It rained. The sky did not seem at all surprised. They passed a barracks where soldiers in red uniforms were guarding a shipment of corn. They were allowed to feed and water the two horses. An old man stood on the road near Youghal throwing stones at a dark-winged rook in a tree.
There was nothing they could do about the hunger, said Webb. There was only so much a man could achieve: they could not give health to the fields. Such a thing happened often in Ireland. It was a law of the land, unwritten, inevitable, awful.
THEY ARRIVED ALONG the quays of Cork in the autumn chill. The evening was clear. There was no breeze. A great damp stillness. The cobbles shone black.
They pulled the carriage in to 9 Brown Street where the Jennings family lived. A beautiful stone house with rose gardens along the tight walkway.
Douglass swung open the door of the carriage. He was exhausted. He moved as if some axle inside him were broken. All he wanted to do was go to bed. He could not sleep.
Negro girl. Ran away. Goes by name Artela. Has small scar over her eye. A good many teeth missing. The letter A is branded on her cheek and forehead. Some scars on back, two missing toes.
For sale. Able colored man, Joseph. Can turn himself to carpentry. Also for sale: kitchen appliances, theological library.
Available immediately: Seven Negro children. Orphans. Good manners. Well presented. Excellent teeth.
HE CAME DOWN the staircase, carrying a lit candle on a patterned saucer. The stub of candle threw his shadow askew. He saw himself in several forms: tall, short, long, looming. He slid lightly on the stairs. In the arc of stained glass above the front doorway he could see the stars.
He contemplated walking outside a moment, but he was still in his nightclothes. He continued barefoot instead along the wood-paneled corridor and entered the library. The room was all books. Long stretches of argumentative intent. He ran his hands along them. Beautiful leather covers. Rows of green, red, brown. Gold and silver imprinted along their hard spines. He held the candle aloft, turned slowly, watched the way the light flickered from shelf to shelf. Moore, Swift, Spenser. He set the candle on a circular table, moved to the ladder. Sheridan, Byron, Fielding. The wood was cold against the sole of his foot. The ladder was set on wheels and attached to a brass rail. He climbed to the second rung. He found that if he reached for the shelf with his hand he could propel himself along. He pushed himself slowly at first, back and forth. A little quicker, more recklessly, and then he let go.
He would have to be quiet. Soon the house would begin to stir.
Douglass pushed again, off the shelf, along the row of books. Climbed another rung. Higher now. There was a whiff of tallow in the room. The candle had extinguished itself. His mind swung to his young children. They would allow this, he thought. They would not judge it, their very serious father guiding himself on the ladder past the window, the sun coming up over the quays of Cork, the stars almost gone now, dawn a gap in the curtains. He tried to imagine them here, in this house of high bookshelves.
He dropped from the ladder, retrieved the stub of candle, made himself ready to tread the stairs when the door creaked open.
— Mr. Douglass.
It was Isabel, one of the daughters of the house, in her early twenties. She wore a plain white dress, her hair pinned high.
— Good morning.
— A fine morning, yes, she said.
— I was just looking at the books.
She flicked a quick look at the library ladder as if she already knew.
— Can I get you breakfast, Mr. Douglass?
— Thank you, he said, but I think I’ll return to sleep now. The journey from Dublin got the best of me, I’m afraid.
— As you will, Mr. Douglass. You do know there are no servants in this house?
— Excuse me?
— We fend for ourselves, she said.
— I’m happy to hear that.
He could already tell these friends of Webb were unusual. Owners of a vinegar factory. Church of Ireland. They did not display their wealth. The house had a humility to it. Open to all visitors. The ceilings were low everywhere but the library, as if to force a man to bend down everywhere except near books.
Isabel glanced towards the window. The sun was making itself apparent above the small line of trees at the end of the garden.
— So how do you find our country, Mr. Douglass?
Douglass was surprised at the forthrightness of her question. He wondered if she was interested in the courage of honesty — that the countryside had shocked him, that he had seldom seen such poverty, even in the American South, that he found it hard, even now, to understand.
— It’s an honor to be here, he said.
— An honor for us to receive you. And your journey was pleasant?
— We traveled the back roads. There was much to see. Some beautiful places.
In the silence she drifted towards the window. She looked out to the garden where the light continued to climb, agile against the trees. He could tell there was something more she wanted to say. She fingered the edge of the curtain, wrapped one of the threads around her finger.
— There is a hunger afoot, she said finally.
— Certain parts of the journey were bleak, I must admit.
— There is talk of a famine.
He looked at Isabel again. She was thin and ordinary, certainly not pretty. Her eyes were a sharp green, her profile plain, her bearing natural. No jewelry. No fuss. Her accent was genteel. She was not the sort of woman likely to open the windows of a man’s heart, yet there was something about her that daubed the air between them bright.
He told her of the dead child he had seen on the road. He noticed the words move into her face, inhabit her: the road, the raft of twigs, the dropped coin, the roof of trees, the way the light had fallen around them as they drove away. The story weighed her down. She wrapped the fringed thread so tight that the top of her finger was swollen.
— I will send someone out to see if they can find her. On the road.
— That would be kind of you, Miss Jennings.
— Perhaps they will help her bury the child.
— Yes.
— In the meantime, you should rest, Mr. Douglass, she said.
— Thank you.
— And later you must permit my sisters and me to show you around. There is much in Cork to be proud of. You’ll see.
He could hear the rest of the house stirring, the floorboards above them creaking. He bowed slightly, excused himself, went into the hallway. He was tired, but there was work to do: letters, articles, another attempt at a preface. His book was going into a second printing. It was an exercise in balance. He would need to find the correct tension. A funambulist. He would not pander any longer. He trod the stairs, entered his room, unfolded his pages to edit them. Took out the barbells. Rested his head against the side of the writing desk. Lifted the barbells. Began, all at once, to lift and read, lift and read.
Within moments he heard a clicking of hooves outside the window. Isabel was riding out the gravel road. From his high window he watched her go until her coat of royal blue became a speck.
THE CARPETS WERE lush. His pillows freshly laundered. His hosts had cut new flowers and put them in the window where they nodded in the breeze. A Bible had been placed on the bedside table. The Crace and Beunfeld Bird and Wildlife Guide. Charlotte, A Tale of Truth. The Vicar of Wakefield. The Whole Booke of Psalmes, with the Hymnes Evangellical, and Songs Spirituall. At the roll-top writing desk, he found an inkwell, blotting paper, blank journals.