The Skull and the Nightingale (36 page)

I went from room to room. All were similarly crowded and similarly unadorned. It seemed that color and mood were to be provided by the guests alone. I saw none of the sensual enticements or shadowy nooks that I had hoped for as being favorable to my intentions. The mood was nevertheless lively. White-clad cherubs and black-faced imps were distributing generous quantities of a potent punch. I assuaged my disappointment by drinking as freely as I could through the strainer of my bristling beard. The guests were more decorous than their counterparts at Vauxhall. It was as though a fashionable assembly had had its elegant garb transformed by a mischievous fairy. There were few of the squeaked greetings common at a public masquerade. Instead I heard a parody of polite prattle:

“I know you, Mr. Mars. I have met you before, in company with Miss Venus.”

“You mistake me, madam. I consort with no such trollops.”

A suave satyr, with his long tail slung over one arm, was attempting to wheedle a gray-robed, half-masked nun in white gloves:

“Might I tempt you, Sister, into a minor transgression—a little insobriety?”

“Indeed not, sir. A second glass of punch might numb my conscience.”

Yet after all she seized the proffered glass and took a hearty draft. I was glad to see that at least the level of drinking promised frolics as the night went on.

A short fellow was grinning at me through a purple beard.

“I not deceived,” said he, in a wretched attempt at a foreign accent. “You Meester Fenwick.”

“Good God, Nick: who are you attempting to be?”

“Of course the great Meester Bluebeard.”

“But your beard is purple.”

“Never mind, Meester Fenwick. Women will come to me—many women.”

I felt a pang of condescending sympathy, having already two women in play.

But it was necessary to find them. I went from room to room, warily searching. The next individual I recognized, however, was Lord Vincent, a perpendicular Saint Peter, with keys at his waist and a glass in his hand. He looked at me blankly, and I did not greet him.

The evening light was fading by now. Some servants began to close the curtains, threatening total darkness, and the sound of a gong reverberated through the house. Voices called: “Come this way, ladies and gentlemen. Pray come this way.”

We were led by footmen to the back of the house and out into the courtyard, which had somehow, since the departure of the carriages, been enclosed by an enormous tent, and set out with long dining tables. We were seated at random. I found myself between a lady of the night, gown tattered, cheeks aflame, and a Quaker gentleman, whose head was almost extinguished by his hat. I could do nothing about my designs for the time being, so contented myself with present company.

“Good evening, flying god,” hissed the harlot into my ear. “Might I entertain you for an hour or so?”

“That would be a great pleasure, madam, but I fear you are beyond my purse.”

“Try me, sir. My rates are moderate, for I am fresh to the trade—all but a virgin. Or you, sir,” she called across to the Quaker, “can I tempt you into my arms?”

Her offer was ignored, my virtuous neighbor not even turning his head.

Crocker’s imps and cherubs served profuse quantities of food. For my part I was not hungry, and my beard was more amenable to drinking than to eating. The conversation of the assembled company grew louder and louder, trapped in the fabrics of our tent. My friendly harlot and I maintained indelicate badinage at the tops of our voices, but the Quaker remained resolutely silent, as though locked into religious contemplation. When he spoke at last it was merely to growl “May I?” as he motioned for permission to hang his hat on the caduceus I had propped against my chair.

With that extinguisher removed, I recognized at once both the gentleman himself and the reason for his taciturnity.

“Pardon me, sir,” I shouted. “Are you not Colonel Jennings?”

He turned to me a puzzled face that gradually relaxed into a smile.

“You young devil—I know your voice. That damned beard deceived me.”

“Is Mrs. Jennings here?”

“Of course. Why else would
I
be here? She’s out there somewhere—” He waved a hand uncertainly, bawling: “Bel grows lively as she drinks the more. God forbid she takes her clothes off.”

“Has that happened before?”

“So they tell me. She waits till I am drunk.”

