Читать книгу The Skull and the Nightingale - Michael Irwin - Страница 11

It is a strange fact that a mere idea can alter one’s physical capacities. I am certain that in the excitement elicited by Mr Gilbert’s proposition I could have run faster or sprung higher than at other times. Cramped within a coach for the return journey to London I had no scope for physical exertion of any kind, and the confined energy heated my brain till it simmered like a kettle. Fortunately my fellow-travellers were taciturn, leaving me to occupy the two slow, jolting days in thought.

The effect was to modify my exultation. I began to think my task less simple than I had assumed. What topics would find favour with my godfather? Wherever I looked there were doubts. It seemed unlikely that he would derive much entertainment from drawing-room chatter: indeed he had positively implied an interest in livelier activities. I could undertake escapades of one sort or another; but my descriptions of such doings would require tact. Drunken pranks might be seen as doltish. I would not wish to play the carousing clown; yet if I were too squeamish my letters might prove tepid.

There was also dignity at stake. I was not so craven as to be willing to prostitute my entire waking life to Mr Gilbert’s requirements. If I was now to become a London gentleman I should do so on my own terms, and have interests of my own to pursue.

This line of thought led me to the notion that I could explore the town at more than one level. The modest dignity to which I aspired was not of a kind to prevent my enjoying mischief and carousal. Part of the time, however, I could wander the streets as a mere observer, sketching the singular, and often ugly, sights of London. There was much to be seen. I had long taken a passing interest in the work of builders, carpenters, glaziers, watermen and other such skilled artisans. The city teemed also with vendors, vagabonds, thieves and performers. Recording their doings would be an entertainment for me, and might provide material to divert my godfather. His responses would show me which of my activities he found most intriguing, and I would be guided accordingly.

A visit to Mr Ward gave me further encouragement. My godfather – who never went into such details in person – had handsomely adjusted my allowance to provide all the freedom I could wish for. Before commencing on my duties I could allow myself some pleasure. Needing to assuage my animal desires, which had by now become clamorous, I visited Mrs Traill’s admirable establishment in York Street, where the young ladies were warranted to be free of contamination. But although I was pleasured with efficiency my imagination was left sadly unengaged. I concluded, with some disgust, that I had merely relieved a physical need in a species of public privy. During my travels I had enjoyed some extended intrigues. Now settled in London I would need to look beyond Mrs Traill.

It was not surprising, therefore, that I thought again of Sarah Kinsey. My desire for her person had always been compounded with admiration for her intelligence, good sense and underlying spirit. Unless she and her aunt had left the town I might hope to find her out and revive our old intimacy. I looked forward to telling her about my changed situation. With her, if all went well, I could contrive a private life of which my godfather would be told nothing.

Meanwhile, to equip myself for the parts I had decided to play I made immediate appointments with hairdresser, tailor, hosier and shoe-maker. My revised wardrobe included two new frock suits and as many waistcoats, one scarlet and one blue. Resolved also to appear sufficiently formidable, I purchased a sword of a quality proper to the wounding of the highest gentleman in the land, should the occasion unluckily arise. In appearance, at least, I was now equipped to mingle in the best company.

Pursuing my plan I procured also a number of plain garments that might enable me to pass muster as merchant, traveller, or skilled workman. To master my new terrain I obtained the latest map of London, and carefully perused it. With a little simplification it could be seen as a rectangle, perhaps five miles wide by three miles deep. At the western extremity lay Hyde Park, at the eastern were Wapping and Mile End. To the north the thoroughfares seemed to trail into open country beyond Old Street and Great Ormond Street. The southern limit was a series of irregular clusterings along the further shore of the Thames. This tract of land had somehow become home to half a million people. What similar tract on the face of the globe could match it for variety of interest? There would surely be much to see and hear.

My dear Godfather,

How would the town now strike you? Perhaps as bewilderingly frantic. At Fork Hill all is tranquillity. Here the senses are ceaselessly assailed. To enter any of the main streets is to be thrust into competition: wagons, coaches, carriages, chaises, chairs and pedestrians vie for space and priority. All too easily the traffic thickens to a standstill. How it was kept in motion before the opening of Westminster Bridge I cannot guess. At the busier times of day even walking is a struggle that can too easily become a scuffle. The air is clouded with vapours, and there is an incessant rattling, clattering, rumbling and banging, diversified by shouts and curses.

