The Skull and the Nightingale

It occurred to me that I could simply spend more time in Cathcart Street, inventing stories for my godfather – spinning a false life from my own brain – rather than walking the streets to grub out scraps of entertainment for him. But physical restlessness denied me that possibility. Although my rooms were well enough the ceilings were low, causing me to feel large and caged. It was a relief to go out.

My nether limbs were well exercised by these prowlings. When indoors I would at intervals strengthen my arms by lifting my desk or pulling myself up to a beam. The room must so often have been shaken by these exertions that I wondered whether Mrs Deacon might not feel some apprehension – perhaps even pleasurable apprehension – at being reminded of the presence of a vigorous male beast in her respectable house. She was still a handsome woman, and had manifestly lain with at least one man.

One evening, on impulse, I again went to dine at Keeble’s steakhouse. The talking fraternity being absent on this occasion, I was glad to sit at an empty table and think in peace. It was with slight irritation, therefore, that I became aware of another solitary fellow taking a seat opposite my own. To postpone conversation I kept my eyes on my plate. When I at last looked up it was to find myself confronted by the grinning face of Matt Cullen.

My immediate reaction was to burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which Matt joined me. Our fellow-diners looked around, puzzled and smiling, at the spectacle of two young gentlemen unaccountably helpless with mirth. I was delighted to encounter Matt once more, and to find him just as I remembered, long-limbed, an awkward mover, with an expression of sleepy good-nature, always on the brink of a smile.

‘I am the more surprised to see you,’ said I, ‘because Latimer told me that you had retreated to the country to undergo marriage.’

‘There was that possibility.’ He drew a slow sigh. ‘Both families favoured the union. But there was a fatal flaw in the scheme.’

‘That being?’

‘That being the absence of any spark of animal inclination in either of the parties principally concerned. Each could see the lack of desire so heartily reciprocated that we retreated by mutual consent, leaving our families incensed.’

‘Then what fresh hope has brought you back to town?’

‘A forlorn one. You see in Cullen a farcical parody of our old companion Ralph Latimer. I seek the patronage of the Duke of Dorset.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that I am a distant cousin and that I have played cricket with his son.’

The absurdity of it set us laughing again.

‘But what of your own case?’ asked Matt, as we resumed eating. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I wrote to you from abroad.’

‘Two letters only, concerned with the exertions of a single bodily member. And here you are in London, apparently embarking on a new life.’

‘So my godfather has decreed.’

‘You may recollect that I know the gentleman’s name, having been brought up within forty miles of his estate. Mr Gilbert, is it not?’

‘It is.’

Suddenly feeling easy and reckless I cast aside my scruples.

‘You shall hear my story,’ said I, ‘and you will be only the second person to do so.’

I broached it along with a second bottle of wine. Matt leaned forward to listen, his face as nearly serious as I had ever seen it. I traversed the whole ground, from my first meeting with Mr Gilbert, following the death of my mother, through the years when I had divided my time between boarding school and my aunt’s house in York; thence to Oxford, my Grand Tour and the arrangement now agreed. When I had finished Matt shook his head.

‘A singular history,’ he said. ‘Mr Gilbert has been generous, yet you seem to describe a benefactor devoid of warmth.’

‘That is how he strikes me. He is studiously guarded in all he does. He sips at life.’

‘Has he no vices to make him human?’

‘None that I have observed. His daily life is as smooth as an egg. It affords the Evil One no hand-hold.’

‘Has he always been so cool? Did he never think of marriage?’

‘Not that I have heard. But I know little of his past.’

‘He must care for you to have done as much as he has.’

‘I would like to think so. But his kindness may derive solely from his friendship with my parents. I cannot tell. This is my problem, Matt: I must divert a man whose disposition I do not understand. I am locked into a strange game.’

Cullen washed down these observations with a gulp of wine, and pondered them for a moment or two, his features pursed up around his half-smile.

‘Might not this be a game with no loser? Mr Gilbert is pleased to give money to a promising young gentleman, and the young gentleman is pleased to receive it.’

‘I hope it may prove so simple. My godfather fancied that we might be led into “dark territory”. That was his phrase. Should I feel concerned?’

Matt smirked.

‘How gladly, Dick, I would take the same risks for the same money.’

My dear Richard,

I have read with interest the experiences you have described and your observations thereon. You have plainly been to no small trouble to record a variety of activities that might entertain me. I was surprised, however, to notice that you have apparently encountered no members of the opposite sex since your return to London.

Your general strategy I am happy to endorse. Indeed I will go further. I suspect that your account of polite society is likely to hold few surprises for me. To speak in general, I would rather hear more of Mr Crocker, who would appear to be something of an original, than of Lord Vincent and his coterie. It has become a matter of regret to me that, through some pressure of chance or temperament, my own youthful years in the capital were passed largely at that more respectable, and less entertaining, social level. For that reason I will tend to have a greater interest in the excesses, the follies, and even the shady underside of the town. Without leaving my comfortable country estate I look forward to being escorted to regions of experience that I could never have visited on my own. I hope that I will soon be hearing from you again.

I remain, &c.

I studied this letter with minute attention. Surely it was not merely confirming, but modifying, what amounted to my contract of employment? My respectable godfather wanted spicier tales than I had so far offered him. And was there not a hint that my role should be that of participant rather than mere observer?

Here was an appealing invitation to hedonism. Perhaps I should have warmed him with an account of my visit to Mrs Traill … But I was immediately aware that the fat worm that had been proffered might contain a fatal hook. It was scarcely to be expected that at some future date Mr Gilbert would say: ‘You have been so wholeheartedly lewd and dissolute that I am resolved to leave you every penny I possess.’ I needed a clearer understanding as to how far I might safely venture. But my general plan had been approved: there was some reassurance in that. And as it happened I was enabled to respond to my godfather’s fresh challenge almost immediately.

My dear Godfather,

I was very pleased to receive your letter. Your mention of Mr Crocker came opportunely: it is not two days since I learned more about that gentleman from Horn and Latimer, who have been acquainted with him for some little time.

He comes from the west of England. His late father, comparably huge, was a wealthy landowner. While a boy, Crocker was kept at home because of his unusual appearance, and was educated by private tutors. However he showed intelligence and spirit. When his father died, the young heir to the estate introduced a number of surprising features, including an aviary and an outdoor theatre. He hosted parties which became legendary in the county. Soon he was making sorties to London, where his wit and physical strength forestalled any attempt to treat him as an object of ridicule.

Latimer remains a little wary of him. ‘He is so much a physical oddity,’ said he, ‘as to have no clear place in society. His eccentricity may overflow into some excess of a dangerous kind. To know him is very well; but it would not do to be implicated in folly. There is tattle wherever he goes.’

Horn’s observations were more physical: ‘That great belly is a fantastical depository: they say he can piss a quart at a single discharge. Concerning the operation of his bowels I prefer not to speculate.’

‘That is a rare show of delicacy, Mr Horn,’ said Latimer. ‘I do know for a fact that he rarely stands upright for long – the strain is too great. If he falls he cannot easily rise without aid. Nor can he so much as pull on his own stockings, being unable to reach his feet. If one of them itches he must scratch it with the other.’

‘Worse than that,’ cries Horn. ‘I hear the poor devil has been unable to see his own pintle these five years, unless by means of a mirror. Yet it is known that he has appetites in that region also. He purchases the attentions of discreet and adept ladies.’

That night, at Latimer’s instigation, I attended Drury Lane Theatre. Our interest was less in the main piece, an insipid comedy, than in an accompanying pastoral interlude. The part of Ceres was taken by the actress Jane Page, whom Latimer has lately been cultivating. He invited my compliments, which were duly vouchsafed, for she is a stately creature, who can command the stage. To be frank, however, I had found my attention elsewhere engaged. The young lady who played the part of Celia, a shepherdess, was so graceful in her movements, so artless in her manner that I was quite transported by her. My imagination could even accommodate the absurd notion of serenading this rustic maiden on a green hillside in some lost world of innocence.