Trapped in a corner of this packed pavilion, I had had little opportunity to look about me. Nobody that I did see could have been mistaken for Kitty or for Crocker, or for either of the Ogdens. Becoming restless, I was glad to hear again the crashing of gongs, followed by an invitation to us to leave our dining hall.

Since darkness had fallen, the guests moved in noisy procession toward the one illuminated portion of the house, its main staircase, now lined with bright lamps. We crowded at the foot of it beneath a great ornamental clock. In a moment our babble was silenced by the flourish of a trumpet. At the top of the stairs appeared the unmistakable form of our host, arrayed as a Roman emperor. Flourishing a fiddle, he screeched a few notes to establish himself as Nero. Another trumpet call. Then Nero spoke out, his voice resonant even in that large space.

“Welcome. You have not seen me before because I have been presiding over a transformation. Tonight this house invites Flesh and Spirit to mingle, whether in conflict or comradeship. Perhaps the Sensual may be redeemed from excess; perhaps the Spiritual may be seduced into Sin. All shall be as you decide.”

A third fanfare, in the course of which lights came alive, as though by magic, first behind Nero, from above, and then in the rooms around us. There was an astonished murmuring, because we saw that the house had been transformed while we sat at dinner.

Scores of assistants must have been at work. Everywhere chandeliers and candelabras had been covertly lighted and were now summarily unveiled. The bare walls were hidden behind colorful hangings, to which were attached an assortment of masks, some beatific, others sensual or grotesque.

When the crowd began to disperse, I repeated my earlier exploration. Various entertainers were by now performing, in one room a wheedling fiddler, in another a fire-eater exhaling streams of flame. Imps and cherubs were again dispensing punch, the brew seeming, to my taste, more fiery than before.

Enlivened by food and liquor and this transfiguration, the guests waxed far noisier. The rooms echoed with laughter, squeaked greetings, and occasional shrieks. I was approached by the nun in white gloves, who pressed my hand and cried: “If I pray to you, false god, what pleasures will you grant me?” She simpered beneath her half mask and was gone. But in that moment I had recognized her as Bel Jennings, although of her whole physical being only a narrow strip of painted face was visible. I realized that the gloves were worn to hide the age of her hands. A moment later I passed Latimer, garbed as a bishop, with crozier in one hand and a glass in the other. He cried at random: “I don’t know you, sir, but you are a pagan dog and I condemn you to hellfire.”

Chance came to my aid. A squat, tonsured monk thrust past me as though bent on a serious errand. From his shape and manner I saw that he was Ogden. When he paused to exchange words with the silvery Diana who had earlier caught my attention, I realized with a shock that the goddess was Sarah.

Here were two points simultaneously gained: I knew whom to avoid and whom to pursue. I hoped that my goddess would become increasingly susceptible as the evening wore on. Meanwhile I would explore the house to seek out secluded corners into which I might lure her. My other task would be to find Kitty Brindley.

I climbed the main stairs behind a butcher with a bloody apron, and perceived that the light from above was white and muted. This upper story being far quieter, I could detect faint music in the air. Turning a corner, I found myself in Crocker’s—or more probably Ogden’s—rendering of Heaven. My first impression was of misty radiance, and of blanched hanging veils, threaded with wires of gold and silver. The general indistinctness was created by odorous steams, as of incense. The music came from a castrato singer, dimly visible through the vapors. Insipid as the scene was, coolly considered, it had a visible effect on those who entered: we lapsed into reverent silence, as though in church. The several saints, clerics, and angels among us seemed to preen themselves, at ease in their natural element. Several clasped their hands in simulated prayer. I hoped that there would be other corners of the house similarly persuasive, but to more fleshly effect.

Descending a rear staircase, I reached a closed door. I opened it with hesitation, suspecting that I had strayed into private territory. Ahead of me a line of small candles, so feeble as merely to render themselves visible, marked out a path though pitch-dark space. Again there was music in the air: the sound of a fiddle, faintly scraped. I stood motionless till my eyes could see farther, but could make out no more than dark gauzes suspended from above. Walking cautiously forward, I was soon bewildered, as though benighted in a forest. The gauzes assumed the character of clinging, confining webs. Pushing blindly through them, I was relieved to reach another door, which opened to a room altogether different in character.

