The struggle behind the masque of Billy Turley

‘Melodrama is perennial and the craving for it is perennial and must be satisfied.’

- T.S. Eliot on Wilkie Collins

THE FIRST NARRATIVE
Contributed by Tendrick Mason

I address these lines to the community of learned and scientific gentlemen at large in order to bring the matter of which I write to the forefront of current scientific debate. I am indebted to a MR. TALBOT late of OXFORD (now, I understand, forced, for reasons of potential ill health, to leave for the warmer climes of MALTA) for bringing this extraordinary case to my attention. Cognisant of my scientific interest in matters of the mind, and learning of my preferred means of passing my leisure time in all manner of sporting pursuits, he recommended that I venture to the fair city of Oxford to observe a gentleman of his acquaintance, a MR. WILLIAM TURLEY, football player.

Arriving at this ancient seat of learning, I was soon transported by coach from the close-walled city streets and tranquil college quadrangles to the very edge of the city. Here, far from the warming tea rooms and book shops, I was greeted by the sight of the arena at which I was to see this game of football, its high walls illuminated here and there by the flickering glow of the lamps, crowds flocking around its feet. My driver refusing to linger in the vicinity, I was pressed to ask a passing gentleman how to secure my entrance to the game. Directed somewhat abruptly to a small, roofed booth, I obtained a ticket, made my way through the boisterous crowds, and eventually took my seat. Somewhat taken aback by the wild-eyed fervour that the prospect of this forthcoming game produced in some of my near neighbours, I remained withdrawn into my great coat, pressed back into my seat. Withdrawn, that is, until the commencement of the game. It was not hard to spot the man I had been brought here to see, and I found myself gradually drawn towards the spectacle on the pitch in front of me.

William Turley was an object that immediately commanded one’s attention on first view of him. Hair stood on end, gesturing constantly to his audience, laughing and joking with team mates and at opponents in equal measure, he seemed a man born to the stage, not the pitch. His amusement appeared to derive from the conviction of his superiority to all men around him. While they strove the one against the other to outpace or outmuscle, William Turley seemed to rise above this, removed from the fray, until he arrived with prescient timing to make an incisive intervention, or produce an ingenious moment of acrobatics to prevent the ball from passing him.

Yet, within minutes we were to witness a change in him so profound, one could only wonder whether this jester of the court, privileged to mock those around him with impunity and perform such amazing feats of dexterity, had disappeared to the wings to be replaced by a raving beast. A shot beat him to pass him and strike the post of the goal, rebound back onto the pitch, and be cleared away by one of Turley’s companions. Suddenly, here was a new man! Raving, pointing, spitting, cursing, he kept up such a stream of invective directed at - his team, his opponents, himself, or a world that dared contradict his understanding? - one knew not which or what.

Transfixed, I watched this transformation unfold repeatedly in front of me during the course of the game, as all the while Turley was driven to ever-greater feats of acrobatics and paroxysms of rage. What could explain this dichotomy that existed in one man?

My mind was drawn back to a tale I had once been told. In old Venice there was said to be a player of the stage who performed with such conviction that audiences were left delighted or shaken. He seemed to exist on the divide between being and becoming, reality and pretence, and such was the mystery of his essence that audiences could not ascertain which side of the divide was his true abode. A reaction of shocked exhilaration betrayed the uncertainty of whether they had watched an actor of exquisite skill or a man beyond the claims of society. Yet I have long-suspected the likely truth was darker yet. Born into the profession and of such long-standing service, the player was no longer sure whether he was Harlequin or Tybalt, nor indeed of the individual mettle of his own character. To perform a juggling trick or to commit murder had for him become equal acts, eliciting as they did equal praise from his audience; and further still the confines of the stage had begun to cease to hold any meaning for him. The masques he wore for his performances now held little distinction for him, no longer noticing whether he wore a hooked nose or not, nor even, when he haunted the colonnades and palazzos of Venice, whether he still wore a masque.

Gentlemen, I now put to you this most mysterious case of Mr. William Turley, gentleman of Oxford, man of masques: who can say what forces drive his comportments, who can say whether we will next see Harlequin or Tybalt?

[The images of Billy Turley in this post are courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, reproduced here with kind permission. The engraving at the top is from The Pickwick Club in The Writings of Charles Dickens, and is courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.]