The Calligrapher Read online

  THE

  CALLIGRAPHER

  EDWARD DOCX

  Dedication

  To Emma

  Epigraph

  ‘Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one:

  Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot

  A constant habit;’

  John Donne

  ‘I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of

  durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art.’

  Vladimir Nabokov

  ‘He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.

  “I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all –” ’

  F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Titivillus the Devil

  PART ONE

  1 Confined Love

  2 The Prohibition

  3 The Sun Rising

  4 Love’s Exchange

  PART TWO

  5 The Indifferent

  6 The Bait

  7 The Triple Fool

  8 Love’s Diet

  PART THREE

  9 The Damp

  10 Negative Love

  11 Air and Angels

  12 The Dream (‘Image of her …’)

  13 Song

  14 Love’s Alchemy

  15 The Message

  16 The Apparition

  17 The Good Morrow

  PART FOUR

  18 The Dream

  19 Love’s Growth

  20 The Legacy

  21 Song

  22 The Ecstasy

  23 The Canonization

  PART FIVE

  24 Farewell to Love

  25 The Curse

  26 Twickenham Garden

  27 The Broken Heart

  28 A Nocturnal upon St Lucy’s Day

  29 A Valediction, Forbidding Mourning

  30 Woman’s Constancy

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Titivillus the Devil

  I might as well confess up front that I am in league with the Devil. It’s not a big deal – a stint of social nihilism here, a stretch of marital sabotage there – and I’m afraid it goes with the job. Seek for long enough and you will find that most human pursuits have a patron saint; but, of all the arts in the world, only calligraphy has a patron demon. His name is Titivillus. And he is a malicious little bastard.

  Imagine a medieval monastery – somewhere in the high Pyrenees, say, with a great arched gate and tall white stone walls. In one corner of the cloistered courtyard there is a tower. Up the spiral staircase, nearer to the light and away from the damp, is usually to be found a large, round room. This is the scriptorium. And here, seated on stools, bent over their desks, arranged in a horseshoe around the senior supervisor, the armarius, are the monks.

  In their right hands they have quills, and in their left they hold their knives. They work in silence and the only sound is their breathing and the continual rasp of their nibs across vellum. Despite their elevation, the light is dim and the older brothers are squinting. But there is no question of burning a fire or even a candle because the safety of the rare and sacred manuscripts is far more important than the monks’ mere earthly comfort.

  Every so often, one of the brothers will raise his hand to signal the armarius to bring him additional quills, another pot of ink or some more skins. The knife, a treasured possession, will be used to pin down the undulating page at the point of writing as well as to sharpen the pen (hence pen-knife); but now and then, and with a bite of his lip, a monk will also have to use it to scratch out a mistake.

  These mistakes are what Titivillus lives for.

  He is a short, low-ranking demon, with a pot belly and a puckered, petulant face. Most of the day, he skulks about the corners of the scriptorium, sometimes sitting on his swag bag, other times scratching at his pointed ears or picking his nose with his stubby fingers, but he is always watching, always alert. Best of all he likes those errata that neither monks nor proof-readers notice and that survive in the new manuscript unchecked, to be reproduced by the next generation of scribes; but slips of the pen so big that the calligrapher must start the entire page again are also welcome – because these set back the Work of God.

  Every night, after it has become too dark for the monks to continue and they have left the scriptorium for vespers, Titivillus carefully collects all the mistakes into his sack and drags them down to Hell, there to present them to the Devil so that each sin can be registered in a book – against the name of the monk responsible – to be read out on Judgement Day.

  These unsatisfactory (some would say unfair) arrangements continued for more or less a thousand years – until the Renaissance flared across Europe and the calligrapher’s lot began to turn from bad to worse. By the beginning of the fourteenth century, the monks found themselves being forced to work at a furious pace, on and on into the darkness in order to meet the ferocious demand for manuscript copies from the newly founded universities. Before long, sick of the blind rush, the brothers were desperately looking for ways to evade responsibility for the burgeoning number of flaws in their work and so save their ever-more imperilled souls.

  Now Titivillus saw his chance.

  He offered the holy scribes an eternal bargain: personal absolution from their sins in return for a secret guarantee that the number of mistakes would continue to increase dramatically. As the errors were already out of control, the monks gladly agreed.

  Thus Titivillus became the patron demon of calligraphers: he kept their sins hidden and he rescued them from Hell.

  Human endeavour, however, was having one of its periodic sprints, and by 1476 William Caxton (who learnt his filthy disgusting ways in Cologne) had set up his printing press in Westminster. All too soon, it looked as though Titivillus’s deal was worthless.

  You might have thought that such a development was pretty much the end for the ugly little runt. You might have thought that one of Lucifer’s slicker lieutenants would have called Titivillus in for a personal assessment meeting and explained how, regrettably, some personnel were no longer required. But the Devil never fires his staff; he simply demotes them, drops their wages and forces them to carry on in ever-worsening conditions.

