The Skull and the Nightingale. Michael Irwin

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      5

      When Cullen next called, I showed him Gilbert’s letter. He shook his head in envy.

      ‘Your very patron urges you to sin. Satan has smiled upon you.’

      He was yet more envious when I told him of my planned pleasures with Kitty Brindley.

      ‘But I love the girl myself. I have seen her perform, and was ravished. How tragic that she should yield to your puny attributes of money and person.’

      Our conversation took a fresh turn when Matt happened to ask after Sarah, whom he had met once or twice in the weeks before I left for France. I told him of my encounter with her and my feelings after it. Matt, as ever, listened with attention, frowning or grinning. When I had done he gave his opinion that here was fresh meat for Mr Gilbert.

      ‘Your dealings with Kitty are for today and tomorrow,’ said he. ‘Here is a narrative with longer life in it, and spiced with wickedness. I say to you: renew your pursuit of this lady. Cuckold the merchant. Your godfather will revel in such a conquest.’

      It was to my credit, I think, that I chose to demur.

      ‘Am I to understand that my friend is urging me to commit adultery?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Cullen. ‘I believe that this would not be your first transgression of the kind. And consider the balance of pleasure in the case. You, Mrs Ogden and your godfather could achieve gratification: only Mr Ogden stands to be discommoded.’

      ‘But Mr Ogden may be a gentleman of great merit and tenderness.’

      ‘He may, however, be nothing of the sort. And he need suffer only if he comes to learn of the transaction.’

      We left the house, embarking on a walk that took us down to the Strand and thence along the busy river in an easterly direction. The sun was shining on crowded streets and dirty water. Cullen and I conversed in snatches, laughing often. He described a recent meeting with the Duke, who had said to him only: ‘I have not forgot you, Mr Collins.’ Matt felt that the small twig on which his hopes were perched had shrunk.

      On a whim we hired a boat to take us across the river to Southwark. Our Charon, a scrawny old fellow, sang after a fashion as he rowed.

      ‘I cannot but notice that you have no teeth, friend,’ observed Matt, who would converse with anybody. ‘Do you not find difficulty in eating?’

      The boatman further exhibited his deficiency in a hearty laugh.

      ‘Why, no sir, for the gums are grown harder. ’Tis a blessing, for I am freed of toothache and can whistle as I never could before.’

      ‘You are a philosopher,’ said I, and added a shilling to his fare.

      Once disembarked we continued to stroll by the Thames, and paused to make a modest contribution to it.

      ‘The truth is,’ I observed as we pissed, ‘that our oarsman was in the wrong. Cheerful as he is he would be happier with teeth. If he could have them again, he would.’

      ‘I am not so sure,’ said Matt. ‘We should not take our losses too seriously.’

      ‘So will you undertake not to hang yourself if the Duke fails you?’

      ‘Certainly.’ Matt folded away his member. ‘The first duty of human kind is to stay alive; the second is to be as merry as circumstances permit. Such is my philosophy.’

      Wandering on, we talked of our uncertain prospects.

      ‘Your future is more promising than mine,’ said Matt. ‘Mr Gilbert has invested too much in you to cast you aside.’

      We walked back across Westminster Bridge and on to Keeble’s for a steak. I was hailed by the tall fellow from the Conversation Club.

      ‘Last week,’ said he, ‘we returned to your theme and considered the case of the nightingale. Anatomize the bird and you will find lungs and membranes. There is the instrument, but where is the song? And where is the composer?’

      ‘You have killed him,’ cried Cullen, ‘for the sake of your experiment.’

      After a glass or two of wine he and I returned to the subject of women. We agreed, with shared self-pity, that the venereal adventure was fraught with difficulty and mystery. Somehow we lurched into barbaric Latin banter.

      ‘Magnum est gratificatio sensualis,’ improvised Matt, who had never been a zealous student, ‘sed si filius natus est, gravis est responsibilitas.’

      ‘Et si infectio venerealis contractus est,’ I added, on the basis of an unfortunate Italian experience, ‘magna est poena, magnum est dolor.’

      In such ways we sniggered away the rest of the afternoon like two schoolboys. Mr Gilbert could never have comprehended these trifling, companionable pleasures.

       My dear Godfather,

       I have attended another of Mr Crocker’s gatherings at the Seven Stars. Latimer and Horn went with me as before. The company seemed to be much as I remembered it, with Crocker presiding from his great chair in the centre of the crescent of drinking men. By the time we entered the talk was already vociferous. I took a seat by the one silent man in the room, who happened to be Francis Pike, the gaunt fellow who had silenced Captain Derby. Having learned from Horn that this individual was in regular attendance on Crocker, I was curious to find out more about him.

       Concerning the encounter with Captain Derby he spoke with detachment.

       ‘In such cases, sir, I have the advantage over most opponents. I know what must be done. Stun your man, bring him to the ground, and he’s no longer a threat.’

       ‘Yours must be a dangerous profession,’ I suggested.

       ‘That may be so, sir. Fortunately I seem to feel pain less than most men. Perhaps I have grown accustomed to it. I have had bones broke, and shed blood.’ He paused, before adding, with the faintest of smiles: ‘Above all, sir, not being a gentleman, I am considered to be outside the rules of honourable conduct, and therefore see no need to be bound by ’em.’

       I felt confident enough to inquire, with delicacy, whether he might not be regarded by some as a bully. He rejected the insinuation very calmly.

       ‘No, sir, because I never start a quarrel. Your practised duellist who calls out a harmless fellow man for sport – he’s the bully.’

       ‘To talk to,’ I said, ‘you seem a polite, composed sort of man.’

       ‘And so I hope I am, sir. But that is also my professional manner. I find it has a concentrating effect, like the barrel of a musket.’

       These exchanges were cut short when I was summoned to take a chair beside our host. To be seated by him was to be immediately reminded of his bulk. His thigh is double the thickness СКАЧАТЬ