Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631) (43 page)

“Plainly,” I said, “he is not. Release Miss Montague’s Person and let her come to me.”

I held out mine Hand for Katherine to join me. My Thoughts were working, furiously, and fast. As she approached, I turned mine
Attention to my Father, and studied his Eyes. As I had hoped, they followed her, fluttering about her left Hand in the Manner of an half-wild Bird, that knows Nourishment to be contained within the closed Palm, but hath seen its Fellows in the Clap-Net, and is thus too wary ever to become tame.

Katherine reaching my Side, I took up her left Hand firm within mine own, and pressing it to my Breast, looked from my Father’s ravaged Face into her beautifull one.

Mine Heart leapt up in my Throat. I swallowed, and cast my Gaze once more unto my Father. “Sir,” I said, “this is Miss Katherine Montague, whom I love most dear, and with whom I would be married, as soon as shall be. May we have your Blessing, Father?”

For a long Moment, he was silent. Then I discerned within his Look the Beginning of a second Struggle, of the same Kind as the first. He tries to speak, I thought. He tries to use the Language and the Terms to which he, as well as we, have been accustomed; but he cannot, and the Difficulty lies not only in his Paralysis; no, no; the Ideas themselves are too subtile, and the damaged Channels in his Brain cannot contain them; yet when he useth the vulgar Tongue, the Words do not escape him, being made of coarser Stuff, and therefore he is capable of Speech. He doth not intend Offense; he doth not intend aught but to communicate.

At length, and as before, the Battle ceased. My Father’s Gaze took Flight from Katherine’s Hand, and brushed, soft, like a wing Tip, over her Face. “Bang up,” my Father said. “Hellish fine.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, Sir.”

Less than a Minute after this wonderfull Dispensation, Erasmus Glass returned, and insisted that we quit my Father’s Chamber, which had seen, he said, enough Excitement for a Month, let alone an Houre. Refusing to let Mrs H. be the Exception, he conveyed us all down the Stairs in one Party and straight into the Library. He crossed to my Father’s Desk, and immediately poured himself a generous Measure of Brandy from a large Flask.

“Madam,” he said, addressing Katherine. “What, for the Love of Heaven, are you doing here?”

“She is new arrived from Weymouth,” I returned quickly.

“That, Master Tristan, is a Lie,” said Mrs H. She turned to Erasmus,
her Words spilling out in a great Flood. “I am very sorry, Mr Glass, but Miss arrived three Nights ago, at least, for Mr Green told me then he’d sent away a Beggar from the Door, and I thought nothing of it until Jakes found her soiled Cloathing the Morning after, and knew not what she ought do about it. Where she hath been hiding since then I don’t know, but ’twas somewhere within the House.”

“Mrs H.,” I said, sharply. “Prithee, do not call my Bride ‘Miss’ or we shall have a Quarrel, in which you will come off worst. Miss Montague hath been…” I hesitated, for I had already told the Truth to Erasmus, who was now staring at Katherine as if he were now as much inclined to disbelieve the Evidence of his own Senses as previously he had been to discredit mine. “She hath been in my Sister’s Chamber,” I finished.

“My Good God,” Erasmus murmured.

“Well,” I said, with a Shrug. “There is the whole Matter of it.”

“Lud!” exclaimed Mrs H., shaking her grey Head. “For Shame, Master Hart! And as for you, Miss—Miss Montague—but never mind. You must be hungry and thirsty, having been hiding out for half a Week living on Scraps from Master Tristan’s Plate. Why did not you come to me? I wouldn’t have turned you out.”

“I must repeat my Question to Miss Montague,” Erasmus said. “Miss Montague, were you not informed, by Lt. Simmins, that Mr Hart had become extreamly ill, and told of the Nature of his Affliction?”

“Yes,” Katherine answered.

“Yet you saw fit to leave your Uncle’s Guardianship and travel here, alone, knowing that you must put yourself into grave Danger, to arrive without Warning and—I need not continue. I should like to know your Reason, Madam, for compleatly disregarding my clear Advice to remain precisely where you were?”

“You are not my Master,” Katherine said.

“I am Mr Hart’s Physician.”

“Yes,” she answered, jutting out her Chin. “And a pissing poor one!” Her lower Lip began to tremble.

“Hush, Brat,” I said, putting my left Palm on her Shoulder.

