The person from Porlock

THE PERSON FROM PORLOCK
Samuel Taylor Coleridge lay in bed with a violent headache. In the next
room his wife Sara was attempting to placate their noisily teething
son, Hartley. Coleridge buried his head beneath a feather bolster and
tried to drown out the wailing. But when his tone-deaf wife launched
into a hearty lullaby he was forced to admit defeat and reached for the
laudanum bottle. Ten minutes later he was in Xanadu, at the feet of a
dusky Abyssinian, maid?
The next morning, the house was blissfully quiet. Sara had gone
visiting; Hartley slept exhausted upstairs and Coleridge, unshaven and
in his dressing gown sat at his desk, writing like a demon
possessed.
Then someone knocked at the front door. Coleridge ignored it. The
knocking grew louder. Aware that this would probably set Hartley off
again, he gave up and went to the door.
A scrawny, bearded old man clasping a badly stuffed seabird stood on
the step. Behind him, at the bottom of the driveway, Coleridge could
make out a depressed looking donkey wedged between the shafts of a
covered wagon that bore the legend: "H. Purbright - Taxidermist to the
Gentry."
The newcomer doffed his cap and said enthusiastically: "Good day to
you Mr. Coleridge - Henry Purbright is the name. Purbright of Porlock.
I trust I'm not disturbing you?"
Coleridge opened his mouth, but his visitor, in full flow, pressed on.
"?I have come directly from Mr. Wordsworth in Alfoxden, with whom I but
an hour ago concluded a most satisfying transaction - to whit the sale
of one set piece, portraying a barn owl swooping realistically down
upon a transfixed fieldvole.
Most impressed with my work, was Mr, W. - paid me three guineas
without a quibble and I'm sure we could have talked for hours but
unfortunately it seems he had an unavoidable appointment to keep.
However he was kind enough to say that you would never forgive him if
he didn't send me over to call on you and make myself known while I was
in the area. So here I am!"
Coleridge's head had begun to throb again. He certainly wouldn't
forgive William in a hurry. Really, he thought, his friend's sense of
humour was becoming more than slightly warped. How on earth was he
going to get rid of this awful old prattler and back to Xanadu? In
desperation he pointed at the seabird that was peering at him with a
ghastly, glassy stare from beneath the old man's armpit.
"How much?" he demanded.
"The albatross, I'm afraid, sir, is not for sale. Sample only.
Sentimental attachment, you see. It was the very first specimen I
mounted. It's a long story."
"You surprise me," said Coleridge, dryly.
"I wasn't always a taxidermist, you see, Mr. Coleridge. From infancy
I'd thirsted for a naval career - the lure of those faraway places and
all the shiny buttons on the uniform - I could think of nothing else.
So at fourteen I ran away to sea in order to realise my ambition." The
old man paused, his eyes, staring into the middle distance, bright with
nostalgic tears. "But it wasn't to be. I developed hydrophobia. You
can't imagine my suffering, Mr. Coleridge. Day after day, trapped on a
heaving boat with nothing but water, water, everywhere!"
I was devastated. I knew no other trade and my future held little
promise. Then fate chose to smile on me. We were making home for
Portsmouth in thick fog when this very albatross flew into the
mizzenmast and fell dead at my feet. Well, everyone seemed to think it
was a bad omen - but not me. It came to me in a blinding light -
taxidermy! And after that I haven't looked back, Mr. Coleridge. So you
see there is no price that I could put upon this fine creature."
"How about five guineas?" said Coleridge.

+ + +

Sara returned to a house filled with smoke and the acrid smell of
burning feathers and her husband sitting over a blank sheet of paper,
dragging his fingers through his disarranged locks, moaning: "The
inspiration of a lifetime - gone, all gone."
"Well, never mind dear," she said, when he'd told her what had
happened. "It's only a poem. I'm sure you'll soon think up another
one."
"I can think of nothing but that awful old man and his wretched
albatross. I'll never be able to forget him!"
Sara was beginning to lose patience. "Well, write about him, then!"
she snapped, adding: "I'm off to open all the windows," before
flouncing out of the room.
Coleridge considered her words. Suddenly a malicious little smile
curled upon his lips. "Why not?" he said to himself, stretching out a
hand towards the laudanum bottle. " But, by Jupiter, I'm going to make
the old boy suffer!"

END