There was nothing singular about the don to whom Lady Diana was talking—I assumed him to be a don from his solitude and distracted nature, and the scuffs on his shoes—and it seemed odd that she should have proceeded so purposefully towards him. Then, from the smallest of glances back to me, I divined her purpose. There, in the small garden, framed and bisected by the woodwork of the window, appeared the Taylors. Husband and wife were no longer arm-in-arm, and appeared to be engaged in an argument which caused them, before they had even left the grounds, to cease their progression and face each other. Whatever the subject, first Mrs. Taylor and then Mr. Taylor, following her gaze, looked back at the college house. I was sure that they must have been able to see me, but could not avert my eyes for fear that my spying on them—for it was spying—would become an even more indisputable reality. Yet they did not linger on the building for more than a few seconds before Mrs. Taylor turned swiftly back to the path and made for the street. Mr. Taylor faltered, then thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, in a gesture which suggested equal parts resignation and resolve, and pursued his wife.
The sounds of the room returned—the clinking of glasses, indistinct mutterings, the gentle crackle of logs on the fire—and I looked around. The evening was coming to a close and guests were leaving. Most of the girls had a short distance to walk back to their lodgings, which are in the college house itself. Others have private arrangements within the city: their number includes Lady Diana, whose carriage was almost certainly waiting for her. After saying my goodbyes to Miss Callow I left as I had arrived, in the company of another student, a Miss Elizabeth Ashdown. She and I made each other’s acquaintance on first arriving at the college, as our porters clashed on the narrow staircase of the house. We left our rooms simultaneously on hearing their assorted and creative oaths—eager to see what was causing such a terrible commotion—and shared an immediate bond. I think that she and I shall be fast friends.
My room is on the top floor of the college house, one of three garrets which I can only presume were originally intended for the lower type of servant. Elizabeth is in one of the others and the third is being used as a storage room, although I do not doubt that it will be converted to some form of bunk within the year, unless the college plans to move to larger premises. The furnishings are sparse: a bed of the creakiest iron, on which rests a thin mattress with which I fight in order to tame its more egregious lumps; an oak desk—with a slim volume of undistinguished poetry under one leg for balance—accompanied by an overly decorous chair; and the usual collection of wardrobe, chest of drawers, washstand, and washbowl and jug, these last being of the Chinese-blue variety with few enough chips to be serviceable but too many to be desirable. In the glow of the gaslight it looks thoroughly wretched. Oh! but the view through the little window! The spires stand white beneath the moonlight.
I am here—life exists, and identity. The powerful play goes on, and I shall contribute a verse.
Saturday, 15th October, 1887
Elizabeth and I breakfasted together. Breakfast is taken in a small room overlooking the garden to the rear of the house. It is a most tranquil spot. There was a single servant to assist with the meal. When one considers how many people are resident in our little college, it is curious that we employ only two maids-of-all-work. I had supposed that the intention was to reduce the weekly costs for the students. There is some element of that, as I pay 12s. each week for lodging, and the same again for board. However, Elizabeth has it on good authority that the lack of domestic servants is intended to bring the students together in their sharing of everyday tasks.
Elizabeth also informed me that the undergraduates of the University refer to us as “bonnets”, and confirmed that our acceptance here is far from unquestioned. John Ruskin himself, that most esteemed of critics, only a few years past refused to allow “the bonnets” to attend his art lectures, arguing that such discourse was of no use to the female mind. According to Elizabeth, Mr. Ruskin claimed that we should “occupy the seats in mere disappointed puzzlement.”
In truth, I find it somewhat difficult to comprehend my status as a student in this ancient university. Some lectures I may attend, some I may not, the decision seemingly at the whim of the lecturer, with Mr. Ruskin merely one particular case to demonstrate the rule. I face no residence requirements such as those imposed upon the men in their colleges. As for examinations, the University has seen fit to allow women to take only certain of them. The small body to which I so joyfully belong forms a secret cadre—by no means a complete regiment—in Oxford, sometimes accepted but oft-times spurned. We, its members, are subject to a level of caprice which, I like to imagine, will slowly be eroded by the actions of those who would see us in our rightful place, but who recognize the small steps which one must take to achieve that fine ambition.