“And Mrs Henderson,” Erasmus said, his Tone increasing in Incredulity with every Word. “When—when was it, two Dayes ago?—you realised that there was a Stranger hiding in the House, why, for the Love of God, did you not come at once to me with your Suspicions?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Glass, but I didn’t know what to do for the best,” Mrs H. replied, wringing her Hands. “I guessed—I thought—I hoped, Sir, it must be Miss Montague. I know how Master Tristan adores her, Sir, for hasn’t he spoke of little else all thro’ his—his Wanderings? I thought that mayhap if it were Miss Montague, then having her here might make Master Tristan well again. I thought there was no Harm in playing along with them for a Daye or two, and that I should find her before there was any Trouble.”

“Trouble?” Erasmus laughed harshly. “As to Trouble, the Fat’s in the Fire now, and no Mistake. Not only may Mr Hart get married, but he must, or Miss Montague’s Reputation shan’t be worth a Fig. By God, Tristan, you ought not to have done this.”

I felt this Accusation to be deeply unfair. “I told you Miss Montague was here, Erasmus,” I reminded him. “You would not believe me. And this Row with mine Aunt Barnaby is no Fault of mine. You wrote to apprize her of my Wish to marry, did not you, even tho’ I warned you how she would react?”

This Memento appeared to give Erasmus Pause, and he sate down, very suddenly, upon an heavy Chair behind my Father’s Escritoire. “I wrote your Sister, not your Aunt,” he sighed. “As we
agreed I should. But you warned me, yes; both things; you did.” The Wind had droppt out of his Sails; he fell silent.

“Might I go, Mr Glass?” Mrs H. asked, somewhat timidly. “I daren’t leave the Squire for long, Sir.”

“Yes, Mrs H., you may leave.” Erasmus ran his Hand distractedly thro’ his Hair and took a deep Draught of my Father’s Brandy. He looked up, and seeing My Self and Katherine still standing, all on a sudden cried: “Begone too, Tristan, and Miss Montague besides! All of you, go, go! Egad! If there is one sane Person in this whole Household, it is not any one of us!”

I took Katherine’s small white Hand in mine own, and we hastily departed.

*   *   *

It transpired that Katherine’s Disobedience in leaving my Chamber had not been her Fault, for, several of the Maids arriving to strip the Bed in mine Absence, she had almost been discovered, and had fled in the Direction of my Study. Upon the Stairs, she had unfortunately been intercepted by Mrs H., and then by mine Aunt, who had been at that Moment ascending them in a furious Passion at the Newes of mine affectionate Attachment, which Barnaby had brought her whilst her Abigail had been dressing her Wigg. I did not scold her, for her Action had brought about a marvellous Result. For the first Time in my Life I had clear Proof of my Father’s Love; and Katherine was to be my Wife within the Week. Wild Excitement, irresistible as elfin Musick, whisked me up, and forced me to caper to its Strains; a fast and complex Dance of Doubles and Setts and Turns as each Phrase was repeated twice, and then began anew, as in
Argeers
; until I had danced Katherine off her Feet, and driven Mrs H. to Distraction. The Houre being
then late, Erasmus quietly insisted that I take a Dose of Laudanum, and go to Bed.

My Conviction being unchanged toward that Drugge, I refused. Erasmus persisted, and eventually wrung out of me the Concession that I would return to my Study with the declared Intent of there remaining as silent as a Mouse; altho’ I did not expect that I should be. I took up Locke, but finding it impossible to concentrate upon him, fetched Quill and Paper—tho’ I confess I did not expect any more Success in this Endeavour than the other. I let my Mind run free and mine Hand scribe whatever Ideas might associate in mine Head, and I gradually fell into an intense Consideration of my Father’s Case: the plain and evident Fact of his Cogency; his immediate Acceptance of Katherine; his disturbing Inability to express himself in the Language of civilised Men.

What, I scribbled, is happening within his injured Brain when he begins to speak?

I could not understand how one Manner of clear formed Thought, to wit, the Words my Father desired to use, could not arrive upon his Tongue when coarse Vulgarities came as ready as the Rhetoric of Cicero. I was certain that his Ejaculations were not as the Barking of a Dogg, automatic, as Descartes would have it. My Father knew what he was saying, and, moreover, what he meant. His Reason was undamaged. And yet, I thought, was it not evidence of an Injury to the Mind that he could not pronounce the Words that, I thought, took shape within it. Was it truly Words in which he now thought, or simply Ideas, unchisselled, unformed? Yet these Ideas, surely, were not brutish. My Father had never been, and surely was not now, a brutish Man. Moreover, there was the terrible Struggle I had witnessed him undergoing every Time he had been forced to speak—except todaye, when he had dismisst
mine Aunt. Plainly, his Ideas were civilised, but the Stroake had deprived him of the Language by which he might have expresst them. It seemed to me somehow to be a thing of profound Import that, if civilised Speech was beyond him, but not civilised Thought, the vulgar Tongue was become the Medium in which he made manifest his Ideas. The Notion put me in Mind of the Almighty’s Creation of Adam out of base Matter; if such thing, I thought, had ever taken place.

