The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  Your recent “aridities of thought” perhaps discount these ancillaries as merely enabling the physical act. My hope is that in some liaisons at least they can be celebrated in the physical consummation and even become an aspect of it.

  But perhaps I am by now above myself, and writing nonsense. Let me return to the earthier topic of my dealings with Kitty Brindley. Yesterday she and I, together with Crocker and his new mistress, Jane Page, went by river to Richmond. Miss Brindley has become a notable figure on the London stage, flattered and courted wherever she goes. I was intrigued to see how far this change in her reputation might have affected her disposition.

  The alteration was marked. There was a new vanity, displayed in countless small ways. Whether standing or sitting, she would strike an attitude, as though posing for a portrait. She was imperious with those who assisted her or waited upon her. By her manner she seemed to blame our host, Mr. Crocker, for the damp weather that attended our little voyage; when obliged to take shelter from the rain, she positively sulked. Over dinner, when the four of us were alone together, she was more agreeable, but still managed to imply obliviousness to the previous intimacies between her and myself. It was as though I was expected to pay court to her over again—and with no clear prospect of success.

  I naturally wondered what would follow when evening came and, as arranged, we were to be alone together once more at the Full Moon inn. Perhaps she would seek to exercise her newfound authority by keeping me at arm’s length. Perhaps I had already been usurped by some wealthier rival.

  Sure enough, when our party broke up she professed herself tired and demanded to be taken back to her own lodging on Rose Street instead of to the Full Moon. However, in anticipation of some such evasion, I had a counterstrategy prepared. Seeming to acquiesce in her change of mind, I hired a hackney carriage and gave loud instructions to the coachman to take us to Melrose Square. He set off in that direction, but by prior arrangement with me turned aside after the first mile and proceeded toward the inn. Since it was growing dark and I had engaged Kitty in conversation, she did not at first realize what had been done. By the time she did so and loudly protested, I gave a further signal to the coachman, who whipped up his horses and took us pell-mell the rest of the way.

  When we arrived it was clearly in her mind to create something of an outcry. I was confident, however, that my determination and greater assurance would carry the day: if she expostulated she would not be believed. My expectation proved justified: I was able to hurry her into the inn, greet the landlord—who had seen us together before—and get her up the stairs to the room we had formerly occupied.

  She upbraided me with fury, all but accusing me of rape. I gave a calm reply:

  “My dear Kitty, we have enjoyed pleasurable hours in this very bed. Since the last time we did so, we have not had so much as a difference of opinion. I naturally assumed that your earlier refusal was no more than an affectation or a caprice.”

  She glared—but I continued in equable vein: “We have passed an agreeable day. I intend to enjoy further pleasures here tonight—pleasures in which I hope you will choose to be a sharer rather than a victim.”

  Leaving her to digest my words, I unconcernedly poured out some of the wine which I had ordered in advance. When I gave her a glass, however, she dashed it furiously from my hand. With no sign of anger I took a sip or two myself, regarding her with a smile, and then turned to set the glass down on the table.

  “Do not dare to touch me!” she hissed, shrinking away.

  By instinct I offered exactly the appropriate response. Firmly, but with no show of violence, I grasped her wrists and forced her back across the bed.

  “It is time,” I said, holding her down, “for the animal that is within you to be released.”

  With that I wrenched her skirt up above her waist. She struggled and kicked, but in so doing succeeded only in further exposing her procreative parts. I passed my hand down her white belly and thrust it into her bush of black curls. She cried out again, but the cry subsided into a moan, which proved to be the signal of capitulation. When, a little later, I released her wrists, she wrapped her arms around me and gave way to pleasure. Our earlier conflict seemed to have inflamed us: we became almost monstrous in our doings.

  How these exchanges bear upon my earlier pronouncements in this letter I scarcely know. There is much for me to explore and discover.

  I remain, &c.