Night brings an additional strangeness. Can there ever before, in the history of the world, have been such a concentration of artificial light? Birds and insects must be bewildered by it. Yet on either side of the illuminated thoroughfares lie courtyards and alleys of Stygian darkness. The robber or pickpocket may strike boldly, confident that in seconds he can be lost to sight in a lightless labyrinth of side streets.

Within the houses of the wealthy, of course, life can be as sedately ordered as one could wish. It strikes me, however, that the law of complementarity you mentioned in relation to your own house, is visibly at work in London at large. The agglomeration, within a confined space, of the tradesmen, vendors, vehicles and goods needed to sustain this fashionable elegance must simultaneously engender dirt, disease and crime. Your perfumed fine lady, in her silks and satins, is as remote from such enabling ugliness as a flower from its muddy roots.

I fancy you would find the smell of the streets little changed, being compounded still of chimney-smoke, assorted refuse, and excrement, animal and human. Certain districts have their own speciality: thus Covent Garden stinks of rotten vegetables, Billingsgate of fish, and Smithfield of blood and offal. Why should vegetable and animal matter cause such olfactory offence as it decays? Death is given a bad name.

In the few days since my return the height of my achievement has been to see Mr Garrick perform upon the stage and Lord Chesterfield ride past me in a coach. I have, however, hit upon a general plan of action which I hope you will approve. Cram half a million people together and there will surely be collisions, grindings, smoulderings, combustion and explosions. Among the outcomes of this process, this mighty human experiment, as you called it, will surely be fresh discoveries, new ways of looking at the world.

Where are these observations tending? I wish to suggest that a mere social diary could not fairly represent the multifarious doings of this metropolis. If you do not object I will try to move between the strata of London life. The whole city shall be my arena.

This by way of preface: I hope soon to be reporting in more particular terms.

Yours, &c.

I wrote those words within a week of returning to the city, and went through three drafts before constructing my fair copy. My letters needed to appear spontaneous – an effect not to be achieved without labour. I had puzzled as to how much and how often to write, but concluded that in either case the best course was irregularity. My next offering was deliberately more diverse.

My dear Godfather,

I have now visited a number of fashionable drawing-rooms. As you suggested, I used your name as an introduction to Lord Vincent. You asked me to give my opinion of that gentleman. He cuts a fine figure, tall and erect. I found him civil but almost insipidly courteous, averse to any expression of personal opinion. He asked me to send you his good wishes and spoke of his cousin, Mrs Jennings, apparently an old friend of yours.

Since Mr Pitt was present – although I did not speak with him – there was naturally talk of foreign wars and unstable ministries, but as elsewhere in such gatherings I have as yet heard little of consequence. The prevailing gossip is concerned with petty feuds and scandals. I must wonder whether you would find such stuff worth your attention.

More rewardingly, I have sampled other levels of London life, attending theatres and auctions, dallying in coffee-houses, listening to mountebanks and ballad-singers. We have been enjoying some brisk spring weather: the April breezes blow, the dust swirls and the shop-signs swing and creak overhead.

On Tuesday last, near Charing Cross, I was one of a gathering held in thrall by a street-performer. He stood beside a cart, a fat fellow with a hanging belly. His nationality I could not guess, but he knew little English. He claimed attention by a bold presence and a big voice.

‘Three Acts!’ he cried. ‘Three Acts!’ – and brandished as many fingers in the air.

‘One: I drink!’

He produced from his cart a bucket, filled with water. Holding it aloft with both hands he put his lips to the brim and began to drink, at first – amid some shouts of derision – quite cautiously, but then with greater confidence. Several times he broke off to draw breath, but always resumed to gulp more mightily, his audience watching with growing respect as it became plain that he would imbibe the entire contents. The contours of his body were visibly altered as the water filled it.

There was some applause when he finished, but he silenced it with a gesture.

‘Two: I eat!’

Turning the bucket upside-down he placed on it a glass bowl containing several bright green frogs. He took one out and raised it in his fist, squirming and struggling. To the accompaniment of a groan from the spectators, he placed it in his mouth. With a frightful grimace he somehow contrived that two of the legs protruded, twitching, from the corners of his lips. Then he swallowed it. With less flamboyance, but at a stately pace, he proceeded to gulp down four more.

