Upon this, all present stood mute, until Sir Bartholomew spoke out again.
“My King,” he said, “you know that I am your friend and faithful servant. Please hear me when I say that such a thing is forbidden by God. If you would so pollute your own blood then there is no end to the shame which will befall you. You would be unworthy to sit upon the throne.”
“Sir Bartholomew,” replied the King, “you are indeed my friend, and I have never had need to question your loyalty. It is for these reasons alone that I do not have your head removed from your shoulders for the words you have spoken. And let all men know that if they should repeat the claims you have made, they shall be put to death.”
At this Sir Bartholomew ceased his protests, and all present averted their gaze from King Florence. Raising his hand the King summoned a page and told him to fetch the fair Thomasin. The Princess arrived forthwith and, seeing her loving father, joined him where he was sitting. The King embraced her and kissed her many times. The watching lords and knights observed her happiness and understood that she saw only the love of a father for his daughter. Then, however, the King stood and faced his daughter, placing his hands on her shoulders.
“My daughter,” he said, “it has always saddened me greatly that you grew up without a mother. You are so like her in your beauty and your ways that sometimes I see her standing before me and love you even more. It is for these reasons that I intend to take you as my wife, and shall be your husband.”
Horrified, Thomasin tried to stand, the colour fading from her rosy cheeks, but her father took firm hold of her hand and demanded that she follow his will. Again, the lords and knights appealed to King Florence to take pity on his daughter and to recognize the evil in his intentions. The King dismissed their protests and reminded them that if they failed to abide by his wishes he would see their heads removed. Then he ordered his daughter to retire to her chambers with her handmaids, that she might prepare for her wedding the very next day.
There was amongst the handmaids one who was old and wise and had served Thomasin since the death of Queen Clara. The Princess called her to her side, and bade all the other maidens leave. When the two of them were alone Thomasin begged the wise handmaid to help her escape to a far country, and the old lady, joining her charge in weeping, promised to do all she could. She left Thomasin in the chamber and went straight to Sir Bartholomew, telling him of her mistress’s desire to depart in secret. Whispering, in a hidden corner of the castle, Sir Bartholomew told the handmaid of a plan to avoid the hideous marriage, and this the handmaid carried back to the Princess, saying:
“My Mistress, just as my brother, Peter of Aragon, rescued your own mother from the Saracens, so Sir Bartholomew will rescue you now from your father’s intentions. The King has ordered you to bathe this evening, and you must go to the bath-house. When you return to your chamber, order the other ladies to bathe, too. I shall ensure that they spend a long while in bathing, and become tired and ready to sleep. Under your bed you will find hidden the clothes and belongings of a man. Don the clothes, place the sword on your hip and the spurs on your boots. Then, stealthily, head out of the chamber and to the stables, where you will find a horse readied for you.”
Thus it was that Thomasin came to the stables as her handmaids slept. There she found Sir Bartholomew waiting with a horse, and bread and meat and two bottles of wine. He helped her into the saddle and she rode out, into the forest, until she was far from her country. Safe in those foreign lands, but eager to hide any weakness lest she be preyed upon, Thomasin became Thomas.
In the ancient versions of the story, those of Ovid and Antoninus, the child is brought up as a man from birth, as her father instructs her mother to kill the babe if it is born a girl. Warber, I suspect, saw more sensationalism in the later version, which he thus chose to adapt. His descriptions of King Florence’s interactions with his daughter are far more elaborate than those in Huon of Burdeux or my relating of the story, and the gratitude of the Princess to her handmaid and Sir Bartholomew is similarly—how should one describe it?—extravagant.
