MICHAEL IRWIN
The Skull and The Nightingale

About the Book

Set in England in the early 1760s, this is a chilling and deliciously dark tale of manipulation, sex, and seduction.

When Richard Fenwick, a young man without family or means, returns to London from the Grand Tour, his wealthy godfather, James Gilbert, has an unexpected proposition. Gilbert has led a fastidious life in Worcestershire, but now in his advancing years, he feels the urge to experience, even vicariously, the extremes of human feeling—love and passion, adultery and deceit—along with something much more sinister. He has selected Fenwick to be his proxy, and his ward has no option but to accept.

But Gilbert’s elaborate and manipulative “experiments” into the workings of human behaviour drag Fenwick into a vortex of betrayal and danger where lives are ruined and tragedy is always one small step away. And when Fenwick falls in love with one of Gilbert’s pawns and the stakes rise even higher – is it too late for him to escape the Faustian pact?

Praise for The Skull and The Nightingale:

‘This is a surprising and thrilling Rake’s Progress. I enjoyed every word’

Diana Athill, author of Stet

‘I really admired and enjoyed it. The atmosphere, idiom and characters are great, and the plotting terrific – I had a genuine shock at the end’

Jenny Uglow

‘A splendid novel: immaculately researched, morally fascinating and strangely troubling. It kept surprising me and delighting me in equal measure’

Andrew Taylor, author of The American Boy

‘I devoured this dark, compelling tale of an eighteenth-century Faustus and his Mephostophilis, which troubles the reader with a growing unease from the start and never slackens pace right up to its disturbing conclusion’

Maria McCann, author of The Wilding

About the Author

After teaching at various universities around the world, Michael Irwin moved to the University of Kent, in Canterbury, where he became Professor of English, specialising in eighteenth and nineteenth-century literature. His published eighteenth century work includes a full-length study of Fielding and essays that take in Defoe, Richardson, Sterne, Smollett, Johnson and Pope.

Table of Contents

Title Page

About the Book

Praise for The Skull and The Nightingale

About the Author

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgements

The Skull and The Nightingale – Reading Group Guide

Copyright

About the Publisher

For Stella

There is no difference to be found between the skull of King Philip and that of another man.

Samuel Richardson, Clarissa

1

It was a breezy day in March when I returned to London from two years of travel, my age twenty-three, my prospects uncertain. I refreshed myself with coffee at the Roebuck before making my way to Fetter Lane, and the office of my godfather’s agent, Mr Ward. Conceivably, this gentleman might be about to determine the future course of my life in twenty words. I paused at the entrance to his premises to assume unconcern.

He lurched up from behind his desk as ungainly as ever, a big fellow, with a head like a horse, and a gloomy eye.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Ward. I am glad to see you well.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Fenwick. I have been expecting you.’

When we sat down there was a silence. I looked to him for more, but his large face was expressionless. Apparently it was for me to lead the way.

‘I hope that my godfather is in good health.’

‘I have heard nothing to the contrary.’

Mr Ward had ever been a sparse talker. I tried again.

‘Have you instructions for me?’

‘I have. Your former lodging with Mrs Deacon has been prepared for you. I will send to Mr Gilbert tomorrow to let him know that you have returned.’

‘You have nothing further to tell me?’

‘Not at this time.’

It seemed that the uncertainty was to continue.

‘I shall, of course, be writing to him myself.’

‘I had assumed as much, Mr Fenwick.’

Old long-chops was formal as an undertaker. Determined to strike a spark from him I brightened into affability.

‘Tell me, Mr Ward, do you not find me wonderfully improved by my grand tour?’

He surveyed me grudgingly till a brief gleam lit his glum face.

‘I see you are elegantly dressed, Mr Fenwick. The other improvements may require a little more time to take in.’

It was a slight enough stroke, but it gratified him to the tune of a quarter-smile. I felt sufficiently rewarded: but for my question he might not have tasted such merriment all week.

‘You laugh at me, Mr Ward,’ said I, ruefully, as though he were a jolly dog. ‘If I am to spend much time in London I shall hope to show you the progress I have made.’

He ignored my hinted question.

‘You do me too much honour, Mr Fenwick. But if you speak to me in French you will receive no reply.’

This second sally gave rise to the rare full grin, uncovering his big yellow teeth. I chuckled a response to confirm that we were on friendly terms. After all he might one day prove a useful ally. Knowing that I would learn no more, I took my leave.

At least the news had not been bad. There would be a period of suspense as messages went to and from Worcestershire: meanwhile all my possible futures still lay open. The lodgings in Cathcart Street would suit me well enough: I had stayed with Mrs Deacon before leaving for France, and found her courteous and discreet. I could lie low in her house until I heard from my godfather, adjusting myself to English ways again and tuning my tongue to my native language.

When I had exchanged courtesies with Mrs Deacon and sent for my luggage, I sat down in my parlour to write a letter.

My dear Godfather,

I returned to London this afternoon from the travels which you so generously enabled. Mr Ward advised me that I should take my former lodgings with Mrs Deacon and await your further instructions.

The last communication I received from you found me in Rouen, on the final stage of my journey home. You were at that time, you reported, in good health, and were kind enough to say that you looked forward to seeing me on my return. When we meet you will find me, I hope, better informed and a little less awkward. Your generosity would have been ill rewarded if that were not the case. In my letters to you I have attempted to convey something of what I have acquired. I can now converse fluently in French and tolerably well in German and Italian. My knowledge of the history, politics and arts of the great European countries has been greatly enhanced.

When last in London I was still something of a young country colt. I had exuberance without discipline, curiosity without direction. I hope my two years of travel have made me more reflective and purposeful. At the very least I am improved in deportment and address.

These claims may seem idle boasts. I would hope to make them good in conversation when I have the pleasure of seeing you – the godfather whose generosity to an orphan has done so much to improve his lot and widen his prospects.

I will remain in London and await further directions. Since a defined period of education has now come to an end, you may imagine that I look forward with eagerness and some little anxiety to hearing what advice you now have for me.

I remain, &c.

The composition of this grave epistle was accompanied by a facetious mental commentary. Much of the knowledge I had acquired related to activities that I would not have cared to discuss with my godfather. I was mimicking the cadences of respectability.

But I was dissatisfied with the letter even as I wrote it. It was too priggish, too fulsome: it lacked the playful touches that I fancied Mr Gilbert relished. The two-year absence had put me out of practice: I looked to recover the appropriate tone when I saw my patron again and could adapt my conversation to his responses. Perhaps it had been advisable, at this stage, to err on the side of seriousness. He was a formidable old gentleman in his way, not to be taken for granted.

Perversely pleased to be breathing smoky London air once more, I refused Mrs Deacon’s offer to prepare me dinner and strode out through the teeming, noisy streets. The wind had strengthened, and the big shop signs were swinging and creaking overhead. My destination was Keeble’s steakhouse near the Strand, which in former days I had often visited with my friend Matt Cullen. With a nod of greeting I took a seat at a table three-quarters full. It quickly struck me that my fellow-diners were talking with particular animation and vigour. I concluded, rightly as I later learned, that this was one of the regular meetings of a Conversation Club. Without attending to what was said I was content to be, once more, sitting in a haze of English words and phrases. I let the talk wash over me and fancied myself linguistically refreshed.

Whatever my future course, for the time being it was comfortable to be home. Weary from travel I drank some wine to feed my reflections, and became pleasantly bemused. What would my godfather have to say to me? Where would I be two weeks hence? Was I to be condemned to rural life? The previous morning I had been conducting my business in French: would I ever have reason to speak that language again? Hereabouts my idle stream of thought circled into an eddy. I wondered in what corner of my skull the unspoken language would be stored. How could such multifarious knowledge, such haystacks of nouns and verbs, such ladders and bridges of number and gender, be folded away into an unseen space? I pondered the paradox until my head swam – indeed I must have been grinning at my own bewilderment, for a voice cried: ‘To judge by the smile this young fellow is happy in his meditations.’

I came out of my reverie to see a dozen faces around me, chewing, drinking, talking and laughing.

‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘you must excuse me. I was lost in thoughts about the mysterious operations of the human brain.’

‘Beware!’ cried one of the number, ‘I smell a virtuoso. Keep your headpiece out of his hands, or he’ll be at it with microscope and scalpel.’

‘Never fear,’ said I. ‘I am an idle speculator under the influence of wine.’

‘Then fill your glass,’ said another, ‘and take us with you.’

I had no great desire to converse, but it seemed churlish to stay silent.

‘My thoughts were of this nature. If any one of our company were now to attempt to write down all the words he knew, he could spend the entire night in the undertaking. By the morning, with his task far from complete, the fruit of his labour would already be a thick wedge of manuscript. Yet his brain would need no replenishment. Where has he been storing this copious knowledge, now translated into a material mass? And how can he dispense it yet still retain it?’

The company seemed pleased by the problem. After a pause, someone said: ‘As to the former question one might proceed by a course of elimination. To begin facetiously: my poor uncle lost three limbs at the battle of Blenheim, yet his memory was unimpaired. It seems that the storage place you seek is to be found in the head or the torso.’

‘There is no need for such questions or such reasoning,’ cried another. ‘We already know that the mind is the seat of reason and memory.’

‘Indeed we do,’ said I. ‘But although I am no anatomist I believe that the contents of the skull are as unmistakably material as the limbs the gentleman referred to. How are we to account for the unique receptivity of this particular physical organ, its sponge-like capacity to contain words, concepts and images?’

Several tried to speak, but were overridden by a bony fellow with a big voice.

‘We discussed such matters a year ago. I posed questions similar to your own – and was denounced as a materialist and an atheist for my pains. But I refuted the charge very simply. The Almighty works miracles with material substance. If an acorn can contain a future tree, surely a human head can contain the contents of a dictionary?’

Fired up by now I struck back: ‘You explain one mystery by appealing to another. If the unfathomable powers of omnipotence are to be invoked there is an end to all debate.’

These words produced uproar, and during the heated exchanges that ensued I paid for my entertainment and slipped away.

It was a dark, boisterous night. I made my way back towards Holborn along busy thoroughfares, clutching my hat whenever I turned a corner into a gust of breeze. North of Lincoln’s Inn Fields the streets were quieter and but feebly lit. I was brought up short when a haggard girl stepped out suddenly from the end of an alley, crying: ‘Come this way, sir!’

‘Not tonight, I thank you,’ said I, affably enough.

‘No, no’ – in a frantic voice – ‘I need help. My child …’

She turned hurriedly into the alley, and I followed, willing to be of assistance if I could. But after a few yards she turned about, clutched my greatcoat and shouted ‘Rape! Rape!’ At once a heavy brute of a man sprang from a doorway brandishing a cudgel. Startled as I was I found myself protected, as in certain previous physical encounters, by an instant blaze of animal rage. Half avoiding the bully’s blow I seized his coat and rammed him back against the wall. He raised his club again, but I checked him with a punch to the belly, and then struck him a dowse to the chops that smacked his head back against the brickwork. The intending robber staggered sideways and stumbled to his knees. The girl leaped at me, scratching with both hands, but I wrenched her away and threw her on top of her fallen protector. Without waiting for more I hastened away.

Such a fury had surged in me that I walked an extra mile, at top pace, to allow my pounding heart to settle. It had been a sordid episode, but before I reached Mrs Deacon’s house I found myself recovered from it and not unsatisfied. The first evening of my return to England had called into play some of the aptitudes fostered by my travels. I had taken a lively part in impromptu discussion and then shown that I could hold my own in a street fight. It seemed that I was resourceful, a young man of parts.

Next morning I winced a little on rising. There was a stiffness in my shoulder and a handsome purple bruise on my ribs. It would take me a day or two to shake off these effects. Through the window I saw rain, which suited my mood well enough. Here was a stasis in my life, an interlude between the acts: I could make it a time for recuperation and reflection. I knew where I would be likely to find some of my former Oxford companions, but felt no inclination to seek them out. How could I answer the questions that would greet me until I knew what was purposed for my future and what sort of figure I was likely to cut? Matt Cullen I would have been glad to see, for he was a man I could laugh with, but our correspondence had lapsed, and I knew nothing of his whereabouts.

All morning I stayed within doors, completing the journal that I had kept during my travels. The parlour in which I was writing had a mirror at one end in which I several times caught my reflection. At length I rose to study myself more minutely and at full length. In figure I would pass muster, being above the common height, vigorous and well-knit, but my face seemed to me too open, too youthful, redeemed from blandness only by strong brown eyes. Given the common belief that a man’s character can be deduced from the front portion of his head, this could be a disadvantage. I practised certain expressions – attentive, amused, eager – and found the case somewhat improved. I could assume a variety of responses that might make me appear an agreeable companion. In repose, however, my face seemed a tabula rasa, awaiting the imprint of further experience.

The rain continuing, I worked diligently at my journal, bringing the record to a conclusion with my arrival in Dover. It was convenient that the combination of vacant time, rough weather, a bottle of ink and the wing-feathers of a goose had enabled me to capture my recollections before they were lost – I had always been quick to forget. My life being thus far in order, I was ready for what was to come.

