The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  Soon enough Mrs. Ford was seen to stifle a small yawn and plainly wished to retire. A maidservant was summoned to show her to her room. Mrs. Hurlock chose to withdraw at the same time. I fancied I received one last look of complicity from her.

  When they had gone my godfather poured some more port: “In the circumstances I think half a glass should be sufficient.”

  He remained standing but drank unhurriedly, and with his usual air of discriminating enjoyment. To the casual eye he would have seemed absorbed in calm reflection, but I noticed, as once before, a slight tremulousness in the hand that held the glass.

  “Now I shall retire,” he said. “I leave you to your own devices.”

  With a nod he was gone, and I was alone with my responsibility.

  As I drank the last of the wine I assessed my situation as coolly as I could. I was hot and aroused, my heart by now fairly pounding. My room was directly above the one to which Mrs. Hurlock had retired. If my intrusion caused instant outrage, I might just be able to plead that, tired and a little intoxicated, I had mistakenly followed an accustomed route. But such a defense would be available for less than half a minute. I would have to make an instant appraisal of Mrs. Hurlock’s response, and either retreat at once or force the issue.

  I left the drawing room and stood still for a moment, aware of the great dark space of the house all about me. Somewhere a maid would be lurking, charged with putting out candles, closing windows, and locking doors. But the hall and the staircase were silent. I climbed cautiously to the floor above: silence again. Before me stretched a long passage, illuminated dimly, but sufficiently, by the moonlight that slanted through a single large window at the end. The last door on the right before that window was the one I would have to enter. I crept up to it, listened for a moment, but heard nothing within. The moment had come: I turned the handle, went in swiftly, and closed the door behind me.

  My sense of anticipation was so keen that I registered what followed with extreme exactness. The curtain of the window opposite had been drawn back, so that the moon shone directly into the room. The lady, in a white nightgown, had been looking out, but she instantly turned to face me. I walked slowly toward her through the moonlight, but she made no attempt to cry out or to speak. Only as I put my hand on her plump shoulder did I hear a low voice: “What are you doing?”

  I whispered back: “Have I not the right to take what she denies?”

  “But—but I am a married woman.”

  She raised a hand as though to push me away, but I set it aside.

  “Someone will hear us . . .”

  It was all the invitation I needed. I put my arms around her and pressed her to me. The indistinct moonlit lady felt large and warm, and as I kissed her wet mouth she was once more Mrs. Hurlock, a plump country matron. What the devil was I about? But the game was afoot now, and there could be no turning back. Still with my mouth on hers, I walked her stumblingly toward the bed. She whimpered a little but offered no resistance. I pushed her backward across the bed and threw up her nightdress: a little effort and the deed would be done. But as Strephon fumbled at his breeches to free his trusty whore-pipe the wayward Chloe stumbled to her feet and pushed him away.

  “No!” she cried. “No, no, no!”

  I made to embrace her again, but she shook herself free. When I seized her shoulders she pushed away my face and then scratched at me. Suddenly I was in a fuddled rage: here I was gallantly endeavoring to pleasure this frump and she was attacking me for my pains. I wrenched her off me, flung her face-forward across the bed, lifted her nightdress again, and delivered two mighty slaps to her plump buttocks. She squawked and wept and was still: the fight was won. I turned her about and pushed her legs apart. A fumble at her privities, warm and moist, assured me that I would be compelling her to do exactly what her body desired. She yelped again as I forced myself deep into her, and what with the long anticipation, the anxiety, and the incitement of her final struggle, I was betrayed, by that one thrust, into the shuddering gushes of completion.

  The engagement thus summarily concluded, I collapsed upon my new mistress sweating, panting, and horrified. My conquest had become instant ignominy, my stout victim was in tears, and I had laid myself open to a charge of rape.