Afterwards Latimer played host to several of the performers, in hope of furthering his friendship with the goddess of plenty. It seemed to me that he enjoyed only moderate success in this enterprise. Miss Page acknowledged his compliments prettily, but conceded no more than trifling hints of encouragement. Also present, however, was Celia, the shepherdess, in the person of a young actress named Kitty Brindley. I enjoyed some decorous conversation with her. The air of pastoral innocence was now, of course, largely dissipated, but something of the illusion survived, because she proved to be indeed a young country girl, new to London and the stage. Might she have been artlessly enacting no other role than that of herself? I was so beguiled by the simultaneous claims of poetical imaginings and eager warmth below the waist, that I happily prolonged the self-deception. Indeed I came to feel that our encounter might be the prelude to others of a more-intimate kind. If this proves to be the case, you will receive a full account of what ensues.

I was lately cheered by a chance reunion with Matt Cullen, an Oxford friend. You may recall that I mentioned him, as coming from Malvern. In his company I can be comfortable.

Yours &c

Everything I had written was true: there had been no need for embellishment. The attractions of Kitty Brindley now served a double purpose: they distracted me from my regrets concerning Sarah and they promised to provide the kind of entertainment that Mr Gilbert seemed to have in mind.

I was enjoying my survey of London independently of its possible usefulness to my correspondence with Mr Gilbert. I was glad to have an occupation, instead of trifling away the time in the mode of Horn and Latimer. Already I knew far more of the town than they did. Everywhere I found fresh cause for curiosity. New houses, new shops, whole new streets, were coming into being. I would linger to watch builders at work and see houses rise from the earth with the slow persistence of plants. Properly considered, I told myself, the exertions involved were extraordinary. Ground plans were marked out with pegs and string. Cartload upon cartload of new-minted bricks were hauled in from distant manufactories by straining horses. Somehow a team of illiterate labourers, under minimal supervision, could raise walls straight and true, accommodating door or window, portico or chimney, as the architect had ordained. Everywhere I looked innumerable skills were collaboratively in operation – carpentry, tiling, plastering, the mixing of mortar, the laying of bricks, the cutting of glass – of which no Gentleman could claim the smallest knowledge.

The case was the same whatever professional activity I considered. From somewhere there came an endless supply of young men who could climb a mast, furl a sail, carve the corpses of sheep or pigs, forge metal, shape a carriage-wheel, bind a book, make a chair, a greatcoat or a wig. The class of Gentleman, in which I maintained a tenuous foothold, was dependent on all these skills yet serenely ignorant of them. How would I be placed if I should suddenly find myself penniless? My reassurance was that if the uneducated and often stunted labourers whom I had seen could learn a craft or a trade then no doubt I myself could do as much, if compelled by necessity. Perhaps there lurked within my still unformed personality a potential carpenter, architect or sea-captain. Although I hoped never to be put to the test, it was agreeable to fancy myself Protean.

5

When Cullen next called, I showed him Gilbert’s letter. He shook his head in envy.

‘Your very patron urges you to sin. Satan has smiled upon you.’

He was yet more envious when I told him of my planned pleasures with Kitty Brindley.

‘But I love the girl myself. I have seen her perform, and was ravished. How tragic that she should yield to your puny attributes of money and person.’

Our conversation took a fresh turn when Matt happened to ask after Sarah, whom he had met once or twice in the weeks before I left for France. I told him of my encounter with her and my feelings after it. Matt, as ever, listened with attention, frowning or grinning. When I had done he gave his opinion that here was fresh meat for Mr Gilbert.

‘Your dealings with Kitty are for today and tomorrow,’ said he. ‘Here is a narrative with longer life in it, and spiced with wickedness. I say to you: renew your pursuit of this lady. Cuckold the merchant. Your godfather will revel in such a conquest.’

It was to my credit, I think, that I chose to demur.

‘Am I to understand that my friend is urging me to commit adultery?’