Cathcart Street was in a quiet neighbourhood, but there was noise enough from it to bring me to the window more than once. The kennel down the middle of the road was swollen by the rain into a thick black stream, lumpy with refuse. Pedestrians in sodden clothes struggled sullenly along its edges, forced close to the walls. It was a dismal sight: there was much to be said for loitering within, warm and dry.

Later in the day, tiring of my own company, I made occasion to take tea with Mrs Deacon. Although I had lodged in the house before, I knew nothing of her beyond the fact that she was a widow, with a young daughter named Charlotte. In conversation she proved civil and shrewd, but maintained a certain reserve. It was this quality, perhaps, that caused me to see her as a handsome woman of forty, looking younger than her age, rather than as indeed a younger woman. Her composure suggested a lack of interest in any physical attraction that she might possess. I was unsure whether to play man of the world or affable young fellow. It was by chance that I found the less formal direction.

‘Do you know Mr Gilbert?’ I inquired.

‘I knew him years ago. If he communicates with me now it is through Mr Ward.’

‘Then the messages will be brief. Yesterday he offered me but fifty words.’

She smiled. ‘So many? Then you can count yourself a friend.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Deacon,’ said I, ‘how do you think this taciturn gentleman passes his evenings.’

She considered. ‘He sits in an arm-chair and reads a big black book. When it grows dark he walks the streets with a big black dog.’

‘But what is in the book he reads?’

‘Nobody knows. It is one of his secrets.’

This time we both smiled.

I was glad to have hit on this vein of whimsy in my landlady’s disposition, and to find myself easy in her company. Later that night, my imagination stirred by wine, I tried to envisage the warm body beneath the long dress. I liked what I saw with my mind’s eye, but suppressed the picture as unsuitably distracting in my present situation.

After two or three days of idleness I grew restless. I was in the unsatisfied state produced when the mind teems with questions to which there are no clear answers. Having had no living relatives since the age of ten I was accustomed to a solitary existence. Reserve and self-sufficiency were almost the only qualities I had in common with my godfather. But I fretted at being becalmed. Ambition assured me that Mr Gilbert would not have paid for my education, and sent me to the great cities of Europe unless he had substantial future plans for me. But circumspection reminded me that he was an enigmatic man whose patronage had been conferred from a distance. Although he had rescued me when I was homeless he had scarcely ever spoken of my parents, who had been his friends; and although he had countenanced occasional visits to Fork Hill House he had never encouraged me to stay for more than a few days at a time. At Oxford, therefore, I had been at pains to say nothing of my upbringing, not caring to admit that I had neither family nor home. Appearances had been preserved by bluff and evasion; but the constraint had been wearisome.

It was characteristic of Mr Gilbert to have dropped no hint as to his future intentions. For all I knew he might be planning to buy me a commission in the army or send me to the colonies. I felt no enthusiasm for either prospect. If I was to stay at home the possibilities seemed limited. I could not enter the church: neither my vagrant habits of thought nor my animal spirits would allow it. The law was hardly more inviting.

My favourite hope soared higher: perhaps too high. As far as I knew, my godfather had no living relatives. At his age he was unlikely to attempt marriage; and should he do so his thin loins would be hard put to it to originate an offspring. Surely it was time for him to proclaim me his heir and prepare me for the life of a prosperous landowner? In the country I could walk, ride and perhaps hunt. The more reflective side of my nature would find sustenance in Mr Gilbert’s well-stocked library. When I needed younger company and livelier entertainment I would spend a few raucous weeks in London. Satiety achieved, I could again retreat to Worcestershire to read books and view the world philosophically.

This was my preferred narrative: a life I could freely adjust to my personal convenience. Perversely, however, I found even this possibility uninviting as implying a premature acceptance of settled middle age. By a curious paradox my dependent condition had fostered an independence of spirit: I had become accustomed to mingling affability with reserve. It seemed to me that, unlike my Oxford companions, I would be able, if put to it, to live by my wits. I was eager for a challenge that would show me what sort of man I was.

There had been little in my childhood that I cared to remember. Even my recollections of my mother, now dead for more than ten years, were uncertain. I had turned away from the past, as by instinct, to concentrate my attentions on the present and the future. It suited my disposition to be active: if left too long to brood I tended to lose my good humour and lapse into melancholy. To avert this possibility at the present time I needed a friend in whom I could confide. It was natural, therefore, that my thoughts turned to Sarah Kinsey, the only individual who knew just how I was circumstanced. It was two years since I had last seen her, and not much less than that since she had last written to me. She had faded in my recollection as I found fresh diversion abroad; negligently I had left her letters unanswered. Since my return she was suddenly present again before my mind’s eye, shyly pretty, quick to smile. For all the seeming diffidence she had been independent: her tastes and opinions were all her own. We had talked with great freedom.

One night, in sentimental mood, I strolled to Pitman Street where Sarah had been living two years previously. I found the house in darkness, and stood to stare at it. Even as I watched, a light appeared in the window of the upstairs room where I had several times engaged in three-cornered conversation with Sarah and her aunt. Perhaps the two of them were chatting there at that very moment. I lingered for several minutes, indulging the imagined proximity and half tempted to knock at the door.

The matter was resolved when an old man emerged from a neighbouring house.

‘Pardon me, friend,’ I asked, ‘does Mrs Catherine Kinsey live here?’

‘She used to,’ he said. ‘A widow lady. But she left a year ago.’

I thanked him and turned away. Disappointed as I was, I knew that my quest had been an idle one. Even if I could have seen Sarah alone she would surely have reproached me for the breach in our correspondence. And with my future unknown, what had I now to offer? I was downcast as I trudged away: perhaps I would spend my life mourning Sarah as a lost love. Aware that a melancholy so hastily improvised could be of little substance, I savoured it nonetheless.

A week after my arrival in London I received a letter from my godfather:

My dear Richard,

I was pleased to receive word of your safe arrival. As you imply, there is much for us to discuss and consider. I would like to see you at Fork Hill House early next week, and hope that you will be able to stay for some few days. However, you may leave the bulk of your effects in the safe hands of Mrs Deacon.

Your affectionate godfather,

James Gilbert

It was a characteristically tight-fisted message. I could discern but a single clue concerning my future: it seemed that I was expected to return to London after my visit to Worcestershire. Whether the hint presaged an extended stay in the city or another journey it was impossible to guess.

2

I woke from a dream in which I was fumbling a plump whore in a dark street in Rouen. The impression stayed with me as I lay half insensible: I could smell the horse-dung on the cobbles and feel the girl’s damp warmth. Only gradually did I come to myself and recollect that I was in bed in my godfather’s house. Even then the idea was so strong upon me that had a maid-servant chanced to enter the room I might have sleepily seized on her, and perhaps derived a flesh and blood child from my fantasy. But the illusion thinned and my intellects began to confront the day. I arose, groped my way to the window and threw back the heavy curtain. On the instant I was myself again, looking out upon green lawns shining with dew below a bright morning sun. It was a sight to fill me with hope and energy. The day might hold revelations, but I felt ready to face them.

Having arrived too late on the preceding evening to see my godfather I had now to impress the man on whom my hopes depended. What manner would be best calculated to win his favour? I concluded that a respectful but easy bearing, quickened with a hint of mischief, should do the business. As I washed and dressed I tried to think myself into this demeanour. Even a hint of importunity concerning my future would be unbecoming. Pleasure at the reunion, gratitude for past kindnesses: these were the emotions to display.

Downstairs I learned that Mr Gilbert had already breakfasted. I was directed to meet him later that morning in the drawing-room at the rear of the house. Arriving before he did I had time to survey, through broad windows, the slopes of Flint Hill fringed, in the distance, by black-branched woodland. On the nearside of those trees everything I could see belonged to my godfather and might one day, conceivably, belong to me. Behind me several family portraits gazed down. I turned to stare back at my adoptive ancestors. In life they might have been formidable: in death they were so many planes of pigment. It could not be many years before my godfather would be similarly reduced. Perhaps he had aged in my absence. Perhaps he would totter in to say, ‘Let me be plain with you: I have but one month to live. This estate and all my wealth are to be yours. I wish you joy of them.’

When he did enter, however, it was with no such cadaverous air. He looked as I remembered him, lean, but by no means frail, his face shrewd and thin-lipped. As ever he was neatly groomed: the taut little wig could have been his own hair.

If he was overjoyed to see me he contrived not to show it. I adapted my manner to his, and our first exchanges were courteous rather than familiar. I had brought gifts from abroad, which I formally delivered to my benefactor rather as a visiting English ambassador might present diplomatic offerings to a Chinese potentate. He received them with corresponding decorum. Thoughtful questions were asked concerning people and places, and suitable answers given. The little minuet of civilities was creditably performed by both parties.

Later, in response to his promptings, I told him various tales of my travels, speaking, I thought, gaily and well. He listened with attention, seeming by degrees to relax his customary reserve: I could even fancy that he looked at me with approval. On occasion our dialogue all but quickened into raillery.

‘I inferred from your letters,’ he said, with lizard-like dryness, ‘that throughout your travels you conducted yourself in an exemplary way.’

‘It seemed appropriate, sir, to represent myself in a sober light.’

My godfather allowed himself a ghost of a smile: ‘I hope this sense of propriety did not circumscribe your pleasures.’

‘I was at pains to resist that possibility,’ said I, with a reciprocal hint of self-mockery.

He looked me directly in the eye, still faintly smiling.

‘I notice a scar on the back of your hand.’

‘You embarrass me, sir. It goes back to a small encounter in Florence.’

‘A matter of honour?’

‘Of intoxication, rather. It was a foolish incident, but no great harm was done.’

He nodded to close the subject, and then turned a sudden conversational corner.

‘It is two years since last you were here. Have you perceived any differences?’

‘Only that the great oak tree has gone that once stood beside the house.’

‘It had become too old and brittle. It reminded me too much of myself.’

Taken by surprise I could fashion no suitably consoling response, but my godfather did not seem to notice. He sat staring at nothing before speaking again: ‘I hope you will stay for some few days, and gain a sense of my life here.’

Two evenings later some guests from the neighbourhood came to dinner. I was curious to meet these people, since I might one day have to live on terms with them, and curious, too, to see how my reticent godfather would comport himself in company. But equally it would be my task to rise to whatever the occasion was intended to be. I should think of myself as in some sense on display.

How much the visitors would know of my situation and prospects I could not guess. I would probably be the youngest person present and the one of least social consequence. On the other hand I was educated, gentlemanly, and had recently travelled. It would not do to be ingratiating nor yet forward. I resolved to stay out of general conversation, as far as possible, but to show myself attentive to individuals.

The loudest of the company proved to be Mr Hurlock, a florid squire with a buxom wife. He was a rattling, rallying fellow, aggressive in his manner, with a laugh like the bray of an animal. I saw in him an ageing country bully, coarse and discontented. Mr Quentin, a dark man with a brooding gaze, conveyed more intelligence with greater sobriety of manner. Of a different cast altogether was Mr Yardley, as lean as my godfather, with the stooped shoulders and sallow cheeks of one who devoted many hours to reading. I remembered to have heard him mentioned as a naturalist and collector. There was also Mr Thorpe, a young parson, new to the village. He wore a propitiating smile under an alert eye.

Hurlock greeted me boisterously: ‘So you come here from France, young gentleman. Here in Worcestershire we turned against that country in ’45, when the Jacobites reached Derby and we felt French breath on the back of our necks.’

I soon diverted him to the subject of hunting, on which he had much to say. Eventually relieved of his company by my godfather I escaped to Thorpe, who proved to be a former Oxford student and quizzed me amiably about university matters.

At dinner I had Mrs Hurlock on my right hand, and found my eye taken more than once by her prominent bosom – a former attraction declined, it seemed, to a feeding apparatus, since she confided that she had borne several children. I could see that twenty years before she must have been a covetable young lady; but time and a coarse husband had diminished her assurance. ‘I believe you are a scholar,’ she told me, ‘and already a man of the world. Alas, I am merely a mother.’ To keep her conversing about her surviving offspring was as simple as whipping a top.

On my left sat Mrs Quentin, another dilapidated beauty. I first saw her from behind, and fancied from her slim figure that she was hardly more than thirty. She had merely to turn around to age twenty years, her face being faded and unhappy. When I tried to converse with her over dinner I noticed a reticence and an odd cast of expression apparently attributable to the same cause, namely her desire to keep concealed a set of blackened teeth. I talked to her in a free and lively vein to create the illusion of an exchange, but avoided provoking laughter lest she should feel obliged to join in.

The wider discussion lurched between local and national concerns. Such political comment as I heard was so fanciful that it could have concerned the government of Japan: but after all these folk were a hundred country miles from London – two full days of travel. Hurlock blustered, Thorpe was emollient, Quentin brusque. Yardley spoke but little. My godfather was the best informed of the company, and showed considerable social address. With no attempt to dominate he yet led the conversation, his manner dry and sometimes satirical. He took in all that passed, and had a word for everybody at the table.