  In the silence my breathing and my heartbeat slowly settled but my mind did not. I was lost for words—lost for so much as a single idea. Why had I ventured on this absurd and shameful assault. No mere apology could meet the situation. Forgive me, madam, your charms were too great to resist . . . ? The mere attempt would be grotesque. Yet was I to fasten my breeches and shuffle away without speaking? Whatever I said or did, I was a ruined man—the drunken Mohock who had galloped his horse over a cliff. If Mrs. Hurlock should now rouse the house, my godfather would have no alternative but to disown me.

  Disengaging myself, I sat up on the bed, more wretched than I had ever been in my life. I think, though I cannot now be sure, that I was opening my mouth to say something—anything—when my victim sat upright also, clutched my arm, and spoke first.

  “Richard,” she said, “what have we done?”

  Those five beautiful words transformed me, producing such a surge of spirits that I was thinking and feeling in a dozen diverse ways at once. This tenderhearted woman was sharing responsibility for the deed: I was saved. The poor old trull had thought I was moved by sentiment. Desperate to couple, she had gorged on this mere titbit of sensation. She could never tell her husband because she had confessed to complicity. Did not this good soul deserve better service than I had given her? Was not the fat bitch greedy for further action? I would give her a towsing she would not soon forget.

  My body was surging with force once more. Without a word I jumped to my feet and stripped off all my clothes, while she sat gawping. I seized her nightgown, pulled it off over her head, and fell upon her like an animal, clutching at the wetness between her legs, biting at her great breasts. By now she was nobody, a female thing of flesh and fissure, a voice calling “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as I bullied her into sensation. At length, when she was limp in my grasp, I turned her about onto her knees, with her face in the pillow and her buttocks in the air, and settled to hearty cock work, steady and remorseless. Recollections of such performances must be shadowy, but I held my stroke unrelentingly for what seemed a full quarter of an hour. I had told my godfather I would make her squeal, and squeal she did, as frantically and continuously as he could have hoped, the sound only partly muffled by the pillow. When I at last discharged she gave a shrill, prolonged cry, and we collapsed forward, slippery with seed and sweat and so emptied of force as to be barely conscious.

  I came to myself thinking: Thank God! But how absurd, how absurd . . . I was exhausted, but I had triumphed, and now had but one task remaining—to leave the room with tolerably good grace. It would be disastrous to be drawn into an exchange of avowals. The best I could hope for would be to emulate the dashing highwayman who wins regard with farewell courtesies. I kissed the lady and murmured in her ear: “You gave me leave to love.” Even while I spoke, the incongruity between the dainty line of the song and the pungent odors of our copulation all but made me laugh. I would have been lost for a further gesture but for the happy accident, at that very moment, of a creak from the floorboards. It meant nothing—such small sounds were common enough in that house—but I responded to it as to a cue, raising a finger to my lips. Quickly but stealthily I donned my clothes once more. As the plump lady rose from her bed I took her in my arms and whispered: “Mr. Gilbert must never guess. But remember: there is but a strip of woodland between his estate and yours . . .” One more kiss, which she irksomely prolonged, and I was free to slip away from the room.

  Outside I stopped to listen, but all was still. I crept up to my room on stockinged feet. Physically so weary that I could barely summon the strength to get into bed, I found my mind still spinning. My whole future had seemed to hang on a hair, yet after all I
had saved the day—or the night—and proved myself: surely my godfather would be impressed to hear of this performance. As for the lady—whose very name I could scarcely recall—having enjoyed a good night’s singing and a hearty tumble, she could have little cause for complaint. When would she last have been ridden, never mind pleasured, by her sot of her husband? She would take away a fond memory of the evening and would in future sing her pastoral ditties with deeper sentiment. There had been the finest of balances between victory and possible defeat. But no matter—I had prevailed, I had prevailed . . . My thoughts spun the faster till I slept like a top.

  Chapter 12

  In the morning my thoughts were darker. As I nervously washed every trace of Mrs. Hurlock from my person I saw pitfall after pitfall ahead. How would she respond to me this morning? She might come downstairs simpering, which would be bad, or whimpering, which would be worse. If she directly accused me, how could I defend myself? If I survived the morning, might she not have a later change of heart, and confess everything to her husband?

