The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  The following day, again becalmed, I withdrew to the library, where diversion came unexpectedly. Browsing the shelves, I chanced upon a narrow volume, Pictures from Parnassus, consisting of descriptive passages from Homer and Virgil, translated into heroic couplets in the style of Mr. Pope. The name of the author appeared not only on the cover but in a handwritten inscription on the title page:

  To James Gilbert, Esq.,

  Although your modesty forbade me the privilege of a printed dedication, I must insist upon this record of my indebtedness to the patron whose generosity made possible the publication of these imperfect exercises.

  It is my earnest hope that I may one day be permitted to dedicate to you a sustained work more worthy of your notice.

  Your grateful and obedient servant,

  John Quentin

  There was a preface to the effect that, admirable as had been the exertions of Pope and others, there had not yet been a translation into verse of the great epics that achieved the appropriate balance between fidelity to the original texts and poetic freshness. The author hoped that the modest attempts which followed would be seen as steps, however faltering, in the direction of a more complete rendering. If they were well received, he would be encouraged to attempt the longer flight that was as yet beyond his youthful powers.

  I had never heard previously of Quentin’s scholarly or poetic talents. The book I had found was dated some twenty years previously, yet I could see no succeeding volume on my godfather’s shelves. To my eyes the verses seemed well enough, but I did not greatly value my own judgment on such matters. I resolved to seek out Mr. Quentin that very afternoon and learn more about his poetic endeavors: after all, I owed him a visit.

  The weather being fine, I walked into the village. Somewhat to my embarrassment the first person I saw was Mr. Thorpe, standing in the sunlight outside his own front door. I felt myself flushing—fantastical though my misgivings were, I half expected him to cry: “I hear you gave Mrs. Hurlock a hearty pumping.” In the event, of course, he was as civil as ever, and we fell into easy conversation. When I mentioned my errand, however, and asked whether he knew of Quentin’s poetic ambitions, he became suddenly serious.

  “Let us go indoors,” he said. “This is a delicate matter.”

  We retired to his drawing room and took some tea.

  “I know something of the story,” said Thorpe, “but only through Mrs. Quentin. At the time your godfather first met him, Mr. Quentin was a young man, not long down from university, and striving to make his way as a poet. Mr. Gilbert recognized him as a man of talent, and gave him a sufficient pension to live in the village and devote his time to writing. His first published work, the one you saw, was well received. Subsequently his ambition was to produce a version of the Iliad that would surpass Mr. Pope’s both in fidelity to the original and in poetic force. But after that first volume nothing came.”

  “His muse deserted him?”

  “I believe the cause was less simple. He was unluckily torn between scholarship and poetry. He would tear up a draft, either because it was false to the Greek or because, while accurate, it was poetically lifeless. What he approved as a scholar disappointed the poet, and what pleased the poet offended the scholar. So he lost heart and gradually ceased to try. If he seems saturnine it is because he lives in a quiet anguish of disappointment.”

  “Did the poor devil find no other occupation?”

  “Unfortunately he did not. He and his wife were beset by misfortunes. She has been ill more than once. They had two children who both died in infancy.”

  “And are they still dependent on my godfather?”

  “Effectively I fancy they are. Mr. Quentin inherited a small annuity, but I doubt if it would be enough to live on.”

  “His case seems remarkably similar to that of Mr. Yardley.”

  Thorpe nodded, as though pleased I had taken this point. “Indeed. But there are two differences. Yardley has after all continued to pursue his interests: he was and still is a devoted naturalist. By contrast Quentin, or so his wife hints, has lost all interest in both poetry and the classics. The other difference is that Yardley is too absorbed in his studies to worry about material matters. If his income were suddenly to cease, he would scarcely notice. Soon he would be found dead among his specimens. But Quentin suffers continual anxiety about money: he did so even before the expenditure on his wife’s teeth.”