Having done so he stood for a moment with closed eyes, taking several deep breaths, as though adjusting the contents of his stomach more commodiously. His audience was now watching intently.

‘Three,’ he cried, ‘I bring back! I bring back! Pay, pay! Please pay!’

He held out his hat, and such was his ascendancy that many a spectator tossed in a coin. Having collected what he could, he motioned us to move back and create a space, within which he remained for some moments stock still. After drawing several deep breaths he opened his mouth wide and with one hand twisted his right ear. At once a great jet of water came from his throat, as though from a fireman’s hose, splashing on the cobbles. Checking it, he extricated from his mouth, alive and flailing, one of the frogs he had swallowed, and dropped the poor Jonah back in the bowl. He repeated the process four more times, so that all five were safely retrieved. There being loud applause he attempted a second collection, but it proved less successful than the first since the performance was complete.

On an impulse I gave him a crown. After all, the poor devil, adrift in a foreign land, was somehow contriving to make an honest living through exercise of a meagre range of personal talents. I could not but wonder about his daily life. He looked weary, and his clothes were well splashed. What refreshment could he enjoy, having swallowed and regurgitated a gallon of water? What woman would consort with this dank mound? Where, if anywhere, does he live?

I have renewed acquaintanceship with two of my Oxford companions, Ralph Latimer and Nick Horn. Latimer is fashionably languid, but harbours serious ambitions. As a relative of the Grenvilles he hopes soon to turn his back on his present freedoms and prepare for a higher role. It is less likely that Horn will seek respectability. He is a small, restless, nimble fellow, who will attempt anything by way of diversion. I have seen him climb a cathedral tower, half drunk, and on another occasion, for a five-shilling wager, wrestle with a pig.

The conversation I enjoy with such friends is livelier than drawing-room chatter, but too often deformed by liquor. Let me offer you a recent specimen, chosen because it recalled to me a discussion at your own table. The hour was late, and we had attained the melancholy mode. Latimer pronounced, with great emphasis: ‘Believe me, friends, there is much in this life to make a man uneasy.’

This gloomy sentiment made us confoundedly grave. The conversation had been raised to a formidable altitude, but one or two of us tried our wings.

‘I am of much the same opinion,’ said a heavy fellow. ‘Can even the best of us survive long enough to learn how to live?’

I myself ventured, with solemnity: ‘Who knows but that one of us, even before the month is out, may be standing before his Maker? Is not that a tremendous thought?’

Latimer, unimpressed, was disposed to be argumentative.

‘You say “standing”, but the word is prejudicial. Can we so confidently assume the existence of legs in the life to come?’

To keep the shuttlecock aloft I improvised: ‘At the moment of Judgement might we not be mercifully permitted some temporary sense of perpen- perpendicularity?’

‘To be followed by what?’ asked Horn.

Intimidated by this dark prospect, we all stared into vacancy, and our speculations expired.

It occurs to me that most people seem to shrink from contemplation of the after-life. Even those who are most earnest during divine service, as though glimpsing eternity, promptly revert to their workaday, unconcerned selves at the final blessing.

I conclude with a further note on the life of the streets. Within five minutes of leaving a polite assembly last evening I saw a man stumbling along with blood streaming from a wound to his head. London life is everywhere precarious. Even when walking to a steakhouse one may be under challenge. Should that shove be reciprocated? Might that urchin be a thief? How remote from the rural life of reflection. Who can philosophize about swimming while compelled to swim? Last week, feeling a tattered pedestrian press too close I flung him from me. On the instant I regretted my reaction, for the wretch went staggering into the dirt. However, his rags falling open and disclosing two fine watches he was seized as a thief and mauled by the mob. My aggression had been justified by the event, but I might as easily have been wrong.

Daily I immerse myself further in the life of the city: I look about, listen and explore. You will soon hear further from me.

I remain, &c.

In adjusting myself to London life I was greatly influenced by a conversation with Latimer. I had asked him whether he knew the whereabouts of our friend Matt Cullen.

‘I do not,’ said he, frowning. ‘But I fear he is a lost man.’

