The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  We were admitted by a withered old housekeeper whom Thorpe had mentioned as being Yardley’s only domestic servant and companion. Without a word she ushered us into a dark den, so crammed with cupboards and chests of drawers as to be effectively reduced to less than half its size. If Thorpe’s house seemed too large for his immediate requirements, Yardley’s was its antithesis.

  The old man was sitting hunched in a chair, with one heavily bandaged leg propped up on a low stool. He looked leaner and more lugubrious than I remembered him, and showed little sign of being gratified by our visit.

  “I cannot get up,” he said, regarding us almost belligerently. “The doctor tells me I should stand as little as possible.”

  “Is the injury healing?” asked Thorpe.

  “I cannot say—and no more can the doctor: the damage is all internal. The fool binds up the affected part and hopes that it will heal itself. If it does, of course, he will claim the credit; if not, he will accept no responsibility. But sit down, sit down.”

  Thorpe and I made shift to extricate chairs from the confusion of furniture.

  “How did this accident come about?” I asked.

  “Absurdly—quite absurdly. I had my eyes on a kingfisher and caught my foot under the root of a tree. Down I went, twisted my knee, and could not get up again. I was left to crawl my way home like a snake.”

  He sniggered unexpectedly at this recollection and became more cheerful.

  “You must excuse me, Mr. Fenwick, for being less than welcoming. Thorpe here is used to my ways. I have so few visitors that I scarcely remember how to behave. I pass my days in the company of insects and mammals. There is no cause to speak.”

  “But you must speak with your housekeeper,” said Thorpe.

  “Why do you think so?” Yardley seemed surprised. “We are all but strangers. She lodges here as a jackdaw may make its nest in a rabbit hole. Little passes between us. I have kept count of the words I utter in a week. The total is commonly less than two hundred—sometimes less than one hundred. I write far more words than I speak.”

  “Mr. Yardley has a singular bias,” said Thorpe. “His energies go into observing, collecting, and classifying. These drawers and shelves are crammed with his specimens.”

  “Specimens of what kind?” I asked.

  “I am a regular contributor to the Naturalist’s Journal,” said Yardley. “I have collected butterflies, moths, beetles, and birds’ eggs. In these drawers are dried plants. In the cabinet over there you would find a selection of animal skulls and skeletons. I have also shells, stones, and crystals, but they are of less interest to me.”

  “Where do your observations take you?” I inquired, hoping to draw him out. “Are you working on a treatise of some sort?”

  “No,” said Yardley. “I collect, examine, describe. I have no greater end in view.”

  The response silenced me, but Thorpe again intervened.

  “You must understand,” he said, “that Mr. Yardley thinks in particularities.”

  “Exactly so,” said Yardley. “It may be that some other man, differently constituted, will make use of my work in a theoretical way. I am content with notes and memoranda and the Naturalist’s Journal: I have no ambition to enter the Royal Society.”

  “Your immediate ambition,” said Thorpe, “must be to get to your feet again. What did the doctor say on that score?”

  “Nothing.” Yardley sniggered again. “He fears to make a forecast that might be proved wrong.”

  “Meanwhile you are a prisoner in your own house,” cried Thorpe. “This is wretched luck. What could I bring you to raise your spirits? Some food? Some wine?”

  Yardley shook his head. “Wine lifts my spirits, so I drink it in company. But I’ve never cared for the taste. I’m like the cat, which relishes fish but shrinks from water. Hurlock is your otter.”

  Perhaps because his knee was painful, Yardley soon became subdued once more, his narrow body drooping. Thorpe and I contrived a little further conversation and then took our leave.

  “You may think,” said Thorpe as we waded through the long grass, “that Yardley did not welcome our visit, but that is his habitual manner, twisted knee or no twisted knee. If no one visits him, however, he feels aggrieved. I assume you know his history?”

  “I know nothing about him, beyond meeting him twice at dinner.”

