned to me. “Oh certainly,” he said. “There is always hope. Perhaps her true love will find her. And perhaps as the state of magical knowledge advances, some future wizard, cleverer than I, will untangle the Gordian knot of her spell and release her from slumber.”
For some days I left poor Meg sitting in my guest armchair, her head cushioned by a pillow, as I pondered what to do with her. De Laurency was right; she was a free woman, and any experimentation more intrusive than Sir James’s gentle exploration was inappropriate. Yet she seemed to need our care not at all; she required no greater sustenance, it seemed, than the very air.
One snowy December afternoon I returned from high table in the company of von Stroheim, with too much capon and a bit of port under my belt. Somewhat to my surprise, we discovered a small, elderly, dark-complexioned gentleman sitting at my desk chair, gloved hands on walking stick, gazing at her visage. He was outlandishly garbed: green velvet pants, paisley vest, silver-buckled shoon. He wore rings on both ring fingers, over the outside of his moleskin gloves.
“Good afternoon, my Lord Beaconsfield,” I said, von Stroheim glancing at me in startlement; he had not recognized Disraeli, but I had, of course. I am, to be sure, a lifelong Tory. “To what do I owe the honor?”
He glanced up at me. “Dr. Borthwick, I presume? And can this be Professor von Stroheim? Please forgive an old man’s intrusion. I read of your young charge and had wished to see her. I trust I may be forgiven.”
“I believe England may forgive you anything, sir,” I said. Von Stroheim grinned a sardonic grin at me from behind Beaconsfield’s back; he has often accused me of shameless flattery.
Disraeli chuckled. “Well, it seems the public loves me now that I am retired,” he said, “but it has not always been so. Nonetheless, I take the compliment in the spirit in which it is offered. Is this fairy tale true?”
“Wholly bosh,” said von Stroheim. “The maunderings of old wives and the wistful fancies of middle-aged men.”
“My conjecture has not been falsified, Helmut,” I said. “You must forgive us, my lord; the disagreements of scientists must sometimes seem like the quarrels of old couples.”
“I rather hope the story is true,” said the Earl of Beaconsfield. “I came … well, it’s a peculiar thing. I’m working on a novel, you know; I haven’t had time for fifteen years, but now I do. And, as in all novels — well, most — love plays a role. But the devil of it is that I know so little of love; I came to it so late, and in so untidy a fashion. I had thought somehow I might gain an insight from the young lady’s plight.”
“That is the problem with novels,” von Stroheim said. “They revel in pretty lies.”
“Late and untidy, my lord?” I said.
“As a young man,” said Beaconsfield, “I was too enraptured with my own prospects to pay much heed to ‘pretty lies,’ if it please you, Professor. ‘Woman was to him but a toy, man but a machine,’ if I may quote my own oeuvre. I married not for love, but for money; Mrs. Lewis was fifteen years my senior, rich and well-connected, when I asked her hand. I did so neither from passion nor affection, but out of cold political calculation, for my modest inheritance had been squandered, my novels did not suffice to keep me in the style to which I had become accustomed, and I desperately needed funds to continue my political career.”
“You, my lord? Act from cold, political calculation?” said von Stroheim — a trifle sardonically.
The Earl chuckled. “It is so. Yet I came to love her; she soon let me gently know that she understood my motivations, but loved me nonetheless. And as time passed, a true affection ripened between us. The proudest and happiest day of my life was not when the Queen granted me the title of Beaconsfield, nor when I acquired the Khedive’s shares in the Suez Canal, nor yet when I browbeat old Derby into sponsoring the Reform Act; it was in sixty-four, when I obtained for my darling the title of Viscountess.”
“Some men give jewelry,” von Stroheim said.
Disraeli laughed out loud. “A Prime Minister can do better than that,” he said. He sobered, and reached out a gloved hand to trace the line of her jaw. “I found love so unexpectedly; surely this poor creature is as deserving as I?”
“Ach, it is incredible,” said von Stroheim. “Eleven centuries! The world is full of idiots. Surely one falls in love with her. Has de Laurency kissed her yet?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” I said.
“Is it that easy?” Beaconsfield said. “True love, as the story goes?”
“True love,” said von Stroheim incredulously. “Vas ist?”
“Yet it exists,” said I.
Von Stroheim looked me up and down. “Well,” he said at length, “you and Janet almost make me believe it is so.”
“You too, my lord,” I said, “came to love only after acquaintance.”
Disraeli shrugged.
“Is there no hope for her, then?” I asked.
The Earl stood up abruptly. “Perhaps none,” he said. “Some stories are tragedies, you know. A fact that presses against me, as the end of my own tale draws near.”
He died last year, did you know? But he left us one last novel.
Was it that very night? I think not; the next, perhaps. Certainly within a few days.
I was working late by gaslight; after putting the children to bed, I had found myself wakeful and, begging Janet’s pardon, had returned to Balliol to continue my fruitless attempt to decipher the Linear B. I found the shutter to my office window unlatched; sleet and cold wind dashed through it. Cursing, I latched it shut and, fingers shaking with the cold, lit a fire in the grate.
As I crouched before the fender, hands held out to the burgeoning flame, I heard a tenor keening; the drone of words, as faint as an insect buzz. I cocked my head, wondering what on earth this could be, then realized the sound came from up the flue.
I went to the window, threw open the shutters, and peered up at the roof.
My office is on the top floor of the hall; its window is a dormer. About it, and upward, slope slate shingles, slick that night with the freezing rain. And there, atop the curved Spanish tiles that run the length of the roof’s peak, clutching the chimney, stood de Laurency, sleet pelting his woolen greatcoat, a scarf about his neck, his lanky hair plastered against his skull.
Into the sleet he said, in a curiously conversational tone of voice: