Michael Irwin - The Skull and the Nightingale

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.

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.’