The Skull and the Nightingale Read Online Free PDF

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 humors 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 honor. 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.
    T he 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