The Gentleman: A Novel - Couverture rigide

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright  © 2016 Forrest Leo

One

In Which I Find Myself

Destitute & Rectify Matters in a Drastic Way.

 

 

My name is Lionel Savage, I am twenty-two years old, I am a poet, and I do not love my wife. I loved her once, not without cause—but I do not any-

more. She is a vapid, timid, querulous creature, and I find after six months of married life that my position has become quite intolerable and I am resolved upon killing myself.

Here is how my plight came about.

Once upon a time about a year ago, I was very young and foolish, and Simmons informed me we hadn’t any money left. (Simmons is our butler.)

‘Simmons,’ I had said, ‘I would like to buy a boat so that I can sail the seven seas.’

I hadn’t, I suppose, any real notion of actually sailing the seven seas—I am not an adventurous soul, and would relinquish my comfortable seat by the fire only with reluctance. But seemed a romantic thing to own a boat in which one could sail the seven seas, should one suddenly discover he had a mind to.

But Simmons (whose hair is grey like a thunderhead) said with some remonstrance, ‘I’m afraid you cannot afford a boat, sir.’

‘I can’t afford it? Nonsense, Sim- mons, a boat cannot cost much.’

‘Even if it cost next to nothing, sir, u still could not afford it.’

My heart sank. ‘Do you mean to tell me, Simmons, that we haven’t any money left?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Where on earth has it gone?’

‘I don’t mean to be critical, sir, but you tend toward profli- gacy.’

‘Nonsense, Simmons. I don’t buy anything except books. You cannot possibly tell me I’ve squandered my fortune upon books.’

‘Squander is not the word I would have used, sir. But it was the books that did it, I believe.’

Well, there it was. We were paupers. Such is the fate of the upper classes in this modern world. I didn’t know what to do, and I dreaded telling Lizzie—she was in boarding school at the time, but even from a distance she can be quite fearsome. (Lizzie is my sister. She is sixteen.) Despite the popularity of my poetry, I was not making enough money at it to maintain our household at Pocklington Place. Another source of income was necessary.

I set out to find one. Being a gentleman,* the trades were quite out of the question. Commerce is not a gentlemanly pursuit and sounds wretched besides. I considered physic or law, but lawyers turn my stomach and physicians are scoun- drels all. I decided it must be marriage.

Finding a suitable family to marry oneself off to might sound a bore, but turned out to be rather a lark. I sought out only families of enormous means, without bothering myself too much about social position. As such, I had a few truly un- pleasant experiences—but no dull ones.

The Babingtons were every bit as eccentric as one reads in the papers and proved entirely unsuitable. (Not that I object to eccentricity; but it is not a quality one searches for in a wife.) Sir Francis Babington and I are old friends, he having once savaged† a collection of my poetry.

‘Frank,’ I said one evening, having contrived to run into him while taking a turn about the Park,‡ ‘I suppose it’s about time I came over for dinner.’ (I abhor taking turns about the Park. I only do so when I have ulterior motives.)

‘Looking for a wife, Savage?’ said he.

*It is for the attentive reader to decide for himself whether Mr Savage is deserving of that epithet.—HL.

†I believe this is meant to be an unfortunate play upon my cousin’s name. It is a literary offence typical of him.—HL.

‡My cousin refers naturally to Hyde Park. This (in case the reader has the misfortune to be on the Continent or in the Colonies) is the London park which people of fashion and breeding frequent.—HL. 1S

‘Certainly not,’ I replied coldly. I was thrown off. I had not thought myself so transparent. I groped for a new subject but was not quick enough.

‘Never fear, lad, you’ll find no judgment here.’ He was laughing. Sir Francis is a ruddy and a rotund man, and his laugh is well matched to his person. ‘Been looking to unload Agnes for a while now, as a matter of fact. Helen and I ain’t particular as far as who to, and you’ll do just fine. Why don’t you come round Tuesday evening?’

