by Molly Tanzer
“Then don’t be nosy.”
Opening her mouth to retort, Dorina caught herself. She had wanted to apologize, not antagonize.
“I’m glad you had a good time,” she said.
“I did, rather.”
Dorina chased after Evadne, who had headed upstairs. “I’m sorry I said those things,” she said. “They weren’t kind.”
“Perhaps not,” said Evadne, over her shoulder, “but you were right.”
“I was?”
“Yes. I do stomp around, ruining your fun. So I won’t anymore. Go off—be your own person. Expose yourself all over London in whatever ways seem most entertaining to you. I shan’t try to stop you anymore.”
They had reached her door. Evadne let herself inside, and would have shut out her sister, but Dorina stepped inside before Evadne could manage it.
Dorina resisted rising to the bait of replying to that remark about exposing herself. “I don’t just want to go off on my own,” she said. “Really, I don’t. In fact, I came home early today, just so see you.”
This brought Evadne up short. “Why?”
“To say I’m sorry,” said Dorina, “and to ask you what you’d like to do tomorrow.” Evadne had stopped in the middle of her room. The light from the windows behind her gave her a kind of halo. “So . . . is there anything you’d like to do?”
“I have an appointment in the afternoon . . .”
“Doing what?”
“Fencing class,” said Evadne absently.
“There are fencing classes?”
“Yes, at the academy.”
“The academy?”
“The one I’ve just joined, yes. Every afternoon except Sunday there’s a clinic—tomorrow’s is on strike accuracy.”
“Oh.” Dorina was disappointed, but just as she was about to say that Evadne should do as she liked, her sister spoke.
“Why?”
“I just thought we might do something . . . together.”
Evadne’s face lit up. “I don’t have to go,” she said. “I’d love to do something with you.”
“Name it!”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Why would I laugh?”
“It’s not very exciting,” said Evadne a bit shyly, “but I’d love to walk across London Bridge.”
“Of course!” said Dorina. “It’s something they say you simply must do while you’re in town.”
“Then let’s do it!”
“And let’s go in the morning,” said Dorina, eager to further mollify her sister, “that way, we can be back in time for you to go to your class.”
Evadne looked sincerely touched by this. “That would be perfect.”
“It’s settled, then,” said Dorina. She resisted the urge to embrace her sister; Evadne had only grown gamier as they spoke. “Well! I’ll let you change. I don’t know if Uncle will join us for dinner tonight . . . especially after our row this morning. But, I don’t mind a quiet supper.”
“Neither do I,” said Evadne, and Dorina left feeling better than she had since before they’d come to London, really.
Dorina couldn’t quite put her finger on when she and her sister had begun to grow apart. Perhaps they never had; perhaps they’d been born at cats and dogs with one another. Certainly they’d had good times together over the years, but something always seemed to ruin their peace. Dorina had always blamed Evadne for it, as her sister’s obvious disapproval and tendency to scold made Dorina childishly eager to act yet more outrageously. But really, she ought to amend her own behavior, and stop wishing for Evadne to change.
Dorina set aside the letter to her mother in order to write Henry of their plans. After, she was too antsy to settle in and finish her missive, so she wandered down to Basil’s studio to see if he was painting. He was, though he assured her he would join them for dinner.
“May I watch?” she asked as he daubed at the canvas.
“Of course,” he said absently. “Harry’s always hanging about, staring at me, so I’m used to it.”
His work in progress had been covered with a cloth when she’d entered his studio the last time. Dorina was surprised to find the picture was rather macabre, quite unlike his earlier jewel-bright works they had hanging on the walls at Swallowsroost, or that she’d seen printed in journals. No classical motif or medieval allusion greeted her: the subject was a bored-looking woman with long, waving blue-black hair. While the flesh of her face was young and healthy, a skeletal arm emerged from her off-the-shoulder gown, and one of her legs was mere bone, as well. She sat lounging upon a throne of peacocks—though it was obvious from the studio’s setup that a pile of cushions substituted for the live birds when the model was posing. The girl was no beauty, but in the painting she had a regal bearing that was somehow more impressive than beauty. She looked familiar, almost . . .