On the significance of names, my father has suggested that Warber chose Thomasin and Thomas, rather than Ide, because of an occurrence in Virginia, earlier in the seventeenth century, which may have reached the ears of the gossips in London some years later. Perhaps Father is right, although I have my doubts: he himself has the history only through personal correspondence with a friend who resides in the state. A person by the name of Thomas Hall became the subject of much consternation amongst the townsfolk of Warrosquyoake, having been seen to dress in the garb of both men and women. Several inconclusive and no doubt highly intimate examinations of Thomas’s body were made, and finally proceedings reached the General Court at Jamestown. There, Hall told how he had been christened Thomasine, and had been raised as a girl, before he cut off his hair, called himself Thomas and became a soldier. At the end of his service he returned home and became again Thomasine, until presented with a chance to sail for Virginia. It was then that Hall returned to his life as Thomas, for the most part.
On with our story. Huon of Burdeux spends several chapters on Thomasin’s—that is, Ide’s—heroic deeds at this point. Warber’s volume is, however, too slim for such digressions, and he reduces this part of the narrative to a little over four pages. Thomasin runs out of money, sells her horse, and becomes the squire of a German soldier, bound for Rome. An attack by Spaniards leaves her as the only survivor and she flees, directly into the hands of brigands. Various scuffles ensue, which leave Thomasin riding away with five of the brigands dead and the severed hand of a sixth still clutching the bridle of her horse. Finally, she comes into the service of the Emperor of Rome, is knighted by him, and leads his army to a glorious victory against the Spanish.
Warber returns to his main narrative with the Emperor’s lauding of Thomasin—whom, of course, he knows only as Thomas—for valiant deeds. Warber’s handling of names and pronouns in this next section of the book is far from deft, and I fear that mine will be no better.
When the Emperor saw Thomas, garlanded in victory, he praised him effusively, and made him First Chamberlain and High Constable of all his lands and lords. The daughter of the Emperor, whose name was Olivia, fell in love with the brave and handsome Thomas. Her father, seeing his daughter’s desire and himself loving Thomas as though a son, called him to his chamber and said to him:
“Thomas, my dear friend, I wish to repay the service you have done for me and cannot think of a greater reward than the hand of Olivia, my dearest daughter. When I am dead you may govern my empire as your own.”
Thomasin was filled with dread that such a thing might happen, and that she might be discovered on her wedding night. She tried to persuade the Emperor that she was just a poor gentleman, unworthy of a daughter who should surely marry a fine prince. At this the Emperor became angry, unable to believe that anyone would refuse the honour of his daughter’s hand in marriage. In the face of this ire Thomasin could do nothing but accept her fate and agree to the betrothal.
The wedding took place the very same day, with celebrations and feasting such as Rome had not seen since its first founding. After dinner it was time for the couple to retire to their chambers. Olivia went to bed, followed by Thomasin, and the servants departed, leaving them alone.
And now we come to the point at which Warber breaks away from all previous versions of the story. In Antoninus’s telling, Galatea’s child, Leucippus, becomes too beautiful to pass as a boy. Galatea prays to Leto, who takes pity on her and changes Leucippus into a man. In Ovid, it is Isis who hears the prayers of Iphis’s mother, Telethusa, and turns Iphis into a man so that he may marry Ianthe. In Huon of Burdeux Ide manages to delay “ye thynge the whiche of right ought to be done bytwene man and woman” for fifteen days, through the fabrication of an illness, but finally he must reveal all to Olive. She is forgiving, but a page overhears the couple talking and conveys the news to the Emperor who, in turn, promises to burn Ide an
d his daughter at the stake if what he is told is true. Thankfully, an angel of Our Lord appears and declares that Ide is thenceforth a man and Olive shall bear his child: “The day past and the nyght came, and yde and Olyue went to bed togyther, and toke there sport.”
Warber seems to have no time for such dalliances with divine intervention. It is quite possible that even he blanched at the idea of mixing his particular style of low writing with the godly.
The fair Olivia moved to take off her fine wedding dress of silk and lace but Thomas placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Wait. Let us lie beside each other, and kiss and talk a while.”
Thomas took his wife’s hand and led her to the bed and bade her lie down beside him. This she did, resting her head on his chest and waiting for him to speak.