This sort of impropriety I would ordinarily celebrate, but not when auditioning fathers-in-law. I declined.

The Pembrokes I enjoyed greatly, but the prospect of a half-dozen sisters-in-law was untenable. (One sister is quite enough.) I made it as far as a dinner, which was proceeding reasonably well, when the littlest one (Mary? Martha?) de- cided to be Mr Hyde. She jumped up on the table, thumped her chest with her tiny fists, and heaved a roasted pheasant at my head. That was that.

The Hammersmiths could have been the ticket, but their daughter was, I believe, replaced at infancy with a horse.

I could carry on and mention the Wellingtons, Blooms, and Chapmans—but my native discretion forbids it. Suffice it to say that the field was quickly emptied of players, and my op- tions began to run low.

At the end of the day, in fact, the only real possibility was the Lancasters. They were rich, they were respectable and re- spected, and their daughter was beautiful. I will say that, whatever else I may lament—Vivien is very beautiful. Her hair is beaten gold, her eyes are a meteorological blue, her figure is—well, you have heard about her figure. It was her beauty I fell in love with first.

The dinner at which we met was unremarkable. It was not a private affair, but something of a party. I had contrived to pro- cure myself an invitation on the grounds of my literary fame, and it seemed most of the guests had done the same. Whitley Pendergast was there, of course, as was Mr Collier, Mr Blake- ney, Mr Morley, and Lord and Lady Whicher. (Whitley Pender- gast is my rival and sworn enemy, and a terrible poet besides. The rest are literary personages of some reputation and indiffer- ent talent. Benjamin Blakeney’s Barry the Bard I hope you have not read, and Edward Collier’s Penthesilea’s Progress I fear you have. I have forgotten what mangled offspring crawled from the pens of the others.) A few ministers of state rounded out the meal, but it would be in poor taste to mention them by name.*

I was seated between Pendergast and Vivien.

—But I have forgotten to finish setting the scene! Easton Arms, which is the Lancasters’ place in town, is a large town house in Belgravia furnished in the best and most modern taste. They are a very modern family, though very old in name. The art on the walls was unremarkable not in execu- tion but in choice. If you were to close your eyes and name the six artists respectable and cultured persons of no particu- lar taste ought to have on their walls, then you will have a very

*I, too, was present. I dine often at Easton Arms. My father being brother to Lord

Lancaster, I am Vivien’s first cousin. As Mr Savage is my cousin’s husband, he is thus by law my cousin also. It is for this reason I made bold to include an epigraph without obtaining his express permission. We harbour between us that particular and tenuous affection which marks the sobrinical bond.—HL.

good idea of what hung in Easton Arms.* I haven’t a clue as to their names, as I do not keep up with such things. But you take my meaning.

Everything seemed gilt-edged. The mirrors, the frames of the paintings, the books on the shelves (I pulled several down and found the pages to be uncut)—even the curtains were trimmed with gold lace. The situation seemed promising. I prepared to be charming.

I had a passing acquaintance with Lord Lancaster, who has a restless mind trapped by the constraints of domesticity and a portly person, but I had never met his wife. She turned out to be much as you imagine her to be from the papers, only rather shorter and even more terrible.

The gentlemen of the party were enjoying cigars before dinner. I have no fondness for cigars, but I appreciate the ritual of girding up one’s loins in the fellowship of one’s own gen- der before mingling at table. Besides, Lord Lancaster’s smok- ing room is notably fine. The walls are decorated with intriguing memorabilia sent home by his son—a dozen tribal masks from a dozen countries, bits of colourful native cos- tume, a gleaming blunderbuss—and the fireplace is large and the armchairs luxurious.

We sprawled in that peculiarly insolent way of the male gentry, smoking expensive cigars and speaking of nothing in particular.