‘Lost?’

‘His prospects have taken a turn for the worse. He was in London last year, but was rarely seen. Then he vanished. Horn heard that he had returned to his native village to contrive a marriage. It seems that he is gone from us – condemned to rural nonentity.’

‘Whereas we who remain …’

Latimer over-rode my hint of satire: ‘I can speak only for myself. I look to become a man of consequence. I cultivate men of standing. I make myself agreeable.’

‘That is candidly said.’

‘So it is. Observe how I speak with a trace of self-mockery to render my complacency acceptable. But truly, young gentlemen such as ourselves are on a slippery slope. We must feel for every foothold.’

‘How will Nick Horn fare in this slippery predicament?’

‘Horn will enjoy himself for a year or two longer and then fall away.’

‘Like Cullen?’

‘Like Cullen, but not as fast or as far. His family has greater means.’

Though he spoke airily it was manifest that he meant what he said. Partly to embarrass him I asked: ‘And what say you to my own prospects?’

I was glad to see that the question made him pause.

‘There I am in doubt. You were always a reserved fellow, Dick, not easily sifted.’

‘I am in your debt to the tune of half a compliment. But tell me, Mr Latimer: does not your ambition deflect you from the pleasures of the moment?’

‘It does not. Strip away my gentlemanly apparel and you would behold in me a satyr-like creature. One day the wise head will be obliged to disown the goatish tail – but not quite yet. There is still some discreet sport ahead.’

I found much to ponder in this exchange. If Cullen and even Horn could fall back so easily then I could plummet out of sight. But there was comfort in the realization that, after all, I did not envy Latimer his security. While he was obliged to fill his days with social visits and petty attempts at ingratiation I was free to roam the foulest streets and drink with porter or pedlar.

My dear Godfather,

Last night, in company with Latimer and Horn, I visited the Seven Stars, in Coventry Street, the resort of some of our lustier men of fashion. To enter its doors was to plunge into cacophony; a herd of young bucks was in full cry, and punch flowed freely. The prevailing mirth had its tart London tang, suggesting that at any moment merriment might become aggression. In particular I happened to recognize among the roisterers Captain Derby, whom I had met briefly in Rome, a tall bully with some reputation as a duellist.

Horn, a seasoned visitor, led us boldly through to a back room, somewhat less crowded and noisy. It was here that I was to make the acquaintance of Mr Thomas Crocker.

How can I convey the appearance of this gentleman? If you saw a painting of his head alone you would think him handsome. He has an open countenance, inclining to plumpness, and an air of animation and quick intelligence. As I came into the room this face took my attention, occupying, as it did, a gap on the far side of the room, as though he were sitting slightly apart from his neighbours. Only at a second glance did I understand the source of this isolation: his body is of a bulk quite extraordinary, even freakish. I have since learned that he is nearly thirty stone in weight. When he is seated on a bench his thighs spread wide, so that he fills the space of two men. Had he not been heir to a notable estate he could have made a living as a prodigy in a fair-ground, along with my friend the frog-swallower.

Despite his physical appearance, however, it was soon clear that his companions regard him as their leader. Without exertion he commanded the room.

I sat quiet, observing the company and contributing little. My attention was caught by a silent man who seemed to be an attendant on the party rather than a participant. He was a lean fellow of middle height, with a pale, bony face and a watchful eye. I exchanged some sentences with him and learned that his name was Francis Pike.

The entertainment took a turn I could not have anticipated. When we joined the company and Horn introduced me, Crocker had been cordial enough but said little. Later he called out to me: ‘Mr Fenwick, I am informed by Mr Latimer that you sing.’

‘After a fashion,’ I replied, somewhat taken aback.

(I have been told that I sing tolerably well, though this is not, I think, a talent that I have ever had occasion to mention to you.)

‘Then this shall be our cue,’ he cried out, ‘for an interlude of music.’