  The composition of this letter, which followed my visit to Sarah but preceded the excursion to Richmond, proved a laborious task. My idea was simply to offer my godfather some titbits to occupy his attention. Whether I was sincere in some, or any, of my general observations, I scarcely knew. Mr. Gilbert seemed to have thought himself into a state of detached yet prurient impotence mysterious to me. I could do no more than toss a handful of speculative remarks in the general direction of his predicament. The later paragraphs were fabricated with no little self-disgust: I was ashamed to be demeaning Kitty by these absurd fictions; but felt that I had no choice.

  The weather being fine for our excursion to Richmond, we set out in the best of spirits. We were a party of five—Crocker, myself, Pike, Jane, and Kitty—or perhaps six, since Pike brought Trinculo in a small cage. As we were proceeding to the landing stage where the hired vessel was waiting, our good mood was disrupted by an unfortunate incident. A rawboned boatman, one of a ragged group, cried out: “Never take the fat fellow—he’ll sink you like a stone.” His friends greeted the remark with raucous laughter. Crocker walked toward him, smiling. “You’re a scarecrow,” he said, “but I like your humor.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a crown and tossed it to one side of the jester. As the rascal stooped eagerly to pick up the coin Crocker, with unexpected nimbleness, stepped forward and planted a great kick on his backside that sent him sprawling face-forward in the dirt, with his head striking a post. The action was so sudden and violent as to produce a moment’s silence. But as the fallen man struggled to his feet, with blood trickling down his face, there were angry shouts: I feared a skirmish. Pike put down the cage and stepped alongside me as though ready to do battle. Fortunately the injured man turned and slouched away, clutching his coin, while our own boatman came forward to shepherd us to our craft.

  As we headed upriver Crocker sat silent, his face darkly flushed: we could see that he was ashamed of what he had done. Jane tried to rally him:

  “You are formidable,” said she. “I will take care never to rouse your fury.”

  “It was an ugly impulse,” said Crocker gloomily. “I am mortified.”

  “Then you should not be,” said I. “Such impudence is not to be borne.”

  But it took an unexpected intervention from our boatman to raise Crocker’s spirits.

  “Never you mind, sir,” he called out. “Ned Spratt won’t bear a grudge. You overpaid him. He’d take two kicks in the breech for a shilling any day.”

  These words wrung a smile from Crocker, and from that moment our expedition was an assured success. The sun was shining warmly, but a breeze filled our sail. We soon drew away from the city into cleaner water and clearer air, leaving the London stench behind us. Houses gave way to fields and meadows. There were birdcalls around us and the river chattered under our bows. The ladies raised light parasols to protect their complexions, but seemed enchanted by the blue skies and the gentle swaying of the boat. Moving between languid swans, we followed the large curves of the Thames into quieter and quieter country till we were steered smoothly to our destination, a small landing stage near Richmond.

  We were in the grounds of a riverside inn secured for our exclusive use. Crocker and I and the ladies, with Pike and Trinculo in attendance, climbed many steps to a high terrace, commanding a view across the Thames.

  “I trust that you are all comfortable,” cried Crocker when we were seated around a large table, “and that Sol’s scorching ray is sufficiently mode
rated by the soft zephyr that murmurs through the trees.”

  Jane quoted drowsily: “ ‘Phoebus is smiling on valley and hill.’ ”

  “Phoebus smiles,” said I to my neighbor, “and so does Miss Brindley.”

  Indeed she did: I had never seen her so vivacious. Now she spoke up saucily in her rustic vein:

  “And well may I smile, zur—these are my native parts, and I be at ease here. I could make myself useful, so I could, and find employment while you fine gentlemen would starve. To be sure you could no more milk a cow than you could fly.”

  “Would you not succor us?” cried Crocker. “If you saw me wasted to a skeleton?”

  Kitty haughtily tossed her head: “I might zee fit to give ’ee a little bread and milk, if you was humble and begged it of me.”