“My Love,” said Thomas, “you know that I love you dearly, and that I think you the most beautiful woman in all of Christendom.”
“My Love,” replied Olivia, “I do know so, and I should hope that you know the place you have held in my heart for so long. Why now do you sound so unbearably burdened with distress, my Thomas?”
Thomas gave no reply. His fair wife, anxious lest her new husband be unwell, held him ever tighter and pressed her head against him until she heard the quick beating of his heart. After some little time, unable to hold her tongue any longer, she spoke again, hesitantly at first and then with ever-increasing courage.
“My Thomas, though I fear you may be ill, yet you seem well. Your body is strong and your heart beats loudly. Though I fear you may not love me, yet your words and your gentle touch tell me I am in your heart as you are in mine. Now I fear you may have some secret and that you are the one in whom true dread resides. I shall say only this to you, my husband, that had I been born Ianthe I should not have wished for Isis to change my Iphis.”
On hearing this Thomas lifted the head of his beloved wife and kissed her gently. Then he asked her how she came to know his secret.
“My sweet Thomas,” she replied, “I have always known. You are brave and strong, but these qualities are not reserved to men alone. You are wise and protective, but so too are our mothers. And you are beautiful, too beautiful for one such as I to miss your true nature. Now tell me, what shall I call you?”
Holding her tightly Olivia’s Love kissed her, saying:
“My name is Thomasin, but I fear that if you call me by that name when we are alone you shall one day call me by that same name when others are present. You must call me Thomas, and must think of me as your husband, for if we are discovered your father shall have us both burned, of this I am sure.”
“My darling husband,” said Olivia, “you will always be my Thomas.”
My dear Mr. Taylor, I now find myself quite unable to bring Warber’s story to any true conclusion. As I have mentioned, Warber was most certainly in the business of publishing in order to further his ambitions, and to gain recognition amongst certain of the less-reputable members of King Charles’s court. The continuance of his tale, which lasts a not inconsiderable number of pages, relates what one might term “the amorous interactions” between Thomasin and Olivia and, I reticently add, a maid who interrupts them later that night and is taken into their confidence and their “sport”.
Suffice to say that, despite its lewdness, the Warber book is fascinating for its retelling of far older stories and its illumination of some aspects of Restoration sensibilities. Such, I am sure, was the thinking of my father when he came into his study on that autumn day and found me reading his copy of The Strange History, as I was relating to you at our last meeting, shortly before the rainstorm forced my sudden departure from the Botanic Garden. Surely there can be few who are as keen on the intellectual life as publishers—or, should I say, reputable publishers?—and this was certainly my father’s reason for allowing me my interest in the book. Just as he feels that young ladies ought to be given the chance of a decent education, so does he comprehend that even the most delicate subjects—those deemed indecorous by polite society—have their place in an understanding of the world. “These qualities are not reserved to men alone.”
I think even Father would be uncomfortable were he to know of my sharing this private part of my life with another. He does not know you as I feel I have come to know you, even in our short time together. There must be a moment in a liberated woman’s life when she determines to take on the responsibility of judgment for herself.
I do hope we shall be able to meet again and continue our conversation. I shall discuss the possibility with Miss Ashdown.
Yours very sincerely,
Penelope Swift
CHAPTER FIVE
I tried to talk to Emily as soon as she opened the door, but she brushed past me and threw her briefcase onto a chair, giving me a look which strongly suggested that I keep quiet. She took off her gloves and put them in the pocket of her greatcoat, which she then removed and hung on the back of the door, beside me. Only then did she greet me with a perfunctory hug which seemed more protocol than affection.
“He came into the office today,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Et in Arcadia,” I muttered, and went away from there to the woods and mixed with shepherds and lost my innocence or found an understanding, both, neither, and the shepherds were asking me about the inscription, asking me in Emily’s voice:
“What do you mean?”
“There’s death here, too, even here. We think we’re safe, endless, but it, he, she always comes back, even in this place, even here.”
