by Wolf, Jack
I was silent for a Minute as I reconsidered my Position. It had become of personal Importance to me that I should emerge victorious from this Spat, and this Desire momentarily overpowered mine Adherence to the Rules of philosophical Engagement. “I did not state that the two things are equivalent,” I said. “I merely answered: ‘Perhaps’. But for the Purpose of our Question regarding Fashion it doth not matter whether Beauty be a Virtue or a Quality within it. Beauty necessarily inheres within Fashion; ’tis as much Fashion’s Purpose as is Signification of Rank or Fortune. If it were not, Persons of Fashion would perforce appear as dull as Ducks. So Fashion hath the Quality of Beauty, if not necessarily the Virtue.” I paused. “But you, Sir, have not proved that Virtue doth not inhere within Beauty. If a clear Note be good, ’tis not Beauty alone that can make it so, but Goodness.”
Mr Fielding laughed. “Therefore, Beauty and Virtue may not be intirely identical, but it is the Devil’s Job to separate them. I salute you, Sir; but I still shall not put on that insufferable Wigg.”
I did not know whether I had won, or whether he had chosen to let me think it so. But at that Moment I began to perceive how it could be possible for me to germinate a real and honest Liking for Mr John Fielding. I permitted My Self the Risk of a small Snicker.
* * *
I wrote at once with these exciting Newes to Nathaniel, and also to Jane. To Jane, in addition, I apologised for my brutish Behaviour on my last Night at Shirelands Hall. I told her that I was plagued by the deepest Remorse, which was true, and that I was missing her, which was not. To Nathaniel I wrote the Opposite. I was missing him dreadfully, and whenever I considered the Circumstances of our Severance I felt a Nail drive thro’ mine whole Heart. But I could not apologise for the thing that I had done.
I received on Christmas Eve a Reply from Jane, who in a most forgiving Tone that made me feel my Shame all the more keenly, told me that mine Apologies were unnecessary. My Father had at last resumed taking his Meals out of his Study, and Life continued at Shirelands more or less as it had always done. Christmas was to be a quiet Affair, and I should be glad that I was in London, despite the Season. Mine Aunt sent her Regards, and so did James Barnaby.
“It will gladden yr Heart to know, Brother, (Jane wrote)that a Dayte has finally been Fixt upon for my Weddynge. We are to be Marryed from Shirelands, in St Peter’s Church, next Yeare upon the Eighth of June. Mr B. has taken up the Lease of Withy Grange, which is barely five Miles Distant from Shirelands, and which shall suit us very Well. He is determined that it be readye for June, and is about some fashionable Improvements to the View which must be Compleated before we can move in. We are to have fine Lawns and a Grecian Valley, such as Mr Broun hath made at Stowe.
She continued in this Vein for an intire Page, but I had lost Interest, and skippt ahead to the Ending.
Rector R. and Family are Well, and have askd me to Conveye to you their best Wishes. They are Presently quite Crampt as they have
(here I was forced to turn the Letter)
their Montague Cousins staying with them againe. Their Mother is Ill and the eldest Boy gone into the Nayvye so there is no one to look after them except—
(I turned the Letter)
an Unmarried Uncle. I send you my Deepest Love, deare Tristan, and I praye to see you soon, upon my Weddynge if not before. I am rn out of Spc, dr Br. But I rem yr hum. and lovg Sr, Jane Hart.”
If the Rector’s Family are well, I thought, then why no Newes of Nathaniel?
“Doth it not seem strange to you,” I complained to Mary Fielding, who was presently come into the Room, “that my Sister says nothing of my Friend, whom I had expressly asked after?”
I held out the Letter for her to peruse. Mary took the Sheet from me and read it, carefully, and every Word aloud. I left her in the drawing room Doorway and kicked mine Heels beside the Window, watching an antient Pedlar and his Dogg make an erratick, circuitous Progress thro’ the busy Street. Mrs Fielding finished, refolded the Letter, and held it out to me. “I don’t know, Mr ’Art,” she said. “If your Sister hath naught to do with your Friend, mayhap she hath no Newes of him to repeat.”
I took the Missive back and regarded Mary more closely than I had done before. “You look troubled, Mrs Fielding,” I said.
Mary sighed. “I am, Sir,” she said. She seemed then upon the Point of saying more, but stoppt, and wrung her Hands. I put mine Hand upon her Shoulder.
“Mrs Fielding,” I said. “What is the Matter?”
