Michael Irwin - The Skull and the Nightingale

The following day he asked my opinion of his guests. Seeking to be diplomatic without insipidity I ventured that Hurlock had seemed not unlike a stage representation of a coarse hunting squire, that Yardley had said a number of interesting things, and that Quentin had something enigmatic about him.

‘Your comments are just, as far as they go’ said my godfather. ‘Hurlock is a fool. Yardley is haphazardly learned.’

‘And Mr Quentin?’

My godfather reflected before replying: ‘I can understand why you found him enigmatic. To me he is not, because I know the answer to the riddle.’ His voice lightened. ‘You were properly attentive to the ladies – gallantly so in the case of Mrs Quentin, whose bad teeth, as you must have noticed, foul her breath. Time has been unkind to her: she was comely as a young woman. Mrs Hurlock was the local beauty, eagerly courted; but she made the mistake of marrying Hurlock, who reduced her to a breeding animal. She has now ceased to breed. Perhaps neither woman has a life worth leading.’

Startled by this bluntness, I inclined my head and tried to look sagacious.

‘You have now made the acquaintance of my nearest neighbours, such as they are. I contrive to remain on good terms with all of them.’

‘I am sure you do, sir,’ I hazarded.

Mr Gilbert pursed his thin lips and then spoke reflectively.

‘It is in their interest that we should be on good terms. All of them are in some sense in debt to me. It is remarkable how much influence moderate wealth can buy.’

He spoke without emphasis, but the passage of conversation had shown a greater astringency in him than I had ever previously witnessed. It had also reminded me of the precariousness of my own position. Perhaps that had been the intention.

Over the succeeding days I had a good deal of time to myself. Much of it I passed in the library, where a great fire was kept burning. I found there many publications of recent date, including the two volumes of Dr Johnson’s great Dictionary , and a number of works concerning philosophy, medicine and astronomy. It was a pleasure to meet also my old friends Tom Jones and Roderick Random. Their presence surprised me. Did this solitary country gentleman sit peacefully by the fire, lost in tales of assignations and boisterous pranks? That possibility seemed the more remote in that here and in other rooms I saw evidence of Mr Gilbert’s speculative curiosity: a terrestrial globe, a microscope, a brass telescope, a great magnet, and an articulated human skeleton.

When weary of reading I explored the house. Everywhere there were paintings, hangings and furnishings to admire. Even to my inexperienced eye it was apparent that the Gilbert family, about which I knew next to nothing, had been distinguished not merely by wealth, but by taste and connoisseurship.

I traced back the family line through a series of portraits. There were similarities of feature across the generations, but more striking was a cast of expression that suggested an inherited family temperament. Repeatedly a composed, even severe, countenance implied lurking passions controlled by force of will. I concluded that any one of these gentlemen would have proved a shrewd antagonist in argument or business or a court of law.

As viewed from the drive that led from the main gates the house was an imposing, wide-fronted building. The main rooms, spacious and lofty, answered to that external appearance. For some reason, however, I found myself particularly intrigued when quitting these apartments to venture down narrow staircases and stone-flagged passages into the domestic quarters. Here, like a colony of rabbits, dwelt the servants, far outnumbering those they served, even when there was company in the house. I reflected that such a mansion must necessarily have such a team to run it, as an ocean-going vessel must have men hoisting sails and manning pumps. These servants were my godfather’s crew, his prosperity affording shelter and wages for footmen, housemaids, cooks, grooms and gardeners.

When the weather brightened I explored the estate. Hungry for fresh air and exertion I walked at a good pace, breathing deep. One fine morning I found myself running from sheer excess of energy. My furthest excursion was to the woods I had seen from the drawing-room window. In these first days of spring they offered little promise that they could ever resemble the shady groves of pastoral poetry. They were dense, leafless and dark – even menacing – in aspect, as though ready, at a signal, to advance like Birnam wood and overwhelm the cultivated land.

I was curious as to my godfather’s daily doings. It seemed that he spent much of each morning talking to attorneys, tenants or tradesmen and attending to business of various kinds. I began to infer that he was no passive landowner but an efficient and industrious overseer of an estate, a master of practices and responsibilities of which I knew nothing. Might he wish to groom me to take an active part in the conduct of these affairs? And would I be content to settle, at so early an age, into the role of a rural administrator? I hoped the question would not arise, while hoping also that it would.

When in his company I observed him closely, looking for signs that I might read. He was controlled in manner as in speech, moving unhurriedly. His clothes, impeccably neat, seemed to be an expression of his being. There was nothing of the animal about him. It was impossible to imagine him so much as sweating, still less rutting or at stool. Even in his eating and drinking he expressed connoisseurship rather than appetite. His disposition seemed to be the achievement of years of self-command.

I assumed that there was a purpose to my seemingly purposeless stay, although I could not be sure what it was. Was it to give me an opportunity to learn, indirectly, more about my godfather, or was it rather that he wished to learn more about me? What did I indeed feel about him, if anything? Grateful, in a formal sense, I certainly was, but my gratitude had no tincture of warmth. I could not feel myself to be blamably deficient in affection when Mr Gilbert himself displayed so little. There was no hint that he regarded me in any sense as the son he had not had. His detachment had evoked in me a similar coolness. He was my benefactor, and therefore to be propitiated. He was clever yet aloof and therefore an object of interest. If for some reason he should turn against me I suspected that he would sever the link between us without a qualm. I was therefore responsive to his moods, and ever on my guard. It had often been remarked of me that I had the capacity to please. At school, at Oxford and on my travels I had adapted myself to those I met and made friends readily. Mr Gilbert would hardly have carried his patronage so far had he not found something agreeable in my disposition. Such kindliness as I had elicited I hoped I could sustain.

I was further encouraged by a deeper and perhaps darker reflection. In several ways, after all, I had the advantage of the old gentleman. I was young and free-spirited, physically strong. If Mr Gilbert was quick-witted then so, I flattered myself, was I. Moreover by virtue of my youth, my education and my travels I might be open to modes of thought that he could not anticipate. If he chose to continue in his course of benevolence he would find me tractable and appreciative. If, for whatever reason, he was planning to dispose of my life in a manner at odds with my disposition we would be commencing a chess-game in which I would hope to hold my own.