“Anna?”
I looked at Emily’s face, worried, questioning, and the room was back and her coat was hanging beside me with her gloves in the pocket.
“Sorry,” I said. “It just reminds me of the Poussin painting. He’s the tomb.”
“Poussin’s the tomb?” She took my hand and we sat together on the couch.
“No,” I said. “So Nicolas Poussin paints this bucolic scene, right? Calls it Les Bergers d’Arcadie. Paints it twice, actually. The one in the Louvre is the most famous. All trees and mountains. Greenery and blue skies and fluffy clouds.”
“I know this one. There’s a tomb in the middle.”
“Yes. Right in the middle. A tomb with an inscription.”
“Et in Arcadia ego.”
“Right. ‘I am here, even in Arcadia.’ And shepherds have gathered around, pointing in amazement, trying to come to terms with the fact that death exists even there, in the middle of a pastoral Utopia. I mean, that’s a simplistic interpretation but…”
I paused for a minute, but Emily’s expression didn’t change. I continued, talking more quickly, breathing more shallowly.
“But the tomb is huge, and old. How are we supposed to view the shepherds? They should have known. They couldn’t be so blind as to believe they were endless. And the woman. Three men and a woman in the painting. The woman. She knows. She always knew. It’s as if she brought them there to end their stupidity. Maybe gently, but it’s still a lesson. And we should have learned, Ems. He is here. I should have learned. I should have known he was here.”
Emily put her arms around my waist and pulled me to her. Our cheeks brushed against each other as I rested my chin on her shoulder.
“He’s not here, Anna. He’s never been here. He’ll never be here. He just came to collect the last of his personal stuff from the office.”
I felt—we both felt—the tears running down my face. Emily put a hand in my hair and stroked her fingers gently against my scalp.
“I only told you he came at all because I promised. Whenever I see him, I’ll tell you. Here.”
She leaned away from me and handed me a tissue from her pocket, small and white and scrunched up: a scared tissue.
“Thank you,” I said. I watched her walk into the kitchen and take two mugs from the cupboard above the sink. She switched the kettle on and went to rummage for tea bags. White steam. Fluffy clouds. He was not in the cottage. She said that he was not there and she would no
t lie to me. Unless I was the woman, the one who knew, and she was a shepherd. Unless I was supposed to teach the lesson, to watch her point at the inscription on a tomb, point and trace her own shadow as it fell on the stone, trace his shadow as it fell over hers. And, as she did so, I would nod sagely and she would know that I was wise and a teacher. I blew my nose and she put the mugs on the table beside me.
“Tea,” she said.
I picked up the nearest mug and took a sip.
“Tea,” I said.
“I’m sorry. Tell me about your day.”
I pointed to the dining table. The painting lay beside its empty frame.
“I noticed when I came in. You broke it?”
“No. I didn’t break it. I slowly and carefully removed the canvas and stretchers from the frame. I know what I’m doing, Ems. I might be… I’m not… I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, yes. Okay. I’m sorry. I know you’re good at your job. Did you find anything?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything. Who painted it?”
“I don’t know. There’s no signature. At least, none that I’ve found yet. No date, either. It’s odd, but not unheard of, especially if the painter didn’t intend to show it.”
“Well, what can you tell me?”
I began to feel defensive, challenged to prove my worth. I stood up and walked over to the painting. Emily followed and listened as I pointed and talked.
“Well, it’s in the Pre-Raphaelite tradition. Like Ophelia.”
Emily cocked her head.
“We saw it at the Tate,” I explained. “John Everett Millais painted it in 1852. It’s quintessentially Pre-Raphaelite. The river banks are painted from nature. Or maybe from sketches from nature. The plants shown don’t all flower at the same time of year. Full of romantic imagery. Looks a bit like stained glass. You know the one. Ophelia’s floating in a stream, drowned. Her eyes are open. Lips are parted. Her dress is billowing around her in the water. You know. Ophelia.”
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