  Under the presiding eye of the tavern keeper, maidservants were bringing out food and wine. There could not have been a greater contrast with the crowded inn at Wapping where Pike and I had talked some days previously. We had a whole hillside to ourselves, the wide vista before us seemingly provided for our private enjoyment. Our waiters were discreet almost to the point of invisibility. Pike had taken Trinculo from his cage and fastened him to a tree by a long silver chain. After some pert frisking, as though to attract our attention, the little creature settled on a branch and poked at its fur with probing fingers.

  “Here on Richmond Hill,” said Crocker, “we are at peace, far from mobs and Mohocks and impudent boatmen. Why did I quit the country for the town?”

  “Because it can be damnably melancholy in winter,” I suggested.

  “That is true. But London can be vicious at any season.” He turned to the ladies: “Mr. Fenwick here often wears a sword.”

  Kitty affected a shudder: “Have you killed many men?”

  “Not one. I have drawn a little blood, and shed a little, too—but I lost more when a knife slipped as I was splitting a walnut. Mr. Pike here could tell you about genuine combat.”

  “Could you, Mr. Pike?” cried Jane.

  “By your leave, ma’am, I would prefer not to mention such things.”

  “Mr. Pike speaks wisely,” said Crocker. “This is an enchanted space, far from all conflict.”

  He was so cheerful that he smiled even as he ate. I noticed again the understanding between him and Jane Page: there was a pleasant complicity in the glances they exchanged. Impressed by her discernment, I tried to find out more about her, remarking that I had seen her on stage as Juno, as Ceres, and as Hermione.

  “Such are my roles,” she said. “I play the parts of queens and goddesses.”

  “This is beyond coincidence,” said I. “You must have innate qualities of majesty and divinity.”

  “So I tell her,” cried Crocker. “She draws upon her natural authority.”

  Miss Page smiled: “I thank you for your kind words, but you flatter me. I have but three aptitudes: I am tall, my voice is low, and I can be grave. Therefore on stage I cannot smile but must frequently kill myself. This habit fortunately discourages the gentlemen who try to take advantage of members of my profession.”

  “I hope,” said Crocker, “that you do not include myself or Mr. Fenwick in that number.”

  “By no means—otherwise I would have discouraged my innocent friend Miss Brindley from coming on such an expedition as this.”

  “Have no fear,” replied Crocker. “This is an idyll: no one can be disagreeable.”

  “Methinks you have too much assurance, sir,” cried Kitty in her rustic character. “Though I am but a country wench, I flatter myself that I can be as disagreeable as any fine lady in the town.”

  “Then pray be merciful,” said I. “We are gentlemen of delicacy, easily wounded.”

  “As to that, sir, I will form my own judgment.”

  Both women, happy and assured, exhibited a kind of brilliance of aspect. Crocker seemed to hint as much when he asked, a little later:

  “Tell us now, ladies of the stage: do you not find it a relief to travel far from the theater, free to be yourselves?”

  Miss Page and Miss Brindley looked at one another, smiling.

  “The truth is,” said Jane, “that I am so accustomed to assuming a character that I scarcely know who I am. But I know if I am happy or not, and today I am happy.”

  “Jane speaks for me also,” said Kitty with unexpected seriousness. “A young actress comes to town before she knows who she is, and must then make her living pretending to be other people. How could she not be confused?”

  “Your case is the more extreme,” said I, “but we are all obliged to perform.”

  “Indeed we are,” said Crocker. “Let me admit that there is a gap between the character I convey through words and the person I feel myself to be. Perhaps Mr. Pike has the best of it: he says but little and shows his disposition through his actions.”

  Suddenly the focus of attention, Pike looked up. “Then today,” he said, “I show my disposition by looking after your monkey.”

  We smiled at this remark, although uncertain as to its bearing.

  “In the boat,” said Kitty, “I was wondering whether a monkey could swim.”

  “I have never seen it done,” said Pike.

  As though aware we were speaking of him, Trinculo sprang from his branch and ran to and fro, chattering shrilly, before suddenly stopping to regard us with a satirical eye.

  “He jeers at us,” said Miss Page, “but I hope he is enjoying our expedition.”