  Something in Thorpe’s tone made me catch his eye:

  “Has Mr. Gilbert ever threatened to withdraw his favors?”

  “I think not; but Quentin may fear that possibility—or may simply detest his indebtedness.” Thorpe paused, before adding in an altered tone, “Mr. Gilbert is a reserved man: his intentions are hard to read. Perhaps you, as his godson . . .”

  It was my turn to pause, but I was willing to be cautiously open with Thorpe.

  “I may be little wiser than yourself. My first meeting with Mr. Gilbert, or the first I can recall, took place when I was ten years of age. Since then, although he generously provided for my upbringing, I have seldom seen him. I have spent as much time in his company this year as in all the previous years combined.”

  “You surprise me, Mr. Fenwick. He mentions you quite often, and seems at ease in your company.”

  “But, as you suggest, it is hard to read his mind.”

  There was silence for a moment. I almost fancied that I could read Thorpe’s mind as he adjusted his view of me. I was not, after all, to be seen as a man who had privileged access to Mr. Gilbert. On the other hand, that very fact might license further candor.

  “You will understand,” said Thorpe, “that it would not be advisable to mention this book to Quentin: it is something he would gladly forget. Perhaps Mr. Gilbert himself might find it a delicate topic . . .”

  “He might indeed. I have learned from you this week that he assisted two young scholars, neither of whom succeeded as he hoped. For a proud man this may have been an embarrassment.”

  “Exactly so,” said Thorpe. “But in many another venture he has prospered. Thanks to his help, the village school is flourishing. Local farmers have profited from the introduction of new methods which he encouraged them to adopt. He has been shrewd in his buying and selling of land. He may be the most powerful man in the county.”

  Shortly thereafter I took my leave. Although I had abandoned the idea of visiting the Quentins, I continued my walk in order to reflect on the information I had received. Should I see my godfather as surrounded by pensioners, by bought men? Was I myself no more than such another vassal as the moldering Yardley or the surly Quentin? If that was true, at least I was fulfilling my undertakings as they had not. An alternative view was that these cases confirmed Mr. Gilbert’s account of himself as an experimenter of sorts. Given his increased confidence in me, might I not aspire to be a fellow projector rather than a subject?

  Two days later I returned from a walk to find Mr. and Mrs. Hurlock drinking tea on the terrace with my godfather. Their conversation broke off as I approached, but I inferred that Hurlock was reporting the results of his visit to Warwickshire. I took in a great deal in two seconds. Hurlock looked worse than usual in the afternoon sunlight: his nose was the color of a ripe plum, and his dirty wig could have been his own hair gone rotten. Mrs. Hurlock and my godfather were easy and composed. Perhaps as a result I found myself comfortable in the situation and even amused by it, wondering how it was that the fleeting glances I exchanged with Mrs. Hurlock and Mr. Gilbert could communicate two quite distinct flickers of insinuation.

  Hurlock himself, partly drunk, talked loudly and assertively. He was in ill humor, cursing the state of the roads and the discomfort of traveling in hot weather: “My shirt was drenched: the carriage stank. I would have sweated less making the journey on foot.”

  Later, in his jeering mode, he expressed relief at having missed our concert:

 
“Your warbling would have meant nothing to me. I have no more ear for music than a tree. Young man, my wife praises your voice. Be thankful you were not born in Italy: the surgeons might have condemned you to a lifetime of singing.”

  I smiled complaisantly at this feeble jocosity, thinking: Bluster away, poor sot: I have rogered your wife—as all here know, save yourself.

  There seemed to be neither affection nor a common understanding between the Hurlocks. I wondered that they could share the same house, to say nothing of the same bed. Mrs. Hurlock, however, impressed me with her composure: no casual observer could have inferred that anything had passed between us. It was impossible to guess her thoughts. I suspected a hint, however, in her casual remark that, with the weather lately so fine, she had taken to walking in the woods of an afternoon.