  And so believe me, the pot-bellied little son of a bitch is still alive and well in twenty-first-century London, a maestro of distraction, kicking around my attic flat, sulkily intent on fucking things up just for the hell of it, whenever opportunity presents. Unfortunately for him, I don’t take on much biblical work. But what can he do? There aren’t that many calligraphers around these days and he has to take whatever he can get. Nevertheless, an eternal pact cannot be undone: he remains the Devil’s envoy and I remain confederate. Which suits me well. For should I make the occasional mistake, should I slip a little here and there, then absolution is surely only a formality.

  Surely.

  PART ONE

  1. Confined Love

  Some man unworthy to be possessor

  Of old or new love, himself being false or weak,

  Thought his pain and shame would be lesser,

  If on womankind he might his anger wreak,

  And thence a law did grow,

  One should but one man know;

  But are other creatures so?

  Are sun, moon, or stars by law forbidden,

  To smile where they list, or lend away their light?

  Are birds divorced, or are they chidden

  If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a-night?

  Beasts do no jointures lose

  Though they new lovers choose,

  But we are made worse than those.

  W
ho e’er rigged fair ship to lie in harbours,

  And not to seek new lands, or not to deal withal?

  Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbours,

  Only to lock up, or else let them fall?

  Good is not good, unless

  A thousand it possess,

  But doth waste with greediness.

  Like so many people living through this great time in human history, I am not at all sure what is right and what is wrong. So if I appear a little slow to grasp the moral dimensions of what follows, I’m afraid I will have to ask you to bear with me. Apologies. It’s a difficult age.

  Actually, I do not believe I was behaving all that badly when these withering atrocities first began. (And if it would now be helpful for me to admit that mine was a crime of sorts, then I feel I must also be allowed to maintain that I did not deserve the punishment.) Rather, I seem to recall that I was trying to be as careful and as sensitive and as discreet as possible; it was William who was acting like a fool.

  We had finally come to a halt in the middle of ‘The Desire for Order’. Lucy and Nathalie were somewhere up ahead – progressing unabashed through the room designated ‘Modern Life’. I had been hoping to slip away without detection. But matters were not proceeding to plan. For the last two minutes, William had been following me through the gallery with the air of a pantomime detective: two steps behind, stopping only a slapstick fraction after me, and then raking his eyes accusingly up and down my person as if I were responsible for the summary immolation of an entire pension of pensioners or some such outrage.

  He spoke in a vociferous whisper: ‘Jasper, what – in the name of arse – are you doing?’

  ‘Ssshh.’ The artificial lights hummed. ‘I am attempting to enjoy my birthday.’

  ‘Well, why do you keep running away from us?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ His voice was becoming progressively louder. ‘You are deliberately refusing to enter “Modern Life” – over there.’ He pointed. ‘And you keep drifting back into “the Desire for Order” – in here.’ He pointed again, but this time at his feet and with a flourish. ‘Don’t think I haven’t been watching you.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake William, if you must know –’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘I am trying to get off this floor altogether and back upstairs into “Nude Action Body” without anybody noticing. So it would be very helpful if you would stop drawing attention to us and go and catch up with the girls. Why, exactly, are you following me?’

  ‘Because you’ve got the booze and I think you should open it. Immediately.’ He paused to draw a stiffening breath. ‘And because you always look oddly attractive when you are up to something.’

  ‘I’m not up to anything and I haven’t got the wine: I stowed it inside Lucy’s bag, which is now safely inside a cloakroom locker.’ I feigned interest in the mangled wire that we were facing.

  ‘You didn’t. My God. Well, we must mount a rescue. We must spring the noble prisoner from its vile cell straightaway! The Americans put their cream sodas in those lockers – I’ve seen them do it – and their … their bum bags. And God only knows what’s in Lucy’s bag: women’s products probably. And cheap Hungarian biros. You realize –’

  ‘Will you please keep your voice down?’ I frowned. An elderly couple wearing ‘I love Houston’ T-shirts seemed to be choking to death on the far side of the installation. ‘Anyway, Lucy uses an ink pen.’

  But William was undeterred. ‘You realize that you may have ruined that great Burgundy’s life. One of the most elegant vintages of the last millennium traumatized beyond recovery within minutes of your having taken possession. It’s barbarous. I am holding you personally resp—’

  ‘William, for fuck’s sake. If you must talk so bloody loudly, then can you at least try to sound more like a human being from the present century? And less like a fucking ponce.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Besides, you’re not allowed to wander around Tate Modern swigging booze. It’s against the rules.’