  I made my way apprehensively to the small dining room where breakfast would be served. It was empty save for one of the maids, who told me that Mr. Rowley had already left the house. I drank a dish of tea unhurriedly, rehearsing an appearance of composure. Mrs. Ford, whose existence I had forgotten, was the next person to enter: we conversed about the weather. My godfather joined us, brisk but courtly, without a trace of interrogation in his greeting to me. He ordered more tea and muffins, and told us that the colonel had been impressed by Mr. Rowley and was likely to employ him. We were still discussing this topic when Mrs. Hurlock came in. I glanced up warily and was relieved to see that she looked serene. When my godfather asked if she had slept well, she replied: “I have never passed a more comfortable night.” My hopes rose. All might yet be well: she had reverted from wanton lover to worthy matron, but showed no trace of regret and seemed in command of the situation. The four of us drank tea, ate muffins, and chattered like civilized beings about painting, music, the colonel’s daughters, and Mrs. Quentin’s new teeth.

  The two ladies were to be taken to their respective homes in Mr. Gilbert’s carriage. As we waited for it, on the sunlit terrace, Mrs. Hurlock turned to me and mouthed, in mock reproach: “Cruel . . .”

  “Only to be kind,” I murmured in return.

  When the carriage emerged and was wheeled round, I knew that I should offer a last gesture to my portly paramour: a delicate matter in that I needed to convey warmth while raising no extravagant hopes—and this with due decorum, in the presence of Mrs. Ford and my godfather. In the event I acquitted myself with credit. I told Mrs. Hurlock how greatly I had enjoyed the previous night’s performance, squeezed her hand very slightly as I kissed it in farewell, and concluded: “We must sing together again one day.”

  “We must indeed,” she replied, with an edge of emphasis.

  Perhaps the tensions of the night and the morning had tried me too far. As the coach disappeared round a curve in the drive a spasm of laughter broke from me, as sudden as a belch. Noticing that my godfather was watching me with a smile, I laughed the more—so helplessly that I was quite doubled over and had to clutch the stone balustrade for support.

  “When you are recovered,” said Mr. Gilbert, “let us go indoors and talk.”

  We went to his study, which was cool and quiet. Ready to give a spirited account of the night’s exploits, I awaited questions, but there were none.

  “The evening was all I could have wished,” said my godfather with satisfaction. “The portrait and the music were well received, and Mr. Hurlock was comprehensively cuckolded.”

  I looked at him, surprised.

  “When you were at work on Mrs. Hurlock, I was in the adjacent room and could hear what passed. You were most thorough, and the lady was clearly gratified. As a young woman she was thought to be warm-blooded. It seems that the rumors were justified.”

  He pursed up his mouth in reflection. “When I thought of marrying her I wondered how she would comport herself in the bedroom. Thanks to your exertions I now know. You made good your undertaking.”

  I was astonished. There were competing retorts at the tip of my tongue, either of them sufficient to annihilate my prospects. One was that the youthful Mr. Gilbert might have found the lady something of an overmatch. The other was that in eavesdropping on the act he had finally shown himself in his true colors: an impotent old goat, a proxy whoremonger. As I hesitated my godfather regarded me directly, with the slightest of smiles, as though daring me to speak out. Self-respect demanded an expression of outrage—but self-interest warned me, urgently, not to throw away a fortune. Self-interest carried the day. I remained silent, and my godfather resumed:

  “You will suspect me of malice toward Hurlock. And rightly. But the experiment was the thing—a most revealing experiment. Here was a sober country matron, a creature of convention who had lived a blameless married life these twenty years. Yet you subdued her in five minutes. Of course, the ground had been prepared: there were the songs, the compliments, the wine, the moonlight . . . To say nothing of the pastoral prologue . . .”

  Seemingly it was my turn to speak. I tried to echo him:

  “That is the comical seesaw. The animal act inspires graceful verses and melodies, and these in turn tempt us to the animal act. Our duets entered the lady’s ears and persuaded her brain to open the front door to me.”