Certain fragments of talk stayed in my memory. At one time my attention was caught by a sudden intensity in my godfather’s voice.

‘We are told,’ he said, ‘that the Almighty requires praise. I cannot understand why. Is it not as though I should want my dogs to praise me for feeding them?’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ ventured Thorpe, ‘you are interpreting the instruction too literally. Might it not be a figure – a mode of enjoining us to an active appreciation of our existence in a miraculous universe?’

‘You men of the cloth are all alike,’ cried Hurlock, through a mouthful of food. ‘If we question any mystery of religion you tell us that it is no more than a damned figure. What do you leave us of substance to believe in?’

His truculence momentarily silenced the table.

‘There are the commandments,’ said Thorpe, mildly. ‘Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not commit adultery.’

Hurlock made to expostulate further, but Mr Gilbert spoke up before him.

‘Yes,’ said he, with an emphasis that concluded the exchange, ‘those would seem to offer us something to steer by – and something to fear.’

When the ladies retired the conversation took a different turn. My godfather, who had drunk frugally, seeming to enjoy his sips more than Hurlock his mouthfuls, proceeded to draw out Mr Yardley, who had hitherto been almost silent. With a little prompting he was induced to address the company on the subject of poisons. He spoke in a high, wavering voice, chuckling from time to time at the curiosities he mentioned:

‘We have little understanding of susceptibility. A substance that will gratify one organism may prove fatal to another. You gentlemen drink brandy with pleasure, but it is known that a small amount of that beverage will kill a cat. Heh, heh! Sheep thrive on grass, but clover may prove fatal to them. We know that a snake-bite may kill, but what shall we say when a man dies from the sting of a bee, as has happened in this very parish? Heh, heh! This is the mystery of reaction: the element introduced combines fatally with something in the constitution of the victim.’

My godfather had been listening intently: ‘Might not such an external element equally prove advantageous? If brandy can kill a cat, what say you to the possibility that a saucer of burgundy might transform its intelligence?’

Yardley sniggered. ‘The example is grotesque, but in principle your hypothesis is just. The world is young: there are a million possibilities still unexplored.’

‘What possibilities?’ cried Hurlock, crimson with drink, ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’

‘For example,’ said my godfather, evenly, ‘the possibility that when A is randomly made subject to B – A being a human-being, and B a substance, a situation, or even an idea – some unpredictable outcome may result.’

This proposition being beyond Hurlock in his fuddled state, he flew into a passion.

‘Then let us fly to the moon, gentlemen,’ he shouted, banging his fist on the table. ‘Let us fly to the moon and have done!’

Nothing exceptionable had taken place during the course of the evening; yet I could not rid myself of a sense of oppression. The guests had seemed constrained by Mr Gilbert’s presence, as though a little cowed by him. Even Hurlock’s outbursts had had a quality of nervous defiance. Might my gentlemanly godfather be intimidating?

The following day he asked my opinion of his guests. Seeking to be diplomatic without insipidity I ventured that Hurlock had seemed not unlike a stage representation of a coarse hunting squire, that Yardley had said a number of interesting things, and that Quentin had something enigmatic about him.

‘Your comments are just, as far as they go’ said my godfather. ‘Hurlock is a fool. Yardley is haphazardly learned.’

‘And Mr Quentin?’

My godfather reflected before replying: ‘I can understand why you found him enigmatic. To me he is not, because I know the answer to the riddle.’ His voice lightened. ‘You were properly attentive to the ladies – gallantly so in the case of Mrs Quentin, whose bad teeth, as you must have noticed, foul her breath. Time has been unkind to her: she was comely as a young woman. Mrs Hurlock was the local beauty, eagerly courted; but she made the mistake of marrying Hurlock, who reduced her to a breeding animal. She has now ceased to breed. Perhaps neither woman has a life worth leading.’

Startled by this bluntness, I inclined my head and tried to look sagacious.

‘You have now made the acquaintance of my nearest neighbours, such as they are. I contrive to remain on good terms with all of them.’

‘I am sure you do, sir,’ I hazarded.

Mr Gilbert pursed his thin lips and then spoke reflectively.

‘It is in their interest that we should be on good terms. All of them are in some sense in debt to me. It is remarkable how much influence moderate wealth can buy.’

He spoke without emphasis, but the passage of conversation had shown a greater astringency in him than I had ever previously witnessed. It had also reminded me of the precariousness of my own position. Perhaps that had been the intention.

Over the succeeding days I had a good deal of time to myself. Much of it I passed in the library, where a great fire was kept burning. I found there many publications of recent date, including the two volumes of Dr Johnson’s great Dictionary, and a number of works concerning philosophy, medicine and astronomy. It was a pleasure to meet also my old friends Tom Jones and Roderick Random. Their presence surprised me. Did this solitary country gentleman sit peacefully by the fire, lost in tales of assignations and boisterous pranks? That possibility seemed the more remote in that here and in other rooms I saw evidence of Mr Gilbert’s speculative curiosity: a terrestrial globe, a microscope, a brass telescope, a great magnet, and an articulated human skeleton.

When weary of reading I explored the house. Everywhere there were paintings, hangings and furnishings to admire. Even to my inexperienced eye it was apparent that the Gilbert family, about which I knew next to nothing, had been distinguished not merely by wealth, but by taste and connoisseurship.

I traced back the family line through a series of portraits. There were similarities of feature across the generations, but more striking was a cast of expression that suggested an inherited family temperament. Repeatedly a composed, even severe, countenance implied lurking passions controlled by force of will. I concluded that any one of these gentlemen would have proved a shrewd antagonist in argument or business or a court of law.

As viewed from the drive that led from the main gates the house was an imposing, wide-fronted building. The main rooms, spacious and lofty, answered to that external appearance. For some reason, however, I found myself particularly intrigued when quitting these apartments to venture down narrow staircases and stone-flagged passages into the domestic quarters. Here, like a colony of rabbits, dwelt the servants, far outnumbering those they served, even when there was company in the house. I reflected that such a mansion must necessarily have such a team to run it, as an ocean-going vessel must have men hoisting sails and manning pumps. These servants were my godfather’s crew, his prosperity affording shelter and wages for footmen, housemaids, cooks, grooms and gardeners.

When the weather brightened I explored the estate. Hungry for fresh air and exertion I walked at a good pace, breathing deep. One fine morning I found myself running from sheer excess of energy. My furthest excursion was to the woods I had seen from the drawing-room window. In these first days of spring they offered little promise that they could ever resemble the shady groves of pastoral poetry. They were dense, leafless and dark – even menacing – in aspect, as though ready, at a signal, to advance like Birnam wood and overwhelm the cultivated land.

I was curious as to my godfather’s daily doings. It seemed that he spent much of each morning talking to attorneys, tenants or tradesmen and attending to business of various kinds. I began to infer that he was no passive landowner but an efficient and industrious overseer of an estate, a master of practices and responsibilities of which I knew nothing. Might he wish to groom me to take an active part in the conduct of these affairs? And would I be content to settle, at so early an age, into the role of a rural administrator? I hoped the question would not arise, while hoping also that it would.

When in his company I observed him closely, looking for signs that I might read. He was controlled in manner as in speech, moving unhurriedly. His clothes, impeccably neat, seemed to be an expression of his being. There was nothing of the animal about him. It was impossible to imagine him so much as sweating, still less rutting or at stool. Even in his eating and drinking he expressed connoisseurship rather than appetite. His disposition seemed to be the achievement of years of self-command.

I assumed that there was a purpose to my seemingly purposeless stay, although I could not be sure what it was. Was it to give me an opportunity to learn, indirectly, more about my godfather, or was it rather that he wished to learn more about me? What did I indeed feel about him, if anything? Grateful, in a formal sense, I certainly was, but my gratitude had no tincture of warmth. I could not feel myself to be blamably deficient in affection when Mr Gilbert himself displayed so little. There was no hint that he regarded me in any sense as the son he had not had. His detachment had evoked in me a similar coolness. He was my benefactor, and therefore to be propitiated. He was clever yet aloof and therefore an object of interest. If for some reason he should turn against me I suspected that he would sever the link between us without a qualm. I was therefore responsive to his moods, and ever on my guard. It had often been remarked of me that I had the capacity to please. At school, at Oxford and on my travels I had adapted myself to those I met and made friends readily. Mr Gilbert would hardly have carried his patronage so far had he not found something agreeable in my disposition. Such kindliness as I had elicited I hoped I could sustain.

I was further encouraged by a deeper and perhaps darker reflection. In several ways, after all, I had the advantage of the old gentleman. I was young and free-spirited, physically strong. If Mr Gilbert was quick-witted then so, I flattered myself, was I. Moreover by virtue of my youth, my education and my travels I might be open to modes of thought that he could not anticipate. If he chose to continue in his course of benevolence he would find me tractable and appreciative. If, for whatever reason, he was planning to dispose of my life in a manner at odds with my disposition we would be commencing a chess-game in which I would hope to hold my own.

We dined together every night, pretty comfortably as it seemed to me, but with no discernible progress towards greater intimacy. Our talk was easy and even lively, but Mr Gilbert said little that was personal. For 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 the din and the stench repellent and the social life artificial. Yes, yes, there was more to it than that, of course. But my recollections are of dirt, disorder and foolish gossip. I will not go to London again. Yet I need diversion, I need stimulation.’

With sudden earnestness Mr Gilbert placed a hand on my sleeve.

‘In consequence – in consequence I have devised an odd plan. Here I am, out of touch with London and life. The town demands a young man’s constitution, and a young man’s appetites. My proposal is that you should explore it on my behalf.’

I was floundering. ‘How so, sir? In what capacity?’

‘In the capacity of a young gentleman. You will stay in your present lodgings, and I will maintain you with a sufficient income. Your task will be to sample the life of the capital and convey to me your sense of it by regular letters.’

My spirits were rising. Was I really to live as I pleased and to be paid for doing so?

‘This is a most generous offer, sir. But what in particular–’

He silenced me with a gesture.

‘I leave the matter in your hands. When abroad you naturally felt obliged to see certain famous buildings and monuments; and you reported on them fittingly enough. Now I ask something different. Go where your own inclinations lead you. But write down what you see and hear and feel.’

I nodded, knew not what to say, so nodded once more.

‘Although I no longer care to visit London it interests me more than I can say. It is a mighty experiment – or assemblage of experiments. I want you to report on the resulting pleasures, oddities and extremities as you experience them.’

He stopped, but I remained silent, seeing that he was still ordering his thoughts. When he spoke again it was in the tone of one summing up an argument: ‘My hope is to be able to live two lives simultaneously – the familiar quiet existence here and, by proxy, a young man’s life in the town. But is my proposal agreeable to you?’

I took a deep breath. ‘How could it fail to be so?’

Mr Gilbert looked at me sharply: ‘So you have no misgivings?’

‘None, sir.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ His face relaxed into a grim little smile. ‘I have some myself. It may be that we will lead one another into dark territory.’

3

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.

4

Having written three times to my godfather I was anxious for a reply. During my years abroad he had sent me no more than occasional acknowledgements of the long letters I had written. He said enough to show that he had read my words attentively, but offered no news of his own. This practice had suited me at the time, but I now looked for something more. I had offered Mr Gilbert several kinds of matter, and needed to know where I had come closest to meeting his expectations. I resolved to send one further message of safely general description and then remain silent until I had received a response:

My dear Godfather,

Here is a brief epistle on a single theme. On Monday last, in the garb of a tradesman, I undertook my longest expedition so far, beyond Tower Hill and the rotting-fish stench of Billingsgate to the docks, wharves and warehouses of Wapping. Hereabouts one sees an astonishing sight: the Thames bristles with the masts of a thousand merchant ships of every size and condition. How the movements of these vessels and the unloading of their cargo are overseen and controlled I cannot conceive. Yet somehow order is derived from this chaos.

The riverside quarter seethes, correspondingly, with activity as relentlessly purposeful as that of bees or ants. To walk and watch here is to apprehend by instant conviction what everyone knows as a general truth – that the Thames is the vital tap-root of our capital city. If the mouth of the river were to be blockaded London would shrivel and decay like a dying tree. Through this channel the city takes in the produce of the whole known world – foodstuffs, fabrics, gold, diamonds, timber and stone – to be adapted and dispersed in accordance with its own needs and practices.

In the country – in your own Worcestershire – there is a familiar annual progress as nature’s energies erupt from the earth – for example in the form of grass to be translated by farm animals into meat, milk, wool and leather. In London such rhythms are half forgotten: an insatiable city gulps down an unending variety of goods from the ends of the earth.

It is a mighty undertaking and a mighty spectacle. However, this trading has a darker side. The river is no longer the silver ribbon of poetry, but a turbid black-brown stream, the water thickened with filth. It is to be hoped, but also to be doubted, that the copious sewage of the city flows out to the open sea as surely and regularly as the merchant ships sail in. When the tide retreats the river-banks are seen to be strewn with every sort of civic detritus from sodden rags, bottles and wood-fragments to animal carcasses.