  “Of course he is,” said Crocker. “Like ourselves he is released for the day.”

  “Unlike ourselves, however,” I objected, “he is fastened to a long chain.”

  “But so are we,” said Kitty unexpectedly. “The long chain that will pull us back into dirty London at the end of the afternoon.”

  “Trinculo is held by a metal chain,” said I. “What is ours made of ?”

  “Habit,” said Crocker. “And sloth and money and timidity. Miss Brindley is in the right: we are all prisoners. But we must make the best of our plight. I will give Trinculo an apple and open another bottle of wine.”

  We continued lively and talkative. Only Pike remained quiet, maintaining an alert reserve, like a sergeant dining among officers. Our table was in a shaded corner, but the sun shone so brightly on the scene before us that we could admire it only through half-closed eyes. That fact, combined with the peacefulness of the place, gradually conduced to sleepiness. We were pleasantly subdued into the larger scene. Although I saw that Kitty looked more appealing than I had ever previously known her, I did so with no nagging of physical desire, lost as I was in a collective reverie.

  In this shared contentment our conversation insensibly died away. Jane Page murmured idly: “I am very happy—and very drowsy.” It would have taken little to ease all of us, save Pike, into a peaceful doze. We were roused when Kitty said, with sudden recollection: “A year ago this very day I left Helmstone for London.”

  “With high expectations?” asked Crocker.

  “With very modest and fearful ones.”

  “A year ago,” Crocker replied, “I was planning my escape from Somerset.”

  “I was in Rome,” said I.

  “And I was Dido at Drury Lane,” said Miss Page.

  “Yet here we sit,” mused Crocker, “our four lives drawn together into a graceful knot.”

  “Where were you, Mr. Pike?” inquired Kitty.

  “I cannot recall.” As though feeling his reply had been too curt, he added: “The truth is, ma’am, that I live as I find myself from day to day.”

  Crocker nodded approvingly. “Perhaps for that reason, if we were faced with sudden danger, Mr. Pike would be the quickest to respond.”

  “I do not doubt it,” said Miss Page, and Pike acknowledged the compliments with one of his infrequent smiles.

  After the
meal we wandered down the green slope toward the river, the ladies proceeding most carefully, holding parasols aloft and lifting their skirts. Crocker was content to go at the same leisurely pace, since the hill was steep enough to have given him an awkward fall.

  Our boat being moored up a little side creek, Pike was sent to procure it, leaving the monkey in our charge. It sat peacefully on Crocker’s shoulder as we stood on the landing stage. The air was a little cooler by now, but the sky was still cloudless, and the Thames and the fields beyond it glowed in the early evening light. All was quiet save for the rippling of the river beneath the planks we stood upon. Miss Page suddenly furled her parasol.

  “How artificial we have become,” she said. “Here in the gentlest of country we are wary of the uneven turf under our feet and the hot sun above our head.”

  “Not I,” cried Kitty. “Like Phyllis I trip lightly o’er the mead.”

  Crocker, still flushed with wine, smiled at her words.

  “Miss Brindley,” said he, “you return us to art.”

  He threw back his head and sang:

  “See how the setting sun resists the night,

  Adorning distant hills with golden light.”

  On an impulse I seconded him, and the ladies took up the measure, improvising sweet harmonies as we ran through the couplet several times. Our voices rang out across the smooth-flowing Thames. Trinculo remained on Crocker’s shoulder throughout, at ease with the song. As seen from the river, we must have made an odd sight; yet when our impromptu performance faded away, we found ourselves applauded from a distance by the occupants of a passing pleasure boat. We waved to them and they waved a response as they sailed on.

  We all fell quiet during the return journey to London, but at first ours was a silence of contented reflection rather than of weariness. Insensibly the mood changed when we drew nearer to Westminster, and the river traffic thickened as the air grew dirtier. By the time we alighted at the steps, we were a little dazed, like people waking from an agreeable dream into intrusive realities. Our party soon divided because, as arranged, I was to take Kitty to the Full Moon, where we had first become lovers.