Mary Fielding pulled herself together, shaking mine Hand away and giving Vent to a small Laugh, high and thin, that had no Mirth in it. “’Tis of no Consequence to you.” She paused for a Moment, then went on: “Altho’ how Liza is to get those blood Spatters from your Shirts I don’t know. If you must visit the Cockpits, Sir, I would that you’d stand farther from the Ring. Not that there’ll be any ’ope of getting them out now, not with you going off to study with Dr ’Unter.” She gave a shudder. “’E is a great Doctor, Mr Fielding says, and a kind Man, with lovely Manners, and a charming Accent. I’ll tell Liza to try Vinegar.”
“Mary!”
“What, Sir?”
“What is wrong?”
“Oh, Mr ’Art,” she said. “I’m feared I have done something very stupid.”
Then she explained about the Gypsy. There were many of them about, she said, all over the Country, by the Sound of it; and she knew it was dangerous to have aught to do with them. But this one had been an old Woman; harmless, Mary thought; so very old her Eyes were like black Prunes in her Head, which had been brown and wrinkled as a Conker. She had come to the back Door selling Holly and Mistletoe; and Mary did so love fresh Greenery indoors at Christmas-time, she would have as much of it as possible; so she had—foolish Mary!—invited her in, and they had talked long over Tea. And then, only then, had Mary Fielding noticed the Baby on the Gypsy’s Back.
“The prettiest little thing I ever did see,” Mary said. “I can’t understand how it was I didn’t see it at the first, for once I had I couldn’t look at anything else, so dear it was. So then she asked me to look after it, for but an Houre or two—”
All this, she said, had taken place at nine in the Morning, and it was now well past four.
“If you believe that she hath abandoned it, then it must go into the Foundling Hospital,” I said.
“Oh!” Mary wailed. “And won’t Mr Fielding be angry! A Foundling, left in this ’ouse! But—but would you come and see it, Mr ’Art? I thought, with your Knowledge of Anatomy you might—”
“What?”
“Please come and see, Sir; I darest not talk too loud on it.”
Thoroughly perplext, altho’ greatly amused by the Irony of a Foundling being left in Henry Fielding’s House (altho’ not, as in his infamous novel, in his bed), I let Mary lead me to the Kitchen, where a plain willow Basket sate at safe Distance from the Fire, which was crackling chearfully. The Kitchen smelled deliciously of Sausage-meat and Spices, despite the Fact that we were only to eat Sundaye’s Leftovers tonight. Mrs Fielding, acting on my behalf, had won the Argument over which Stuffing to order for the Morrow’s Turkey, and I caught the distinctive salty Whiff of Oysters mixt with the sharp Tang of Lemon. My Mouth began to water.
“I warn you, Mrs Fielding, I have no Experience of Children,” I said. “And little Liking for them, either. I shall doubtless make it squall.”
The Infant did indeed begin to stir at the Sound of my Voice, and kicking forth its Feet and flailing its Hands it set the Basket quite into Motion. But it did not weep. Instead, an high pitched, wheezing Cry came from it, halfway betwixt a musical Note and an Hiss.
“There there, my pretty Poppet,” Mrs Fielding said, and she lifted the small wriggling thing, still wrappt in its woollen Blanket, from its Bed. “Oh, I don’t know how to hold you, I’m sure. There—” changing the Babe’s Position somehow—“That’s better. Mr ’Art, please take a Look. I don’t know what to think.”
At first, I though
t the Child perfectly common. It had a pretty enough Face, with large round grey Eyes that stared out at me with the unsettling Intensity typical of Children. It looked very young; a dozen Weeks at most; probably it was younger. I had no Measure by which to judge the Maturity of Babies. Then the Child yawned, and I caught a glimpse of a Row of white Teeth, lining its rosy Gums like miniature Needles.
Did I see that? I thought. I could not be intirely sure. I steppt closer and peered into the Infant’s Face.
“That isn’t all, Sir,” said Mary Fielding. She began with the utmost Care to unwrap the Blanket, soothing and petting the Baby as she did so. “I thought to change her Clout; it had been a long while, and I thought she must be fouled. I don’t like that People leave them.” The Blanket now open, she cradled the naked Infant in the Crook of her Arm. “Is she a ’Uman, Mr ’Art?”
The Baby was female, but that was the least noteworthy thing about it. Intirely along both Sides of the Torso, beginning halfway down the Forearm and extending to the Ankle, there stretched a wide Membrane of translucent living Tissue, pink with Blood. Immediately, I thought of Mrs H., of Nathaniel, and of Goblin Babes.