On shore, in the warehouses and counting-houses, commerce is visible as a living thing. Goods are translated into guineas, and guineas into goods – a reciprocal exchange with the life-sustaining regularity of a heartbeat. Regrettably, however, the corporal metaphor does not end there. The vitalizing activity generates refuse as the river itself does. One sees rats and beggars searching through the rubbish for leavings to devour. But more dangerous creatures haunt these streets and alleys, parasites on trade: smugglers, pilferers and robbers. The district is a world in itself, and a perilous world, where one must be perpetually on guard. But it excited me: I must learn more about it.

Yours, &c.

There intervened an encounter that was for a time to distract my attention from my dealings with Mr Gilbert. I was in Piccadilly, near Hyde Park. Wrapped about in a drab great-coat I could have been taken for a merchant of the middling sort. No doubt it was for that reason that Catherine Kinsey, Sarah’s aunt, was able to pass within two feet of me without so much as a second glance. Pulling my hat over my brows I turned about and followed her at a small distance. If she had been alone I would have greeted her, but she was walking, and conversing, with another woman of similar age and respectability. They turned left, and left again, into Alcott Street, where they parted. Mrs Kinsey’s companion continued on her way; she herself entered the front door of a house on the corner with Margaret Street.

I lingered outside it with a pounding heart: surely I had tracked Sarah down. Yet my exhilaration was tempered by curiosity. This was a fine street of handsome new buildings. If the Kinseys lived here they had dramatically risen in the world. Might they have inherited money? It was perhaps as well that, dressed as I was, I could make no further approach at this time: I needed to present myself to better advantage.

Next morning I came to the house in gentlemanly guise. To the maid who answered my knock I said that an old acquaintance of Mrs Kinsey, Richard Fenwick, newly returned to London, had called to pay his respects. I was left on the doorstep for some little time before a carefully rehearsed reply was brought to me. Mrs Kinsey sent her compliments. She would be very pleased to see Mr Fenwick, but particular circumstances prevented her from doing so that morning. She hoped that I might be able to call at the same time on the following day.

So it came about that I was duly ushered into her presence twenty-four hours later. Even before we spoke I had observed that the interior of the house, its curtains and furnishings, confirmed the impression conveyed by its exterior: it seemed that Mrs Kinsey had prospered extraordinarily since I had last spoken to her.

She had always been an affable lady. Our exchanges were warm but brief, speedily resolving into the very situation for which I had scarcely dared to hope. Mrs Kinsey informed me that she was unexpectedly called away, but was sure that I would be pleased to meet her niece once more. After bows and courtesies the lady departed, and Sarah came in.

I felt an instant sense of shock. Here was the Sarah I had known, but changed in every way for the better. She was more expensively and elegantly dressed, she moved more gracefully. What seemed to be a slight thinning of the cheeks and an enhanced brightness of the eyes elevated her face from its former prettiness into positive beauty. Above all there was a confidence in her manner that lent her a striking animation. In the past she had been subject to an instinctive diffidence, although capable of sudden directness and rebellious wit. Now these underlying traits were in the ascendancy. As we exchanged greetings and sat down she looked me in the eye and seemed to be suppressing a smile.

I had some airy opening remarks prepared: ‘… regretted loss of contact … my own fault … warm memories … would hope to renew …’

Her reply was concise: ‘I am pleased to see you again, Mr Fenwick. I was here yesterday when you called, but the circumstances were a little awkward. So I arranged to visit again this morning when I knew you would be here.’

‘To visit?’

‘Why yes. This is my aunt’s house.’

‘Then you—?’

‘I live in Margaret Street. I am married, Mr Fenwick.’

‘Married?’ I was trapped in the interrogative mode.

‘I was married last September to Mr Walter Ogden.’

She was easy and terse, in full command. It was necessary to rally a little: ‘I have known you well enough to forego formalities. How did this come about?’

‘I met Mr Ogden last July, through the merest chance.’

I tried, with indifferent success, to sound quizzical rather than sour: ‘A swift courtship. Mr Ogden must be a man of considerable charm.’

‘Determination was the decisive quality. Mr Ogden is a man of strong will.’

‘Would I like him?’

‘I hardly think so. Two men could hardly be more different.’

‘In what respect?’

‘In most respects. He is a particularly serious man.’

‘A solemn one?’ I ventured.

She considered the suggestion serenely, and then smiled.

‘Perhaps a little.’

‘Are you laughing at him?’

‘I do laugh at him sometimes – but only behind his back. I do not care to vex him.’

‘You make him sound formidable.’

‘And so he is.’ She paused, before adding lightly: ‘He deals in diamonds. For that reason he was untroubled by my own lack of means.’

‘Indeed.’ I sought a new direction: ‘Did you ever mention me to him?’

‘I mentioned that I had been visited at one time by a genteel young man of uncertain prospects.’

‘Did that disclosure disturb him?’

‘Not the least in the world.’

Disappointed and obscurely resentful in several ways at once I could find nothing further to say. It was left to Sarah to resume the conversation: ‘Since we are being so unfashionably plain with one another, may I ask about your own situation. I take it that your Grand Tour is at an end?’

‘It is. I returned last month. Thanks to the generosity of my godfather I am now a licensed man about town – at least for a year or two.’

‘Then it would seem that we are both provided for.’

Was there a hint of bitterness in her voice – the faintest of hints?

It was my turn to look her in the eyes. ‘This has become a particularly candid conversation.’

She held my gaze. ‘Each of us now knows how the other is placed.’

‘You have been able to marry into prosperity. Perhaps it was as well that our correspondence had lapsed.’

‘It must be in some such way that most friendships fade.’

I stood up. ‘I must congratulate you on your good fortune – and leave you.’

She rose in her turn, with a slight flush, and spoke in an altered voice: ‘I should not like us to part in this vein.’

‘In what vein, Mrs Ogden?’

‘Cold, bright, false. I would not wish to seem unfeeling. We have been close, you and I …’ Her voice quickened: ‘But we were both left ill-provided for, and so have had to make our way in the world as best we can.’

On the way home, and indeed for several days following, I found myself discomposed. Who could have foreseen that Sarah would already have a husband, and a rich one, and that marriage would have given her such assurance. My feelings were oddly diverse. It had been disconcerting to be thrown on to the defence by a woman I had once patronized. I was stung by the instant dissolution of what had become a gratifying fantasy compounding tender feeling and ruthless seduction. And I felt that I had undervalued this handsome, cool young lady. Mr Ogden had shown himself a shrewd judge, and captured a wife who would do him credit, even if, as I was determined must be the case, she had married him merely to secure her future. Common sense told me that Sarah must be happier as the wife of a wealthy man than as the lover of an adventurer with uncertain prospects, but I was unwilling to be persuaded. The best bargain I could make with myself was to see this lost chance as a source of half-pleasing melancholy. I made shift with this notion since I had much else to occupy me, but it was clouded with resentment and unease: I had lost a point of moral anchorage.

Since April showers were frequent I was often indoors, where I did a good deal of writing. In addition to drafting of letters I was keeping a new journal as a quarry of possible epistolary material. Sometimes I would sing, and sometimes write facetious verses – a diversion I had enjoyed during my travels. I remained on friendly but formal terms with my landlady. Only gradually had I learned that her husband had been Mr Gilbert’s tailor, and had died of a fever when she was expecting their first child, her daughter, Charlotte. Through the agency of Mr Ward my godfather had intervened on her behalf, securing the house in which she lived on condition that he could make use of it from time to time.

I had regular conversations with her, and found her agreeable company. If I asked a blunt question she would give a direct reply. When I inquired, perhaps impertinently: ‘What are your pleasures, Mrs Deacon – what do you live for?’ she thought for a moment before saying: ‘Charlotte; reading; thinking; friends; coffee; and conversation.’ She had a quietly assured manner, and would sometimes quiz me in her turn: ‘If circumstances had been different, Mr Fenwick, what profession would have suited you?’ ‘Are you of my opinion, that men can be as vain as women?’ ‘Could you make shift on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe?’

I had scarcely noticed Charlotte during my previous stay in the house; she was now some twelve years of age, a shy girl with dark hair. I cannot recall how it came about, but one wet afternoon I played chess with her. Knowing myself to be a moderately skilful performer, and thinking to be indulgent, I was so negligent that she defeated me with ease. By way of compliment to her prowess I was more serious in a return match, only to be a second time defeated. We had yet one more game. By now on my mettle I tried my hardest, but was beaten yet a third time. Charlotte showed no exultation at these triumphs, but thanked me for playing with her, and retired. Despite the humiliation I was glad to have stumbled upon this unexpected show of talent: it had always pleased me to find people unpredictable. Mrs Deacon later told me that, although an indifferent player herself, she had taught Charlotte the game and had been astonished by her aptitude for it.

It occurred to me that I could simply spend more time in Cathcart Street, inventing stories for my godfather – spinning a false life from my own brain – rather than walking the streets to grub out scraps of entertainment for him. But physical restlessness denied me that possibility. Although my rooms were well enough the ceilings were low, causing me to feel large and caged. It was a relief to go out.

My nether limbs were well exercised by these prowlings. When indoors I would at intervals strengthen my arms by lifting my desk or pulling myself up to a beam. The room must so often have been shaken by these exertions that I wondered whether Mrs Deacon might not feel some apprehension – perhaps even pleasurable apprehension – at being reminded of the presence of a vigorous male beast in her respectable house. She was still a handsome woman, and had manifestly lain with at least one man.

One evening, on impulse, I again went to dine at Keeble’s steakhouse. The talking fraternity being absent on this occasion, I was glad to sit at an empty table and think in peace. It was with slight irritation, therefore, that I became aware of another solitary fellow taking a seat opposite my own. To postpone conversation I kept my eyes on my plate. When I at last looked up it was to find myself confronted by the grinning face of Matt Cullen.

My immediate reaction was to burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which Matt joined me. Our fellow-diners looked around, puzzled and smiling, at the spectacle of two young gentlemen unaccountably helpless with mirth. I was delighted to encounter Matt once more, and to find him just as I remembered, long-limbed, an awkward mover, with an expression of sleepy good-nature, always on the brink of a smile.

‘I am the more surprised to see you,’ said I, ‘because Latimer told me that you had retreated to the country to undergo marriage.’

‘There was that possibility.’ He drew a slow sigh. ‘Both families favoured the union. But there was a fatal flaw in the scheme.’

‘That being?’

‘That being the absence of any spark of animal inclination in either of the parties principally concerned. Each could see the lack of desire so heartily reciprocated that we retreated by mutual consent, leaving our families incensed.’

‘Then what fresh hope has brought you back to town?’

‘A forlorn one. You see in Cullen a farcical parody of our old companion Ralph Latimer. I seek the patronage of the Duke of Dorset.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that I am a distant cousin and that I have played cricket with his son.’

The absurdity of it set us laughing again.

‘But what of your own case?’ asked Matt, as we resumed eating. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I wrote to you from abroad.’

‘Two letters only, concerned with the exertions of a single bodily member. And here you are in London, apparently embarking on a new life.’

‘So my godfather has decreed.’

‘You may recollect that I know the gentleman’s name, having been brought up within forty miles of his estate. Mr Gilbert, is it not?’

‘It is.’

Suddenly feeling easy and reckless I cast aside my scruples.

‘You shall hear my story,’ said I, ‘and you will be only the second person to do so.’

I broached it along with a second bottle of wine. Matt leaned forward to listen, his face as nearly serious as I had ever seen it. I traversed the whole ground, from my first meeting with Mr Gilbert, following the death of my mother, through the years when I had divided my time between boarding school and my aunt’s house in York; thence to Oxford, my Grand Tour and the arrangement now agreed. When I had finished Matt shook his head.

‘A singular history,’ he said. ‘Mr Gilbert has been generous, yet you seem to describe a benefactor devoid of warmth.’

‘That is how he strikes me. He is studiously guarded in all he does. He sips at life.’

‘Has he no vices to make him human?’

‘None that I have observed. His daily life is as smooth as an egg. It affords the Evil One no hand-hold.’

‘Has he always been so cool? Did he never think of marriage?’

‘Not that I have heard. But I know little of his past.’

‘He must care for you to have done as much as he has.’

‘I would like to think so. But his kindness may derive solely from his friendship with my parents. I cannot tell. This is my problem, Matt: I must divert a man whose disposition I do not understand. I am locked into a strange game.’

Cullen washed down these observations with a gulp of wine, and pondered them for a moment or two, his features pursed up around his half-smile.

‘Might not this be a game with no loser? Mr Gilbert is pleased to give money to a promising young gentleman, and the young gentleman is pleased to receive it.’

‘I hope it may prove so simple. My godfather fancied that we might be led into “dark territory”. That was his phrase. Should I feel concerned?’

Matt smirked.

‘How gladly, Dick, I would take the same risks for the same money.’

My dear Richard,

I have read with interest the experiences you have described and your observations thereon. You have plainly been to no small trouble to record a variety of activities that might entertain me. I was surprised, however, to notice that you have apparently encountered no members of the opposite sex since your return to London.

