I have been thinking on the business for some time. The better part of my opinion is that I ought to decline the invitation.
I am slowly coming to understand that, with the presence of a chaperone, I shall be able to avoid the worst excesses of jealous and groundless gossip, should the encounter become public knowledge. Furthermore, I am certain in my belief that Elizabeth is from a most respectable family and could not be doubted if questioned. Besides, I conclude the debate with myself, Father and Mother have always been adamant that it is in the sharing of knowledge and experience—in both of which Mr. Taylor’s holdings exceed my own—that we grow as individuals and find our ability to make a worthy contribution to society. Experientia docet.
Thus I am resolved and have decided to accept the invitation.
Thursday, 27th October, 1887
I believe that I may have done a most terrible thing, forced upon me by circumstances of fate which I do not dare ascribe to my own actions.
Mr. Taylor’s studio appears a plain affair as one approaches along the curving path from the river. Its oppressive functionality, expressed by the red bricks of its walls, stands in contrast to the arc of water and open fields to be viewed from the large windows which adorn its northern side, providing light in the European tradition. To the right of the front door—a clumsy overstatement of wood, black studs and elaborate iron hinges—a small, brass plaque informs the visitor that the lower floor is given over to the teaching of languages, although I saw no sign of teachers or students. I rang the bell and heard footsteps, followed by the turning of a key. Mr. Taylor stood before me, looking not a little puzzled.
The reason for his puzzlement, that reason which I can only believe to be the work of the Fates, was this: I had come to our meeting alone. The circumstances were these. I had arranged to accompany Elizabeth to a morning lecture on the subject of the Peloponnesian War, and thereafter to walk with her, back up to college and thence the short distance to the river and the studio. Elizabeth, however, was not to be seen at breakfast, and on asking after her I was informed that she had taken ill with a cold and would be staying in her room. I really ought to have visited her there and then, but my schedule did not allow for the time, and so I called on her upon my returning to college after the lecture. I knocked on her door and, receiving no reply, opened it quietly, just as wide as was necessary for me to peer into the room. The drawn curtains and overpowering smell of camphor attested to the fact of Elizabeth’s illness. The patient herself was facing away from me, with bed-covers pulled high over most of her head. The slow, laboured rise and fall of the sheets confirmed that she was sleeping. Not wishing to wake her, of course, I shut the door as quietly as I had opened it and returned to my own room.
I would be dishonest to claim that I do not know my motive for ignoring Elizabeth’s absence and going against the rules of the college, which require a chaperone whenever one is outside its grounds, if “grounds” is not too grandiose a term for a moderately sized garden. The motive is simply stated: I chose to continue, alone, to Mr. Taylor because I wished to be in the company of Mr. Taylor. So it was that I found myself on the man’s doorstep, without anybody’s being aware of my location or intention, save for a sleeping student on the top floor of college.
If Mr. Taylor had any qualms about my attending his premises without a companion he most certainly did not express them: even his look of puzzlement, so evident on his opening of the door, faded to a gentle expression of recognition and delight, such as I had first seen at the Botanic Garden. He greeted me with, “Miss Swift! Thank you for coming. Please, step inside,” and led the way through an unremarkable hall—which seems to serve as a general reception room—and up a staircase situated near the rear of the property. The stairs themselves are uncarpeted and have a musty odour, as though the damp weather seeps through the walls and rests there. Then, however, at the top of the stairs, Mr. Taylor opened a door and revealed the most marvellous room. His studio extends almost the entire length of the upper floor of the building, with two doors off at the eastern end—the end closest to the river—which lead to an office and a small but serviceable kitchen. I can vouch that the light in the room is exquisite even on an overcast, grey, autumn day: the northern aspect gives it a diffuse quality, creating gentle shadows which changed only in the smallest degree as Mr. Taylor and I sat and drank the tea which he had been kind enough to offer.