After breakfast I discovered, waiting on the slightly battered oak table in the hall, a letter which—its bearing no stamp—I took to have been hand delivered. It is in the refined hand of Mr. Taylor.
Dear Miss Swift,
I do hope you will not perceive my writing to you so soon after a formal introduction to be an impertinence. I found our conversation yesterday evening to be thoroughly fascinating, and it was most unfortunate that other business required my early departure. Perhaps we might meet to continue our discussion? Although the weather is rarely fine at this time of year it has been sufficiently warm in the past week to allow for a suggestion of the Botanic Garden as a suitable meeting place. I find it to provide a sense of openness and vivacity, and I endeavour to take a turn there most afternoons.
I am most keen not to trouble you in any way, so let us say that I shall be in the Garden after lunch, between one and two o’clock, all this coming week, and should you be so kind as to accept my offer, I shall be waiting to meet you there on any day you may choose.
Yours very sincerely,
Matthew Taylor
I have spent much of today thinking about the letter. I do so want to talk with him again, not least as it is so rare that one finds a person, be it man or woman, with whom one can slip into easy reflection on matters close to one’s heart. There is something which causes me to trust him, to an extent which seems both perfectly natural and inexplicable. By early afternoon I had decided that I should definitely not accept his offer: to do so would be highly improper. Now, however, it is late and the flickering light and shadows drive a certain sense of adventure—of possibilities—within me. It is that same adventurous spirit which drove me to come here, and which I share with Father, without whose support I should never have found myself in this room. I am persuaded that he would be proud of a daughter who expanded her horizons, and that I ought not to dismiss so quickly a meeting with Mr. Taylor but, instead, find some way to ensure that it might take place whilst retaining all possible propriety. Tomorrow I shall ask Elizabeth if she will act as chaperone. She is an older woman—I confess that I have thus far been remiss in asking her what brought her here, or how she came to find herself able to adopt the student life at her age—and she would seem to be a fine choice.
Sunday, 16th October, 1887
Elizabeth and I spoke together this morning, as we walked back from chapel. She had much to say about Mr. Taylor and, aside from her acceptance of his handsomeness and agreeable demeanour, none of it was favourable. It is generally believed—I should say that Elizabeth believes it is generally believed, for such is the nature of rumour—that Mr. Taylor is an incorrigible philanderer and seducer of women. She attributed this information to “whispers” but from whose lips these whispers came she could not, or would not, say. She has heard tell from some that Mrs. Taylor is a perfect angel, enduring her marriage for the greater good of appearances and reputation. From others she has reports that the angelic Mrs. Taylor is the worst sort of Xanthippe, a scold from whom Mr. Taylor seeks shelter in the understanding arms of others. Elizabeth’s tone, however, suggested that she tends towards a belief in Mrs. Taylor’s possession of a fl
awless halo.
Thus it was with some surprise that I received Elizabeth’s agreement to accompany me to the Botanic Garden, an agreement made with little of the reticence which her reporting of Mr. Taylor’s nature had led me to expect. Were I to guess the reason for this contradiction, I should venture that it comes from an irrepressible curiosity, of the sort so often associated with those in whom rumours roost, and from whom rumours fly. There is a rare and valuable currency in those incidents which one can claim to have seen with one’s own eyes, or to have heard with one’s own ears.
So, it is decided: Elizabeth and I shall visit the Garden on Wednesday, shortly after lunch. Oh! I do have a sense of excitement, but it is tempered with a concern that Mr. Taylor and I shall not be permitted to talk as we might desire, for we shall be within earshot of one in whom a confidence is not to be left for safekeeping. Even so, in preparation, I spent the afternoon reading Warber in my room, with Keats ready by my side so that anyone who entered without pause would find me only lost amongst the nightingales.