Your general strategy I am happy to endorse. Indeed I will go further. I suspect that your account of polite society is likely to hold few surprises for me. To speak in general, I would rather hear more of Mr Crocker, who would appear to be something of an original, than of Lord Vincent and his coterie. It has become a matter of regret to me that, through some pressure of chance or temperament, my own youthful years in the capital were passed largely at that more respectable, and less entertaining, social level. For that reason I will tend to have a greater interest in the excesses, the follies, and even the shady underside of the town. Without leaving my comfortable country estate I look forward to being escorted to regions of experience that I could never have visited on my own. I hope that I will soon be hearing from you again.

I remain, &c.

I studied this letter with minute attention. Surely it was not merely confirming, but modifying, what amounted to my contract of employment? My respectable godfather wanted spicier tales than I had so far offered him. And was there not a hint that my role should be that of participant rather than mere observer?

Here was an appealing invitation to hedonism. Perhaps I should have warmed him with an account of my visit to Mrs Traill … But I was immediately aware that the fat worm that had been proffered might contain a fatal hook. It was scarcely to be expected that at some future date Mr Gilbert would say: ‘You have been so wholeheartedly lewd and dissolute that I am resolved to leave you every penny I possess.’ I needed a clearer understanding as to how far I might safely venture. But my general plan had been approved: there was some reassurance in that. And as it happened I was enabled to respond to my godfather’s fresh challenge almost immediately.

My dear Godfather,

I was very pleased to receive your letter. Your mention of Mr Crocker came opportunely: it is not two days since I learned more about that gentleman from Horn and Latimer, who have been acquainted with him for some little time.

He comes from the west of England. His late father, comparably huge, was a wealthy landowner. While a boy, Crocker was kept at home because of his unusual appearance, and was educated by private tutors. However he showed intelligence and spirit. When his father died, the young heir to the estate introduced a number of surprising features, including an aviary and an outdoor theatre. He hosted parties which became legendary in the county. Soon he was making sorties to London, where his wit and physical strength forestalled any attempt to treat him as an object of ridicule.

Latimer remains a little wary of him. ‘He is so much a physical oddity,’ said he, ‘as to have no clear place in society. His eccentricity may overflow into some excess of a dangerous kind. To know him is very well; but it would not do to be implicated in folly. There is tattle wherever he goes.’

Horn’s observations were more physical: ‘That great belly is a fantastical depository: they say he can piss a quart at a single discharge. Concerning the operation of his bowels I prefer not to speculate.’

‘That is a rare show of delicacy, Mr Horn,’ said Latimer. ‘I do know for a fact that he rarely stands upright for long – the strain is too great. If he falls he cannot easily rise without aid. Nor can he so much as pull on his own stockings, being unable to reach his feet. If one of them itches he must scratch it with the other.’

‘Worse than that,’ cries Horn. ‘I hear the poor devil has been unable to see his own pintle these five years, unless by means of a mirror. Yet it is known that he has appetites in that region also. He purchases the attentions of discreet and adept ladies.’

That night, at Latimer’s instigation, I attended Drury Lane Theatre. Our interest was less in the main piece, an insipid comedy, than in an accompanying pastoral interlude. The part of Ceres was taken by the actress Jane Page, whom Latimer has lately been cultivating. He invited my compliments, which were duly vouchsafed, for she is a stately creature, who can command the stage. To be frank, however, I had found my attention elsewhere engaged. The young lady who played the part of Celia, a shepherdess, was so graceful in her movements, so artless in her manner that I was quite transported by her. My imagination could even accommodate the absurd notion of serenading this rustic maiden on a green hillside in some lost world of innocence.

Afterwards Latimer played host to several of the performers, in hope of furthering his friendship with the goddess of plenty. It seemed to me that he enjoyed only moderate success in this enterprise. Miss Page acknowledged his compliments prettily, but conceded no more than trifling hints of encouragement. Also present, however, was Celia, the shepherdess, in the person of a young actress named Kitty Brindley. I enjoyed some decorous conversation with her. The air of pastoral innocence was now, of course, largely dissipated, but something of the illusion survived, because she proved to be indeed a young country girl, new to London and the stage. Might she have been artlessly enacting no other role than that of herself? I was so beguiled by the simultaneous claims of poetical imaginings and eager warmth below the waist, that I happily prolonged the self-deception. Indeed I came to feel that our encounter might be the prelude to others of a more-intimate kind. If this proves to be the case, you will receive a full account of what ensues.

I was lately cheered by a chance reunion with Matt Cullen, an Oxford friend. You may recall that I mentioned him, as coming from Malvern. In his company I can be comfortable.

Yours &c

Everything I had written was true: there had been no need for embellishment. The attractions of Kitty Brindley now served a double purpose: they distracted me from my regrets concerning Sarah and they promised to provide the kind of entertainment that Mr Gilbert seemed to have in mind.

I was enjoying my survey of London independently of its possible usefulness to my correspondence with Mr Gilbert. I was glad to have an occupation, instead of trifling away the time in the mode of Horn and Latimer. Already I knew far more of the town than they did. Everywhere I found fresh cause for curiosity. New houses, new shops, whole new streets, were coming into being. I would linger to watch builders at work and see houses rise from the earth with the slow persistence of plants. Properly considered, I told myself, the exertions involved were extraordinary. Ground plans were marked out with pegs and string. Cartload upon cartload of new-minted bricks were hauled in from distant manufactories by straining horses. Somehow a team of illiterate labourers, under minimal supervision, could raise walls straight and true, accommodating door or window, portico or chimney, as the architect had ordained. Everywhere I looked innumerable skills were collaboratively in operation – carpentry, tiling, plastering, the mixing of mortar, the laying of bricks, the cutting of glass – of which no Gentleman could claim the smallest knowledge.

The case was the same whatever professional activity I considered. From somewhere there came an endless supply of young men who could climb a mast, furl a sail, carve the corpses of sheep or pigs, forge metal, shape a carriage-wheel, bind a book, make a chair, a greatcoat or a wig. The class of Gentleman, in which I maintained a tenuous foothold, was dependent on all these skills yet serenely ignorant of them. How would I be placed if I should suddenly find myself penniless? My reassurance was that if the uneducated and often stunted labourers whom I had seen could learn a craft or a trade then no doubt I myself could do as much, if compelled by necessity. Perhaps there lurked within my still unformed personality a potential carpenter, architect or sea-captain. Although I hoped never to be put to the test, it was agreeable to fancy myself Protean.

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 of my own. By contrast his face, well-formed and bright-eyed, is no more than plump, but it perspired freely, causing him to dab at it with a handkerchief.

‘I am pleased to see you, Mr Fenwick,’ said he. ‘I hope you will sing with me again.’

‘With great pleasure.’

‘By the way, I am acquainted with Lord Vincent, whom I believe you know.’

‘Very slightly.’

‘I have been observing you. You yourself I see to be watchful, eager to take in everything about you.’

‘I hope I am,’ said I, by now embarrassed.

‘You were deep in conversation with Mr Pike, who is often taciturn.’

‘I found him most interesting.’

‘That shows judgement. He may be the most interesting man in the room.’

He turned away and rapped for silence: ‘Gentlemen, if you will indulge me, I feel disposed to sing.’

Amid applause he got himself to his feet. I could see that he was immersed in his performance, half jocose though it was. While he sang no one would have thought of his unwieldy body – he lived through his voice:

Come, friends, and bear me company:

I dare not go to bed.

I’ve drunk too little or drunk too much,

And my heart is heavy as lead.

Although this life is all too short

The nights can last too long,

So help me pass the lingering hours,

And join me in a song.

The whole company did indeed join lustily in the chorus:

In an hour, in a week, in a month, in a year,

Where shall we be? No man can say.

If we drink, if we fight, if we whore while we’re here,

Then sooner or later the devil’s to pay.

So sing through the night,

Sing while we may,

Till a new dawn reminds us to live for the day.

Crocker lowered his great rump amid much cheering and stamping of feet. By now the room was very warm and we were all in a tipsy sweat. Invited by our host to perform, I offered ‘The soaring lark salutes the morn’. When I had concluded, Crocker and I were persuaded to sing an indecorous duet:

A tippler’s throat is a conduit pipe:

Pour, landlord, pour.

We drink to piss, and piss our drink, and drink to piss once more.

A man don’t leak till a man has drunk,

So let the liquor flow:

We take it in and shake it down, and then we let it go.

The assembled tipplers sang with us till the windows shook and our ears rang.

It seems to be the custom at these gatherings to drink and talk at large until Crocker takes the lead in some way. When the singing was done the former general carousal was resumed. Voices rose and laughter rang out. Somewhat elevated myself, I noticed the prudent Latimer slip away. I was sitting with Horn, who was by now very loud, at one point laughing so hard that he fell to the floor.

At length Crocker again forced himself upright.

‘Gentlemen!’ he cried, ‘there is work to be done. Let us withdraw.’

I confess that, owing to the influence of wine, my recollections of what followed are less than distinct. Crocker’s table was pulled aside, and he stalked ponderously from the room. The rest of us rose – with a crashing of chairs, bottles and glasses – and followed him into the night air. Crocker ensconced himself in what was apparently his private chair, to be borne away by four men, with the company trooping at their heels. I wondered if we were to be plunged into some violence of the Mohock kind – though in truth I had never heard that Crocker was associated with such doings. We made a strange procession: an obese, chair-borne Achilles followed by a rabble of drunken Myrmidons. There was no show of provocation or aggression, although I fancy anyone standing in our way might have been thrown aside. Perhaps Crocker himself and Pike, who stayed close to his chair, were the only individuals among us still in a condition to think clearly. At some point we turned from the main thoroughfare and followed a link-boy through a maze of unlighted alleys.

At length we were motioned to a halt. The moon, emerging from a cloud, showed us to be standing beside a long wall. It seemed an unpromising destination. I was aware of Crocker alighting from his chariot and, through the agency of Pike, getting us, his foot soldiers, positioned at short intervals along the wall. He himself took a central place. His stentorian command, ringing through the night air, enjoined us to set our shoulders to the brickwork and then push rhythmically against it in response to his further shouts, as though trying to budge a great wagon. All concerned fell uncomplainingly to this apparently futile task. We strained in unison, strained repeatedly – and strained to no effect. But after a number of such lunges there seemed, to my surprise, to be some slight sense of motion in the brickwork. We maintained our efforts till a distinct swaying ensued and eventually, to the accompaniment of a ragged cheer, an indeterminate length of the wall gave way completely, collapsing inwards with a rumbling crash.

Like many others, I went down with the wall, and had to stumble to my feet among broken bricks. There was a confusion of curses and a loud barking of dogs. The moon was now hidden by a cloud of dust. All present hastily dispersed as best they could, given the darkness, their drunken state and the shock of the fall. I found my way to Cathcart Street I know not how, my clothes filthy, my wig full of dirt, and one stocking soaked with blood.

Next morning I wondered at the course the evening had taken, and asked myself whose wall we had destroyed, and why. I also felt some astonishment that the wall had indeed collapsed. My uncertain conclusion was that the cause had to do with vibration, the faint movement communicated to the brickwork engendering a counter-movement.

Why Crocker should have organized this assault I cannot imagine. He appeared to be fairly sober throughout the evening, his freakish size perhaps rendering him resistant to the inebriating power of punch. Nor would I take him to be a belligerent man. I look forward to finding out more about him, and about the strange doings of the past night.

Yours, &c.

This escapade had left me rather the worse for wear. Not until the afternoon was I washed, dressed and restored to rights. A feeble explanation to Mrs Deacon concerning the state of my laundry – I had suffered an ‘unfortunate mishap’ – was received civilly, but with the hint of amusement that it deserved. It would not do for me to appear ridiculous again. I wished my landlady to think me a spirited gentleman of fashion, not a lout.

After taking a dish of tea I felt a little better. It seemed to me that the doings of the previous night, discreetly edited, might entertain my godfather. Lacking the energy to go out of doors, I settled down to compose what eventually became the letter here transcribed.

While doing so I conceived the idea of keeping a record of my entire correspondence with Mr Gilbert. My recollections being already somewhat misty, it seemed important that I should at least be clear as to what I had reported. I could not risk falling into self-contradiction. Fortunately I had preserved fragmentary drafts of my earlier epistles; now I pieced them together and re-wrote them as fair copies. Henceforward I would keep this archive up to date, as constituting my official memory.

Latimer and I had tacitly chosen to consider our pursuit of Kitty Brindley and Jane Page a joint enterprise. We returned to the theatre to see again the interlude that had pleased us and afterwards to dine once more with the principal performers. I enjoyed the little pastoral as much as before – in fact more, given my interest in the young shepherdess. There ensued, however, a distraction that I could not have foreseen.

We stayed to see the comedy that followed the interlude. In the course of it I happened to look from our box above the stage towards the audience at large, and noticed, in the second row, Sarah Ogden, sitting beside a man I could only assume to be her husband. I leaned back, out of their line of vision, but could not resist further glances in their direction. The top quarter of Ogden – all that was visible – suggested a thick-set, impassive man. Sarah was more responsive to the performance, but to me there seemed some constraint in her manner. I wondered if she had seen me and was discomfited by my proximity.

