The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(36)
“Exactly eight years ago, as a young man having recently arrived in London and ready to conquer the world, Wells published a serial novel entitled The Chronic Argonauts. The main character was a scientist called Moses Nebogipfel, who traveled back in time to commit a murder. Perhaps Wells considered he had over-stepped himself, and when he recycled the idea for his novel, he eliminated the journeys into the past, perhaps so as not to give his readers ideas. In any case, he decided to concentrate solely on traveling into the future. He made his protagonist a far more upright character than Nebogipfel, as you know, and never actually mentions his name in the novel. Perhaps Wells could not resist this gesture.” Andrew and Charles stared at one another, then at Murray, who was scribbling something in a notebook.
“Here is Wells’s address,” he said, holding out a scrap of paper to Andrew. “You have nothing to lose by seeing whether my suspicions are well founded or not.”
10
Drifting through the scent of Roses suffusing the lobby, the cousins left the offices of Murray’s Time Travel. Once in the street, they hailed the first hansom cab they saw and gave the driver the address in Woking, Surrey, where the author H. G. Wells lived. The meeting with Gilliam Murray had plunged Andrew into a profound silence where God only knew what dark thoughts he was grappling with. But the journey would take at least three hours, and therefore Charles was in no hurry to draw his cousin into conversation. He preferred to leave him to gather his thoughts. They had experienced enough excitement for one day, and there was still more to come. In any case, he had learned to sit back and enjoy these frequent and unexpected bouts of silence that punctuated his relationship with Andrew, and so he closed his eyes and let himself be rocked by the swaying motion of the cab as it sped out of the city.
Although they were not troubled by the silence, I imagine that you, who are in a sense sharing their journey, might find it a little tiresome. Therefore, rather than lecture you on the nature and quality of this inviolate calm, scarcely broken by the cab’s creaks and groans, or describe to you the view of the horses” hindquarters upon which Andrew’s gaze was firmly fixed, and, since I am unable even to relate in any exciting way what was going on in Andrew’s head (where the prospect of saving Marie Kelly was slowly fading because, although a method of traveling through time had apparently been discovered, it was still impossible to do so with any accuracy), I propose to make use of this lull in proceedings to tell you about something still pending in this story. I alone can narrate this, as it is an episode about which the cab’s occupants are completely unaware. I am referring to the spectacular ascent up the social ladder of their respective fathers, William Harrington and Sydney. This was presided over by William Harrington with his typical mixture of good fortune and rough-and-ready abilities, and although both men resolved to keep it secret, they cannot do so from me, as I see everything whether I wish to or not.
I could give you my honest opinion of William Harrington, but what I think is of no consequence. Let us rather stick with Andrew’s own idea of his father, which is not far from the truth.
Andrew saw his father as a warrior of commerce, capable, as you will discover, of the most heroic exploits in the field of business.
However, when it came to everyday hand-to-hand combat, where the struggles that really make us human take place, allowing us to show our kindness or generosity, he was apparently incapable of anything but the meanest acts, as you have already seen. William Harrington was the class of person who possesses a self-assurance that is both their strength and their downfall, a cast-iron confidence that can easily turn into excessive, blind arrogance.
In the end, he was like someone who stands on his head and then complains the world is upside down, or if you prefer, like someone who believes God created the earth for him to walk upon, with which I think I have said enough.
William Harrington returned from the Crimea to a world dominated by machines. But he realized straightaway that all this machinery would not supersede the old way of doing things, since even the glass in Crystal Palace, that transparent whale marooned with its insides full of mechanical devices in Hyde Park, had been made by hand. That was evidently not the way to grow rich, a goal he had set himself, with the typical insouciance of a twenty-year-old, as he lay in bed at night with his new wife, the rather timid daughter of a match manufacturer for whom he had begun working. The thought of being trapped in a dreary life already mapped out for him kept him awake, and he wondered whether he ought not to rebel against such a common fate. Why had his mother gone to the trouble of bringing him into the world if the most exciting moment in his life was having been made lame by a bayonet? Was he doomed to be just another anonymous cipher, or would he pass into the annals of history? His lamentable performance in the Crimea would appear to suggest the former, and yet William Harrington had too voracious a nature to be content with that. “As far as I can tell, I only have one life”, he said to himself, “and what I don’t achieve in this one I won’t achieve in the next.” The very next day he called his brother-in-law Sydney, a bright, capable young man who was virtually wasting his life as an accountant in the small family firm, and assured him that he too was destined for greater things. However, in order to achieve the rapid social ascent William envisaged, they must forget the match business and start up their own enterprise, easily done if they made use of the savings Sydney happened to have. During the course of a long drinking session, William convinced his brother-in-law to let him play with his money, declaring that a small amount of entrepreneurial risk would inject some excitement into his dull life. They had little to lose and much to gain. It was essential they find a business that would bring in large, quick profits, he concluded. To his amazement, Sydney agreed, and soon put his imaginative mind to work. He showed up at their next meeting with the plans to what he was convinced would be a revolutionary invention. The Bachelor’s Helpmate, as he had called it, consisted of a chair designed for lovers of erotic literature, and was equipped with a lectern that automatically turned the pages, allowing the reader to keep both hands free. William could see from Sydney’s detailed drawings that the device came with accessories, such as a small washbasin, and even a sponge, designed so that the client did not have to interrupt his reading to get up from the chair. Sydney was convinced his product would make their fortune, but William was not so sure: his brother-in-law had clearly confused his own necessities with those of others.