“Egad!” I said. “’Tis a young Bat!”
As if in Agreement with mine Assessment, the Baby began to wave its Hands; its Wings, for so I had already decided to stile them, causing a Turbulence in the Aire that set Mrs Fielding’s Cap-strings all a-dancing.
“Is it Magick, Sir?” said Mary Fielding in a tremulous Voice.
“Aye,” I said. “And Mary Toft gave birth to Rabbits. Mr Fielding would be angry indeed if he were to hear you say that. The Child is but deformed—spectacularly so.”
“She is a ’Uman Child, then?”
“It is without Question a Human Child. Not a Bat, and not a Changeling.” I indicated to Mary that she should lay the Child upon the Table, that I might examine it more closely. Mary called to Liza to make Room upon the Tabletop, which was covered otherwise with Breadcrumbs and Milk and other things that I assumed to have something to do with Christmas Dinner, then she laid down the Baby, still in its Blanket. I gently took hold of the Infant’s right Arm and stretched it out, and did the same thing to the left. Both Limbs moved, I thought, normally. I repeated the Exercise with both Legs, and again found that the membranous Wings did not seem to interfere with the Action of the Parts. “Well, it will not be crippled,” I said. With growing Excitement, for, I thought, I should greatly like to shew Dr Hunter this Marvell, I ran my Fingers lightly along the Tissue of the left Wing. It was as soft and pliable as Velvet. “How extraordinary,” I said. I thought: How beautifull.
Fearing that the little thing take cold, I tried to fold the Blanket once again about it, but failed, and steppt back. Mrs Fielding shot me a withering Look, and with an Ease that was astonishing to me she swaddled the flapping Baby and replaced it delicately within its Basket.
“I am surprized,” I said, “that the Gyspy hath left it. They earn much Money out of such Freaks at Fairs, and the Like.”
“Shall I tell Liza to take ’er to the ’ospital, Mr ’Art?”
“No,” I said. “I should very much like to keep it until I have shewn Dr Hunter. He may have another Suggestion. I must confess My Self reluctant to see it go; I had never imagined that a Deformity of this Nature was possible.”
Mary Fielding’s Shoulders sagged. “I don’t suppose,” she said, “that the old Woman will come back for her, will she?”
I looked again into Mary’s anxious Face and came to a Decision. “If she doth not,” I said, “then you need not trouble the Hospital. I shall procure a Wet Nurse in the Town to raise it at mine own Expense. It is the oddest Creature I have ever seen, and I am quite enchanted by it.”
At this Declaration, about which I was in compleat earnest, Mary’s Expression changed intirely; she began to laugh. “Mr ’Art,” she said. “I credit you are getting as ’are-brained as Mr Fielding. He would have all the Sorrow in the World undo itself and fade away because he willed it so. You cannot support a Child, Sir; you are not yet twenty. I shall speak with Mr Fielding and he shall decide what is to be done. I know I should have told him already, but I had not the Courage.”
At this Point the kitchen Clock chimed the Houre of five, and as this was nigh upon Time for Dinner, Mrs Fielding and her Servants chivvied me back up-Stairs. I returned to the drawing Room to await the Bell and ponder once again upon Jane’s Letter, and the Absence of Nathaniel from it. Then I fell to considering the little Bat and what was to become of it. I feared for its Future should it enter the Foundling Hospital. Even supposing it survived—which was not likely—who would want a Maid with Wings? It would in all Probability end up in some Establishment akin to Mrs Haywood’s, at the Mercy of some Monster like to Me. I disliked that Notion utterly.
Christmas Eve Dinner was not a grand Affair by any Means, as Festivities were planned for the Morrow; but evidently Mary did not feel it was sufficiently dull to enliven it with her Newes of the Foundling. We sate beneath the Holly in the dining Room, the ash Logs in the Fire burning high and fierce, and ate cold Beef. Mr Fielding complained loudly about his Gout, and then embarked upon a bitter Monologue contemning the open-palmed Practices of his Predecessor in the Magistracy, who had, he said, encouraged every Pimp in the Neighbourhood to think that he could buy the Law. I privately questioned whether Mr Fielding’s relentless Integrity did not sometimes cause more Trouble than it deserved.
I would not normally have betrayed any Confidence of Mary’s, but because I wholeheartedly believed that she would tell her Husband, when she met with the proper Moment to do so, and because I felt My Self to be involved in the Matter, I sought an Audience with John Fielding in the drawing Room after Dinner to ask his Advice upon it.