Our engagement after the performance – at which, as it seemed to me, Kitty was once more encouraging and Jane Page once more elusive – pushed this episode to the back of my mind. The following morning, however, it returned with vexing vividness. I found myself recalling my warmest interlude with Sarah, nearly three years previously, when she had been visibly stirred, perhaps even drawn a few steps along the path toward capitulation. Could the dull Ogden elicit such responses? I resolved that at some future time I would indeed resume my pursuit of her. The affair with Kitty Brindley I was willing to expose to my godfather’s curiosity. Here was a second narrative, a private one, of which I would tell him nothing.

My dear Godfather,

I continue pertinacious in the pursuit of pleasure. This afternoon I took tea with Miss Brindley, tête-à-tête, at her lodgings in Rose Street.

It seems to me that in the negotiation that ensued we were both to be commended for the art with which we translated into euphemism what we knew to be a business transaction. I represented myself as a young fellow still making my way in the world, well provided for but (alas!) in no position to commit myself to a settled way of life. Miss Kitty’s sketch of her past was the stuff of a country ballad. She had left her native village for love of a soldier who had promised marriage but then deserted her. It would have gone hard for her had she not fallen in with Jane Page, who had secured her some trifling employment in the theatre. Since then she had advanced in her profession, and had hopes of rising further.

You may wish to know something of her appearance. In person she inclines to be slightly plump, but in that pleasing way that seems to be the effect of youthfulness only. She has large blue eyes, a clear complexion and a ready smile often followed, however, by a lowering of her eyes, as though she is in doubt that she may have been too forward. In manner she is open and candid, a quality in the fair sex that has always attracted me.

When considering her career in London she was thankful, she said, for her good fortune, because she could have fared far worse. On the other hand she had broken all ties with her parents, her prospects in the theatre were uncertain, and she could not but feel anxiety concerning her future. (When I referred, in studiously general terms, to the most notorious perils of her profession, she replied ‘What would I know of those, sir?’)

It was perhaps droll that we each affected simplicity while signalling to one another as directly as circling animals. Our attempted deceptions (and self-deceptions) were mutually apprehended and tolerated. The common ground to which we tiptoed our way was the fiction that we were like-minded innocents from the country, ill at ease in this unfeeling town. What Miss Brindley wants, of course, though she cannot say as much, is a wealthy husband, or failing that, as will most probably be the eventual case, a sufficiently wealthy protector. There are members of her profession who have achieved as much. My hope, and in effect my offer, was that at this early point in her career I could offer her a companionable and moderately remunerative apprenticeship for the future to which she aspires.

I have written more glibly than I feel, representing Miss Brindley, her charms and little stratagems, as also my own pursuit of her, with irony and a hint of derision. However, I have another perception of a warmer and more generous kind. After all there is a natural charm and even innocence in her disposition. I am surely not the first man to have had a conversation of this kind with her but, equally surely, I am by no means the twenty-first.

By the time we parted we had reached, as it seemed to me, an understanding as to the immediate future course of our relationship, and this with no hint of a leer, a smirk or a double entendre. The young lady will surely have observed that I was powerfully aroused by her; yet on quitting her apartment I ventured only to kiss her small hand.

When I come to do more you will hear further from

Yours, &c.

Mr Gilbert’s reply must have been written very soon after he had received my letter:

My dear Richard,

It would appear that you have been living a full and varied life in London, very much along the lines I would have hoped.

However I now feel the need to discuss with you directly certain issues arising from our project. I would be obliged, therefore, if at your earliest convenience you could arrange to pass a few days here at Fork Hill.

I remain, &c.

I took the coach the following morning.

6

So it was that I returned to Fork Hill House some six weeks after my previous visit. When I had shaken off the stupefaction of the journey, and washed the odours of it from my person, I felt flushed with vigour and ready to face any challenge that might lie in store. I was no mere supplicant, but a young man of some little consequence, Mr Gilbert’s personal emissary from the capital. The bedroom I had occupied in March had been prepared exactly as before, as though it were now reserved for my exclusive use. The servants greeted me with smiles of recognition, pleased that I remembered their names. Even the great dogs licked my hand and waved their tails in welcome. I was encouraged to have become, to this small extent, an accepted member of the household.

Mr Gilbert was, as ever, politely formal, but I sensed a suppressed excitement underlying the courtesies. His glance was more restless, his words came more quickly.

‘We must talk,’ he said, ‘and at some little length – but not for a day or two.’

The change I felt in myself was mirrored in my godfather’s estate. The garden in front of the house was a blaze of spring flowers, golden and red. At the rear the expanse of his land was no longer held at bay by a palisade of black branches but merged into a surrounding sea of green leaves. I wandered out, as before, towards those woods, exulting in the clean air and warm sunshine. In the fields there were scores of white lambs, cropping the grass alongside their dams. Here was a true pastoral scene, where my Kitty would have been at home as shepherdess. Bird songs trilled around and above me, a sound I had scarcely heard in London, and I was inhaling the sweet scents of growth rather than the stench of refuse. If this was the healthy life, as I felt it to be, then surely London, with its din and stink, might threaten illness, mental if not physical. My mind seemed clearer here.

Borrowing a horse from my godfather’s stable I rode out to explore the surrounding countryside, something I had never attempted before. It was a fertile, secluded region, the nearest town being five miles away. To ride again was a release – how much more pleasing to be in partnership with a horse than to have it haul your carriage like a slave.

I was happy to amble at random, thinking about the days ahead. What conversational manner should I adopt when talking to my godfather? My former style – deference with an occasional glint of spirit – seemed inadequate to the changed situation. Too much in that vein and he might conclude that I lacked the mischief to be a bold participant in London life. Should I speak more freely, even suggestively? I would need to stay alert and be guided by Mr Gilbert’s response.

I rode through Fork Hill itself, a straggling hamlet a mile from my godfather’s house. Passing the churchyard I heard my name called, and looked around to see Mr Thorpe, the clergyman I had met on my previous visit. I dismounted to shake his hand, and we stood conversing in the shade of a huge oak tree, while my horse grazed the verge.

In the open air, fresh from hauling a fallen gravestone upright – his task when he had seen me – he looked younger and more vigorous than I had previously taken him to be. And so I told him, emboldened by the fact that he seemed a friendly fellow, pleased to enjoy the distraction of a chat. When I asked him whether he did not find life in a secluded parsonage a little dull, he gave the question thought.

‘I would once have done so. At Oxford I was considered a lively spark. But since coming here I have been at pains to accept my destined place.’

I pursued the point, perhaps in tactless terms: ‘Is that not rather as though a butterfly should become a caterpillar?’

Thorpe did not take offence: ‘Better a healthy caterpillar than a bedraggled butterfly. I hope to marry one day. My wife will be a parson’s wife, and my children will be a parson’s children. Then the transformation will be complete.’

When he hinted a question concerning my own prospects I said something to the effect that these were at the mercy of my godfather.

Thorpe nodded. ‘I understand you. In these parts we are all beholden to Mr Gilbert, and must study to deserve his good opinion.’

We smiled, in mutual understanding, and I parted from him cordially, pleased to have found a possible ally in this unknown territory.

Within three days of my arrival my godfather again hosted a dinner. To my surprise the guests were as before, save only that Thorpe was absent. Although bored by the prospect of the evening ahead I was on balance not displeased: if I came to be seen by Mr Gilbert’s neighbours as a familiar member of the household he could not easily cast me aside.

I had hoped to play the courteous listener, but found myself more than once thrust into prominence. Mr Hurlock, as witlessly noisy as before, assailed me with his raillery. He questioned me about the pleasures of London life, brushing aside my demurrals.

‘Don’t believe the boy!’ he cried out. ‘I say don’t believe him! Does he look like a monk? He does not! There he sits, a handsome enough piece of young flesh. Never tell me there haven’t been women in the case. The town teems with ’em. Covent Garden, Drury Lane: there the ladies gather, and there the young men swarm about ’em like lice in a wig. Don’t tell us you haven’t been there, young man!’

My godfather made an ill-judged attempt to turn the current of the rant: ‘I believe you may have visited such places yourself, in your time.’

Spluttering wine, Hurlock exploded into a laugh.

‘You may believe it, Mr Gilbert. You may well believe it, sir! I’ve gone belly to belly in many a London garret.’

By now the embarrassment around the table, particularly in the countenance of his wife, was such as to be perceived even by Hurlock. He extricated himself as best he could: ‘That was in my plundering days, before I was married. Long before I was married!’

He let out his bark of laughter, but laughed alone. My godfather changed the topic.

‘Mr Quentin, I hear that you may be contemplating a visit to London?’

There was a silence, and I saw that Mrs Quentin, who was sitting opposite me, had flushed. With an effort, her husband spoke out: ‘I have been obliged to plan such a visit. It is not what I want or can afford, but it must be undertaken. My wife requires the services of a skilful dentist, such as cannot be found in these parts. We must seek help in London.’

There were murmurs of sympathy, but I could see that the unfortunate Mrs Quentin was on the verge of tears, whether at the prospect of the dental ordeal or from the mortification of hearing her plight publicly discussed. To ease the situation I launched into a lively monologue about recent advances in dental knowledge, and new devices that had become available. I spoke with knowledge, because the previous month Latimer’s uncle had had the last of his teeth extracted and a set of false ones installed. I did not, of course, allude to the discomfort he had suffered, nor to the resulting unnaturalness of his facial expression. Mr Quentin seemed interested in what I had said, asking a number of questions, and his wife recovered her composure.

As the talk became general I hoped to subside into the background, but was again thwarted. Mr Gilbert asked me to repeat, for Mr Yardley’s benefit, my account of the London frog-swallower. I obliged the company as best I could. The ladies grimaced but Yardley nodded and clicked his tongue. He gave it as his opinion that a bellyful of water would be no very forbidding environment for a frog, save only in respect of its warmth, uncomfortable for a cold-blooded amphibian.

Towards the end of the meal my godfather engaged with Mrs Hurlock on the subject of music, reminding her that in years gone by he had sometimes heard her sing. To my surprise the buxom lady became positively animated on this theme, recalling the names of several of her favourite pieces. When, in a polite show of interest, I seconded her admiration for Handel’s ‘Say not to me I am unkind’, Mr Gilbert promptly proposed that she and I should sing it together. Having no desire to perform in this company, and little confidence in the abilities of Mrs Hurlock, I would gladly have refused, but she responded eagerly, and the Quentins politely supported the proposal. It would have seemed churlish in me not to oblige. I was influenced also by the reaction of Mr Hurlock, whose over-fed face expressed blank disgust. It would be a pleasure to irritate him further.

To my surprise our impromptu duet proved creditable. Mrs Hurlock’s voice, although not strong, was sweet and true, and I was able to adapt my own performance to it. We were warmly applauded, particularly by my godfather. Mrs Hurlock, redeemed from anonymity, quite blushed with pleasure, in what must once have been her girlish manner. Her husband was the one person present who listened with hostility and clapped perfunctorily. Plainly he would have been happier at a cock-fight. When the ladies had left us he emptied two large bumpers in brisk succession and lapsed into a doze. Quentin remained subdued, but Yardley, prompted by my godfather, talked about the ingenious construction of birds’ nests, claiming that certain instinctive animal capacities might amount to something akin to human thought. He was interrupted by Hurlock, who woke from his sleep crying out at random: ‘Say nothing of Spain! The only enemy we need fear is the Pope of Rome!’

When our party dispersed my godfather and I went out upon the terrace to bid farewell to the guests. Mrs Quentin shyly thanked me for providing her a little reassurance concerning her forthcoming trials. Mrs Hurlock expressed the hope that we might sing together once more on some future occasion. Her husband, half asleep, was muttering and stumbling. A bright moon turned the lawns to silver and gleamed on the roofs of the carriages as they rattled away along the drive. Mr Gilbert and I watched them till they were out of sight and we were alone together on the silent terrace.

‘The night is mild,’ said he. ‘And the time has come for us to talk. I think we might sit out here for a while. Would you be so good as to fetch the port.’

I did so without a word, my heart beating faster. Mr Gilbert and I sat on either side of a small table. He took a sip of port and stared out across the moonlit garden. When he spoke it was with the air of a man embarking on a difficult topic.

‘I should have said either less or more in my letter. I am now resolved to say more.’

I drank a little port myself, to give him space.

He continued, with his eyes still looking into the distance: ‘You have known me only as the person I am at present. I have been several others. Some with a sturdier figure. They are now gone.’

He turned to me, his voice suddenly sharp.

‘You have met my neighbours, and no doubt think them, as I do, a pitiful crew. Mrs Quentin with her rotting teeth; the sottish Hurlock, who has all but lost the power of thought.’

I half-heartedly made to demur, but he over-rode me.

‘Yet such people were the local beauties, the local blades. Mrs Hurlock in particular – Anna Halliday, as she was – attracted much admiration. She is greatly altered. You may not now believe that I admired her myself.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Hurlock was in pursuit of her – Hurlock, the great buck of the county, but a fool. I might easily have won her – she preferred my company. What, you may ask, was the stumbling block?’