*I beg you to note that this is equivalent to declaring popular art bad art—which would I am afraid quite condemn the poetry of Mr Savage. In addition, it should be mentioned that the collection at Easton Arms has a national reputation for excellence.—HL

Pendergast, a tragically short fellow with a peninsular nose, was attempting to be more pretentious than Collier, and was succeeding without too much effort. Every now and again he lobbed an insult my way, but I was not in the mood to test wits. I was too busy seducing Lancaster.

‘Are you a political man, Mr Savage?’

‘Not especially, my lord. I find that Politics and Art are rarely willing bedfellows; and when forced to it, Politics invari- ably takes Art’s virtue without so much as a by-your-leave.’

He chuckled at that, but I did not. To never laugh at one’s own wit is a thing I learned from Pendergast. (In a nearby armchair, Pendergast at that moment answered a question I did not hear with, ‘Certainly not—I relegate such things to Mr Savage,’ and laughed loudly.)

‘Always wished I had time for art,’ said Lancaster. ‘Bought some paints, once, but Eleanor had ’em thrown out. Said it was an accident and blamed it on a maid, but you know how those things go. Probably for the best. Vivien, though—she inclines that way, you know.’

‘Does she?’ I murmured.

‘Certainly,’ said he. ‘You and she ought to have a talk some- time. Think you’d get on famously.’

I was about to say something about how I should like that very much indeed, and to suggest future plans for such an ac- quaintance, when Lady Lancaster entered the room and curtly informed us that dinner was served and we were already late. I was nettled at the interruption. As it happened, though, I

needn’t have been—for when we took our places at the table I was upon Vivien’s right.

Of all the literati at that salon, I was perhaps the most fa- mous. It was because of this, I am certain, that I was seated next to Vivien. Lady Lancaster has a fondness for fame. She does not court it herself, but courts those touched by it. (It is this, rather than any actual interest in the arts, which causes her to hold dinners like the one I am describing.) I was also perhaps the handsomest at the table. I mention it not out of vanity—I am not a vain man—but to emphasise the impor- tance the Lancasters attach to appearances, and also in case you have never seen a likeness of me. I am neither tall nor short, and very slender. I have very pale skin, very dark hair which is unruly, and very blue eyes—not a blue like Vivien’s, but blue all the same. (The Lancaster blue is something akin to the sky at its bluest; the Savage blue is the sort of blue the sea turns when it is grey. If this does not make sense to you, you are not a poet.)*

I couldn’t have known it at the time, but it was my good fortune that Vivien was approaching twenty-one and her mother felt it was past time she was married to someone in the public eye. Marriage is important to the Lancasters. It was and is a source of most acute pain to Lady Lancaster that her son is not yet domesticated. (He is at the moment in Siberia, I believe.)

I do a tolerable job of fitting into society.† I do not flaunt

*It appears I am no poet.—HL.

†This, too, is open for debate. Mr Savage at all times displays such deep contempt

1S for society that one wonders at the grudge he nurses. Whence comes it? Is it innate or learned? Can it be cured? Such questions are beyond the scope of your humble editor.—HL.

my native eccentricity, nor do I endeavour to seem any more mad than I am. The poetry published under my name displays vision, refinement, learning, wit, and taste—but not insanity. That I reserve for those offerings I distribute by secret means, under noms de plume.* My fame, as I have said, is not insig- nificant, and it was evident that Lady Lancaster, though drag- onish in demeanour, was a dragon with a keen desire to impress. (It need not be pointed out that a mercenary dragon is far more dangerous than a work-a-day dragon.)

And so I was seated next to Vivien, and I do not believe it was an accident. Pendergast was on my right, which was a nuisance; but at the time I remember thinking it a small price to pay to sit beside one so fair.

The dining room at Easton Arms is very grand. The table is a mile or two long, and it was laid that evening with every- thing from venison to wild boar to caviar to quail eggs. There were sauces which defied description and puddings which boggled the mind. The serving trays were silver, but worked with the requisite gold filigree. I was not alone among the guests in my nervousness to take food from a platter worth more than I had ever owned. We were spared, however, the terror of actually holding one of those trays by the appear- ance of a flotilla of footmen who served us in frankly eerie silence, controlled apparently by minute signals of Lady Lan- caster’s head.