We talked of Warber. He asked if I had brought the book with me, as he had requested in his invitation, and I reached into my little satchel and produced it. Whilst he leafed through the pages I stood and, with his consent, explored the room in more detail. In one corner there stands a selection of stage properties and costumes such as one might expect to grace a Shakespearean performance: pikes, staffs and swords lean against rolls of paper which appear to be painted with the dark stones of some great, old building; tunics, trousers, bodices and dresses, in several colours and adorned with varying amounts of lace, hang on a small rack, above buckled shoes and plain black boots; a trunk, decorated as though to be carried on some tumultuous campaign, with muskets and fife and drums, is partly hidden by a pile of stockings. These more ancient accoutrements give way, farther along the wall facing the windows, to a miscellany of other items which promise settings from ordinary parlours to glimpses of magnificent halls, in periods from Georgian to modern. A rolled-up rug and two unprepossessing oak chairs rest on a chaise-longue, next to a cottage pianoforte which lacks ivory on several of its keys. The overall effect is one of slightly curated chaos and I fail to comprehend how one might make a single scene from the collection without the occurrence of evident, and doubtless embarrassing, anachronisms.
There are several canvases propped against the east wall, between the two doors. Here, too, there is an air of clutter, with large canvases leaning in front of smaller, and framed and unframed pictures mingling. At least on a cursory inspection, most of the canvases remain in their pristine white condition. Even some of those in frames are apparently untouched, and I can only assume that canvas and frame will be separated and reunited after the creation of an image. Of those canvases which already bear some trace of paint, I should judge that few are even half-way to completion. On each work in progress the unadorned areas of canvas shine a pure white, even in the dim light of an October afternoon, although that purity is interrupted by arcs and scribblings of pencil, slightly inset into the paint’s surface. Some of the scenes show recognizable items from the piles against the walls. Only one has progressed as far as the beginnings of a figure, and on this the painted background surrounds a blank space, a phantom with crude, scratched features.
My exploration was interrupted by the sharp clap of my book’s being closed by Mr. Taylor. He nodded towards the seat opposite him, which I had recently vacated. I sat down and we talked a little more. He wished to hear again the story of my discovery of the book and Father’s willingness to accept, even indulge, my interest as just another secret between parent and daughter. Mr. Taylor—Matthew—asked about the other secrets and I told him of the time I fell into the puddle in the garden and covered my new dress in mud. Then he brought matters back to Warber. What did I find so interesting about the story? My initial reply was wrapped in the terminology of erudition, and filled with the branches which spread from the ancient roots of the story: the changes arising through the death of the old gods and the acceptance of the new, the political reflections hidden within each adaptation. Matthew stopped me after but a few minutes. He did so politely, with a furrowed brow of good-natured inquisitiveness still chief amongst his expressions. He asked me again—“What do you find so interesting?”— this time placing the stress on the “you” of his inquiry. My returning gaze must have spoken of nothing more than a lack of understanding, for he rephrased his question in such language as to justify my reporting it verbatim.
“Why,” he asked, “does Miss Penelope Swift, a student of broad learning and delightful countenance”—I think he said “delightful
” but it was certainly some such adjective—“Why does Miss Penelope Swift find a place in her heart for a book such as this, as scurrilous in its intentions as it is bawdy in its language?”
I tried to present an answer which would satisfy him, but stumbled over some incomplete yet overly intricate explanation. I recall that it included references to the great love stories of our past: Abélard and Héloïse, Troilus and Cressida. At my mention of Hero and Leander Matthew mumbled something into his cup about “Leighton’s recent painting”—I presume that he was referring to Sir Frederic Leighton—which had engendered such favourable comments amongst the cognoscenti. I fell silent, my train of thought broken by this interruption, and he took the opportunity to ask me if I were not troubled by the unnatural aspect of the relationship between Thomasin and Olivia. I do not remember that I spoke in reply to this inquiry but, whether I spoke or whether my blushes were response enough, Mr. Taylor moved to sit beside me, with words designed to disavow any intention to cause me embarrassment. I turned to face him as he placed his cup on the nearby table. His gaze never left my own.
