Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631) (11 page)

Left to My Self, I read, and I re-read, Descartes and Locke. And although it made me sick to do it, I repeated, over and again within mine Imagination, the Events of May Eve. Was it my Mind that was corrupted, or my Soule? I had ceased believing that the two were identical. If there could be discovered some Mechanism within the Brain that was responsible for the Creation of Images; if there could be another that translated Passion into Desire, then perhaps I was neither irrevocably evil nor insane. Like all bodily things, such Processes must be vulnerable to Injury and Disease. The Disorder could be overcome; it would be no more than a broken Wrist, or bloody Fluxes; or the inability to turn Left.

I feared, without admitting it, the Possibility that I was intirely wrong.

*   *   *

My Father had not recognised my Existence for two Weeks, so it was with considerable Astonishment and no less Disgust that I received thro’ Mrs H. his Summons to attend him forthwith in his Library.

“I shall not,” I told her. I was studying Locke’s
Essay
and I had no desire to break off. “I have much Reading to do. There is, by the by, a great Amount of Dust upon this Skeleton Case; you must have stern Words with Martha about it.”

“Master Tristan, the Squire says there is to be no shall-nots. He says there is a Gentleman he’d like for you to meet and who is pressing keen to be introduced to you.”

“He said so? Egad, ’tis rare for a talking Ass to use so many Words. Tell my Father that if the Gentleman wish to see me he must attend me in my Study, as I have no Desire to intrude into his.”

“Master Tristan, please.”

“No,” I said. I altered my Voice, pitching it in scornful Imitation of my Father’s toneless Mutter. “’Tis my final Word. I am adamant. Importune me no longer.”

“’Tis your filial Duty, Sir,” said Mrs H.

“It could have been,” I answered her, “if he had ever fulfilled the paternal Part towards me. In Truth, I know not whose Son I am, for he hath never given me much Cause to believe that I am his.”

“Young Sir,” retorted Mrs H. severely, “you go too far. Your Father is a good Man.”

“Oh, I know how you doat on him.”

“Sir!”

“Look at me!” I shouted, standing up, and slamming down the Book. “Am I a Child, to be summoned and chastised? Tell my Father to hang himself!”

This Ejaculation on my Part was met by a sharp Intake of Breath from Mrs H. “I shall tell him,” she said, “that he is the unfortuate Sire to the most unworthy Son, who will not come down even when it would be to his Benefit, who sulks and complains and cries the most terrible things against a Father who hath never done aught by him but Good. I shall tell him—”

I realised then that I had, for once, gone too far; with Mrs H. at least. I could not risk damaging mine Interest with her. I did not doubt that if we were to fall out, I should require her Assistance with something immediately after, and regret the Altercation. Damn, I thought. This means that I shall have to see my Father.

“Oh, I am sorry!” I cried, vaulting over the Back of my Sopha and putting both Arms about her scrawny Shoulders. “I am truly the most ungrateful Wretch, and I should not have spoken so. You know the Cause of it, his cruel Intractability, Mrs H.”

Mrs H., who had started violently when I had leapt across the Sopha, slowly relaxed and with an heavy Sigh patted me upon the Back, as if I had been an Infant. “Come now, Master Tristan,” she said. “That’s enow. Your Father is awaiting.”

I argued no longer, altho’ I had no greater a Desire to see my Father now than I had before, and permitted Mrs H. to accompany me down-Stairs to his Door.

In four Yeares, I had visited within my Father’s Library only once, which had been upon the Occasion of his telling me that Jane was betrothed to James Barnaby. I repeat that he was telling me; for this must have been the Case despite the Fact that three Quarters of his Remarks were addresst to a Space several Inches
above my left Ear, and the Remainder to the window Sill. Once he had done, he had immediately returned to his Papers as if I was no longer present, and I had stood for some Minutes in a bewildered Silence before Mrs H. had led me out again. I feared the Prospect of a similar Interview todaye.

I need not have worried; when Mrs H. opened the library Door the Scene that met mine Eyes was, by my Father’s Standards, a chearful one. My Father, clad yet in his customary Black, which all mine Aunt’s Encouragements had failed to get him to give up, sate in an Armchair before the empty Grate smoaking pipe Tobacco. The Windows were open, the dark Curtains pulled back, and in the strong Sunnelight a hundred thousand dust Motes seemed as if to dance upon the swift Notes of a Wren, cascading from the ivied Wall outside. Beside the Window stood a well-built Man of perhaps my Father’s Age, clad in a plain grey Waistcoat and Breeches, and leaning his considerable Weight upon a sturdy walking Stick that could easily have doubled as a small Cudgel. He was not unpleasant of Countenance, despite his having an uncommonly long Nose with a severe Bend in it. Mine Eyes opened wide as I apprehended his Height, which was within an Inch or so of mine own.