  Thorpe looked surprised. “He is another of your godfather’s pensioners. I know the story only by hearsay, but it seems Mr. Gilbert came upon him years ago when he had not long commenced his botanical studies and was living in poverty. He set him up here as you have seen, in a small cottage with a small income.”

  “That would seem to be a generous act.”

  “I am sure that it was generously intended. But one outcome of it was to turn Mr. Yardley in upon himself. Since he had no reason to seek work and no great desire to find friends, he gradually became a recluse. If Mr. Gilbert did not prize him out of his shell occasionally, he might commune with insects alone.”

  “A melancholy outcome.”

  “Whether it is melancholy for Yardley I cannot say. He seems to enjoy his life, whatever others might think of it. But I fancy there was some disappointment for your godfather. It is said that he hoped to be sponsoring some great work of scholarship. As we have just been told, Yardley has no plans of that kind.”

  “But Mr. Gilbert has not cast him aside?”

  “He has not; but I think he has come to value Mr. Yardley purely for himself, a singular specimen in his own right.”

  “Then you see Mr. Gilbert as a naturalist of sorts?”

  Thorpe smiled: “If you yourself made that suggestion, I would not contradict you.”

  Only as his guests began to arrive did Mr. Gilbert remark to me that Mr. Hurlock could not be present. His wife would be coming with her friend, a Mrs. Ford. Colonel Stearns together with his wife and two grown-up daughters were the first of the visitors to appear. I conversed for some little time with Stearns, a quiet man, not easily to be associated with blood or battle. Thorpe came with the Quentins, Mrs. Quentin being tight-lipped and somewhat pale. There were two or three other elderly guests, whose names I have forgotten. Mrs. Hurlock caught my eye and smiled as she entered with her companion. It was a sober gathering, but the mere presence of so many people and voices produced a mild animation that made the big house livelier than I had ever seen it.

  At length we were led through to the drawing room where the painting was to be displayed. It was still upon an easel, and hidden by a cloth. My godfather introduced Mr. Rowley, a tall, spindly fellow with a crooked jaw, and it was the painter himself who drew back the cloth, to a small flurry of approbation. For me, who had seen the work at an earlier stage, there were several surprises. To one side of the house you could now see the foliage of the oak tree that had been cut down before the picture was painted. The coloring was altogether richer, bringing out, in particular, the texture of the stonework and the details of my godfather’s braided coat. But above all the face was now more interesting and enigmatic than it had been. The landowner still looked with pride on his estate, but there was also, as it seemed to me, a certain detachment and calculation in his gaze: he was viewing his property yet seeing or thinking beyond it.

  While Mr. Rowley spoke to the colonel, who seemed to be a possible future client, I asked my godfather about the oak tree, and was told that he had described it to the artist so that the painting might reach back to include an element from the past. Later I talked to the painter himself, and was glad to do so: it seemed to me magical that this plain-looking fellow who might have passed for a waiter or a barber could imprint a face or a scene on his mind and set it down on canvas perfectly miniaturized. When I mentioned the change that I had observed in the depiction of Mr. Gilbert, he replied that this should not seem surprising:

  “I could catch a likeness of sorts in a few
strokes, but that is a single aspect, a single mood. As I see more I can add more.”

  “Then can you show several moods at once?”

  “I would hope so.”

  I thought, but did not say, that here was a demonstration of the plurality of the passions.

  My godfather brought Mrs. Quentin across to consult me about our coming performance. Her manner was as timid as before: she spoke few words, seemingly as ill at ease with her artificial teeth as she had been with her decaying ones. I undertook most of the talking in order to spare her embarrassment. Fortunately she felt comfortable as far as the music was concerned, confident that she could accompany any of the songs in the book.

  The size of the gathering meant that the great dining hall was for once to be brought into use. As we made our way to it my godfather appeared at my side.

