Free A Man of Genius by Janet Todd Page B

leave, the familiarity withLondon streets, the travelling alone in stages or hackney carriages, and the knowledge that the right money must be proffered to avoid being cheated.
    There were things she could not do. She couldn’t carry her heavy box when filled with books – but many a fine gentleman couldn’t do that either. She couldn’t sit alone with a tankard of beer in a tavern and become invisible. She couldn’t watch the world go by as a man could; couldn’t overhear, move, travel inconspicuously. Her skirts were always vulnerable. A man might protect her, but he couldn’t give her freedom when she left his arm. There were always limits to independence for a woman.
    â€˜He is different,’ she added.
    â€˜Well, tell me about him.’
    This was so kind, for she knew Sarah wanted to be elsewhere hearing little Charlotte tell her lessons. Yet she couldn’t respond.
    Was he handsome?
    She had no idea. Bald as a coot, someone might have remarked, and he did sometimes dart like a coot, but no coot had his brooding stillness when he chose.
    No, he couldn’t be called handsome by anyone, certainly not a maker of heroes with dark eyes, slim hips and tousled curls. Yet there was something about even that fair head, certainly about that face, that you stared at again once you caught sight of it. By now she had it firm inside her skull, burnt on to the back of her eyes: she saw it quite clearly in dark or light.
    Then there was the genius thing, the talent, call it what you will. How explain that?
    She thought to repeat a line or two of Attila : ‘A curse may weigh heavier than lead but is light as feathered quill on the sun’s . . .’ – no, it would not do. Perhaps some of the words spoken to her? But nothing emerged in a credible or creditable way. He said he couldn’t bear the tyranny of other people’s thoughts, of ready-made creeds. She luxuriated in his thoughts but couldn’t, it seemed, repeat his words and make them significant.
    Difficult even to mention his sense of the numinous. ‘Do you believe in God?’ she said at last, noticing that Sarah couldn’t bear much longer the conflicting pulls of needy cousin and importunate child.
    The tension dissolved. ‘What a thing to ask,’ laughed Sarah. ‘Of course, everyone does.’
    Then up she went to Charlotte, who was calling from the stairs while the nursemaid tried to restrain her.
    Ann waited. She really wanted to explain. It was so important that Robert see Sarah, that these two people on whom she set such store should be acquainted and impressed with each other.
    â€˜He is lots of people,’ she said lamely to Sarah when after too long she returned, surprised to see Ann still sitting where she’d left her in the drawing room. ‘He can imitate – no, he can become other people. It’s truly very funny.’
    Sarah looked doubtful. She let out a deep sigh; her lips puckered. ‘Oh, cousin Ann, do be careful. You are cleverer than me in so many ways, but you know I think of you in this sort of matter a bit – forgive me, dearest – well, a bit like a child.’ She blushed, then went on before Ann could speak. ‘Bring him here, let us meet him. Charles will like to have another man at table. They can talk of manly things. I make a good venison pie. You know that.’
    Yes, as any reader of a life could tell, it was a foolish idea. She’d known how sullen he became in commonplace company. He couldn’t possibly have appreciated how much this ordinary couple in ordinary Phoenix Street meant to her. Why in the world had she risked putting the author of Attila on show?
    All were dispirited. She threw out subjects, urged Charles and Robert to speak by imploring looks. But it was no good. Robert, so lively with her and in the tavern, was morose and uncommunicative. His mood spread over the table and dulled the blue-and-white china and