He lunged to his feet, and with a shove thrust back the table, creating space to accommodate a mighty belly. His face seemed slightly swollen now, and shone with perspiration, but in manner he was perfectly controlled. Silence fell, and he launched into song, in a baritone voice that would have graced a public stage:

No nightingale now haunts the grove,

No western breezes sweetly moan,

For Phyllida forswears her love,

And leaves me here to mourn alone …

Here was a strange interlude in a tipsy gathering. The lament, a pastoral nullity, was heard with a respect that the execution indeed deserved. It was an incongruous performance from that huge body, as though an elephant should tread a minuet. Hardly had the applause died down than I was summoned to his side and invited to change the mood by joining him in the edifying ballad that begins:

I’m wedded to a waspish wife

Who shames the name of woman:

She’s sharper than a surgeon’s knife

And sourer than a lemon.

The duet being warmly received, Crocker saluted me with a slap on the shoulders that all but knocked me down, convincing me that his physical strength is proportioned to his size. We chatted for some minutes, and I found him as nimble in mind as he is ponderous in body. He asked me about myself with seemingly unfeigned interest, and once or twice I surprised him into a loud laugh. I was pleased to have won his favour this far, since it seemed that here was a man whose eccentricity might put me in the way of some odd experiences. That expectation was to be gratified sooner than I could have anticipated.

Perhaps half an hour after our duet the door crashed open with a suddenness that checked all conversation. In strode the tall Captain Derby, his cheeks now crimson and his wig awry. It seemed that this invasion was a freak of conduct prompted by drink, because he had broken free of a knot of companions who stopped short in the doorway. Derby took up a stance facing Crocker, and spoke out in an insolent voice: ‘Mr Crocker, I come to admire your person. I am told that you have the biggest belly in London.’

There was silence for a moment, before Crocker gave a cool reply.

‘That may be so, sir. And I take it that you have the smallest brain.’

Whether Derby’s reputation was current in London I had no idea: perhaps Crocker took him to be merely an oaf; but I knew what must follow. The intruder grinned, as in a situation familiar to him.

‘It seems that you do not know me, Mr Blubber. I brook no such impudence.’

He crashed his fist on the table. ‘I shall require satisfaction.’

Mr Crocker, undisturbed, responded affably: ‘Surely, sir, a duel could afford you very little satisfaction, since my body offers so large a target to ball or blade.’

The captain’s reddened face twisted into a sneer. ‘Since you are too fat to conduct yourself like a gentleman—’

As he spoke, his hand reached for a glass of punch. I knew on the instant that he meant to throw the contents over Crocker; but in that same instant the intention was forestalled. Francis Pike, the lean gentleman mentioned above, leaped upon Derby. He moved with such speed that I could not see exactly what he did; but it seemed that he simultaneously dashed his head into Derby’s face and felled him. In a trice he was astride the man, and holding a knife to his nostrils. Several hands went to a sword-hilt, but no further move was made since Pike was so clearly master of the situation. He addressed Derby, who appeared to be half dazed, in a level, even polite, voice: ‘I recommend that you withdraw, sir. If you cause further disturbance I shall alter your face with this knife.’

He stood up and stepped back, quite imperturbable, although with some of his antagonist’s blood on his wig. Derby could hardly have had another such experience in his career as rake and bully, and I did not know what his reaction would be. He clambered slowly to his feet, uncertain in balance and bleeding from nose and mouth. No one moved to help him. Amid a general silence he limped from the room without a word, avoiding every eye. Hardly had conversation burst out once more than it was stilled a second time as one of Derby’s earlier companions marched in and, although clearly drunk, made a creditable bow in the general direction of Crocker.

‘I apologize to you, sir,’ he said, ‘and to the company, for the conduct of Captain Derby. He is lately returned from abroad and does not know the customs of this house.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Crocker, who had not turned a hair during the entire proceeding. ‘I will regard the episode as closed.’

With that we returned to our punch and our chatter. Pike became as unobtrusive as he had been before and no one made reference to his intervention.

I was eager to learn more about the conventions governing these events. In particular I wished to know how it was that the resourceful Mr Pike had licence to disable a gentleman whose conduct was objectionable. Little Horn was convulsed by what had occurred; but I could draw nothing from him or Latimer beyond the statement that Mr Crocker’s entourage was governed by its own laws.

Soon that entourage rose to take its leave. Mr Crocker paused by me to say that he hoped we would become better acquainted and sing together again.

I will be happy to maintain the contact. There is striking singularity and force in this huge gentleman. I am sure that he will feature again in our correspondence.

I remain, &c.