Diana will meet me at the studio on Friday at two o’clock, which allows me an hour alone with Matthew before our sitting for the portrait. Alea iacta est. I have been giving thought to the ways in which I might get from college to the studio without a chaperone. In the end, Diana gave me the finest idea: I shall return to college with Elizabeth and make my excuses at the entrance to the driveway, claiming that Lady Diana is to meet me so shortly that it seems without merit to walk down to the main house and back to the gate. I no longer speak to Elizabeth of Matthew, and she, doubtless cognizant of the indelicacy of the matter, chooses not to raise it. There remains the possibility that she will wish to stay with me, but she is still recuperating from her recent illness, and the weather is so inclement that I cannot envisage her prolonging her exposure to the elements.
I am not at all sure how Diana judges my liaison with Mr. Taylor. At the studio, yesterday, she seemed to display a distrust of the man which bordered on loathing. Yet she softened when the process of making sketches had begun, and she was accommodating of my desire to speak to Matthew alone at the end of our time with him. Still, I had expected, when broaching the subject of Friday’s rendezvous, to find her hostile to the idea of my spending time with him before she joins us. If I were to choose a single word to describe her reaction I should choose “resignation”: there was a flatness in the tone of her reply which was a mere sigh away from outright disappointment. Why then did she agree to help me, and assist me in planning the necessary deceits? Does she share my enjoyment of Matthew’s company? That thought does not create the feelings of jealousy which I might have supposed: she is, if my time with her has shown me anything, a good and true friend.
Thursday, 10th November, 1887
Mrs. Taylor accosted me in the entrance hall of the college house today. Her interest lay only with my academic progress, and her inquiries were couched in language of the most temperate and pleasant variety. She asked which lectures I was attending, and how I was settling into “the rhythm of Oxford.” Had I enjoyed my day at the Galleries with Lady Diana? I must have displayed some sign of my surprise—that she had heard about our trip—as she hastened to add that she had learned of it from the Principal, to whom it had come from our friendly divinity professor, over some dinner or other. Nevertheless, I find it hard to believe that her question was asked without some subtle intimation that she was aware of my other activities. I cannot help but resent her, that she has the freedom to be with Matthew when she desires. I confess that I revel in the resentment, fearing that, in its absence, I should reflect so harshly on my own actions that I could not bear to face myself on waking each morning.
I am left with the uncomfortable feeling of being observed as I go about my business, almost as if some veiled threat had been made against me, and by one with both countenance and motive to issue it.
Friday, 11th November, 1887
I must rush and meet Elizabeth for breakfast and lectures. I do so wish that I might forego breakfast: a combination of excitement and nervousness has robbed me of my appetite. Then, however, I think that giving any outward signs of my condition would lead to indelicate questions from friends, no doubt witnessed by Mrs. Taylor. Am I stricken by some mania of suspicion? Surely, such an affliction would be understandable in one who found herself in my circumstances.
My visit to Matthew was a great success. I am tired and ready to retire for the night, although it is only a little after dinner. Elizabeth told me that I was “positively glowing” on my return, and that my outing with Lady Diana had clearly agreed with me. She suggested that we study together this evening, but I gently informed her that fresh air, whilst wonderful for the constitution, was anathema to later wakefulness, particularly when combined with the influence of a satisfactory evening meal.
Saturday, 12th November, 1887
How shall I describe yesterday without resorting to such superlatives as would render the account nought but hyperbole and the worst sort of melodrama? I shall try to follow the advice of Dickens’s Mr. Gradgrind and stick to facts: after all, how clear the romance of Romeo and Juliet would remain were the pentameter abandoned and the story rendered in the most functional of phrasing. I have always supposed that my upbringing—the love of an intellectual father and the protection of an emancipated mother—would inoculate me, as the medical men say, against the excesses of emotion. Now I find myself dangerously close to a delirium of my own making.
Elizabeth saw nothing untoward in my plans to meet Lady Diana for lunch. When, returning after morning lectures, we reached the gates of the college driveway, I told her that I should wait there for Diana. She began by insisting that she wait with me. It was not, however, too difficult to dissuade her from this selfless action—as I had predicted—by reminding her of her recent illness and the importance of avoiding any chill to the lungs, and by reassuring her that Lady Diana is ever-punctual and was surely only minutes from arriving. I watched as she walked on, along the curve of the driveway, until out of sight. Two more of the girls with whom we had attended the lecture were a short distance down the road, and soon came to the gate. We exchanged greetings and I explained that my standing in solitude on a cold, autumn morning was necessitated by the imminent arrival of my friend. Once they, too, had continued to the college house I made my way up the road, and thence through parkland to the river and the studio.
Matthew was waiting there for me. When he opened the door, I could utter only a polite, “Good morning, Mr. Taylor. I do hope you are well.” He let out a small laugh, and then apologized. My nervousness must have been clear from my words, and written on my face, which seemed incapable of demonstrating any form of enjoyment in my situation. I followed him inside and up the narrow staircase.
When the door to the studio opened I let out a little “Oh!” of glee at the results of Matthew’s industry. There, in the middle of the room, where previously was only a great space and bare boards, a perfect stage-set now rests. No, “perfect” is not quite the correct description, as the resources of Mr. Taylor’s studio are not those of the great theatres: here and there he has improvised features which will suffice for the composition of his painting without providing a precise model for every element of its completion.
Matthew made me comfortable and then disappeared into the kitchen. I took my note-book from my satchel—still with me from my earlier lectures—and scribbled short observations about the sight in front of me.