The prevailing color was a deep and sumptuous blue. Several guests were already reclining on what appeared to be banks of cushions loosely covered by swathes of fabric. In a far corner the satyr was whispering into the ear of a shepherdess. The light was subdued and the air headily scented.

Another narrow stairway took me back to the main landing and the clock. There was loud music in the drawing room, where dozens of guests were now engaged in dancing of a sort. Gods and monsters, saints and sinners, were mingling promiscuously, yet performing in character. A Minotaur dominated the rout, taller than the rest by the height of a bull’s head and horns. As he spun I saw behind him Diana, standing very erect, her silver bow held upright before her.

I circled the room till I stood beside her. She turned as I did so, and I saw her expression alter as she guessed who I was. Even at close quarters the goddess was striking. Her silver half mask was crowned by a crescent moon with a great diamond at the center.

“I believe we have met, madam,” I cried above the music.

“That is impossible, sir. I did not exist until tonight.”

“Perhaps before the evening is out, we can converse in a quieter room.”

“I hope we may.”

Satisfied for now, I passed through to a further chamber, at one end of which Nero was seated on a red velvet throne. At his side sat Medusa, whom I could now translate into Jane Page. I slipped behind the couple and spoke into Crocker’s ear.

“Your Highness, this is a degenerate entertainment. I have seen lewdness.”

“And you will see more,” growled Crocker.

He looked me over: “I know you, sir, and know you for a false god.”

Before I could reply, there was a commotion in the room. After some shouting the floor was cleared for a battle between Saint George and a dragon. Although on foot, the saint brandished a formidable lance; his antagonist could offer only a long mouth, lined with pointed teeth. After some posturing and one or two tentative lunges, the dragon charged, and for his pains was skewered through the head. He rolled onto his back, legs waving, and expired amid applause.

Crocker leaned toward me, his face pink and sweating below the imperial wig.

“It’s cursed hot,” he said, fanning himself with a languid hand.

“Never mind. This is a triumph. You have created a world of your own.”

“The credit must go to Mr. Ogden, a man of imagination.”

Jane turned to me. Each of her locks had a spring within it to make it twitch.

“Have you found Miss Brindley?”

“Not as yet.”

“You must try harder, or I will turn you to stone.”

There was a ripple of movement as the castrato from the upper world made a formal entrance accompanied by an angel with a lyre. Mounting a low platform, he struck a dramatic pose as prelude to a soaring performance of Nathan Tinsley’s song, the angel accompanying him from below:

“Alas for Man—how shall he choose

Betwixt extremes of frost and fire?

On this side Virtue dwells, on that Desire.

The saint, on Virtue’s Arctic coast,

Forgets his dreams of Paradise:

Feeling and Faith alike are lost,

Benumbed by unrelenting ice.

The sinner seeks the Tropic zone,

Yet finds his dearest hopes are doomed;

His joys no sooner come than gone,

Dissolved to ashes, self-consumed.

Now having weighed what must be lost

We boldly still proclaim:

‘We will not stifle in the frost,

But leap into the flame.’ ”

As the song ended, a small army of gibbering devils charged in, brandishing their pitchforks. The masqueraders turned tail and were driven from the room.

“They are bound for Hell,” said Crocker. “I inspected those regions while you were eating. That is exercise enough for one night. But the place is worth a visit.”

“I will sample my future fate,” said I, and set off after the crowd.

We were herded toward a region of red light. At the foot of some steps we emerged into a wide cellarage where saints and sinners, urged on by shrieking demons, were prancing wildly round a central pyre of fluttering flames. Without a thought I joined in, leaping like the rest. There was a whiff of madness about it all. I saw some lewd leering and groping as we spun together. The close air reeked of sweat.

When I at last withdrew I felt a tug at my sleeve.

“Give me your hand if we be friends,” said a voice.