The Skull and the Nightingale. Michael Irwin

my part I endeavoured to be entertaining, but was watchful for any hints of inquisition or irony and quick to deflect them with inconsequence, or with ironies of my own. Though nothing of moment passed between us I was satisfied that this time spent together would not lower my godfather’s estimation of my abilities.

      An aspect of his conversation with which I found myself in instinctive harmony was his habit of moving unexpectedly from civil commonplaces to eccentric speculation. There was an instance of this kind when he asked me what impressions I had formed concerning his estate. Wishing to please I remarked that within its boundaries there seemed to be order, cultivation and contentment. If other landlords were similarly capable and benign, I asked, might we flatter ourselves that in the course of time the whole country might come to enjoy this state of harmony?

      ‘I think that unlikely,’ he said. ‘We strive for progress, but even our best attempts produce consequences at odds with our intention.’

      ‘But surely, sir,’ I urged, ‘the building of this great house could be seen as an absolute gain. Here is an outpost of civilized life. Within its walls certain standards of conduct and taste are upheld.’

      I strove to speak in the grave manner of one who would maintain such standards.

      My godfather, in an habitual gesture, paused, glass in hand, to consider my observation, and then savoured a sip of wine before replying.

      ‘Every building is under siege, this house not excepted. In providing privacy and protection for yourself you offer lodging-space for intruders. Mice have made their home beneath the floorboards. To control them we introduced cats. In summer you will see flies buzzing about the food, and moths blundering into lamps. Spiders lurk in corners. Birds nest in the chimneys. Moss takes root in the walls.’

      Absorbed in these reflections he paused, sipped again, and then continued.

      ‘Similar effects are everywhere observable. Even a beggar’s shirt provides a tenement for fleas.’

      I recalled my reflections about the servants below stairs, but thought it graceless to pursue the analogy.

      ‘You are a philosopher, sir.’

      ‘I have no such pretensions. I improvise. I make do.’

      ‘You may say so; but I have seen optical instruments, shelves of learned books …’

      ‘I have dabbled in this and that. I know a little about the flora and fauna of the county. Here my interests intersect with those of Yardley, though he is better informed than I. His concern is for the particular, for narrow observation and classification. Mine is for the general. I look for analogies and patterns. Lately I have taken an interest in meteorology and in the workings of the human body. The two subjects are surely connected, if only at the level of metaphor. The theory of the four humours has been abandoned, but I see why it came into being. We can have storms and droughts within.’

      Then, with a sudden smile: ‘But we must replenish your glass.’

      I soon had reason to recall his words. When I drew the curtains next morning the sun was shining so brightly that I had to close my dazzled eyes. I leaned from a casement and inhaled a sweet, fresh breeze that on the instant filled me with energy. This was surely to be accounted the first day of spring. When I glanced in the mirror I was surprised to see myself smiling broadly. I stripped off my nightshirt and flung my arms wide. Within the glass stood my counterpart, looking young and impudent, his black hair in disarray, his privy member standing out like a staff, and pulsing with a life of its own. I found myself in a divided state: rampant with venereal need I retained wit enough to see the absurdity of such abject submission to physical tides. I broke into a loud laugh at the expense of my animal self, and saw in the mirror my head chuckling as my tail throbbed.

      Later in the morning I went striding across the sunlit lawns and fields to release some of my newly-stirred vitality. I was craving youthful company – more particularly female company. The youthfulness I might have waived in my predatory mood. If Mrs Quentin herself had crossed my path her breath might not have saved her honour. When I reached the woods I found that they were as visibly altered as I had been on rising: twigs and branches were flecked with minute spots of green. An unseen bird was singing with passion, proclaiming his feelings or needs to the whole forest.

      Touched by this elevated strain I drifted into romantic thoughts of Sarah Kinsey, but thence, by brute declension, into recollections of carnal pleasures in Rome. As memory induced sensation I yielded to the spring, and made shift – with a loud cry – to discharge my seed over a clump of budding primroses. Walking back to the house, with the primacy of the intellect sheepishly restored, I found myself unable to decide whether I had defiled the bright energies of nature or simply partaken of them.

      The following afternoon the sun was yet warmer, and at my godfather’s suggestion we strolled out onto the terrace. Our talk having been thus far no more than desultory trifling I was not surprised when he fell silent altogether and stood gazing out at the garden, one hand on the warm stone balustrade.

      He spoke again without looking at me.

      ‘Your years of travel have left their mark. You are bolder, more self-assured.’

      I bowed, uncertain whether this was pure compliment.

      ‘You have no recollection of your father, I believe?’

      ‘Sadly I have not.’

      ‘You have something of him in your appearance and disposition: the dark eyes, the affable address. Your visit has brought him vividly into my recollection.’

      Here, surely, was the moment. Ten words would clinch the matter: ‘I have therefore decided to make you my sole heir.’ Unaccountably he let the opportunity slip.

      ‘I have been observing you. You are robust and well-made. You have the gift of pleasing in casual conversation. You smile readily, and can make people smile in return. These are not talents that I share.’

      ‘You do yourself an injustice, sir,’ I said, beginning my sentence before I could see the end of it. Fortunately he raised a hand to interrupt.

      ‘I speak without false modesty. Such capacities are rooted in temperament. For my part I can attract attention and respect.’

      ‘So I have observed, sir.’

      Ignoring this feeble compliment, he sat himself down on a stone bench and motioned me to join him. There was a silence, during which I fancied he was preparing a statement. At length he continued, musingly: ‘I enjoyed your letters from Paris and Rome. In this house you have met some of the people with whom I commonly consort. They are a poor crew who live narrow lives. I was therefore refreshed to enjoy a tour of more exotic places, as seen through younger eyes and experienced by livelier senses.’

      He turned to me: ‘How different my life here has been. In Fork Hill the successive days are all but indistinguishable. Cumulatively they distil a kind of essence, or perfume, which gives pleasure but has left me dulled. National events scarcely impinge upon me. When King George died I felt nothing. By the time I hear that a new ministry has been formed it may be on the verge of collapse.’

      ‘Is not that a peaceful state of affairs?’

      ‘It is. But it resembles the peace of the grave. I need fresh life.’

      ‘It would surely be open to you, sir, to spend some time in London?’

      Mr Gilbert turned his face directly towards the sun and was silent for a moment, as though savouring the warmth on his thin cheeks.

      ‘I was once a regular visitor to the capital. But it is five years since I last was there, and I did not enjoy the experience. I found