Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

The boys were all crowded around Elton Pendennis like leaves around a bloom. Up close, the reports of his good looks seemed not to be exaggerated one bit. He was one of the handsomest men Robin had ever encountered, a Byronic hero incarnate. His hooded eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes; his plump lips would have looked girlish, as Letty had accused, if they weren’t set off by such a strong, square jaw.

‘It’s not the company, it’s the ennui,’ he was saying. ‘London’s fun for a season, but then you start seeing all the same faces again year after year, and the girls don’t ever get any prettier, just older. Once you’ve been to one ball you might have been to them all. You know, one of my father’s friends once promised his closest acquaintances that he could liven up their gatherings. He prepared an elaborate dinner party, then told his servants to go out and extend an invitation to all the beggars and homeless sops they came across. When his friends arrived, they saw those motley stragglers, punch-drunk and dancing on tables – it was hilarious, I wish I’d been invited myself.’

The joke ended here; the audience laughed on cue. Pendennis, his monologue complete, looked up. ‘Oh, hello. Robin Swift, isn’t it?’

By now Robin’s tentative optimism that this would be a good time had evaporated. He felt drained. ‘That’s me.’

‘Elton Pendennis,’ said Pendennis, extending a hand for Robin to shake. ‘We’re very happy you could make it.’

He pointed around the room with his cigar, wafting smoke about as he made introductions. ‘That’s Vincy Woolcombe.’ A red-headed boy sitting next to Pendennis gave Robin a friendly wave. ‘Milton St Cloud, who’s been providing our musical entertainment.’ The tow-haired, freckled St Cloud, who’d taken his seat in front of the piano, nodded lazily, then resumed plunking out a tuneless sequence. ‘And Colin Thornhill – you know him.’

‘We’re neighbours on Magpie Lane,’ Colin said eagerly. ‘Robin’s in room seven, and I’m number three—’

‘So you’ve said,’ Pendennis said. ‘Many times, in fact.’

Colin faltered. Robin wished Ramy were there to see; he’d never met someone capable of eviscerating Colin with a single glance.

‘Thirsty?’ Pendennis asked. Assembled on the table was such a rich collection of liquor it made Robin dizzy to look at it. ‘Help yourself to anything you want. We can never agree on the same drink. Port and sherry’s being decanted over there – oh, I see you’ve brought something, just put it on the table.’ Pendennis did not even look at the bottle. ‘Here’s absinthe, there’s the rum – oh, there’s only a bit of gin left, but feel free to finish the bottle, it isn’t very good. And we’ve ordered a dessert from Sadler’s, so please help yourself, otherwise it’ll go bad sitting out like that.’

‘Just some wine,’ Robin said. ‘If you have it.’

His cohort rarely drank together, out of deference to Ramy, and he had yet to acquire the detailed knowledge of types and makes of alcohol and what one’s choice of drink said about one’s character. But Professor Lovell always drank wine at dinner, so wine seemed safe.

‘Of course. There’s a claret, or port and Madeira if you want something stronger. Cigar?’

‘Oh – no, that’s all right, but Madeira’s good, thanks.’ Robin retreated to the one open seat, bearing a very full glass.

‘So you’re a Babbler,’ said Pendennis, leaning back against the chair.

Robin sipped his wine, trying to match Pendennis’s listless affect. How did one make such a relaxed position look so elegant? ‘That’s what they call us.’

‘What’s it you do? Chinese?’

‘Mandarin’s my speciality,’ said Robin. ‘Though I’m also studying comparisons to Japanese and, eventually, Sanskrit—’

‘So you are a Chinaman, then?’ Pendennis pressed. ‘We weren’t sure – I think you look English, but Colin swore you were an Oriental.’

‘I was born in Canton,’ Robin said patiently. ‘Though I’d say I’m English as well—’

‘I know China,’ Woolcombe interjected. ‘Kubla Khan.’

There was a short pause.

‘Yes,’ Robin said, wondering if that utterance was supposed to mean anything.

‘The Coleridge poem,’ Woolcombe clarified. ‘A very Oriental work of literature. Yet somehow, very Romantic as well.’

‘How interesting,’ Robin said, trying his best to be polite. ‘I’ll have to read it.’

Silence descended again. Robin felt some pressure to sustain the conversation, so he tried turning the question around. ‘So what – I mean, what are you all going to do? With your degrees, I mean.’

They laughed. Pendennis rested his chin on his hand. ‘Do,’ he drawled, ‘is such a proletarian word. I prefer the life of the mind.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Woolcombe. ‘He’s going to live off his estate and subject all his guests to grand philosophical observations until he dies. I’ll be a clergyman, Colin a solicitor. Milton’s going to be a doctor, if he can find it in him to go to lectures.’

‘So you’re not training for any profession here?’ Robin asked Pendennis.