I looked down. I had written: What is Thought? What is its Substance?

At once I noticed, thro’ the nocturnal Silence, how loudly ticking was the Clock upon my Mantelpiece. I recalled my long ago Conversation with Dr Hunter about the Workings of the Nerves, and my Perception that the Cadaver in front of me was naught but a broken Clock; my Conclusion that a living Man must be somehow more than this; that he had a Mind, a Soule. I remembered Dr Oliver applying his Trepan to the Skull of the Lunatick, saying: “Once the corrupt Matter hath been excised, we can hope that the Corruption in his Reason shall have been also, and his Mind set aright.” I remembered my grave Doubts regarding Trepanation, and my later Conversation with Erasmus in which I had learned this rational Doubt had played me false. I recalled my Notion regarding Pain, and its Existence as a Mode of Thought; mine Hypothesis that sensitive Thought may run thro’ the intire Body along the nervous Filaments; and I realised that never, in all this Doubting and theoretical Questioning, had I queried Descartes’ Conclusion that the Mind is a non-material Substance.

Now I wondered at it; now I asked, how could it be? Mine Heart began to pound so hard within the Casement of my Ribs I feared it should break free; for I perceived at once a terrifying Answer.
Thought hath, or Thought is, a material Substance. How else could it be shaped into a Word? How else could it be affected by a physical Event such as a Stroake?—for if I am certain of anything it is that Stroake is not the Work of Faeries. Being material, it exists in a material State within the Brain, and runs indeed thro’out the Nerves of the physical Body, and it may materially be disturbed by Injury or by Sickness or by the Workings of some Drugge. La Mettrie was right; Man is a Machine. Reason hath Extension, Form, Shape. It hath Limit.

Can Reason, God-given Reason, have Limit? My Limbs began to shake. Ink spattered the virgin Paper.

If, I thought, Reason hath Limitation, then a Man’s Reason hath no more special a Significance than his Digestion, or the Circulation of his Blood. And if Matter may think, if Matter may be conscious, or may have Conscience, who is to say that a Tree might not possess Awareness, or even a base Rock? What separateth an Human Being from a Red Kite, or a Willow? ’Twould be naught but a Question of Degree.

Cogito, ergo sum
, Descartes said. My Thoughts prove my Conscience, prove mine Existence, Moment by Moment, to My Self. Surely, the Mind did not equate with the Soule. But if, I thought, there is no non-material Mind, it may be that there is no Self, no non-material Soule to which this may be proved; for nothing material may imply the Existence of anything other. If the Soule truly were non-physical, the material Mind would not be able to interact with it at all; it might as well be nothing; for from nothing mental, neither Pain nor Conscience nor Love, might be drawn any Inference that a non-physical thing exists. But the Soule cannot be a physical thing, for then it could not survive physical Death.

I droppt my Quill.

Abandoning my Scribbling, I curled My Self into a small Ball on my Sopha, and hid my Face behind my Knees. The Candles, untended, burned down, and the Room fell into Darkness. My Creatures were still. Dr Oliver, in my Memory, lifted the bone Sovereign from the Cranium of the Melancholick. The Clock ticked on.

For a long Time I lay curled thus. The dreadful Implication permeated my Veins. If there was no non-material Soule, then there was no Place, no Place at all for God or Christ or Religion the whole World over; ’twas a great Lie; Christ’s Sacrifice was without Meaning, for there was nothing that might be saved, and neither Heaven, nor Hell. Perhaps, verily, really, there was no Soule, and no God, none, none. I felt the small Hairs rise up on the Nape of my Neck.

Mine Heartbeat began to grow stronger, louder, until it drummed in mine Head, each Beat one with the Clock. Blood circulated thro’ the Tissues of my Body, swishing in mine Ears like the distant Echo within a Seashell. I thought upon its Progress thro’ the Channels of my Liver and my Brain. Is Man a Machine? Is Thought nothing but the Sounds made by the Movement of the Mechanism?

As the Minutes passed, I began slowly to remember those Thoughts I had entertained the other Daye, about my Father, and the Love he had shared with my Mother, in which God had played not the merest Part. That Love had been, and still was, real, despite her Death; and even tho’ John and Eugenia might never meet again in any sort of Heaven, it remained of itself a wondrous thing, a thing that seemed to give me Hope that there was some Species of Soule in Man, even if ’twere not the immortal one of Christian Catechism. Surely a Machine was no more capable of Love than of experiencing Pain?