“Is that the scullery maid?”
“Yes, Bonnie. She sat most wonderfully for this; I think I shall use her again.” Basil added, “If she can pose in this heat, with that wig on her head, she can do anything.”
Dorina watched him for a bit longer, then wandered about, looking at the other paintings. Before Lady Henry had burst into her life so unexpectedly, Dorina had assumed she would spend many hours studying her uncle as he worked in this room: watching him paint, learning from his methods, writing it all down. Her vision for her article was to do it on his entire body of work, from his juvenilia to his current masterpieces. But, given the apparent tone of his more modern works, where youth and beauty partnered with death and madness, she felt she ought to consider focusing on the recent shift in his subject matter . . .
She felt a sudden and burning desire to begin her research. The studio was filled with golden light filtered through the green leaves and plentiful blossoms of the garden beyond, and it cast a sort of glamour over everything, making it seem divine. The gilt frames of the paintings glowed, and the pictures within, scattered amongst his own works—a smudgy, writhing Delacroix; a jewel-bright Millais; a stony-faced portrait of a young woman that could only be a Cassatt, and a delirious de Morgan—were a curated selection of some of the best masters working today.
And yet, it was her uncle’s work that drew her eye most often. She lingered before a nightscape diptych. In the first panel, dancing corpses coupled with maidens with swelling bosoms on a windswept mountaintop; in the second, two youths of vibrant beauty sat in a dark room, the moon beyond, one cutting the finger off the hand of the other where it rested on a silver platter, the former ravenous, the latter ecstatic.
Dorina shuddered, and turned away to find a work more akin to what she’d been expecting to see: a simple portrait of a slight, handsome, rather dashing young gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to Henry. His hair was a little lighter than hers, but they shared a smile, a nose, even a sense of style. In fact, looking closer, Dorina was certain she’d seen Henry wearing his exact suit, and she too had a tendency to pose in that fashion.
He must be her brother—her twin, the fencer, Lord Oliver. Henry had not spoken of him, except in passing; Dorina had no notion of how he had died. He certainly looked healthy, at least in this portrait . . . and as Henry didn’t look much older, his death must have been relatively recent.
Dorina wished she had known this man, which was not a sensation she was accustomed to feeling—not with men, at any rate. But if the painting were true to life, she felt he might have been neither bore nor boor. He had the look of someone who would make even fencing seem interesting. His eyes held the most extraordinary expression, a vibrancy she had only ever seen in one other person: Lady Henry, when she was speaking passionately about one thing or another. Dorina found she was unable to look away from the man’s gaze, even to admire the crook of his lip or the cant of his cheekbone, the pattern of his waistcoat or the angles of his fingers as he held a cigarette just away from his lips. He was captivating, even in oils, even in death, and the longer she looked, the longer she wanted to look. She almost felt
as if she could hear him whispering to her, speaking of—
“I think I’ll leave off,” said Basil, startling Dorina. She had been squinting at the portrait in the dimming light for she knew not how long. “I ought to wash the paint off before—I say, Dorina, are you quite all right?”
She nodded, even though that was not at all the case. “Is this Lady Henry’s brother?” she asked, indicating the portrait. She felt she knew the answer, but making small talk would hopefully alleviate Basil’s concern.
“Yes.” Basil did not look at the painting; he kept his eyes firmly on his brushes and paints. “I painted that after he . . .”
“How—” Dorina realized it was a rather rude question. “Lady Henry has never spoken of how he passed.”
Basil didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he said, “It is a painful subject, as it was a surprise. No one suspected he was ill. He always seemed so healthy . . . and then when I suspected something was wrong, really wrong, Henry didn’t do anything to—well, whether she could have, at that point, who can say . . .”