  “Hurlock is in Warwickshire. He has to administer the estate of his brother, who died last month. But this is not the kind of entertainment he would care for. Mrs. Hurlock, by the way, is to spend the night here.”

  He turned away to speak to the colonel, but his words, as he must have anticipated, had given my mind an electrical shock. I recollected our previous conversation about Mrs. Hurlock. Had she been invited to stay in order to put her at my disposal? Would my godfather lose faith in me if I failed to take advantage of this opportunity?

  To enhance my confusion I found myself seated at table between Mrs. Hurlock and her friend Mrs. Ford. It quickly became apparent that the latter lady, perhaps twenty years the elder, was something of a cipher, content to eat, drink, and nod. I could devote my attention to my singing partner and—as now seemed outrageously possible—prospective mistress. An obvious gesture was to offer my commiserations concerning her late brother-in-law, but she seemed little interested in that gentleman, whom she had met, she said, very seldom. She was far readier to talk about the performance to come. My godfather had marked one or two songs as being, in his view, particularly suited to us, and we quickly agreed on those and a few others, and on the order in which we should sing them. Mrs. Hurlock confided that she had practiced all the songs in the book.

  “I was free to do so because my husband has been away. Between ourselves he is no great lover of music.”

  This I had no difficulty in believing. It was remarkable to me how much more spirited she seemed on this occasion than in either of our previous meetings, whether because of the prospect of singing, or simply through freedom from the oppressive presence of Mr. Hurlock. She did remark that music excited her in rather the same way, she thought, as hunting excited her husband.

  I maintained this dialogue while all the time apprehensive as to how the evening might end. It seemed preposterous that my godfather should be inciting me to seduce this older woman, the wife of a friend, in his own house. Yet how else was I to construe the sudden summons when Hurlock was away, and the unusual arrangement that his wife should be passing the night there? I asked myself whether I would be physically capable of coition with this buxom matron, and was relieved to conclude that there should be no difficulty on that score, at least. Whether because she was more vivacious tonight, or because I was rallying to the challenge, I felt potentially aroused, even potentially formidable. It stirred me to be making lighthearted conversation with the respectable Mrs. Hurlock while thinking In a few hours I may reduce you to a very different state. I was encouraged in this bravado by noticing that the lady once or twice glanced at me in a manner that in a younger woman could have seemed provocative.

  My immersion in this personal drama was so complete that I scarcely observed, and certainly cannot recollect with any clarity, what else was taking place at the table. I have a general sense that my godfather presided with his habitual courtesy, ensuring that no guest was neglected. Mrs. Quentin remained reticent, eating with caution. The older guests questioned Mr. Rowley, and Thorpe coaxed the colonel’s daughters into conversation.

  For the performance we retired to the drawing room, where chairs had been set out in front of the harpsichord. It was a relief to me that Mrs. Hurlock and our accompanist were confident in their abilities. I might find this the easiest part of the evening.

  We began with a simple duet, “Now Philomel, in Leafy Darkness Lost,” which was greeted warmly. I could see the colonel expressing vigorous approval to my godfather. After a second such piece, “I Mourn the Fading Rose,” was similarly received, Mrs. Quentin played Barton’s “Court Minuet” with skill and feeling. It was pleasant to see her blush of gratification as she acknowledged the applause with a tight little smile.

  We now came to the two songs my godfather had marked. Mrs. Hurlock, in excellent voice, was quite transformed in singing and even enacting the first of them, nonsense though it was. I could almost see a trace of Kitty Brindley in her performance:

  “Let Strephon claim

  My heart is cold:

  I never wished him ill.

  I love him not,

  And told him so,

  Yet he pursues me still.

  Am I to blame

  If he had hopes

  That I cannot fulfill?

  I love him not—

  Yet give him leave

  To love me if he will.”

  The song chosen for me could have been a response to this coquettish rejection:

  “It were too craven to be calm

  When she for whom I burn

  Will feel no pity for my plight.