  My godfather nodded. “Flesh and spirit in collusion. But perhaps Man is not singular in this regard. Yardley might adduce the lark or the nightingale by way of comparison.”

  “To speak more prosaically,” said I, “the lady’s husband surely assisted our cause. Who would wish to share a bed with him?”

  “Who indeed?”

  “That gentleman will hardly be pleased if he guesses what has happened.”

  “He will not guess. And were he to do so, he would say nothing. He is in my debt.”

  The last five words were spoken with peculiar emphasis.

  “When will he return?”

  “Very shortly. As I told you, he has been disposing of the estate of his brother. The task will be bad for his temper: he is incompetent in such matters. He had hopes of a bequest, but I believe that none will be forthcoming. He will return home sullen.”

  Mr. Gilbert rose.

  “You acquitted yourself impressively, as Mrs. Hurlock would no doubt confirm. We will discuss these matters further. But now you must excuse me: my lawyer is waiting.”

  Later in the day I visited the room adjacent to the one in which Mrs. Hurlock had passed the night. It was another paneled bedroom, reserved for guests. How close could Gilbert have come to our doings—how thick was the intervening wall? It looked solid enough, but I saw that there was a door built into the paneling. It opened to a deep closet, the far side of which was made of wood—the paneling of the next room. As I inspected this I found that part of one of the panels could be pushed aside. Mr. Gilbert could have enjoyed a moonlit view of the coupling of godson and guest. Mrs. Hurlock’s cries would certainly have been heard loud and clear.

  I retired to the library to review my situation. My first thought was that my wretched godfather had schemed a way into proximity to actions he could no longer perform. I had encountered one or two such sad specimens in the brothels of London and Paris. Given the susceptibility of Mrs. Hurlock, he could surely have attempted to enjoy her himself had he been competent to do so.

  Yet once more the simple interpretation seemed to fall short of the whole truth. Mr. Gilbert had been in earnest when talking of his interest in the Passions. Perhaps the mainspring of his own conduct was indeed a desire to study the desires of others. The source of that interest might be a temperamental rather than a physical incapacity. I recalled Yardley’s remark concerning cats: perhaps my godfather, comparably, had an appetite for sensual fullfillment yet an aversion for the medium in which fullfillment m
ight be found—that medium being surrender to the emotions, willingness to risk rejection or humiliation. The remedy would be to live vicariously. I was the otter to catch fish on his behalf.

  If I should complain that this role offended me, my godfather might reasonably object that I had volunteered for it. I had boasted that I could make Mrs. Hurlock squeal and, given the chance, had proceeded to do so. It was a little late for me to make a moral protest. On what principle could Mr. Gilbert’s conduct be judged more reprehensible than my own? Nonetheless I knew, and was sure that my godfather knew, that he had presumed too far. When he told me that he had overheard my engagement with Mrs. Hurlock, should I not have indicated, if only by raising an eyebrow, that I was offended? Might not my silence have been taken for acceptance of my standing as an agent, a minion, a jackal?

  Perturbed by these misgivings, I found some consolation in recalling my humbling of the respectable Mrs. Hurlock. I could feel an objective interest in that achievement almost in the spirit of my godfather. What an odd business it had been. Could music have so potent an effect? Might Yardley, stirred by the call of the nightingale, seek pleasure in the arms of a sixpenny village whore? But if song had warmed my Celia’s heart, the fact that her Strephon had been so smitten as to burst into her chamber had also had its influence. Even then it had taken a couple of hard slaps to seal the victory: Strephon had prevailed by showing himself vicious. Yet I seemed to have emerged with honor—in Mrs. Hurlock’s eyes as well as in my own. Here was a further reminder that Love and Lust—as the abstract Passions Mr. Gilbert would consider them—were confused, confusing, and dangerous essences. A man with a delicate stomach was right to regard them with suspicion.

  At dinner my godfather made no further mention of Mrs. Hurlock. Before retiring, he expressed the hope that I might stay until the end of the week; he would be busy for the next two or three days, but there were some important matters he wished to discuss with me. I wondered why he had not broached them that very evening, but was in no position to demur.