“Mr Fielding,” said my Father, waving his Pipe in my general Direction. “My Son.”

“Well, now,” said Mr Fielding, turning to me and beckoning me forwards. “Step into the Light, Boy, and let me take a good Look at you. Egad, Sir; he is the Picture of his Mother. And like her in other Ways, I understand?” This Last addresst to me; but as I had not the faintest Idea what he was talking about, I frowned, and shrugged one Shoulder.

“You don’t know?” he exclaimed. “Why, she was a true Intellectual, your Mother; the cleverest Woman I have ever met.”

At this Intelligence I surely appeared even more perplext. My Father had given me no Hint that my Mother, excepting in her Jewish Heritage, was anything but commonplace; and as to the Notion that I resembled her closely enough to be her Picture, it was not one with which I was at all comfortable.

“Oh, Good Lord,” Mr Fielding said to my Father. “Have you raised the Boy in a Cave?” Turning back to me, he continued: “So, Tristan, your Father tells me that you insist upon going up to a University, and will not take his Word that it is no necessary Part of a Gentleman’s Education. What have you to say upon that Subject?”

I shut up my Mouth, as it had fallen open. Mustering my Thoughts, which had been scattered as effectively by Mr Fielding’s Speech as by the four Winds, I attempted a Reply. “Well, Sir, I—that is—I wish to continue my Studies, Sir.”

“From what your Father gives me to understand, Study for you at any University would be quite pointless. There is little they can teach you that you do not already know. ’Tis not my belief that our Universities spawn Men of Genius any more than our publick Schools spawn Gentlemen. Tell me, what is your Reading at the Present?”

I answered that I was studying Locke upon the Understanding.

“And what Thought have you upon said Tractate?”

“Upon all of it?”

“Perhaps only that Portion you are reading presently.”

I regarded Mr Fielding with some Surprize and not a little Suspicion. I was neither accustomed to such a Stile of Interrogation, nor to such Questions. I wondered what his Interest in mine Answers could be. “In Truth,” I began, “I am disappointed. Mr Locke hath nothing useful to import upon the Problem of whether Sensation is
located within the Body or the Soule. He seems happy to give it up as divine Mystery. But this is a Cavill of mine own; I have a great Interest in that Question and was hoping to find a thorough Refutation of M. Descartes’ Assertion that Sensation is intirely mental.” My Enthusiasm for the Topic beginning to overcome my Diffidence, I drew a Breath, and continued, much more quickly: “None the less, Mr Locke’s Delineation of sensitive Knowledge is compelling and his Argument that the Mind perceive naught but its own Ideas hath perswaded me compleatly. I am quite certain that he is right; and right, too, in his Argument,
contra
Descartes, that the Mind’s Ideas are not innate, but drawn from Experience. I think, Sir, that if God had truly caused our Ideas to be innate, as Descartes says, then they would never err; yet is it not possible for a Man to perceive Monsters in half-Light?” I stoppt abruptly, in Fear lest my Words threaten to reveal too much of My Self.

Mr Fielding was staring at me. He seemed startled. “How old are you, Tristan?” he asked.

“Nineteen, Sir.”

“So,” said Mr Fielding, shaking his Head. He looked quizzically upon my Father. “Are we still of one Opinion, John?”

My Father knocked his Pipe into the empty Fireplace. “Yes.”

“I have suggested,” Mr Fielding said, “and your Father has agreed, that it would be to your Advantage to return with me to London, should you wish it. Your Stay would not be protracted—a Yeare or two at most—and little would be expected of you beyond Gentlemanly Behaviour. You would have as much Time as you required to pursue your Studies, and I should be happy to introduce you to an Acquaintance of mine who is prominent in the Scientific Circle. That is my Proposal, Master Hart; now, what is your View of it?”

I was forced to be silent for a full half-Minute. Eventually, when the Shock of Mr Fielding’s Offer had receded sufficient for me to speak, I stammered: “And he—my Father—hath he verily consented to this? Have you, Sir?”

My Father grunted in Affirmation at the Grate.

“Then, Yes!” I cried. “Yes, Sir, and gladly! When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow Morn, young Man; so you had better see about your Belongings. I have only Space in my Carriage for two Trunks, and before you fill them both with Books, I have a Library, which you are welcome to peruse. You will need Cloathes. Tell your Housekeeper to pack for you; she seems the practical Sort.”

“Thank you, Mr Fielding,” I said, finally recollecting my Manners. Then I thanked my Father also, altho’ I did not imagine that he cared one Way or the other. He did not raise his Glance from the Chimney-piece, and waved me away. I made a Bow to Mr Fielding, then departed from the Room.

I was so excited by this new Development that I ran the whole Distance up the Stairs back to my Study; then, recalling that it was Cloathing I required and not Reading, the farther Flight to my Bedroom, bellowing all the Time for Mrs H. to attend me. I made so much Row that I awoke Jane from her afternoon Nap, and she presently began to holler for the Housekeeper to come and tell her what was happening. Mrs H. came puffing and blowing up the Stairs in a State of great Agitation at having to answer two competing Claims at once. I seized upon her first, being so much more forward than Jane, who was, I imagined, still undresst, and pulled her into my Chamber.

“You must pack for me, Mrs H.,” I said. “I am to London tomorrow, with Mr Fielding, and I must have Cloathes. Pack me nothing that hath Blood upon it. Mine embroidered Frock—and my fine Wigg,
and my silvered Cane. And anything you think fit for a Stay of a Yeare or more—tho’ I shall surely see a Taylor—and quick, quick!”

“What is this, Sir?” Mrs H. wheezed, breathless from her hasty Climb and apparently as confused as I had been not twenty Minutes since.

“I go to London,” I repeated. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes!”

At this Juncture, Jane, who had been continually calling all the while, gave up and came out into the Landing to discover for herself what was the Matter. She appeared within my Doorway, her Gown dishabille, her Expression vexed.

“What is wrong, Brother?” she demanded. I told her what I had twice told Mrs H. Thankfully, Jane was somewhat swifter on the Uptake. “You are leaving?” she exclaimed, dismayed. “And so suddenly? Oh, Tristan!”

“What?” I said. “You cannot be surprized. You know how desperate I have been to go.”

“But you will leave me all alone,” she said.

“You must visit more often with our Aunt,” I answered. “Then you will not have Time to ponder how alone you are. It will be Ridottos all the Way. Step aside, I must run down and inquire of Mr F. whether there is Room for any of mine Instruments. He spoke of having a Library, but that alone will not suffice.”

“But I shall miss you, Tristan,” Jane said.

“Oh, stow your Snivelling,” I said. “’Tis Green-sickness afflicts you, not my Going. Now either assist me with my Preparations or go back to Bed.”

My Sister’s Eyes grew wide as Saucers. “There is no need to insult me,” she said, after a Moment, her Lip trembling. “When I
am—I was saddened by your Leaving. Now I think that I shall not miss you at all. The House will be an happier Place with you gone from it.”

“Good,” I said. “Now get out of my Way.”

Jane spun pettishly upon her Heel and flounced back into her Bedroom, doubtless to indulge herself in another Fit of Weeping or some other Tantrum. At that Moment, I could not have given a Fig.

I ran downstairs once more toward my Father’s Library. As I grew closer, however, it occurred to me that perhaps I could learn something if I employed some Stealth, as I could hear Mr Fielding’s Voice clearly resounding from behind the Door. I therefore muffled my Steps as best I could, and, standing stock-still, put mine Ear up to the Wood.

“Well, John,” Mr Fielding said. “I take your Point, and you may rest assured that I shall take no Chances. He seems what they call high strung, but he is remarkably clever; and the Subject of his Discourse, John, suggested to me a Degree of Insight into the Derangement of his Senses that is utterly beyond the Capability of any Lunatick. I suspect that some other Cause may yet be found. We both know how difficult it can be for Persons of so sensible a Disposition to cope with the blunt Brutality of everydaye Life.”

“’Tis worse,” my Father answered—and I strained to hear him, for he spake so low—“than mere Sensibility. If only ’twere so—but there is a Mania that descends upon him. He becomes delusional, phrenzied, violent. He broke thro’ a barred Door—”

“You have told me,” Mr Fielding interrupted. “And I shall be careful, John. But you did write me for mine Assistance; now you must allow me to offer it.”

“If his Mother had lived,” I heard my Father mutter after a Pause, “things
would never have come to this. I suppose you think something similar between Times, Henry?”