I shook my head.

‘Let me tell you. I looked past what she was, and saw what she would be – saw the matron in the maid. It was wisdom of a kind, but of the wrong kind – that of an older man. This was not the only such opportunity that I missed. I was confident that my time would come, but it never did. In terms of marriage, in terms of passion, it never did.’

Unexpectedly Mr Gilbert changed his tone, surprising me with a compliment: ‘You conducted yourself with credit this evening. I observed you closely. You were polite to Hurlock, attentive to Yardley, good-natured in your concern for Mrs Quentin. You sang pleasingly. Yet you were detached. You were forming judgements. The young man I saw was the young man who writes me letters.’

He turned to interrogate me.

‘How would you describe yourself? I see that you are courteous, shrewd, amiable. What other qualities would you claim?’

I knew that my answer should be no less forthright than the question.

‘Let me set aside false modesty. I am physically vigorous. I cannot claim to be a scholar, but I am reflective and read quite widely. I can adapt myself to most kinds of company. I am sensual, probably to a fault. By temperament I am cheerful and amiably disposed, but I can have darker moods – even fits of rage.’

Mr Gilbert nodded, as though I had said nothing to surprise him.

‘You are not afraid to take risks?’

‘No.’

‘You have a relish for unusual situations?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you be ruthless?’

This question called for a little thought.

‘I believe I can.’

I wondered at these questions. Was I to be asked to stage a robbery, or an assassination? But Mr Gilbert let the matter drop as suddenly as he had broached it, and poured more port. One of his great black dogs padded silently from the house and laid his head on my godfather’s knee. I felt at ease – even exhilarated. What a singular exchange this was, under the stars, our words punctuated by stirrings of twigs in the breeze or the occasional scuttling of a rabbit. Where would it take us next? In the moonlight my godfather, with his pale face and small wig, had a ghostly luminosity that seemed to render him more dominant. Fondling the dog’s ears he spoke again, this time ruminatively: ‘I lost another neighbour, Squire Warhurst, last year. By all accounts he died a good death, praying to the last. He was confident of admission to Heaven, and Parson Thorpe endorsed that expectation. His soul may be there as we speak. Yet the man was a bully, a glutton and a hell-bent whoremonger till mending his ways at fifty, following a stroke. If Warhurst has been saved I can feel guardedly optimistic as to my own prospects.’

He broke off: ‘You suspect that I am facetious?’

‘To be candid, sir, I was not sure.’

My godfather smiled faintly. ‘I am not sure myself. But seriously, or half-seriously, I reflect that the years and capacities I have left are insufficient for me to emulate this man’s sinfulness, even if I wished to do so. May I not, then, indulge myself a little? A very little?’

After a hesitation he continued, as though lost in soliloquy: ‘A man may avoid the sin he is too timid to commit. In such a case, surely, the professed belief is mere faint-heartedness. Might not the Almighty deem that the fellow has been cowardly rather than virtuous? Might not the eternal reward be curtailed accordingly? If so, the poor devil would be twice deprived – in this life and again in the next.’

I tried to meet the challenge: ‘Then you believe in an after-life?’

‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘From time to time.’

Somewhat baffled by now, I tried to exert myself: ‘Sir, I am not sure where your remarks are tending.’

‘Then I must make myself clear.’ My godfather drew a breath and spoke out with decision. ‘The case is this. I have preserved appearances for so long that none of my neighbours know – indeed, I scarcely know myself – what lies below the surface of my character. Caution and good fortune have protected me, but they have protected me too far – protected me from life itself. I have never married, never fathered a child, never broken a bone, or so much as seen a corpse, save on a gibbet. I live in a great house defended by servants and dogs. The price I pay for my safety is imprisonment of a kind. I need a window in this confinement, a window through which to see a wider life.’

‘Were you not saying as much to me on my last visit?’

‘I was, but I wish to go further. There lies the point – I wish to go further.’

He took a full mouthful of port. By now he was agitated, his breathing quicker.

‘I invited you to describe the life of London. But as I read your letters I came to recognize that I seek something more particular – the recklessness of personal doings. Do you follow me?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘I wonder if you do …’ His tone changed. ‘Let me say that I like the sound of your friend Mr Crocker. I have a taste for situations where normal conduct breaks down – where there is excess and abnormality. Perhaps you inferred as much.’

‘I did.’

‘Where Yardley is interested in plants and animals, my study is human conduct, the Passions: Vanity, Greed, Avarice, Rage, Lust …’

Mr Gilbert enumerated these qualities with emphasis, speaking so fervidly as seeming to reveal a passion of his own. He leaned towards me across the table.

‘I propose an experiment. Life has slipped past me half unnoticed. I am tormented by a restlessness that I cannot subdue. I would wish my final years to be more vivid, more diversified, more – pungent. In short’ – he rapped the table – ‘my project is in some sense to live again. I would hope to live differently and dangerously – through you and through your exploits. I am not so old that reports of mischief and gallantry will fail to warm my blood.’

He checked himself, and resumed in more measured tones: ‘I may no longer be robust but I am far from frail. The connoisseur who cannot paint may yet enjoy a picture. I aspire to be a connoisseur of experience – but the experiences will be yours.’

He sat back and looked at me. ‘I await your response.’

‘I must consider, sir.’

I spoke mechanically, but was incapable of considering anything, being lost in the situation. The moon shone down on us still. There were servants asleep in the dark house, birds and animals at rest all around us in their lairs. And here in the sweet-scented night air we were meditating the most eccentric of transactions. Was there, at that moment, any man in England engaged in a stranger conversation?

‘Why do you smile?’ asked Mr Gilbert.

I found myself laughing aloud with real gaiety, as I might have laughed with Matt Cullen – something I had never previously done in the presence of my godfather.

‘I beg your pardon, sir: I was not aware that I was smiling. The reaction was involuntary. It means that I welcome your proposition.’

‘I am glad to hear it. But you will no doubt wish to ask me questions.’

Indeed I did; but the most obvious inquiry – ‘How am I to be rewarded?’ – seemed below the dignity of these intimate exchanges. I tried to think.

‘How far will I be expected to go?’

‘As far as you see fit.’

‘Then I may, for example, go further in my pursuit of Miss Brindley?’

‘Much further.’ Mr Gilbert leaned forward again. ‘Your first account of this lady, in her pastoral guise, spoke directly to me. As a young man I found myself plagued: – the word is not too strong – by the pastoral. Art, poetry, drama insisted that love should be idyllic, Arcadian. The reality fell far short. The physical encounter could not match the rhetoric.’

He glanced at me wryly: ‘If you ever feel such qualms I fancy that your physical appetites can usually over-ride them.’

‘I have found that to be the case.’

The port had had its effect. We were smiling now, positively conspiratorial.

‘At the other extreme from pastoral fancy,’ said my godfather, ‘it seemed to me that after your duet Mrs Hurlock was looking at you with a kindly eye.’

‘I had a fleeting impression to that effect myself.’

‘Tell me, as a matter of hypothesis only: would your animal spirits render you capable of congress with that faded beauty?’

I realized, with astonishment, that his question was seriously meant. I sought for an answer that would gratify him.

‘I am sure they would – given darkness and wine.’ The port prompted a blunter phrase. ‘I fancy I could make her squeal.’

I feared I had gone too far, but the words elicited an unexpected grin of appreciation. Here was a new frankness: the boundaries of our relationship had been widened by a chance phrase.

‘I am impressed to hear it. Perhaps such an opportunity may one day arise.’

I laughed with him, but was disconcerted. For years Mr Gilbert had comported himself with authority and even severity; yet he must all the while have carried these secret appetites in his mind, like maggots within an apple. I began to wonder whether he might be a rather wicked old man.

Moonlight and port stirred me to further recklessness: ‘Then if I set about seducing a married woman?’

‘I would hope to receive a full account of the campaign – and the conquest.’

We sat silent for a moment. The big dog shook himself and walked away into the shadows. After he had vanished Mr Gilbert resumed in an altered voice: ‘I have spoken frivolously. I must not allow myself to be misunderstood. Yes, I would be intrigued to enter a bedroom with you; but I do not look merely for carnal details. Your scruples and disappointments would be of equal moment to me.’

He was very serious now. ‘I cannot easily explain myself. All my life I have mused on such matters, have debated them in my mind. But the debate was false, because one-sided. I could marshal the arguments from reason and morality: these were available in books. But the arguments from the other side, the arguments from passion, went unheard, because I never indulged my passions, never took moral risks. I was like a man who denounces wine having never tasted it. I look for a fairer disputation between passion and conscience, and I look to you to provide me the evidence I failed to gather for myself.’

And again he asked: ‘Do you follow me?’

‘I do,’ I replied, and meant what I said.

Mr Gilbert emptied his glass.

‘This is likely to prove a strange adventure for us – perhaps as much so as a voyage to the Indies.’

‘Where will our project end, sir?’

‘I cannot say. That uncertainty is part of the experiment.’

He stood up, holding the table a moment to steady himself. I rose with him.

‘We have had an intriguing conversation. But it is late, and I must go to my bed. I think we now understand one another better. Give me your hand, Richard.’

I did so, again looking him in the eyes, and our compact was sealed.

The night was cooler now, but I went up to my bedroom still warmed by the port I had drunk, and by my crowding thoughts. More of substance had passed between Mr Gilbert and me in that hour on the terrace than in all our previous conversations combined. There was excitement and uncertainty ahead. Drawing back the curtain I stared out of my window at the moon, wondering what fantasies might be seething in my godfather’s head as he pulled on his nightshirt. What did he now think of me? Would he be able to sleep?

There were doubts to tease me. My godfather was encouraging me to run risks on his behalf, moral and physical: yet what had he offered in return? Nothing: the compact had been entirely one-sided. But were we not now collaborators? Surely the moral scruples he had mentioned would ensure that his partner in sin would receive an adequate reward? I would have to be content with these insubstantial reassurances.

By the time I had risen the following morning my godfather was already occupied. I was glad of the opportunity to regain my equanimity, being fairly certain that he would expect us to behave as though nothing significant had passed between us. Presumably he was eager for me to return to London to commence upon my new duties. On the other hand it could seem indecorous in me to scuttle away forthwith to embark on debauchery.

I wandered out into the sweet-scented, brightly-flowering gardens. I neither knew nor cared to know the names of the plants that were pleasuring my eyes and nose. Here was sensuality of a kind nicely adjusted to my godfather’s elderly capacities. It struck me now that his proposal might prove as challenging to himself as to me. He had mentioned the danger to his posthumous prospects – a danger likely to loom larger in his eyes as time went on. Might there not also be a physical risk in tasting red meat after years of living on pulse? Perhaps his heart might be over-strained. Perhaps the old gentleman would expire in a spasm of vicarious excitement as he read of a defloration. Might not that be a happy outcome for both of us, I asked myself. Provided, of course, that he had made an appropriate will.

Strolling to the rear of the house I came upon two or three peacocks, which were flourishing their mighty tail-feathers in glittering patterns of blue and green. I was delighted to see these strutting avian beaux – kindred spirits, celebrating the carnal impulses of spring. Yet on closer inspection they offered food for philosophy. Supporting each great arc of splendour was a corsetry of struts; a mechanical apparatus rooted around the privy parts, the inglorious bum. The proximity of luminous beauty and crude function was the pastoral paradox reduced to visual aphorism. Fortunately for these preening, small-brained birds they could display and breed, display and breed, untroubled by reflection.

I encountered Mr Gilbert late that afternoon. He was a little freer and more affable than I had usually seen him, but he made no allusion to our nocturnal conversation. It appeared that he had been sitting for his portrait, a project on which the painter, a Worcester man, had been engaged for some time. When I expressed interest my godfather took me to see the incomplete picture. It showed him on the terrace, leaning upon the balustrade and looking out across the green fields of his estate. I offered compliments appropriate to the intermediate state of the portrait, which promised to be a sufficiently accomplished piece of work. It preserved some aspects of my godfather’s personality very accurately – but others had vanished through the strainer of the artist’s observation. Posterity would gain from it no glimpse of the man I had spoken with the night before.

‘You have visited much of the house, I believe,’ said Mr Gilbert, ‘but I would like to show you a corner you will not have seen.’

He led me up a narrow, winding staircase that took us past all three storeys and eventually to a door opening on to a flat portion of the roof. We emerged into airy vacancy, with clouds blowing across the blue sky overhead and a wide green landscape spread out all around us. For the first time I could see my godfather’s estate – perhaps to be my future inheritance – as a whole. It seemed to me a vast expanse, but he pointed out its limits.

‘There where the woodland begins,’ he said, ‘lies Mr Hurlock’s property. If it were combined with my own I might be the greatest landowner in the county.’

At dinner that evening he made no explicit reference to our nocturnal conversation, although one or two remarks showed it was very much alive in his mind. Only at one point did he say something unexpected: ‘By the bye, you have made mention of your friend Matt Cullen. I have heard a little about that young man from an acquaintance in Malvern who knows the family. You might do well to avoid confiding too far in him. I will say no more than that.’