The dinner began, and though I stole many glances at my

*These names include Horatio, Britannius Grammaticus, Iucundis Eremita, and Charles Greenley.—HL.

fair neighbour, I found myself for the only time in my mem- ory unable to begin a conversation. I spent the first course searching for a subject and feeling a coward. I could not, try as I might, speak to Vivien. I once made it so far as to venture a remark upon the weather, but Pendergast swooped in and in- tercepted it.

‘I’ve been considering a poem about the rain, you know,’

he said, as though my comment had been meant for him.

‘I trust the rain is magnanimous enough to forgive what- ever offence you might give it,’ I replied.

‘You wrote a rain poem once, didn’t you, Savage?’ called

Blakeney from across the table.*

‘I can’t recall,’ said I. ‘I might have, but it’s foggy in my memory.’

‘Foggy!’ exclaimed Lady Whicher rapturously. ‘Did you hear, Henry? He said his rain poem was foggy!’

‘A sloppy pun, Savage,’ declared Pendergast.

‘I’d have made a better, but I can’t hear myself think over the noise of your cravat.’

‘This cravat,’ he replied pompously, ‘was given me by a

French countess who expressed an affinity for my verse.’

‘One hears at the club that the cravat wasn’t the only thing she gave you.’ A scandalised murmur went round the table and it seemed I had scored a hit—but Pendergast was a stauncher opponent than that.

*See epigraph. It is for elucidation of this exchange as well as for other reasons that I elected to include it.—HL.

‘No,’ he said without missing a beat, ‘she gave me also an annuity of...

"A funny and charming romp, cheerfully wearing its influences -- Wodehouse, Douglas Adams, Jack Pendarvis, Christopher Moore, and Monty Python -- like arm garters. I thoroughly enjoyed this frothy, sweet story that reaffirms the romantic notions behind love and storytelling." --Glen David Gold, author of Carter Beats the Devil

“A new favorite of mine is Forrest Leo’s debut The Gentleman, a Victorian-era adventure if Lizzie Bennet were held hostage by David Lynch and Mel Brooks. Hilarious, devious, and totally entertaining, it’s not one to miss.”— Planet Jackson Hole

“A fast-paced, comedic farce through hell...Fans of steampunk and Lemony Snicket will love this one.”—KQED.org
 
“[A] deliciously snarky story...I'm reminded of Glen David Gold’s ‘Carter Beats the Devil’ and W.E. Bowman's classic parody ‘The Ascent of Rum Doodle,’ although for my money, Leo's writing is even more hilarious.”—Alaska Dispatch News

“Farcical, tongue-in-cheek and often just plain silly, The Gentleman pays homage to late Victorian melodrama and in its tone aspires to a P.G. Wodehouse-like insouciance...[It] does provide consistent amusement for an idle evening...On several occasions, Leo — who is only in his mid-20s — nearly approaches Wodehouse in the zing of his similes.”—Washington Post

“A lighthearted comedy of errors that never takes itself too seriously, The Gentleman is a delight.”—BookRiot
 
“Wonderfully demented and comical...It’s rather as if Tom Holt and Oscar Wilde got together and decided to do up a steampunk novelty...Vain, self-centered, whiny, hyperbolic, Lionel is nonetheless a captivating raconteur, and reading this book, one falls fully under his hilarious tale-telling prowess...This novel displays a kind of timeless quality that will ensure a long life for it. It might have appeared in the pages of Punch, circa 1886. Or on an augmented-reality tablet in the year 2086. Whenever you encounter it, you will be guaranteed a robust, riotous romp.”—Locus Mag
 
“If you have a soft spot for whimsical Victorian pastiches...The Gentleman is your perfect end-of-summer read...All in all a complete pleasure.”—Vox 