I have kissed a married man. I have been entertained by a married man, in the company of no other, and I have kissed him. I can tell nobody. I must tell nobody. Even writing in my diary brings with it the fear that it might one day be discovered, but I have to write it down. I can tell nobody but I must express myself. Otherwise I shall never come to an understanding of my actions, and I shall never learn from my mistakes.
Are they mistakes?
I must not see him again. I must not see him alone. I must not see him in the company of others.
I must not see him again.
I do not believe he would tell anyone of what happened for—surely?—to do so would be to ruin his own reputation and that of his wife.
He was standing by the kitchen window when I departed. I did not wish to look back, having left so precipitously, but I could not help myself. I thought that he was watching me, but his gaze seemed level, across the river and fields and on into the distance.
He stood by the kitchen window and all happiness had gone from his face.
I must not see him again.
Saturday, 29th October, 1887
Until last night I had hardly eaten since my departure from the studio on Thursday. On one or two occasions my lack of appetite provoked remarks from the other women, causing me to avow a concern that I might have contracted Miss Ashdown’s sickness whilst visiting her in her room. I now see that this particular deceit was particularly ill-conceived. Yesterday afternoon the assistant to the Principal—Mrs. Taylor, no less—voiced her apprehension that I was unwell. She suggested, politely but firmly, that I take meals in my room and avoid the other students.
So it was that I found myself alone with Mrs. Taylor, with whose husband I had spent time just the previous day. The surprise I felt at my ability to form a coherent reply to her well-intentioned suggestions remains with me still. I had supposed that when I saw her next I should lose any semblance of composure, or—a possibility which truly frightened me—turn and flee without a word of explanation. Yesterday, however—perhaps because I was in the safety of my own room, perhaps because she stood between me and the door, rendering flight an unavailable course of action—I told her that I felt fine, and that whatever discomfort had robbed me of my appetite had passed. I told her this calmly and resolutely, and all the while I managed to avoid looking at her directly, busying myself with the rearrangement of books and the smoothing-down of the counterpane. To her comment that I seemed a little distracted I remarked that I was a victim of those stresses which are bound to affect the new student in her first few days of term: the absence of family and friends, unfamiliar lodgings, and a startling amount of lectures to attend, books to read, and essays to write. I was, I informed her, merely struck with a healthy mixture of excitement and trepidation. At this she walked forward and took my hands in hers, locking us together in an exchange which could not but require our eyes to meet. I am proud and ashamed, in equal measure, that I could maintain my light countenance as she told me not to worry and assured me that the staff, tutors and other students were all available to help me in any way possible. I thanked her—I think a little over-effusively—and she left, telling me, over her shoulder, that I ought to be sure to eat a hearty dinner now that I had overcome my temporary affliction. At the door she hesitated, as though about to turn and say something more, but if that were the case she obviously thought better of it, as she left directly. Then the door closed behind her and I was alone. I sat on the bed, believing I might cry, believing, indeed, that I ought to cry if I were any decent sort of person. Yet there were no tears, just a sense of disaffection with the world, or of its disaffection with me: it will continue to turn, and host the events which unfold, but will no longer pay attention to my behaviour, or seek to govern its outcome.
I came late to dinner, but the usual disapprobation of the college was muted, doubtless tempered by my “illness”. Certainly, I heard no comment which might have been taken as a reprimand for my tardiness. Equally, my choosing to sit alone at a table by the garden window—a choice partly forced upon me by the absence of Elizabeth, who remains indisposed—was not greeted by invitations to join those who were already seated: it seems my quarantine is preferable to my company.
Lady Diana came into the dining room: she had chosen to dine with us! True, she did so on the first night of term, but since then her involvement with the rest of the girls has been limited to academic pursuits. I am quite sure that her need for the companionship of other students is ameliorated by an existing social circle—her family estate is not so distant from Oxford—and that the usual requirements of the college are supplanted by the desirability of her association. I watched her look around the room from the doorway and was somewhat taken aback as she recognized me and made her way directly to my lonely table. She sat across from me and greeted me with a friendly “Hello” to which I replied in the only manner I could imagine, with a formal, “Good evening, Lady Diana.” She grinned as she removed her gloves, and reminded me that her friends called her “Diana” with, once again and somehow more strikingly so, the implication that I was her friend. For the first time since events at the studio I found myself relaxing, even if only a little.