Since he had closed the matter I did not expostulate, but I was both puzzled and amused by the warning.

Two days later I was again in the coach to London, rattling along wet roads amid falling white petals that mingled with the spring showers.

7

Once again optimism was modified by second thoughts. To be sure I should easily find matter enough to please my godfather in the new mode now proposed. My dealings with Kitty could hardly fail to supply salacious or comic entertainment. With Horn and Latimer I could continue to sample the heartier pleasures of the town, perhaps even an occasional brawl or debauch. Through Crocker I had hopes of less commonplace diversions. My explorations of London at large could continue as before.

Yet I was wary of possible pitfalls. It seemed to me that Mr Gilbert, perhaps under the influence of moonlight and port, had been inconsistent. He wanted a taste of the sensual pleasures he had missed, but he might not welcome the inference that his caution had been timorous. I should never seem to hint: ‘Such are the joys your faint-heartedness has denied you’. Perhaps I should even imply that there had been wisdom in his doubts: my amorous joys could be seasoned with disappointment.

But there were deeper issues. It had seemed no great matter to offer Gilbert an account of my lighter pleasures. Now he seemed to be demanding an intimacy, between us that might prove positively contaminating. Had I not promised myself that my attempt upon Sarah would be a private narrative of which he would hear nothing? Yet had I not all but broached the topic to him? Unless I exerted myself I might be corrupted before I knew it.

I looked forward to discussing these issues with Matt Cullen. The warning from my godfather I would of course disregard: given the delicacy – or indelicacy – of our compact I could see why he would not wish me to have a confidant with connections in the county. I had no such concern, and was in urgent need of a sympathetic ear.

Such solace, however, was to be denied me. Waiting in Cathcart Street was a letter:

Dear Dick,

We may be about to pass one another on a country road in our respective stage coaches. I have been summoned to Malvern by my father, who has been laid low by the gout. Knowing that condition to be a painful one I am not unsympathetic; but I suspect that my presence will afford him little relief.

I hope that my visit to the country will prove a brief one, and that I will be conversing with you again in the near future. Meanwhile pray offer such succour as you can to my kinsman the Duke, who will be all but inconsolable at my absence.

Yours, &c.

P.S. I recently fell in with a quiet fellow named Gow who proved to work for the diamond merchant of whom we have spoken. It seems Mr Ogden conducts his business from premises in Duke Street, near the coffee-house. You may wish to stroll there to appraise your rival.

I scarcely took in the postscript at the time in my disappointment at Matt’s absence. But I was cheered by a second note, delivered only hours before my arrival:

If you should be free to pay him a visit around noon tomorrow Tom Crocker would be pleased to see you.

My dear Godfather,

I was pleased to find at my lodgings an invitation to visit Thomas Crocker, although surprised to see that the address given was not that of the house he had formerly occupied. He is now to be found in Wyvern Street.

There were to be further surprises. Assuming that the occasion would be a formal one I dressed accordingly. When I arrived, however, I was admitted to a large house, in which were to be seen no guests and very little furniture. I was left to wait in a high drawing-room, containing no more than a single table and a few chairs. The walls were bare and the windows uncurtained. To increase my confusion my host shuffled in wearing no wig and clad in a loose coat and slippers. However, he greeted me with a smile.

‘Mr Fenwick, I must apologize: you will think my invitation misleading. It was sent on impulse, without sufficient thought. I hoped to welcome you informally and get to know you better. I should have made my purpose clearer.’

It was curious to see Mr Crocker in this altered guise, like an actor who has stripped off the trappings of the dramatic role you have just seen him playing. He had shambled in inelegantly, but was serene in his own domain. Even his gestures and facial expressions were altered: he could almost have been a huge schoolboy. I infer that his public appearances require contrivance. The large legs must be constrained by tight stockings, the loose bulk strapped into a corset, so that he can preside and move with a show of dignity.

Crocker sent for some coffee.

‘You see the place three-quarters empty.’ he said. ‘I am at present moving house. Here – let me show you something that may amuse you.’

He led me to the far side of the great room. Leaning against a shuttered window were a number of paintings, loosely wrapped with paper, and apparently to be hung on the bare walls. Crocker tore the paper from one of the smaller ones.

‘Thanks to my excessive wealth,’ said he, ‘I have been enabled to have my features recorded by the ingenious Mr Hogarth.’

It was a fine portrait of Crocker’s face, full of wit and intelligence.

‘Would you not say, Mr Fenwick, that here is a handsome man?’

‘I would indeed,’ I replied, surprised by the self-regarding question.

‘Then what say you to this?’

He ripped the paper from a larger work, over six foot in height. Looking out from it, all but identically, was the same face, but in this case providing merely a summit to a bulging pyramid that filled the frame – Crocker’s body, finely dressed, but grotesquely abundant.

‘I fancy Mr Hogarth enjoyed the joke of this double commission,’ said he, ‘though he was too courteous to say as much. Which of the pictures would you call the truer?’

I hesitated. ‘They are equally true. But they tell different truths.’

‘That is justly said. I know which of those truths I find the more flattering, but I am obliged to inhabit both of them. I had it in mind to hang these pictures here side by side, by way of a satire; but I think the gesture might make my visitors uncomfortable.’

Coffee being brought, we sat down to it – or in Crocker’s case sprawled back at ease in an over-sized chair. He launched companionably into conversation: ‘This year I decided to re-arrange my life. I came to London and looked about for a large property. You see me in the course of migration.’

‘And your country estate?’

Crocker blew out his cheeks and then drank some coffee. ‘I think to sell it. Lately I found that the countryside lowered my spirits. I would trudge round my land and return to the house despondent. The sheep and the cattle, grazing the fields year after year after year filled me with melancholy. I am glad to be away from them.’

‘Was that a sufficient reason for migration to the capital?’

‘It was but part of the reason. The chief motive was a desire for diversion.’

‘Diversion from what?’

‘From monotony. From cows and sheep. From thought. From myself.’

‘Does the remedy work?’

‘It has kept my mind busy. Here is a mansion with many rooms. I am having it painted, and have chosen the colours to be used. I have brought in some furnishings and carpets and curtains and ordered many more. When all is in place I must host a great party to declare the house open. But there is also work to be done outside. Let me show you.’

He drained his cup and led me to a great window at the rear of the room.

‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘we have hardly begun.’

Here was a large space, apparently a courtyard. What chiefly took my eye was a broken wall at the far end, where some workmen were busy.

‘Surely,’ said I, ‘that was the wall we pushed down the other week?’

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Thomas Crocker is a gentleman, and would push down no wall but his own. As you see, it is being re-built with a wide gateway, to admit carriages.’

‘Might not your workmen have taken it down more efficiently?’

‘Much more efficiently. But I had read that a wall could be demolished by the method we attempted, and it tickled me to try the experiment by moonlight.’

‘Another exercise in diversion?’

‘It was.’ He was suddenly rueful. ‘But such pleasures are short-lived. I felt a pang of glee as the wall began to yield; then in the morning all I had for our pains was a mound of dirt and broken brickwork. No matter’ – he brightened once more – ‘the men are at work and elegance will be retrieved from chaos.’

‘Was there not some pleasure in recruiting your friends to perform this task?’

‘Certainly. And it was healthy exertion for a band of tipplers and tattlers – the most useful work they had done in months.’

He broke into a chuckle at this, his stomach shaking, but then apologized: ‘You must excuse me, Mr Fenwick: I laugh too easily. My life is often ridiculous – and like Laurence Sterne I believe that laughter does us good.’

As we wandered back towards the coffee he broke into song, his voice echoing through the hollow room:

Now to sweeten the night

Let the bow sweep the string.

Hear the music take flight

As the violins sing—

I chimed in for the chorus:

Sing, sing, sing—

As the violins sing.

Catching one another’s eye we launched with spirit into the topers’ second verse:

Let horse-hair scrape gut

Till the cat mews away,

And we caper and strut,

As we hear the horse neigh—

Neigh, neigh, neigh—

As we hear the horse neigh.

‘I observe, Mr Crocker,’ said I, ‘that you do not care to be confined by formalities.’

‘I have made the same observation regarding yourself, Mr Fenwick. It was one of my reasons for inviting you here this morning.’

We proceeded to converse with great freedom. I felt flattered when he remarked that he is rarely so open: he has many drinking companions but few friends. He frankly disclosed his view of his own situation: fate has been hard on him with regard to physical appearance, but correspondingly generous in terms of wealth. He will use this asset to minimize his disadvantages and make his life as agreeable as it can be.

One aspect of his philosophy would, I think, particularly interest you. Speaking again of the party he would hold when his house was ready he declared that it would be not merely a lavish but a provocative affair.

‘It has been my practice,’ he said, ‘to host entertainments that surprise and bewilder the guests. Since life is short I try to make it richer by brewing up extravagant mixtures of sensations. I hope you will partake of them.’

And I will. I feel drawn to Mr Crocker, and pleased to be accounted his friend.

Later that day I paid a second visit, this time to Miss Brindley. Over tea we embarked on a negotiation as delicate as the construction of a house of cards. Without an indecorous word being said it was somehow agreed:

that it was in our power to contrive a pleasure that both of us might welcome;

that the necessary arrangements and expense should fall to my charge;

that though the pleasure might be equal the potential sacrifices were not;

that the female party should therefore receive financial compensation;

that in the event of unsought consequences the female party should be provided for.

All this, and more, was satisfactorily communicated with the lightness and sweetness of the chirruping of spring birds. The pleasing prose of the matter is that late next week we will be spending an evening and a night together.

I am, &c.

Although I had enjoyed both these encounters, the need to describe them was irksome to me: my social life had become my profession. Perhaps for that reason a venture still outside Mr Gilbert’s knowledge assumed greater importance for me. My mind returning to Matt’s postscript, I several times walked down Duke Street during working hours. Not until my third such excursion did I see the gentleman I was seeking. Mr Ogden was standing outside his own premises, my conjecture as to his identity being confirmed when a passer-by addressed him by name. I was able to observe him unremarked as he engaged in a brief conversation. He was a thick-set, short-necked fellow who would have been credited with brawn and vigour had it not appeared that his physical solidity might be compacted fat. His face was pasty and serious, suggestive of the determination Sarah had mentioned. He might have been a dozen years my senior, but it was hard to judge, since he looked to be one of those stolid, under-spirited fellows who resign youth for middle age at fifteen. His stockings showed a weighty calf, but not a shapely one. During the short colloquy he spoke little and displayed no change of expression. Yet this dull merchant had seen what I had not seen and been where I had not been. The thought induced such a spurt of rage that I could have dashed my fist into his big face. As it was, I stalked back to Cathcart Street hot with disgust.

That evening, still unsettled, I rifled through a packet of correspondence to find a letter Sarah had sent me soon after I went to France – a letter I had left unanswered.

Dear Mr Fenwick,

Following your advice I shall direct this communication to Paris; but I cannot rid myself of a superstitious fear that I am sending it into thin air – that it will prove no communication at all, because it will never reach you. It will seem wonderful to me if that fear proves unjustified, and somehow by coach and by boat and by coach again my letter will be conveyed from England to France and left where your hands will take it up and open it, and your eyes peruse it.

I hope that you will write soon and tell me about your travels. Having experienced only York and a little of London I cannot imagine what you are seeing or doing, or how you have been faring. Take me with you through your letters, so that I may feel I am beside you in Paris or Rome as an unseen fellow traveller.

Nothing of note has happened to me since I bade you good-bye. You know enough about my life in London to imagine every one of my days. I have not enjoyed a serious conversation – I mean a conversation about anything other than small social matters – in all these weeks. My aunt, of course, continues kind: I live comfortably enough at the level to which I am accustomed, and know that I have nothing to complain of. Yet in my mind there is a very great alteration. You were the one person who opened windows through which I could glimpse a wider world of learning, wit, and discovery. It hardly needs to be said that I read still, and read eagerly, but I feel that I am cut off, like one in prison, from the life that books reveal and the life you now inhabit.

I suspect you may not realize how greatly the partial similarity of our lives has influenced my disposition. If I had never known you I think I might have been sufficiently contented with the life I now lead, rather as a caged bird may flutter and sing without apparent envy of his free-flying cousins beyond the confining wires. But I have seen you, like myself an orphan, like myself left to the care of an aunt, find your way into that outside world and flourish in the liberty it affords. Even when we were both in York you seemed to me destined for such freedom. I need not refer to the prospects that may arise from your godfather’s generosity: whatever happens you will remain a free man. I have seen you flower. You are educated and accomplished, and converse with educated and accomplished men. I cannot help wondering whether, with my far more limited abilities I might not myself have made shift to survive and modestly prosper in that richer, more diverse life.

Now I am ashamed of what I have written, for it seems selfish and envious. Pray interpret my message as what I intended it to be, a means of conveying, with strong feeling, if with all due decorum, how much I have missed your company and your conversation, and how much I long to hear from you.

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