Mr Fielding was so taken aback that he almost let fall his Spectacles. The red Firelight danced within the darkened Lenses. “But it is not your Child, Tristan,” he said.
“I know that, Sir.”
“Then, why?”
“It is so unusual,” I said.
“Tristan, tell me,” said Mr Fielding, rubbing his Forehead upon his Fist. “Do you intend to keep a Menagerie of unusual Creatures, or to run a Side-show at a Fair?”
“Of course not,” I said. “’Tis a Human Child. And naturally I have no Interest in parading it before a gawping Publick. ’Tis bad enough that Visitors are allowed in the Bedlam, and Bridewell.”
“Yet you, yourself, wish only to admire at it.”
“No,” I said. Mr Fielding was in Fact more than half right; but not wholly, for I had another Sentiment besides, to which I could not put a Name. It made me want to carry off the pretty Freak and shelter it, far away from the ignorant Curiosity and well-meant Concern of those who would ask, like Mary: “Is she a ’Uman, Mr ’Art?”
I waited all Evening for the Sound of Henry Fielding’s upraised Voice, which would mean that his Wife had told him of the Foundling, but it never came. Shortly before Midnight he retired in Pain and ill Humour to Bed, and Mary, telling him God knows what, slippt away again to the Kitchen. When I realised what she had done, I followed.
The Kitchen was still very warm, and the low tallow Candles gave it a friendly, welcoming Aspect. Mrs Fielding had dismisst Liza and the other Maids for the Night, and seemed, despite all common Sense, to be preparing to spend hers with the Baby before the Fire. She had unbound it from its Swaddling, and sate with it loose upon her Lap, attemping to Spoon-feed it Pananda from a blue China Bowl. She half leapt up in great Surprize as I approached, clutching the Infant to her as if she feared some fell Danger was fain to threaten it.
“Peace, Mrs Fielding,” I said. “’Tis not your Husband, nor Mr John. ’Tis only Tristan.”
I had previously planned that if I could not keep the Bat, I would at least draw its Likeness before it was taken away from me. I decided therefore to have Mary remain sitting with the Babe upon her Lap whilst I sketched, expecting in mine Ignorance that it would remain still whilst I began, and failed, and b
egan over again, to capture its Quintessence upon Paper.
“Mr ’Art,” said Mary desperately, after almost half an Houre of false Starts and muted Curses upon my Part, “I have a little Talent for Drawing. If you will but sit and hold her, I’ll try to draw her for you.”
So, we exchanged Places, and after some Confusion I discovered how to retain the Child in mine Arms without dropping or smothering it. This was, in truth, a Labour of Hercules, for the Babe would not be still for me any more easily than it would for Mrs Fielding, and I was extreamly glad when the Sketch was compleat and I could hand it back.
Mrs Fielding swaddled the Baby again in its Blanket, having somehow affixt a ragged Clout to its lower Extremity, and laid it back in the Basket. “I believe that I could learn the proper Manner of doing that,” she said—to herself, I thought, rather than to me. “The Skin stretches so, it might be possible to fold it right away. Then she could mayhap wear ordinary Cloathes, when she is old enough.”
“Mary.” My previous Declaration hung unspoken in the Aire between us.
In that Moment I was convinced that I would keep my Bat. Mary would help me find a Nurse, and as regarding the Expense, had not John Fielding himself told me that I needed something else to squander my Fortune upon than Whoring?
For one long, silent Minute I believed it.
Then there came a loud, harsh Knock upon the Door that led from the Kitchen into the Street; and then another, till the solid Wood quaked with Drumming.
Mrs Fielding gasped and her Hand flew to her Breast; then she recollected herself, and straightened her Apron and her Cap before proceeding with great Dignity toward the Door. I stood close behind her. It was not like, I thought, that the Knockers were Robbers, but this was the Magistrate’s House, and Mary his Wife; it did as well to be careful.
Mrs Fielding opened the Door and there stood the Gypsy.
I know not wherefore I was so surprized. I had, I think, so greatly desired that she should not return that I had perswaded My Self that she would not. Yet, here the leathery Creature stood, as gristly as a blackberry Bush. She winked up at us out of two glittering black Eyes and drew back her Lips in a Grin, revealing a set of broken Teeth, like Thorns. Her gnarled Hand grippt tight about a small lanthorn Staff, upon which I seemed to see, entwined, the carven Bodies of Toads and Adders. In the uncertain lanthorn Light they looked as if they had been alive. I shivered.