CHAPTER THREE
On Monday I slept until mid-morning. The cottage was mine. Emily had gone to work without leaving a note to tell me that she had gone to work. I turned on the radio and set the volume to a level which kept me company. Outside, the rain fell to the lagoon, quenching history. I thought about calling Emily and asking what I should do, where I should go, but I decided that the day was a test for me, a chance to make my own decisions, and I would not miss the chance to shine.
The attic was dark behind the door. The clack of the latch stayed with me on the bottom stair, ready to climb beside me, into the shadows and dust.
“I shall click this light switch,” I said to myself, “and it will have no effect. I shall toggle it, up and down, up and down, just like in films, and nothing will happen, but I’ll press on, undaunted, feeling my way until I become accustomed to the light and then, slowly, the horror above will envelop me and my mouth will open to scream. Too late. Too late.”
In reality, the switch blinked the staircase into stark existence beneath an exposed fluorescent tube. It filled the room with a subtle humming which swept down the stairs and into the landing, drowning out the faint sound of the radio from the kitchen, wrapping me in isolation. And behold, a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it. And I was Jacob, drawn from the Old Testament, surrounded by blue night sky and stars, and from above the gold of heaven cast down its light, bringing forth a staircase for the angels, cast from my dreams, sketched by William Blake two centuries ago. The dead ascend the staircase, children are carried aloft on gentle shoulders or led by the hand, and lovers reunite in an embrace. But nobody met me as I climbed towards the light, rounding the turn of the stairs, and instead of gilded warmth I found folded blankets, a broken record-player, mouldering books, packing cartons and tea crates. Piles of junk were crammed beneath the sloping roof, ready to tumble like the walls of Vincent’s bedroom.
An ill-defined path ran down the centre of the room, broken with oak cross-beams which spanned from wall to wall, a little above floor level. I walked along, carefully, peering into boxes and under dust-sheets: tea sets from summers ago; photograph albums filled with faces, children carried aloft, lovers reunited; shellac 78s of classical and jazz music. Everything had a story to tell, but they were whispered, lost to me. The past seemed like a hologram: each object contributed to the whole; take one away and everything which remained lost a little focus, and so it would go, object by object. There, in the attic, the few remaining pieces sat in a past blurred beyond recognition, inviting me to draw the details for myself. Margot and Arnold could no longer use their tea service, as it had been a gift from Norman, who had turned out to be a frightful cad. Oh, how Judith and Patricia had enjoyed the stolen, carefree raptures of tennis that day, with the sun shining and Edith behind the lens of her Box Brownie. Robert was willing to make concessions in order to be with Miranda: he would play his jazz on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and she her classical on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays their spats would continue.
Where the dormer window broke the slope of the roof, the path branched to the side of the room. A bitter light dripped through the grimy pane, beyond the reach of fluorescence. On the floor to the left of the window a doll’s house rested on top of a wooden tennis racket in a press. The plain, white face of the house was split down the middle and hinged at either gable-end. Tipped by the racket beneath, one side remained closed whilst the other lolled open, as though bombed-out during the war. Squatting down for a closer look I saw the shrapnel wounds continue inside. Shredded paper and mouse droppings covered the miniature furniture. I reached to open the remainder of the front elevation and everything happened at once: crying out, tumbling, a mouse, mice, all scurrying too fast for creatures so small, and my hands catching the floor to steady me, and the endless hum drowned out by heartbeats, my heartbeats, then alone again, and standing quickly to a smack on the head from the beam over the dormer and slowly, slowly, slowly, hand in hair, coming to stillness, rest, and breath after breath after breath. I laughed.
There was gold beside me, finally. In the dim light it refused to glow or shine or otherwise behave as it ought, yet still it called out. It shouted the presence of treasure from beneath a dust-sheet which had shifted as I fought to recover my balance.
“Yes,” I murmured. “Wonderful things.”
I took hold of the sheet, ready to face whatever might run away from me, or towards me. But once revealed, the only living things remained transfixed in the pigments of a painting. I knelt down, placing a hand on the top of the exposed frame to steady myself. The gloom did little to reveal the secrets of the discovery. The shadow details were lost completely, leaving the lighter areas to struggle into the attic as best they could. A woman gazed out at me, past a man, his face in profile. They did not belong there.