It wasn’t an answer, but Dorina elected not to press the matter. Basil seemed distraught, and given his fragile state she was anxious about doing anything that would upset him further, especially after the spectacle she and Evadne had made of themselves at breakfast.
“Forgive me for asking, Uncle,” she said softly.
“No, no. Of course you would be curious . . .” His eyes finally focused on her—only her—for perhaps the first time since she’d arrived in his house. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Harry, haven’t you? I know you’ve only been here a few days, but it seems as if you’ve been with her every moment.”
“Not every moment,” said Dorina defensively. “Last night we dined in, but you were busy.”
“Oh. Was I?”
“You were in your studio.”
“I suppose I was,” he said vaguely. “But in general you have been. I wonder . . . has she asked you to do anything?”
“We went to the Royal Gardens today on her suggestion.”
“No, I mean . . .” He swallowed. “Henry, she has a way of influencing people.”
“She’d deny that,” said Dorina, recalling their earlier conversation. “She thinks it’s a disgrace to influence anyone. She believes people ought to discover themselves for themselves.”
“What Henry says and what Henry does can be two very different things. She has a good heart; I would never say otherwise. It’s only, I have known her to act without thinking, producing results that no one could have guessed.”
“You could say that about anybody, couldn’t you?” Dorina was confused—she wished her uncle would just speak plainly, and said so. “What has Henry done that makes you feel you ought to warn me about her?”
Basil frowned, casting aside the rag on which he had been wiping his hands for some minutes. “I’m not warning you,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t have introduced you to Harry if I didn’t think she would be a good friend to you. I just didn’t expect you to become so close so quickly. It seems like she has already taken you into many of her confidences—as well as sharing her personal philosophies with a girl who is not yet eighteen years old.” He smiled. “Ah, but look at your face—you do not like being reminded of your youth, do not like to consider the idea that you might not be ready to make certain decisions that will affect your future.” He sighed. “Perhaps I’m just an old man speaking nonsense. All I will say is, be careful. And with that, I must go to dress for dinner.”
He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and then headed for the door. Dorina watched him go, confounded and annoyed. Basil was Henry’s friend—and by his own admission he had introduced them thinking they would like one another. Did he know something concerning about Henry?
“Uncle,” she called, as something occurred to her. “Are you going to her party tomorrow?”
“No,” he said, and his tone told her that it was his final word on that matter.
In spite of her awkward conversation with her uncle, and the earlier unpleasantness with her mercurial sister, supper that evening was pleasant—and afterward, they spent a friendly if quiet evening together, listening to the light thunder and rain that had begun to fall as they dined. Evadne was reading the only book Dorina had ever seen her truly absorbed in, The School of Fencing, while Dorina asked Basil questions about the current London art scene, his upcoming shows, and his artistic process, all the while taking notes.
Then, around nine o’clock, there was a knock at the door, and a damp gentleman by the name of Cyril Manning came in, dressed for an evening out. As it turned out, Mr. Manning owned a gallery, and he had come by to beg Basil to come out with him to their club in order to discuss some upcoming show of the former Hogarth Club’s collection of Pre-Raphaelite canvases. Basil was reluctant and kept making excuses about needing to look after his nieces, but in the end Dorina and Manning managed to convince him it was important that he go and talk over a few things.
“If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully, looking from Dorina to Evadne. “This is our first real evening together since you’ve arrived, and I feel it’s terribly rude to just go out . . . and in this weather, too . . .”
“You must go,” insisted Dorina. “You would, if we weren’t here.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Manning, with a wink at Dorina. “Prying Basil away from his studio or his sitting room is a task Hercules might shirk from.”
“The Augean Uncle, eh?” said Dorina.
“It is so boring, putting on evening dress,” muttered Basil, who had “dressed for dinner” by taking off his smock and putting on a clean shirt. “Then, when you have the damned clothes on, they are horrible.”
“Oh, Basil,” said Manning, disgusted.