“Leo has a whimsical gift...His characters are rich with personality and eccentricity...Leo brings [them] to life with charm, wit, and pomp, and he builds a fully realized — if not a little wacky — Victorian London teeming with adventure and mystery...And yet, so much of the novel’s great appeal comes from the hilariously realistic way in which it depicts the quirkiness of writers, the idiosyncratic relationships between them, and the painstaking work of their editors.”—Electric Literature
 
“This novel weaves together a brilliant sense of voice, a classic comedic touch that’s as potent as it is gentle, and a group of characters that could just as easily exist in a ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus’ sketch as they could in a P.G. Wodehouse novel. With his first book, Leo delivers us a story that’s entertaining on about a dozen different levels, and he does it with a sense of joy that imbues his often self-serious narrator with a quality that makes every page lovable...Endlessly brisk, charming, and most importantly, clever...[The] characters...seem both wholly original yet clearly carved out of the page of a thumping good potboiler. It’s a marriage of old and new that’s never tiring, and it makes for a delightful page-turner.”—BookPage

“With lively illustrations by Mahendra Singh...this debut Victorian steampunk novel is a fun romp with witty wordplay, a diverse array of quirky characters, and a surprisingly lovely ending.” —Library Journal  

“Riotous...In his debut, Leo does an inspired job of parodying the conventions of Victorian fiction. Hilarious dialogue, a Pythonesque sense of the absurd, and comical complications worthy of Thorne Smith at his ‘dev’lish’ best round out the tale.”—Publishers Weekly

"A funny and charming romp, cheerfully wearing its influences -- Wodehouse, Douglas Adams, Jack Pendarvis, Christopher Moore, and Monty Python -- like arm garters. I thoroughly enjoyed this frothy, sweet story that reaffirms the romantic notions behind love and storytelling." --Glen David Gold, author of Carter Beats the Devil
“An effervescent book with a cheerfully lunatic plot. Cavalier, funny, and totally engrossing. It’s a delicious crumpet of a novel that will leave you wondering if Forrest Leo drinks tea with the devil.”—Sara Levine, author of Treasure Island!!!
 
“Let us all bow down before the nutty and delightful romp that is The Gentleman. An assured stylist tells a hilarious story with perfect pacing and aplomb: yes, please.”—Henry Alford, author of Would It Kill You to Stop Doing That?: A Modern Guide to Manners
 
“Simultaneously very strange and very familiar, The Gentleman has all the right echoes and influences – the ‘scientific romance,’ the postmodernist novel, the comedy of manners. It’s witty and erudite, with great whiffs of Wells and Wilde and Wodehouse – all of it beautifully combined, with one of the best opening sentences I’ve read in years. Go on—open up!”—Geoff Nicholson, author of The Lost Art of Walking 
"This book has everything great: lazy aristocrats, a butler, the Devil, a slutty kid sister, duels and near duels, Arctic expeditions and Scotland Yard.  An eccentric neo-Victorian romp told with fun and energy." -Steve Hely, Thurber Award-winning author of How I Became a Famous Novelist
 
"Such little hope for poor Mr. Savage! A poet at war with the literary masters of his age finds himself unable to write a single line. In an unwitting trade with The Devil, he turns over his wife in hopes of regaining his muse...The book's pageant of arch and hilarious characters manages to rescue our defeated hero. The verdict of this thrilling, fantastic novel? True love will find you in the end." -Michael Dahlie, PEN/Hemingway Award winning author of A Gentleman’s Guide to Graceful Living and The Best of Youth
 
“Forrest Leo’s The Gentleman is a bonbon of liberated Victoriana, a Faustian tale of poetic innovation and ineptitude, and a swashbuckling quest to make a romantic hev’n of domestic hell. You’ll fall for Lionel Savage, Leo’s charmingly ignominious protagonist, and the wittily drawn friends and relations who work toward his improvement.” -Dylan Hicks, author of Amateurs and Boarded Windows