“Non, monsieur,” Levi said. “Not only. I will assist. I have knowledge. This Perdurabo, his nature I must better understand. I fear what he might be, so I will research, research, research!”
Burton gave a nod of gratitude.
“And you, Richard?” Monckton Milnes asked.
“I have to locate Abdu El Yezdi. I’m certain he’s an ally in all of this. The line of inquiry leads us to Wallington Hall and the poet, Swinburne.”
“That idle clock at Westminster which may well hold its hands before its face for very shame, had cost the Nation the pretty little sum of £22,057. We never knew a richer illustration of the homely truth that Time is Money.”
—PUNCH MAGAZINE ON THE CRACK IN BIG BEN, 1859
They had to wait until Monday—when they were expected at Wallington Hall—to meet Swinburne, and on that day their patience was tested further, for when they arrived they were informed that the Trevelyans and their guests were on a day trip to Tynemouth. So a steam carriage was hired, and Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Levi set off in pursuit.
They arrived at the seaside town in the middle of the afternoon, disembarked on the Grand Parade, and strolled down a sloping road to the Longsands Beach. A stiff breeze was blowing from the southwest—sultry and not at all refreshing—and the sea was agitated, bulging up and crashing noisily onto the sand.
“Strange weather,” Monckton Milnes commented. He pointed to the sky inland, where inky clouds were being ripped into ribbons, curling around themselves and looking more like a gigantic swarm of insects than vapour.
There were a few individuals on the beach, but about halfway along it, strolling slowly toward the headland that sheltered Cullercoats Village, a larger group was visible. Among them, a tiny figure with long blazing-red hair was skipping about like a child, and—as Burton and his companions hurried toward the party—it detached itself from them, divested itself of its clothes, and plunged into the sea.
“En octobre!” Levi exclaimed.
“He’ll drown for sure!” Monckton Milnes cried out.
They set off at a trot, Levi huffing and puffing, and upon drawing closer to the gathering, heard shouts and protests above the ceaseless uproar of the waters.
“Don’t be a fool, lad!”
“It’s too rough, Algy! Come back at once!”
“Swinburne, you lunatic! Give it up!”
Burton saw Dante Gabriel Rossetti. He also recognised William Bell Scott, the Scottish artist and poet who resided in London and was famous for his decorative embellishments to Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s colossal transatlantic liner, the SS Titan. A small woman in capacious skirts and with a lace bonnet, he took to be Lady Pauline, and standing beside her, hook-nosed and with a moustache that swept around his jawline into sideburns, was her husband, Sir Walter Calverley Trevelyan. Two other men were present, both of about thirty years in age, neither of whom he knew.
“Sir Walter,” he said, as he reached them, “I’m Burton.”
It was Lady Pauline who answered. “Sir Richard, how wonderful! And Mr. Monckton Milnes! Welcome! Welcome!”
“I do hope you don’t mind,” Burton said, “but we’ve brought an additional guest. This is Monsieur Eliphas Levi, an accomplished occultist and philosopher.”
“Not much the philosopher, I regret,” Levi corrected. He took Lady Pauline’s hand, bowed, kissed it, and said, “Enchanté.”
“Delighted,” she responded. “Gentlemen, if you will forgive me, I shall make introductions in a moment. As you can see, my little Carrots is up to his usual tricks.” She pointed out to sea, where the small red-headed individual was plunging through the waves. “Put him next to rough waters and he invariably jumps into them.”
“By James!” Monckton Milnes exclaimed. “But he’s a strong swimmer!”
Sir Walter added, “And a remarkably accomplished horseman, too, but in both disciplines he acts like a blithering idiot and takes damned silly risks!” He raised his voice to a shout. “Algernon! Come out of there and warm your bones with a swig of cognac!” Turning back to Monckton Milnes, he grinned and said, “That’ll get him. Always does. What!”
The swimmer turned toward the beach, stretched out, and allowed a mountainous wave to drive him to shore. Once in the shallows, he stood, gave a squeal of delight, and loped through the water and onto the sand. Lady Pauline averted her face and called, “For goodness sake, put on your clothes and don’t do that again!”
“Fear not, dear lady!” the little poet answered. “For now I have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death!”
“Yes, yes,” she responded impatiently. “Sir Richard, Monsieur Levi, Mr. Monckton Milnes, forgive me. Algernon is, as ever, a terrible distraction. Allow me to present the party. Gabriel, you surely know.”
The minister of arts and culture greeted Burton and Monckton Milnes, and to Levi said, “Rossetti, monsieur. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“William Scott,” the hostess continued, and after handshakes had been exchanged, turned to a tall, slender man with curling brown hair, a somewhat asymmetrical face, and a stiff and awkward stance. “And this is Charlie Dodgson, an up-and-coming writer.”
He smiled rather shyly and said, “I’m happy to—that is, pleased to make your—to meet you.”
“Arthur Hughes,” Lady Trevelyan went on, pulling forward a dark-complexioned individual who had very long black hair. “A talented artist and illustrator. My husband, Sir Walter. And this—” she added, as the swimmer, now fully dressed, joined them, “is Algernon Charles Swinburne, who recently toured the continent having fled Oxford University where he achieved precisely nothing, and who, apparently, is destined to be a notable poet, if he manages to stay alive long enough.”
“Pah!” Swinburne screeched in a high-pitched voice. “You exaggerate wildly! About my risk-taking, I mean; not about the notability of my poetry!”
Burton looked in amazement at the little man. In aspect, the fledgling poet was extraordinary. He was in his early twenties, but tiny and childlike—barely five feet tall—with sloping shoulders that appeared far too weak to carry his huge head, the size of which was magnified by the tousled mass of red hair standing almost at right angles to it, despite being sopping wet.
Swinburne’s bright green eyes met his, and he yelled, “By my ailing Aunt Agatha’s blue feather hat! What a grand old time you’ve had of it, Burton! The riddle of the Nile solved at last! Hurrah! Hurrah! And you, Monckton Milnes! Aren’t you the man with the absolutely whopping collection of erotica? I say, have you any of de Sade’s work? Bound in human skin, no doubt! I hear he’s de rigueur among the Whippinghams, Bendovers, and Lashworthies! I must indulge! I simply must!”
“Really, Carrots,” Lady Pauline protested. “Do control yourself.”
“Incidentally,” the poet said. “Cognac. I was promised it and I demand it.”
Sir Walter handed over a silver hip flask, which the little man put to his lips and upended.
“Ah! Much better!” He passed it back. Sir Walter looked at it, shook it, found it to be empty, gave a rueful sigh, and said, “You were only meant to take a sip. What!”
“My whistle required a wetting,” Swinburne answered, “for I intend to recite my latest while we walk to the headland and back.”
The party continued along the beach, the men holding their hats as the breeze stiffened. Swinburne skipped along, his movements jerky, his gestures excessive. “Laus Veneris!” he announced, and began:
Asleep or waking is it? for her neck,
Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck