Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631) (15 page)

The Rector had been wrong. The Tutor had been wrong. I had been wrong.

Whatever the Cause and Nature of my Need, it did not unfit me for the Study of Anatomy or the furtherance of the Human Condition. It was mine; mine was therefore its Comprehension, mine its Control. It dictated nothing. It would make no Difference.

“I shall be glad,” I said, “to begin Work with Dr Hunter as soon as may be.”

“You have until the twentieth of January to prepare yourself. And you had better explain to Mrs Haywood that she will not be seeing you so often in the Future. I am sure that this Intelligence will leave her quite bereft, but she will recover.”

I could not determine whether it would seem impudent if I were to laugh, so I remained silent. Mr Fielding sighed, and leaned back in his Chair. Then, to my Surprize, he removed his Wigg, ran his Fingers across the Stubble that covered his Head, and scratched his Scalp.

“Damned things, Wiggs,” he said. “Ridiculously expensive, in constant Need of Maintenance, and as full of Lice as this wretched City. Why do we wear them?”

I was not certain whether his Question was rhetorical, but I ventured upon an Answer. “Habit,” I said. “And the Fashion, Sir.”

“Fashion! Ha! Naught but a Means to delude and torment innocent Men and Women. What Virtue hath Fashion, truly?”

I looked down at My Self. My grey silk Frock, which I had purchased from my Taylor only two Dayes since, gleamed in the
Firelight with the perfect Sheen of newly polished Pewter. I had delighted in the Knowledge that its Shade was matched exactly by that of my Shoes, and that the silver Buttons of the Frock had been cast with the same Imprint as the Buckles thereof. I looked up.

“None, Sir, I suppose—excepting perhaps an aesthetic one.”

“Do you believe that Virtue and Beauty are, therefore, equivalent?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And yet the most thorough Corruption may lurk within the fairest of Breasts. In Medicine, Sir, as you will see; and in Law, and certainly too within the Human Soule.”

“But what of non-Human things?” I protested. “I was thinking of the Beauty of a clear Sky, or of a Seabird in Flight against a Cloud, or a musical Note, perfect in its Execution. Are these things not good?”

“Of the three,” John Fielding said. “Only the third hath any Good I can appreciate. But continue, Tristan.”

“If they have any Good,” I said, “’tis surely by respect of some Virtue that inhere within them; and this Virtue, plainly, is Beauty.”

“Then you have suggested that Beauty is a Virtue, but not that Virtue is Beauty.”

“Is not Virtue beautifull, Sir?”

“Truly, it is; because Beauty inheres within it, as it inheres within a clear Sky or a Note of perfect Musick. But you must not confuse a Quality inherent in a thing with the thing itself.”

I was silent for a Minute as I reconsidered my Position. It had become of personal Importance to me that I should emerge victorious from this Spat, and this Desire momentarily overpowered mine Adherence to the Rules of philosophical Engagement. “I did
not state that the two things are equivalent,” I said. “I merely answered: ‘Perhaps’. But for the Purpose of our Question regarding Fashion it doth not matter whether Beauty be a Virtue or a Quality within it. Beauty necessarily inheres within Fashion; ’tis as much Fashion’s Purpose as is Signification of Rank or Fortune. If it were not, Persons of Fashion would perforce appear as dull as Ducks. So Fashion hath the Quality of Beauty, if not necessarily the Virtue.” I paused. “But you, Sir, have not proved that Virtue doth not inhere within Beauty. If a clear Note be good, ’tis not Beauty alone that can make it so, but Goodness.”

Mr Fielding laughed. “Therefore, Beauty and Virtue may not be intirely identical, but it is the Devil’s Job to separate them. I salute you, Sir; but I still shall not put on that insufferable Wigg.”

I did not know whether I had won, or whether he had chosen to let me think it so. But at that Moment I began to perceive how it could be possible for me to germinate a real and honest Liking for Mr John Fielding. I permitted My Self the Risk of a small Snicker.

*   *   *

I wrote at once with these exciting Newes to Nathaniel, and also to Jane. To Jane, in addition, I apologised for my brutish Behaviour on my last Night at Shirelands Hall. I told her that I was plagued by the deepest Remorse, which was true, and that I was missing her, which was not. To Nathaniel I wrote the Opposite. I was missing him dreadfully, and whenever I considered the Circumstances of our Severance I felt a Nail drive thro’ mine whole Heart. But I could not apologise for the thing that I had done.

I received on Christmas Eve a Reply from Jane, who in a most forgiving Tone that made me feel my Shame all the more keenly,
told me that mine Apologies were unnecessary. My Father had at last resumed taking his Meals out of his Study, and Life continued at Shirelands more or less as it had always done. Christmas was to be a quiet Affair, and I should be glad that I was in London, despite the Season. Mine Aunt sent her Regards, and so did James Barnaby.

“It will gladden yr Heart to know, Brother,
(Jane wrote)
that a Dayte has finally been Fixt upon for my Weddynge. We are to be Marryed from Shirelands, in St Peter’s Church, next Yeare upon the Eighth of June. Mr B. has taken up the Lease of Withy Grange, which is barely five Miles Distant from Shirelands, and which shall suit us very Well. He is determined that it be readye for June, and is about some fashionable Improvements to the View which must be Compleated before we can move in. We are to have fine Lawns and a Grecian Valley, such as Mr Broun hath made at Stowe.

She continued in this Vein for an intire Page, but I had lost Interest, and skippt ahead to the Ending.

Rector R. and Family are Well, and have askd me to Conveye to you their best Wishes. They are Presently quite Crampt as they have

(here I was forced to turn the Letter)

their Montague Cousins staying with them againe. Their Mother is Ill and the eldest Boy gone into the Nayvye so there is no one to look after them except—

(I turned the Letter)

an Unmarried Uncle. I send you my Deepest Love, deare Tristan, and I praye to see you soon, upon my Weddynge if not before. I am rn out of Spc, d
^r
B
^r
. But I rem y
^r
hum. and lov
^g
S
^r
, Jane Hart.”

If the Rector’s Family are well, I thought, then why no Newes of Nathaniel?

“Doth it not seem strange to you,” I complained to Mary Fielding, who was presently come into the Room, “that my Sister says nothing of my Friend, whom I had expressly asked after?”

I held out the Letter for her to peruse. Mary took the Sheet from me and read it, carefully, and every Word aloud. I left her in the drawing room Doorway and kicked mine Heels beside the Window, watching an antient Pedlar and his Dogg make an erratick, circuitous Progress thro’ the busy Street. Mrs Fielding finished, refolded the Letter, and held it out to me. “I don’t know, Mr ’Art,” she said. “If your Sister hath naught to do with your Friend, mayhap she hath no Newes of him to repeat.”

I took the Missive back and regarded Mary more closely than I had done before. “You look troubled, Mrs Fielding,” I said.

Mary sighed. “I am, Sir,” she said. She seemed then upon the Point of saying more, but stoppt, and wrung her Hands. I put mine Hand upon her Shoulder.

“Mrs Fielding,” I said. “What is the Matter?”

Mary Fielding pulled herself together, shaking mine Hand away and giving Vent to a small Laugh, high and thin, that had no Mirth in it. “’Tis of no Consequence to you.” She paused for a Moment, then went on: “Altho’ how Liza is to get those blood Spatters from your Shirts I don’t know. If you must visit the Cockpits, Sir, I would that you’d stand farther from the Ring. Not that there’ll be any ’ope of getting them out now, not with you going off to study with Dr ’Unter.” She gave a shudder. “’E is a great Doctor, Mr
Fielding says, and a kind Man, with lovely Manners, and a charming Accent. I’ll tell Liza to try Vinegar.”

“Mary!”

“What, Sir?”

“What is wrong?”

“Oh, Mr ’Art,” she said. “I’m feared I have done something very stupid.”

Then she explained about the Gypsy. There were many of them about, she said, all over the Country, by the Sound of it; and she knew it was dangerous to have aught to do with them. But this one had been an old Woman; harmless, Mary thought; so very old her Eyes were like black Prunes in her Head, which had been brown and wrinkled as a Conker. She had come to the back Door selling Holly and Mistletoe; and Mary did so love fresh Greenery indoors at Christmas-time, she would have as much of it as possible; so she had—foolish Mary!—invited her in, and they had talked long over Tea. And then, only then, had Mary Fielding noticed the Baby on the Gypsy’s Back.

“The prettiest little thing I ever did see,” Mary said. “I can’t understand how it was I didn’t see it at the first, for once I had I couldn’t look at anything else, so dear it was. So then she asked me to look after it, for but an Houre or two—”

All this, she said, had taken place at nine in the Morning, and it was now well past four.

“If you believe that she hath abandoned it, then it must go into the Foundling Hospital,” I said.

“Oh!” Mary wailed. “And won’t Mr Fielding be angry! A Foundling, left in this ’ouse! But—but would you come and see it, Mr ’Art? I thought, with your Knowledge of Anatomy you might—”

“What?”

“Please come and see, Sir; I darest not talk too loud on it.”

Thoroughly perplext, altho’ greatly amused by the Irony of a Foundling being left in Henry Fielding’s House (altho’ not, as in his infamous novel, in his bed), I let Mary lead me to the Kitchen, where a plain willow Basket sate at safe Distance from the Fire, which was crackling chearfully. The Kitchen smelled deliciously of Sausage-meat and Spices, despite the Fact that we were only to eat Sundaye’s Leftovers tonight. Mrs Fielding, acting on my behalf, had won the Argument over which Stuffing to order for the Morrow’s Turkey, and I caught the distinctive salty Whiff of Oysters mixt with the sharp Tang of Lemon. My Mouth began to water.

“I warn you, Mrs Fielding, I have no Experience of Children,” I said. “And little Liking for them, either. I shall doubtless make it squall.”

The Infant did indeed begin to stir at the Sound of my Voice, and kicking forth its Feet and flailing its Hands it set the Basket quite into Motion. But it did not weep. Instead, an high pitched, wheezing Cry came from it, halfway betwixt a musical Note and an Hiss.

“There there, my pretty Poppet,” Mrs Fielding said, and she lifted the small wriggling thing, still wrappt in its woollen Blanket, from its Bed. “Oh, I don’t know how to hold you, I’m sure. There—” changing the Babe’s Position somehow—“That’s better. Mr ’Art, please take a Look. I don’t know what to think.”

At first, I thought the Child perfectly common. It had a pretty enough Face, with large round grey Eyes that stared out at me with the unsettling Intensity typical of Children. It looked very young; a dozen Weeks at most; probably it was younger. I had no Measure by which to judge the Maturity of Babies. Then the Child
yawned, and I caught a glimpse of a Row of white Teeth, lining its rosy Gums like miniature Needles.

Did I see that? I thought. I could not be intirely sure. I steppt closer and peered into the Infant’s Face.

“That isn’t all, Sir,” said Mary Fielding. She began with the utmost Care to unwrap the Blanket, soothing and petting the Baby as she did so. “I thought to change her Clout; it had been a long while, and I thought she must be fouled. I don’t like that People leave them.” The Blanket now open, she cradled the naked Infant in the Crook of her Arm. “Is she a ’Uman, Mr ’Art?”

The Baby was female, but that was the least noteworthy thing about it. Intirely along both Sides of the Torso, beginning halfway down the Forearm and extending to the Ankle, there stretched a wide Membrane of translucent living Tissue, pink with Blood. Immediately, I thought of Mrs H., of Nathaniel, and of Goblin Babes.

“Egad!” I said. “’Tis a young Bat!”

As if in Agreement with mine Assessment, the Baby began to wave its Hands; its Wings, for so I had already decided to stile them, causing a Turbulence in the Aire that set Mrs Fielding’s Cap-strings all a-dancing.

“Is it Magick, Sir?” said Mary Fielding in a tremulous Voice.

“Aye,” I said. “And Mary Toft gave birth to Rabbits. Mr Fielding would be angry indeed if he were to hear you say that. The Child is but deformed—spectacularly so.”

“She is a ’Uman Child, then?”

“It is without Question a Human Child. Not a Bat, and not a Changeling.” I indicated to Mary that she should lay the Child upon the Table, that I might examine it more closely. Mary called to Liza to make Room upon the Tabletop, which was covered otherwise
with Breadcrumbs and Milk and other things that I assumed to have something to do with Christmas Dinner, then she laid down the Baby, still in its Blanket. I gently took hold of the Infant’s right Arm and stretched it out, and did the same thing to the left. Both Limbs moved, I thought, normally. I repeated the Exercise with both Legs, and again found that the membranous Wings did not seem to interfere with the Action of the Parts. “Well, it will not be crippled,” I said. With growing Excitement, for, I thought, I should greatly like to shew Dr Hunter this Marvell, I ran my Fingers lightly along the Tissue of the left Wing. It was as soft and pliable as Velvet. “How extraordinary,” I said. I thought: How beautifull.

Fearing that the little thing take cold, I tried to fold the Blanket once again about it, but failed, and steppt back. Mrs Fielding shot me a withering Look, and with an Ease that was astonishing to me she swaddled the flapping Baby and replaced it delicately within its Basket.

“I am surprized,” I said, “that the Gyspy hath left it. They earn much Money out of such Freaks at Fairs, and the Like.”

“Shall I tell Liza to take ’er to the ’ospital, Mr ’Art?”

“No,” I said. “I should very much like to keep it until I have shewn Dr Hunter. He may have another Suggestion. I must confess My Self reluctant to see it go; I had never imagined that a Deformity of this Nature was possible.”