‘Yes,’ said Cullen. ‘I believe that this would not be your first transgression of the kind. And consider the balance of pleasure in the case. You, Mrs Ogden and your godfather could achieve gratification: only Mr Ogden stands to be discommoded.’

‘But Mr Ogden may be a gentleman of great merit and tenderness.’

‘He may, however, be nothing of the sort. And he need suffer only if he comes to learn of the transaction.’

We left the house, embarking on a walk that took us down to the Strand and thence along the busy river in an easterly direction. The sun was shining on crowded streets and dirty water. Cullen and I conversed in snatches, laughing often. He described a recent meeting with the Duke, who had said to him only: ‘I have not forgot you, Mr Collins.’ Matt felt that the small twig on which his hopes were perched had shrunk.

On a whim we hired a boat to take us across the river to Southwark. Our Charon, a scrawny old fellow, sang after a fashion as he rowed.

‘I cannot but notice that you have no teeth, friend,’ observed Matt, who would converse with anybody. ‘Do you not find difficulty in eating?’

The boatman further exhibited his deficiency in a hearty laugh.

‘Why, no sir, for the gums are grown harder. ’Tis a blessing, for I am freed of toothache and can whistle as I never could before.’

‘You are a philosopher,’ said I, and added a shilling to his fare.

Once disembarked we continued to stroll by the Thames, and paused to make a modest contribution to it.

‘The truth is,’ I observed as we pissed, ‘that our oarsman was in the wrong. Cheerful as he is he would be happier with teeth. If he could have them again, he would.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Matt. ‘We should not take our losses too seriously.’

‘So will you undertake not to hang yourself if the Duke fails you?’

‘Certainly.’ Matt folded away his member. ‘The first duty of human kind is to stay alive; the second is to be as merry as circumstances permit. Such is my philosophy.’

Wandering on, we talked of our uncertain prospects.

‘Your future is more promising than mine,’ said Matt. ‘Mr Gilbert has invested too much in you to cast you aside.’

We walked back across Westminster Bridge and on to Keeble’s for a steak. I was hailed by the tall fellow from the Conversation Club.

‘Last week,’ said he, ‘we returned to your theme and considered the case of the nightingale. Anatomize the bird and you will find lungs and membranes. There is the instrument, but where is the song? And where is the composer?’

‘You have killed him,’ cried Cullen, ‘for the sake of your experiment.’

After a glass or two of wine he and I returned to the subject of women. We agreed, with shared self-pity, that the venereal adventure was fraught with difficulty and mystery. Somehow we lurched into barbaric Latin banter.

‘Magnum est gratificatio sensualis,’ improvised Matt, who had never been a zealous student, ‘sed si filius natus est, gravis est responsibilitas.’

‘Et si infectio venerealis contractus est,’ I added, on the basis of an unfortunate Italian experience, ‘magna est poena, magnum est dolor.’

In such ways we sniggered away the rest of the afternoon like two schoolboys. Mr Gilbert could never have comprehended these trifling, companionable pleasures.

My dear Godfather,

I have attended another of Mr Crocker’s gatherings at the Seven Stars. Latimer and Horn went with me as before. The company seemed to be much as I remembered it, with Crocker presiding from his great chair in the centre of the crescent of drinking men. By the time we entered the talk was already vociferous. I took a seat by the one silent man in the room, who happened to be Francis Pike, the gaunt fellow who had silenced Captain Derby. Having learned from Horn that this individual was in regular attendance on Crocker, I was curious to find out more about him.

Concerning the encounter with Captain Derby he spoke with detachment.

‘In such cases, sir, I have the advantage over most opponents. I know what must be done. Stun your man, bring him to the ground, and he’s no longer a threat.’

‘Yours must be a dangerous profession,’ I suggested.

‘That may be so, sir. Fortunately I seem to feel pain less than most men. Perhaps I have grown accustomed to it. I have had bones broke, and shed blood.’ He paused, before adding, with the faintest of smiles: ‘Above all, sir, not being a gentleman, I am considered to be outside the rules of honourable conduct, and therefore see no need to be bound by ’em.’