  When his guests departed my godfather remarked: “It was as I suspected: Hurlock’s hopes of relief from his brother’s estate have proved groundless. He will be drinking heavily tonight.”

  At dinnertime, I was handed a note from Mr. Gilbert excusing his absence on the grounds of a slight indisposition. He asked me to be good enough to come to his study at ten the next morning, because there were important topics that we needed to discuss. I ate alone, my appetite diminished by suspense.

  Having gestured that I should be seated, my godfather sat motionless: his face was taut and a little pale. When he spoke he spoke hurriedly, avoiding my eyes:

  “I must apologize. I hoped to have this conversation last night, with darkness and wine to free the tongue, as once before. But my resolve failed. The indisposition referred to in my note amounted to no more than that—a pitiful weakness.

  “However, I used the note to force my own hand so that now, this morning, we must talk. We must talk: but there is too much to say, too much to put into order. Where to begin? Where to begin?” He tapped the desk with his fingertips. “You laughed the other morning when Mrs. Hurlock had left. You seem to laugh often, as your father did. You will have noticed that I do not laugh myself. No more does Quentin. Hurlock laughs loudly and often, but without mirth, as an ass brays. You were laughing with obvious mirth—but why?”

  Taken by surprise, I sought for an honest answer.

  “It is hard to tell, sir. There was an absurdity in the situation. I think I laughed at that absurdity. But I recall that my mind was producing conflicting thoughts simultaneously—more than it could accommodate. Perhaps the laughter signified that thinking had failed.”

  Mr. Gilbert digested my explanation. “You were laughing at disorder; I think I even smiled myself. But I am unaccustomed to disorder: it is what I have always striven to avoid—until now. I am in unfamiliar territory.”

  He glanced at me. “You will not make sense of what I am saying, because I can barely do so myself. I must be clearer. I must be clearer.”

  He got to his feet, and began to pace slowly about, tapping his left palm with his right fist, as though to assist his thought.

  “You wrote to me of the masquerade, the choice of costume, the playing of a part. Forty years ago I set out to dress up as myself and perform as myself. It was a deliberate decision. I was in some confusion and needed rules to live by. Gradually I refined costume and conduct until they fitted me perfectly.”

  He stopped and turned to me.

  “But there was a price to pay. I had other needs, other behaviors, which could not be—which were not—accommodated by the person I had elected to become.”

  By this time the old fellow was in a state of some excitement: the color was back in his cheeks and there was a fleck of spittle at one corner of his mouth. Still self-absorbed he went on:

  “I know my abilities and limitations. I do not possess the personal charm of yourself or your father. I substitute courtesy. I observe that while I can like or admire this person or that, I am deficient in affection. I see a balance sheet of good and bad qualities and respond accordingly. No doubt as a consequence of this habit, I have no intimates.

  “My interest in the Passions derives from the difference between myself and others. I see these differences and try to account for them. But I have come to suspect a falsity in this very habit of observation—a falsity akin to seeing in two dimensions a phenomenon that exists in three dimensions.”

  He broke off and put both palms on his desk, bowing his head as though to collect himself.

  “Over the years I attempted experiments of a kind—experiments to make good what I was missing by providing me fresh perspectives. Some succeeded up to a point, but they remained external, something I could grasp but not inhabit. I sought to live an alternative life, to see through someone else’s eyes. Now you have granted me such an experience. I am grateful for it. But I am disturbed by the conflicting feelings you have evoked.”

  He sat down and looked at me attentively.

  “You said that it was a mixture of thoughts that made you laugh the other morning. Can you be more particular?”

  “I can try to be.”

  I thought for a few moments before saying, pausing after each clause:

  “Among my thoughts were the following: I was glad to have fulfilled my undertaking; I hoped that there would be no ill consequences; I was gratified that Mrs. Hurlock had enjoyed herself; I was incredulous at the improbability of the episode; I was confused by the mixture of abstract ideas and animal appetites that had been at work; and I was amused that the three of us chatted together while unable to mention the topic uppermost in our minds.”