  ‘Balls. What rules? That’s a 1990 Chambertin Clos de Bèze you’ve got locked up in there like a … like a common Chianti. Bought by me – especially for you, my dear Jasper, on this, the occasion of your twenty-ninth birthday. How could they stop us drinking it? They wouldn’t dare.’

  I mimicked his ridiculous manner: ‘As well you know, my dear William, that bottle needs opening for at least two hours before we could even go near it. It’s my wine now and I forbid you to molest it before it’s had a chance to develop. Look at you, you’re slathering like a paedophile.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re being very unfair. You drag your friends out to look at all this – all this bric-à-brac and mutilated genitalia and then you deny us essential refreshment. Of course I am desperate. Of course I need a drink. This isn’t art, this is wreckage.’

  I took a few steps away from him and turned to face a large canvas covered in heavy ridges of dun brown paint. William followed and did the same, tilting his head to one side in a parody of viewers of modern art the world over.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, a little less audibly, ‘I was meaning the small bottle of speciality vodka that Nathalie bought you. I thought you might have stashed it in your coat or something. I only need a painkiller to get me through the next room.’ Mock grievance now yielded to genuine curiosity: ‘Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘That’s because you are a complete penis, William.’

  ‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave us? What’s so special about “Nude Action Body”?’ He looked sideways at me but I kept my attention on the painting. ‘Is it that girl you were staring at?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s that girl from upstairs.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘The one you were pretending not to follow before we came down here.’ He paused. ‘I knew it. I knew it.’

  ‘OK. Yes. It is.’

  He gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I thought you were supposed to be stopping all that. What was it you said?’ He composed his face as if to deliver Hamlet’s saddest soliloquy. ‘ “I can’t go on like this, Will, I am going mad. Oh Will, save me from the quagmire of womankind. No more of this relentless sex. Oh handsome Will, I have to stop. I must stop. I will be true.”’

  I ignored him. ‘William, I need you to buy me some time and stop fucking around. Lucy and Nathalie will be back in here looking for us any second. Go and distract them. Be nice. Be selfless. Help me.’

  He ignored me. ‘OK, maybe not the “handsome Will” bit – but those were more or less your words. And now look at you: you’re right back to where you were a year ago. You can’t leave your flat without trying to sleep with half of London. And never a moment’s cease to consider what the fuck you are doing or – heaven forbid – why.’

  I walked towards the exit on the far side of the room and considered a collection of icons made to evoke the Russian Orthodox style. The figures were blurred and distorted and appeared to recede into their frames, so that it was impossible to tell whether they were indeed hallowed saints or grotesque contorted animals or merely half-smudged lines signifying nothing.

  ‘Look, Will, I need fifteen minutes. Will you keep an eye on the others for me – please? Don’t let them leave this floor. If they look like they’re moving, set off the fire alarm or something. I don’t want to fuck up and have to concoct some stupid bullshit. Not tonight. It would be awful. Lucy gets so uptight. I just want everyone to have as relaxed and pleasant a dinner as possible this evening.’

  ‘The fire alarm?’

  ‘Yes, it stops the escalators working.’

  He shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry. Will. But I swear to you: that girl winked at me and she is far too pretty for me to ignore. Admit it, she is. What am I supposed to do? I can’t just let it go. Come on. Millions of men would pay to be winked at by girls like her. I have a responsibility to act. Fifte
en minutes max.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, go on then: get on with it. But if the authorities arrest me for false alarms I shall instantly confess that you made me do it. I shall explain that you are dangerously persuasive and the worst sort of unscrupulous libertine –’

  ‘I’m exceptionally scrupulous.’

  ‘And I shall tell them that you are incapable of behaving in a decent manner towards friends – or even your own girlfriend – and that you deserve to be taught a serious lesson. See you in fifteen.’

  ‘Thank you, William.’

  ‘And don’t forget to check for sisters.’

  Now, I don’t want to start blaming Cécile for the first wave of demoralizing set-backs that followed hard on the heels of this, the otherwise inauspicious evening of my twenty-ninth birthday, but as far as immediate causes of disaster go, then she has to shoulder full responsibility: J’accuse Cécile, la fille française. Had she not winked at me, I probably wouldn’t have risked it. But what could be the purpose of such fetching Mediterranean looks as hers, if not to fetch?

  All the same, the fire alarm surprised everybody.

  Chaos followed fast, rushing through ‘Nude Action Body’ like a messenger from the Front with news of approaching armies. From hidden antechambers and doors marked ‘private’ dozens of orange-clad ushers emerged and began urgently to usher; the lifts stopped; small blue lights flashed from odd places high on the walls; and (as if all this were not encouragement enough) an unnervingly measured female voice interrupted the revels every thirty seconds to spell the situation out in an exciting variety of languages. ‘This is a routine emergency. Please leave the building by the nearest fire exit and follow the advice of the officials. Thank you.’