Ingenious pain by Andrew Miller (books for men to read .txt) 📕

answrs that he had been once. That G had been hard on him but that he in turn had been hard on G and that he was sometimes sorry for it. He seemd affected by the memory of smthng. I had a very lewd dream by virtue of all the fruit of Bacchus I had drnk. I shall not write whm it concerned. I am ashamed of it and yt it was v sweet. When I came down in the mrningfor breakfast I saw M on a bench with a grt fierce hound that had alarmed us the evning before. It was slmbring Ike a puppy at her feet. My head very thumpy tdy. Am temptd to ask M to rub it. It would not look right hwvr. Below is a picture of a sleeping Mr F who is sat oppste me wheezing Ike a bllws.

Nov 27. Tnght we arrive at our destination — if the hrses and the rnrs and rds hold good. Thnks be to God, and to his servant M. About. I have not spoken with him but suspect he is a deist or an agnostic or some such. No matter. He is my friend. Wthout this jrny I might have languished mnths or yrs. When man is at his wit's end he must hve some actvty. I have been foolish and yt I embrace myself and take comfort from knowing I shall be a better shphrd for this falling off. I long to see Diddy. Cow too and Lady H and my grdn which evn in Wntr is a comfort. The Fs I shall alwys remember with fondness thgh

we shll not meet in England, I am sure of it. D likewise I shall not see again after St Ps. M likewise not. I trst she shall be left in peace. She is a type that will alwys arouse the prejudice of the ignrnt. This is a picture of her teeth. I passed a vast stool this mrning of gd colour which gave me satisfaction. I have almost begun to think that D may be a Ittle mad. I pray it is not so. It may only be the bgnning of some physcl disease - evn of love! There is nthng to be feared like madness. How mny have felt the shdw of its sable wngs. Sure, to be mad is to be damned this side of the grve.

They enter the city by night. Braziers burn in the streets and the drovsky drivers beat their arms for warmth, watching with eyes ignited by the flames as Monsieur About enquires after the residence of the British Envoy. Fingers point; the drivers speak a language Hke the grating of pebbles. Mami Sylvie trundles through the city; lights show on the Neva, on its back of ice, and in the tall double windows of several of the finer houses they see the shadows of dancers. Everywhere, it seems, there are palaces, pavilions, golden-spired churches; and between them, behind them, the wooden slums, the wastelands. The air smells of the marshes, the river, winter.

At the envoy's residence a party is in progress; parties are in progress all over the city. The Reverend, descending stiffly from the coach, says: 'One could stand in the street and hear nothing but the popping of champagne corks!'

Servants admit them into the hall and they stand beneath a portrait of King George III, breathing on to their finger tips, dabbing at the water from their noses. The envoy appears at the

top of the stairs. He is chewing something. His napkin is tucked in at his neck.

'How may I assist you?'

They wait for Dyer to answer, to introduce himself. When he says nothing, the Reverend points him out. 'This is Dr Dyer, sir. Come from England.'

'Dyer? A physician?'

About says: 'He has come to inoculate the Empress.'

'Has he so? Yes. Of course. Damn. We had better go, then. Allow me to change my coat. I have some Burgundy on this one.'

He disappears, returns ten minutes later, steps lightly down the stairs shouting for a servant. 'How was your journey? No unpleasantness, I hope. You have eaten? What is new in England? I believe I would stand the amputation of a limb to feel English rain again. I have Nikita Panin's mistress upstairs together with a pair of Cossack generals. One is required to drink them under the table, you know. I only pray they do not rape her while we are at the palace.'

Says Mrs Featherstone, flustered: 'Should we not change our clothes?'

'Lord, no. It's all quite informal these days. Not Peter the Great any more. Anyway, she Hkes foreigners. French is best but English is quite acceptable. Do you speak French, Doctor?'

Dyer shakes his head.

The envoy says: 'No matter. I shall translate for you. You don't hear Russian spoke at court at all. Not unless you're in the servants' quarters. French language, French manners, French fashion. We call it the monkey on the bear's back. What do you think of that? There's our sledge. Crowd aboard. These furs are wolfskins. What was your name again?'

'James Dyer.'

'I believe they have a place for you on Millionaya. Everyone's

being looked after handsomely. We shall pass by on our way to the palace.'

The air brings tears to their eyes. The driver shouts, cracks his whip above the ponies. The envoy is asleep. The Reverend thinks: Why did Dyer not ask if he is the first? Was he afraid to know the truth? Surely the envoy should have said. Said something.

They turn, the horses kick up snow. On their right is the freezing artery of the river; to the left it is Amsterdam, Venice, Athens. Amazing, thinks the Reverend, snug beneath his wolfskin and grinning with the strangeness of it all, amazing that the place does not sink. Yet, for all its weight, it seems the mere outline of a city, an enormous stage for some improbable piece of theatre. No business being here at all.

'Is that the palace?' cries