themselves the anatomical curiosity. They fingered his spine, they measured it, they probed and kneaded and squeezed it. They asked him questions, but not as if he were a man, as if he were the mere porter or guardian of his own deformity! They talked among themselves of what they saw and what they thought of him as though he were not present. And when they had satisfied their curiosity, Lord Drogo dismissed Harry with a wave of his hand, and my uncle William took him to the kitchen and there gave him money, and a plate of food, and a glass of wine.
A glass of wine. Harry left Drogo Hall with money in his pocket and rage in his heart. He had his money, but he had sold his soul for it, so he felt, he had allowed himself to be handled as an animal, and all that distinguishes the animal from the man is the soul, no? He had for that interminable hour in the Theatre of Anatomy been a creature devoid of a soul. They had purchased his soul, and he had agreed to the terms of the contract. He was dirtied by the transaction, brought low by it; he felt himself a nothing, as he walked away from Drogo Hall that day, and set his steps across the Lambeth Marsh toward the distant spires of the town; and with the taste of wine on his lips, and money in his pocket, he was soon established in a tavern, and by nightfall he had moved on to gin.
The rest may be predicted.
9
I s it premature to voice my suspicions as to what Lord Drogo truly wanted from Harry Peake? It was not a simple matter of examining his spine, nor of displaying it to his medical friends. No, Drogo had a far more—imperial—project in view. I believe he wanted to own Harry’s spine. He wanted him for his Museum of Anatomy, he wanted him among his exhibits. Not so unusual a thing in those days, when any anatomist of distinction prided himself on his collection of anatomical curiosities, and vied with his peers in the range and oddity of the specimens he could display. Lord Drogo was no better than the rest, and I believe it had occurred to him when first he heard Clyte read the handbill discovered in the pocket of Mary Magdalen Smith, that here might be his pièce de résistance —the skeleton of the Cripplegate Monster.
Was he disappointed in Harry’s backbone? Was it not as floridly bent as he had hoped? This was not a question I could ask my uncle William. But whatever the expectation, nobody could deny that here was a man with a most peculiar spinal formation; and Drogo wanted it. What then of my uncle William? Was he innocent of all this? I do not think he could have been. I think he was as complicit in Drogo’s designs as Clyte was. He knew what was happening, he knew that Harry was the object of Lord Drogo’s ambition. Whatnone of them could have predicted of course was that Harry should then have come out to Drogo Hall to ask for money. But see how Drogo capitalized on his good fortune, see how he humiliated the poet when he was at his most vulnerable. And see how my uncle William, having given poor Harry the money he asked for, sent him on his way with a glass of wine . You may imagine the skepticism with which I attended my uncle’s narration after I had reached these conclusions.
That glass of wine led him by nightfall to move on to gin, and Harry Peake was no match for a bottle of gin. A bottle of hock, a pot of ale, of these he had shown himself the equal, when he drank for an hour or two and then came home. But the gin, no, with the gin it was different, and it was bad gin they drank in those days, distilled fast, a crude and impure liquour. It masked his soul, or killed it, rather, for the period of the intoxication; and it had the effect then of urging him to renew the intoxication before it had worn off properly, before the fumes had cleared, so it was that much harder for him, when he did become sober, to recover his own self, and resume life in the person he had been.
But he did not become sober for a number of days, nor did he return to the
A glass of wine. Harry left Drogo Hall with money in his pocket and rage in his heart. He had his money, but he had sold his soul for it, so he felt, he had allowed himself to be handled as an animal, and all that distinguishes the animal from the man is the soul, no? He had for that interminable hour in the Theatre of Anatomy been a creature devoid of a soul. They had purchased his soul, and he had agreed to the terms of the contract. He was dirtied by the transaction, brought low by it; he felt himself a nothing, as he walked away from Drogo Hall that day, and set his steps across the Lambeth Marsh toward the distant spires of the town; and with the taste of wine on his lips, and money in his pocket, he was soon established in a tavern, and by nightfall he had moved on to gin.
The rest may be predicted.
9
I s it premature to voice my suspicions as to what Lord Drogo truly wanted from Harry Peake? It was not a simple matter of examining his spine, nor of displaying it to his medical friends. No, Drogo had a far more—imperial—project in view. I believe he wanted to own Harry’s spine. He wanted him for his Museum of Anatomy, he wanted him among his exhibits. Not so unusual a thing in those days, when any anatomist of distinction prided himself on his collection of anatomical curiosities, and vied with his peers in the range and oddity of the specimens he could display. Lord Drogo was no better than the rest, and I believe it had occurred to him when first he heard Clyte read the handbill discovered in the pocket of Mary Magdalen Smith, that here might be his pièce de résistance —the skeleton of the Cripplegate Monster.
Was he disappointed in Harry’s backbone? Was it not as floridly bent as he had hoped? This was not a question I could ask my uncle William. But whatever the expectation, nobody could deny that here was a man with a most peculiar spinal formation; and Drogo wanted it. What then of my uncle William? Was he innocent of all this? I do not think he could have been. I think he was as complicit in Drogo’s designs as Clyte was. He knew what was happening, he knew that Harry was the object of Lord Drogo’s ambition. Whatnone of them could have predicted of course was that Harry should then have come out to Drogo Hall to ask for money. But see how Drogo capitalized on his good fortune, see how he humiliated the poet when he was at his most vulnerable. And see how my uncle William, having given poor Harry the money he asked for, sent him on his way with a glass of wine . You may imagine the skepticism with which I attended my uncle’s narration after I had reached these conclusions.
That glass of wine led him by nightfall to move on to gin, and Harry Peake was no match for a bottle of gin. A bottle of hock, a pot of ale, of these he had shown himself the equal, when he drank for an hour or two and then came home. But the gin, no, with the gin it was different, and it was bad gin they drank in those days, distilled fast, a crude and impure liquour. It masked his soul, or killed it, rather, for the period of the intoxication; and it had the effect then of urging him to renew the intoxication before it had worn off properly, before the fumes had cleared, so it was that much harder for him, when he did become sober, to recover his own self, and resume life in the person he had been.
But he did not become sober for a number of days, nor did he return to the
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