I felt confident enough to inquire, with delicacy, whether he might not be regarded by some as a bully. He rejected the insinuation very calmly.

‘No, sir, because I never start a quarrel. Your practised duellist who calls out a harmless fellow man for sport – he’s the bully.’

‘To talk to,’ I said, ‘you seem a polite, composed sort of man.’

‘And so I hope I am, sir. But that is also my professional manner. I find it has a concentrating effect, like the barrel of a musket.’

These exchanges were cut short when I was summoned to take a chair beside our host. To be seated by him was to be immediately reminded of his bulk. His thigh is double the thickness of my own. By contrast his face, well-formed and bright-eyed, is no more than plump, but it perspired freely, causing him to dab at it with a handkerchief.

‘I am pleased to see you, Mr Fenwick,’ said he. ‘I hope you will sing with me again.’

‘With great pleasure.’

‘By the way, I am acquainted with Lord Vincent, whom I believe you know.’

‘Very slightly.’

‘I have been observing you. You yourself I see to be watchful, eager to take in everything about you.’

‘I hope I am,’ said I, by now embarrassed.

‘You were deep in conversation with Mr Pike, who is often taciturn.’

‘I found him most interesting.’

‘That shows judgement. He may be the most interesting man in the room.’

He turned away and rapped for silence: ‘Gentlemen, if you will indulge me, I feel disposed to sing.’

Amid applause he got himself to his feet. I could see that he was immersed in his performance, half jocose though it was. While he sang no one would have thought of his unwieldy body – he lived through his voice:

Come, friends, and bear me company:

I dare not go to bed.

I’ve drunk too little or drunk too much,

And my heart is heavy as lead.

Although this life is all too short

The nights can last too long,

So help me pass the lingering hours,

And join me in a song.

The whole company did indeed join lustily in the chorus:

In an hour, in a week, in a month, in a year,

Where shall we be? No man can say.

If we drink, if we fight, if we whore while we’re here,

Then sooner or later the devil’s to pay.

So sing through the night,

Sing while we may,

Till a new dawn reminds us to live for the day.

Crocker lowered his great rump amid much cheering and stamping of feet. By now the room was very warm and we were all in a tipsy sweat. Invited by our host to perform, I offered ‘The soaring lark salutes the morn’. When I had concluded, Crocker and I were persuaded to sing an indecorous duet:

A tippler’s throat is a conduit pipe:

Pour, landlord, pour.

We drink to piss, and piss our drink, and drink to piss once more.

A man don’t leak till a man has drunk,

So let the liquor flow:

We take it in and shake it down, and then we let it go.

The assembled tipplers sang with us till the windows shook and our ears rang.

It seems to be the custom at these gatherings to drink and talk at large until Crocker takes the lead in some way. When the singing was done the former general carousal was resumed. Voices rose and laughter rang out. Somewhat elevated myself, I noticed the prudent Latimer slip away. I was sitting with Horn, who was by now very loud, at one point laughing so hard that he fell to the floor.

At length Crocker again forced himself upright.

‘Gentlemen!’ he cried, ‘there is work to be done. Let us withdraw.’

I confess that, owing to the influence of wine, my recollections of what followed are less than distinct. Crocker’s table was pulled aside, and he stalked ponderously from the room. The rest of us rose – with a crashing of chairs, bottles and glasses – and followed him into the night air. Crocker ensconced himself in what was apparently his private chair, to be borne away by four men, with the company trooping at their heels. I wondered if we were to be plunged into some violence of the Mohock kind – though in truth I had never heard that Crocker was associated with such doings. We made a strange procession: an obese, chair-borne Achilles followed by a rabble of drunken Myrmidons. There was no show of provocation or aggression, although I fancy anyone standing in our way might have been thrown aside. Perhaps Crocker himself and Pike, who stayed close to his chair, were the only individuals among us still in a condition to think clearly. At some point we turned from the main thoroughfare and followed a link-boy through a maze of unlighted alleys.