The dust could keep its stories. All but this one. This one was mine.
Simeon Solomon drank himself to death in 1905, or died in the trying. A short obituary in The Illustrated London News described him as lacking “that comfortable insensitiveness which leads along the happy middle way.” There was no drink in the cottage, and even if there had been I would not have drunk it, alone. Pills, on the other hand, were allowed, prescribed, and mine to cherish or abhor depending on my mood which, in turn, depended on the number of pills I had already taken. Morning, lunch and evening pills were purple, and the night pill was yellow. But that was not why Solomon’s painting was in my mind, with its woman draped in purple and its woman draped in yellow, embracing on a stone bench. Or maybe it was, partly. Inspired by poetry, Solomon painted Sappho and Erinna, two poetesses, together in a garden at Mytilene, on Lesbos. Dead before we knew better, he thought they may have met, sharing islands and lifetimes. Not that he would have cared even if he had known the truth, because he was painting something allegorical, and not just in the doves and deer and flora with which he adorned the picture. Solomon’s Sappho wears her pill-yellow gown, my nightgown, and leans in, one arm around Erinna’s waist and the other on her shoulder. Sappho’s eyes are closed and her lips rest on Erinna’s cheek, but Erinna’s thoughts are seemingly elsewhere: she looks out of the painting from beneath languid eyelids. It is as though she is lost to Sappho already, and her own hand, so lovingly resting on Sappho’s, will be taken away, in a parting, because this cannot happen, or cannot continue to happen, and I hold Emily for the last time. Anna-yellow-pill Sappho holds, and her eyes are closed because she will not see the future as the purple pill sees it, as I saw it once.
People have written that the yellow-pill Sappho is androgynous, even masculine, but that is true of almost all the figures in Solomon’s work. “The lineaments of woman and of man seem blended as the lines of sky and landscape melt in the burning mist of heat and light,” wrote a poet of the time. Solomon’s earlier sketch for the head of Sappho possesses a gentleness of
line and softness of shading which emphasize the feminine. Seven years after spending time with the women of Mytilene he published a book, A Vision of Love Revealed in Sleep. Its frontispiece shows the narrator and his soul, two male figures that could be the twins of Sappho and Erinna. It could be Solomon himself, looking out of the garden, from under those languid eyelids, searching for a happy middle way.
The painting from the attic sat in front of the window, propped on the seat of a pine chair. The scene on the canvas was illuminated by moonlight shining through a mullioned window, slightly dulled with age. A couple rested on a canopied bed, in the shade of heavy, dark-crimson curtains, swagged and gathered. Several niches disrupted the lines of the surrounding stone walls, and in each niche stood a candle. One had been reduced to a wisp of smoke drifting upwards from a candlestick, whilst the others were close to death.
On the bed, the nearest figure lay propped against a collection of silk cushions in golds and greens. He wore a simple tunic of blue velvet, with a gold belt at the waist and pale tights ending in black, gold-buckled shoes. The profile of his face shared Sappho’s androgyny. The second figure rested beside the first, towards the farthest side of the bed, her body partly obscured by the man who held her. His left arm was draped around her shoulders, and her head lay on his breast, red hair tumbling over his tunic. She wore a long, green dress which fitted closely above the waist, where it passed beneath a jewel-studded belt and loosened to flow down, over her feet. Her features were fine and well-proportioned. She was pale, except for a delicate blush on the cheeks. Thin brows arched gently above wide, brown eyes. She looked out, like Erinna, over her companion and beyond, to me, expectantly, as though she believed I had answers, even if she could not make her questions clear. I opened my mouth to apologize but the telephone rang and brought me home again. It was Emily. She asked how I was and I thought I should tell her about the attic, but then I caught sight of the woman on the bed and I needed to understand, if I could, so I said nothing of it and just yessed and noed and took my pills while Emily waited on the line, two purple, Erinna. Then goodbyes and I sat on the couch and felt the room exhale.
All the Perverse Angels Page 3