“I’ll probably turn in soon anyhow,” said Evadne as the clock struck half nine. “The sound of the rain is making me yawn.”
“Me too,” said Dorina, “Evadne and I are going out early tomorrow if this clears off, so I ought to get my rest.” In all likelihood, she would actually be up for hours, reading, or writing, or sneaking into Basil’s studio to look more at his collection, but it was the right thing to say—Evadne beamed at her.
“Oh, fine. I can’t kick against these goads,” said Basil. “I won’t be but a moment—in the meantime, Cyril, why don’t you tell Dorina about your gallery? I’m sure she’d love to hear all about it. Tell her about that Women of Impressionism show, she’ll like that.”
“An entire exhibition on lady Impressionists?” she exclaimed, totally enthralled by this. “Did you include Marie Bracquemond? I know people look down on her for being self-taught, but I think she’s marvelous.”
“Of course. But you mustn’t give me any compliments, I allowed the Society of Lady Artists to arrange most of the exhibit. Lady Henry suggested it, when I was musing on how I wanted something fresh and new.”
“Did she now!” There was nothing Dorina heard about Henry that didn’t make her admire her more. “Oh, what a shame it’s closed. I would have loved to look at them all individually, up close.”
“And together, I’m sure,” he said playfully. “We managed to obtain both Eva Gonzalès’s A Loge at the Theatre des Italiens as well as Renoir’s La Loge so—”
“Oh! I’ve never even seen a print of Gonzalès’s, but I heard it described . . . Is it true it bears more in common with Manet than—”
“By Jove, Basil!” cried Manning, interrupting her as her uncle came back into the room, wearing crumpled but acceptable evening dress. “Dorina has thought more about art than any of my employees! Do you think her parents would let me rent her for a bit?”
“Cyril, if you wish to offer my niece employment, you are welcome to do so, but let us never again suggest the possibility of you renting a girl under my care.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” said Manning, with a wave of his hand. “For now, let’s get to the club and talk over the show.”
Evadne did not
sit back down after the gentlemen took their leave—instead, she collected her book, and said she would go up to bed.
“I’m worn out from fencing,” she confessed, “and I want to be fresh for tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Dorina stood. “I shall turn in as well, I think . . . let the servants go to bed. You go on ahead; I want a cup of tea.” She actually felt inspired to write a bit about her uncle.
“Dorina . . .” Evadne hesitated before departing. “I was really impressed by the way you spoke to Mr. Manning. It’s very admirable, how you can talk so intelligently about your passion. I’m sorry I never acknowledged how serious you were about this. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Dorina was genuinely touched. “Thank you,” she said. “That really means a lot to me.”
“Anyway . . . good night,” said Evadne, suddenly awkward again. Dorina felt another swell of affection for her sister.
“Sleep well, Evadne,” she said. “I hope this rain lets up by tomorrow, but if it doesn’t, we’ll find something to do together.”
Evadne nodded, and departed; Dorina followed her sister after asking for a cup of tea to be sent up, and spent a few pleasant moments collecting and then arranging her notebooks, pens, and ink. She wasn’t ready yet to try to assign a structure to her monograph, not after such a brief interview with her uncle; she just wanted to scribble out a few thoughts. The skeleton-armed girl had made her think. She wrote:
They say that painting from life is one of the most important skills for an artist to develop, but what concerns me more is painting from experience. While drawing a model can teach someone how the human figure moves and doesn’t move, if an artist has no ideas to express in the drawing of that human body, what exactly is the point of drawing it at all? Simply to perfectly reproduce what exists? We have photography for that. Yes, nature will teach us how something ought to look, but artists must find a way to express their feelings, their unique vision, in order to see how it ought to behave, how it ought to relate to the other elements we pair it with, those becoming and unbecoming conjunctions that create visual interest. Only then can we produce thoroughly good art, for good art overtakes convention and rote learning; it transcends it . . .