What shall I say of Diana? She is enchanting company and we share several interests. We took the occasion of dinner to bemoan the fact that the University continues to oppose the introduction of a School of English Language and Literature. Our discussion touched on the great poets—after some debate we chose to delineate these as poets which we two appraise as great—and ventured into the fine arts, about which Diana is far more informed than am I. Yet, even in those areas which most evidently show the advantages of her class and education, she brings only the most gentle and enjoyable discourse, never slipping into the purely didactic. When she departed for her carriage I was left feeling nothing but a sense of close friendship with her, which surpasses by far that which might be expected from so short an acquaintanceship. I have a suspicion that she engenders such emotions in all with whom she engages, as a natural consequence of her breeding, but I wish to believe that the connection between us is born of a more mutual, equitable exchange: for every classical marble and canvas which she describes, I shall share lines from Byron or Keats; for the more modern, Whitman, and that the Whitman of America, not Rossetti’s much-tamed edition.
Today, she and I are to spend the afternoon at the University Galleries. I find that I have written this entry whilst glancing out of the window every few moments, in expectation of the arrival of her carriage: this despite the fact that I cannot see the driveway from my window.
The carriage arrived a little before noon, and Diana and I, in the company of her tame professor of divinity, travelled the short distance to the Galleries. We alighted on Beaumont Street and entered the West Wing of the imposing building in which the Galleries are housed. The Reverend J.L. Parker, our chaperon, is a tall man
whose hair exhibits a constantly shifting pattern of tufts and wisps, a product of his penchant for running bony fingers through the grey strands whenever he is talking or lost in thought. It is a cruel truth that his conversation is often bland in the extreme, but he has in his character one particularly agreeable feature: he is enthralled by art to such an extent that he pays little heed to those in his charge, at least in my experience. I have known men of learning who feel compelled to impart every last morsel of knowledge in their possession, whenever and wherever they may do so. The Rev. J.L.P. is not amongst their number. After our arrival at the Galleries—where I found the usual 2d. entrance fee had been waived through some connection of either the Rev. J.L.P. or Diana—after our arrival, the good reverend left us to explore alone and we were able to talk unencumbered by his presence, save for the occasional chance encounter.
Diana had with her an antiquated and dog’s-eared copy of the Handbook Guide for the Galleries, and this year’s copy of Alden’s Oxford Guide. I had only my pocket note-book, a stubby little pencil, and a determination to learn from my surroundings and my companion.
We did not linger in the first gallery, filled with monuments by Chantrey beneath a frieze cast from the Elgin Marbles. It seemed cold and unwelcoming and I was glad when Diana took my hand and pulled me into the main sculpture hall. I found myself standing in front of a plaster cast of the Florentine Boar. Diana reached out and rubbed the nose of the beast. Then she looked to me, clearly expecting that I should do the same. I did so and asked her if she thought that our actions would carry the same weight as if we had been in Florence, in the Mercato Nuovo itself: that is to say, had we ensured that we should one day return to the Galleries? Diana said that she did not usually believe in such superstitions, but that she had stood in this very spot with her brother, some years past, and since they had rubbed the nose, and since she stood now beside me, she could swear to the truth of the legend. I wonder whether or not she really believed that her return was due to the polished nose of a plaster-cast boar. She asked me if I knew the story of the copy in front of us. She giggled as I took out my note-book and pencil, ready to write down what she had to say. I must have failed in my attempts to conceal the hurt I felt at her laughter because she suddenly adopted a most serious expression and told me that she thought my note-book was “darling” and hoped that I never stopped using it whenever I so desired. Coming from another, such a statement might have been received as a paradigm of sarcasm, but something about the way she spoke the words would not have allowed even the most sceptical of listeners to doubt her sincerity.
All the Perverse Angels Page 7