  She stole my heart without a qualm,

  May I not steal in turn?

  Too cruel still, she scorns my pray’rs

  And mocks my piteous sighs.

  Say, Cupid, have I not the right

  To steal upon her unawares,

  And take what she denies?”

  We concluded in duet once more: a rendition of Mr. Handel’s ornate setting of Tennant’s couplets:

  “Conflicting passions vex my troubled soul,

  Too bold, too rash for reason to control.

  Let hope and doubt, resistance and desire,

  Dissolve as one in love’s transforming fire.”

  Our little audience seemed delighted with this performance, clapping vigorously, to the obvious pleasure of Mrs. Quentin and Mrs. Hurlock. I would have been pleased enough myself had I been less conscious of the possible implications of the last three songs. We had sung them, as the occasion seemed to require, with small hints of interplay which for our listeners would have been mere gestures, but which to me seemed truly insinuating.

  Mr. Gilbert having thanked us in a few becoming sentences, the company reverted to general conversation, of which I now recall little. The colonel and his wife were complimentary; I spent some time with Mr. Quentin, neither of us mentioning his London visit; Thorpe congratulated me upon my singing and remarked that he was particularly pleased to see the two ladies, often overshadowed in company, so confident and so accomplished. I participated in these exchanges without thought. Like a man about to fight a duel I felt my mind concentrated, my senses quickened, and my heart beating hard. Across the room Mrs. Hurlock was talking with my godfather; once or twice she glanced in my direction with what could be seen as a collusive smile. Yet what of that? We had indeed colluded in song.

  My task was clear. But where was the attempt to be made? What did my godfather have in mind? The situation was absurd. What little I knew about this lady was powerfully dissuasive: she was married, a mother, twenty years my senior. My very future might be decided by this venture; but if I was successful no reward was guaranteed, and if I failed the consequence could be appalling.

  My godfather drew me aside.

  “The power of song has been at work,” he said. “I fancy Mrs. Hurlock now sees you quite in a pastoral light.”

  I sought for an answer. “She seems to be enjoying the evening . . .”

  “She does indeed. I hope she
will find more to enjoy.”

  With which words he slipped away, leaving me to engage my tongue in further exchanges with Mrs. Ford.

  Soon afterward the first carriages were called: the elderly guests departed, as did the colonel and his family. My moment of trial was coming nearer. The Quentins and Mr. Thorpe left together. It appeared that Mr. Rowley would be staying the night, but since he was to set out early the next morning he begged leave to retire. My godfather ushered myself, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. Hurlock through to a smaller drawing room.

  “We must surely talk a little more,” he said, “before we retire in our turn.”

  As we went he murmured to me: “Mrs. Hurlock is to sleep in the room you usually occupy. It would be a strange business if you went to it by mistake, from sheer habit.”

  So here was the final hint—or instruction. I was to assail Mrs.Hurlock in the bed where I had been accustomed to sleep. If she shrieked and woke the house, my single shred of excuse would be that I had broken in upon her in error.

  Mr. Gilbert, in excellent spirits, insisted that we all four, even the ladies, should drink some port. Mrs. Hurlock assented readily, but Mrs. Ford, by now tired, would take only a little.

  “Let me observe once more,” said my godfather, “how much pleasure our musicians gave me tonight. You were both in excellent voice. Mrs. Hurlock, I hope you enjoyed the performance as much as I did.”

  Mrs. Hurlock, bright-eyed and a little flushed, replied: “I have enjoyed the evening more than I can say. I was transported into another world.”

  “I am delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Gilbert.

  Seizing the moment, I said: “I could not have wished for a better partner in song.”

  The words won me a glance of complaisance, but I could have no idea how things were in the lady’s mind and body. Were the intimations I had noticed an instinctive reversion to youthful coquetry? Or might she be feeling merely a maternal impulse of fondness? Most likely of all, was she not simply making the most of an agreeable evening which she now felt had come to its end?