Station 23 – Excerpt 1 – Matthew Lewis letter

The Hague, Saturday, August 30th, 1794

Dear Mother,

It is with a heavy heart and a trembling hand that I write these words to you. Do not, however, fear for my physical well-being; I feel reasonably well under the circumstances, and, believe me, I am afraid it is by no means an exotic fever that makes me write the following words.

I will try, dear mama, to commit my story to paper with as much objectivity as possible; this seems to me the best possible approach to matters for you, and certainly for myself.

Last Wednesday evening, after working at my desk for several hours, a great fatigue overtook me, caused not least by the hot and oppressive weather here. I rested my tired head for a moment on the desktop, and soon fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The window of my lodging was open, of course. (The houses in Holland are too cold in winter because of the avarice of their inhabitants, and in summer one notices that these houses were actually built for winter). The opening therefore provided access not only to insects, but also to a large rat, which had apparently jumped in via the tree in front of my shelter.

I say apparently, because truth be told, my dog’s barking was the reason for my awakening. The good beast had fallen asleep earlier, and the arrival of the rat must have woken him.

Ah, dear mother, so far you must be wondering if your son has nothing better to tell, and what makes this story so special. Surely the presence of a rat will not make your son take up his pen, to report on this at length? Is he then so bored in The Hague? I would certainly agree with you under other circumstances, but unfortunately the circumstances are such that, albeit with a heavy heart, I cannot do so.

The candles in my room had been extinguished during my sleep, and it was difficult for me to recognise my surroundings in the initial darkness. Fortunately, the moon was shining enough light from a cloudless expanse, so I managed to get my bearings relatively quickly. The dog’s barking and growling initially made me fear that a miscreant had entered my domain, but as I scanned the room with alert eyes, I saw a grey speck shoot across the floor to a corner of the room with too much speed (and too much purpose).

It was more through shock than fear that my heart pounded in my throat. I had recognised the shape almost immediately as that of a rat, and even though these are filthy beasts, not devoid of aggression, it is still better than a burglar, who thinks he can pluck a British Embassy attaché bare.

My dog wanted to attack. I managed to stop him with difficulty. I am too fond of the animal to let him succumb to all the harm a rodent in mortal danger can cause. Meanwhile, the rat sat in the corner, looking a little too calm for its disposition. I didn’t know what to do, and for a moment I toyed with the idiotic idea of alerting my landlord (who, after all, resides below me), but that good and hard-working grocer had to be back in his shop early the next day, and as a result I refrained from doing so. Now, for reasons that will become clear, I deeply regret this.

It was hard for me to control the dog, and despite my warnings, his growling and barking persisted. The beast bared its teeth and seemed almost to choke on its own anger. Its ferocity seemed to be fuelled by a greater fear than the situation warranted. As I made preparations to temporarily leave the room with the dog, in the perhaps vain hope that the rat would leave my room again in the same way as it had entered earlier, something happened, dear mother, which is still an assault on my mental constitution and my faith in reason. I therefore urge you, my dearest mother, I urge you to maintain your discretion in this matter, even though it may be difficult for you, before a reasonable explanation is found for that which I shall confess to you shortly. Again, it would be a comforting sign of maternal support and love to me, if you leave father and my beloved sisters in a delightful ignorance, even though the anecdotal value of what has been confided screams exactly the opposite.

I already mentioned that the rat was a little too calm for the situation in which it had found itself. Probably the animal interpreted my movement towards the door as the first step of an attack; all the more so because it took me the greatest effort to get the dog to go along with my intentions. The rat straightened up in the corner of the room. I was still too far from the door to step out of the room and the rat’s movement made me fear that it was an omen of a last desperate act.

I could not have drawn a more mistaken conclusion.

Mother, I beg you, please don’t laugh at me when you read the following. What binds us both is a great love for literature, both in a passive and active role. And we both know, that the latter activity demands a quality, which in other activities one can at least describe as distracting, eccentric, or downright insane. I am referring, of course, to the imagination, that vast, infinite sea in which an author immerses himself daily in order to construct his worlds. If I may put it simply: the difference between the madman and the author consists in the fact that the latter can separate what manifests itself in reality from what is produced by the imagination.

Can you imagine, dear mother, a macabre intersection between the two paths, when the rat, standing on its hind legs, did not attempt to attack, but instead addressed me? Can you imagine it, that the beast called me by name, and assured me it meant no harm? I beg you, use your imagination! It is by no means my intention to burden your mind with grotesque images, but I swear on all that is dear and sacred to me that I speak the truth, when I say that rat said to me in perfectly spoken English, ‘Mister Lewis Sir! Your design is exemplary! If you continue like this, your toil will be rewarded with great success!’

Ah, mother, how can I require you to believe these words? How can I require you, to take me seriously in any way, when I tell you that the rat then introduced himself as ‘Droot’, apologized and said he had to leave, complimented me once again on my ‘design work’ and then, walking on his hind legs, tripped to the door of my room and opened it with the help of a leap, wishing me a good evening, to hopefully disappear from my life forever?

Dear mother, I cannot do all that.

The whole story degenerates on paper into the bluster of a vulgar drunkard, even if his narration exhibits a certain structure, correct use of grammar and proper choice of words.

The words and the paper make of an unholy, or sacred event (even this is confusing for me) that touched me in the depths of my mind and soul; as if the Creator wanted to scold me at that unholy moment, by mocking the rules of the cosmic game devised by himself; the words and the paper make of all this an unholy anecdote, which could not even find its place in a literary work of dubious quality.

My dog is still in a state of shock and, dare I say it, disbelief. The brave animal recoiled as soon as the rat spoke. His natural instinct told him, that this aberration gnawed at the whole structure and nature of knowable things, like the first signs of a cancer, which will soon affect the whole body until it, mouldy, rotten and effaced, succumbs forever.

Mother, tell me I am working too hard! Tell me it’s time to put down the pen temporarily! Please tell me that I have seen things that were not there, are not there, and will never be there! Please, do not let your son languish in this hellish spasm of despair! Ah, it’s already too late, it’s already too late….

Only writing can save me from this mental catastrophe, and I write, mother, oh, I write!

Farewell, my dear mother, write to me soon, and believe me, your most, most affectionate Son,

M.G. Lewis

Unsent letter from Matthew Gregory Lewis to his mother Frances Maria Sewell Lewis, dated 30 August, 1794.