  My godfather nodded gravely at this gallimaufry, as though taking in some serious philosophical proposition.

  “I think I was aware,” said he, “of all those sentiments in my vicinity, but additionally of at least three others. One was gratification that the boorish Hurlock, who once lorded it in these shires, had been humbled; the second was that I had belatedly, if vicariously, serviced the woman who had taken my eye five and twenty years ago; the third was complacency at having planned and presided over this thoroughly reprehensible proceeding.”

  He had spoken carefully, his voice willed to calmness, but the spark in his eye showed that he knew how singular and incriminating a statement he was making. I remained silent.

  Mr. Gilbert seemed suddenly more at ease, as though the difficult part of his task had now been done. When he spoke again he spoke comfortably:

  “You must understand that these are sentiments which I would never previously have allowed myself to feel, still less to disclose. I have passed a private Rubicon and entered the realm of Disorder, with you as my sole companion and guide.”

  I heard myself say: “What quarter of that realm do you next wish to explore?”

  “The Ogden territory has a particular interest for me.”

  When I said nothing, he resumed: “Your dealings with Miss Brindley I could easily follow: they confirmed recollections of my own. You saw her in a pastoral light until you enjoyed her body. First the one Passion and then the other: idealized desire succeeded by physical repletion. So much is familiar to me. I wish to learn more about complication, about simultaneous and conflicting feelings, as implied in your references to Mrs. Ogden.”

  I had a sense of suffocation. My godfather might speak as a disinterested philosopher of behavior; but his abstractions bore directly upon my freedom of action and even of emotion. He had used me to seduce a matron I scarcely knew—hiring my body, so to speak; now it seemed that he planned to encroach on my deepest feelings. If ever I bedded Sarah, might this old devil be peering through a keyhole or taking notes in a bedroom cupboard?

  Yet I recalled Cullen’s comments. Had I not put my personal life at my godfather’s disposal? It was too late to resort to dignified reproach.

  “That is a delicate affair,” I said at last, hoping to put a dampener on the subject. “I cannot be optimistic about my chances of success.”

  “Then the campaign may be protracte
d,” replied Gilbert, not in the least put out. “You implied that Mr. Ogden is exploring a new profession. Can you tell me more?”

  I described the meeting at Crocker’s house and Ogden’s apparent interest in the disposition of light. Gilbert listened attentively, as though registering a point of interest.

  “Perhaps we can turn this to advantage,” he said. “Have you decided what your next move will be?”

  “Not yet. Bear in mind, sir, that it will prove difficult for me to achieve so much as a private conversation with the lady in question.”

  Gilbert smiled thinly. “I might find a means to tempt her husband out of town.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, but I spoke mechanically. I needed to hint demurral. All I could manage was: “I hope the affair does not prove a disappointment to you.”

  Either Gilbert was oblivious to the shading of irony or he chose to ignore it.

  “I will be disappointed,” he said, “only if nothing happens between you and Mrs. Ogden. Her capitulation or her resistance might equally prove to be of interest.”

  Here was a crumb of relief: at least I was not to be assessed merely on my success as an instrument of copulation. But even that crumb left a disagreeable aftertaste: presumably I would be expected to submit minute reports on matters emotional.

  He immediately confirmed that supposition: “Remember that it is the Passions that are of concern to me—Passions declared, suppressed, conflicting, compounded. These are the demons that determine our conduct.”

  Aware how one-sided our conversation had been, I tried to express speculative interest.

  “What say you, sir, to the exhibitions of Passion in great works of literature—in Homer’s epics or Shakespeare’s tragedies?”

  “They have become deadened by familiarity. Moreover, they pertain to a past world. I cannot feel the reality of an emotion unless it relates to the life I know. Your conquest of Mrs. Hurlock I could taste on my tongue.”