Item: a bed made from a varying selection of pallets balanced on a collection of bricks; aligned with the footboard towards the northwest; many sheets arranged on top to give the appearance of a mattress; more sheets and some cushions forming a large bolster at one end.
Item: attached to the rafters, ropes over which crimson draperies hang; these swagged to give the impression of curtains over the bed.
Item: rolls of paper on which are painted the likeness of a stone wall; one behind the head of the bed, the other to the southwest of it; a great fireplace and roaring fire drawn upon them.
Item: tall candle-holders of wrought iron, placed around the bed and between the bed and stone wall.
Item: two outfits on the bed, both mediæval in appearance.
Matthew reappeared and sat beside me, reading the open pages of my note-book, which I made no attempt to shield from him. He described his vision of the painting: Diana and I, as Thomasin and Olivia, will lie on the bed, she looking out towards the foot thereof, and I resting my head on her breast, looking straight ahead, out of the painting, as it were. We shall be recreating the scene in which Thomasin—here in the guise of Thomas—and Olivia are recently married and lie together for the first time. Thomas is to look worried, as he is filled with the knowledge that he has deceived his beloved and must surely lose her, and his life, when his secret becomes known. Olivia must seem simultaneously fearful and expectant: fearful, as she must surely dread the consequences of that which she already suspects to be the case, and expectant, as she has anticipated the arrival of thi
s hour but must now wait until her husband is ready to impart his news to her. I asked Matthew if he thought it possible for Lady Diana and me to portray such mixed and delicate emotions. He avowed that he was confident of our success and that, should we find ourselves struggling, it was his duty as an artist to ensure that the picture was true to the narrative in all aspects.
I have sought to be coy when writing of events of an intimate nature, but on re-reading my entries for these days since my arrival in Oxford it has become clear to me that, taken in their totality, there is no ambiguity as to the nature of my relationship with Matthew. That being the case, no further harm can be done by my being more honest—that is, more candid—in these pages.
Matthew and I have been together, on a bed made from pallets and bricks, under a canopy of sheets hanging from ropes, hidden by a painted wall, in the cold heat of a paper fire which rippled in the currents of air within the draughty studio. We had scant time and Matthew wished aloud that we might have even a few extra minutes, for then, he said, he could be more gentle with me, and more caring, and show me the true depth and character of that love which he wished to express. Instead, we had only the interval until the arrival of Diana’s carriage, for which we knew we must keep listening.
I had thought that this first time might hurt, for so I had been told by girls at school who, I am quite sure, knew no more than did I about these activities which occur outside the reach of the public gaze. Even now, with direct and personal experience, I myself cannot write with anything but soulless prose. There is no poetry in the way I describe my closeness with Matthew. I can only ascribe that absence to the difficulty I find in squaring our physical expression with the Romantic ideal with which my upbringing and temperament have imbued our love. Something of that ideal seems missing, as though we are listening to an orchestra from which the woodwind instruments have been removed, or gazing at the first, rough brush strokes of a painting that shows no promise.
If I showed my—my what? disappointment? yes, I suppose that is it—my disappointment, Matthew did not mention it to me. Indeed, on finishing, his concern was to ensure that all should appear a model of propriety to Diana, despite my undeniably solitary arrival at the studio. He hurried to dress, encouraging me to do the same, and then had me sit on the couch as he rearranged the bed-clothes and generally fussed about the place. I was about to comment on his reticence to be close to me when he stepped back and, with a nod of approval at his handiwork, sat, brushed a lock of hair from my face and pulled me to him into a deep, memorable kiss. When his lips drifted from mine we remained mere inches from each other, both, I think, waiting to see what the other might say. The rhythmic crunching of dirt beneath approaching hoofs crept between us and broke the spell. Matthew moved towards the door, and I stood beside the window, looking out over the fields.
I was still there when Matthew returned with Diana. She took my hand and told me that she was “as excited as one can be” to be sitting for the painting. I think that I was glad to see her. Matthew again explained the poses he wishes us to strike, for Diana’s benefit, and suggested that she and I use the office to change into the outfits he had prepared. Diana thought it “perfect” but wondered if Mr. Taylor—who, she said, had a reputation to protect—ought not to be worried about the public’s reaction to a painting based on such a bawdy tale. Matthew thanked her for her concern with a sharpness which, to my ears, seemed singularly devoid of gratitude. A minor scandal, he said, was just what one needed to attract the attention of the critics, in times such as these. Diana looked as though she were going to reply but settled instead on a gentle laugh and picked up the pile of costume clothing from the bed, where Matthew had replaced it before her arrival. I followed her into the office.
When we emerged I was the beautiful Olivia, the apple of her emperor-father’s eye. My dress is velvet, of the same rich green as a holly leaf. It falls to the floor in gentle folds. Over chest and stomach a fine lacing criss-crosses the velvet with silver cord. A leather belt fastens loosely over my hips, high at the back but falling lower at the front to meet in a shallow “vee”. It seemed a plain affair for such a high-ranking individual but Matthew told me that a silver, bejewelled belt will replace this thing of dull leather in the painting. My feet are bare, appropriately enough for a woman lying on her wedding bed on the night of her marriage.
Diana is—I struggle to find the word: “handsome” does not do justice to her beauty and, likewise, “beautiful” fails to speak of her handsomeness—but Diana is really a most striking figure in her outfit. She had become Thomasin, but it was only when I moved around and pinned up her hair that she was, finally, Thomas. From the front and sides it appears quite close-cropped, though not of such shortness as might detract from the comeliness of her face or the subtle ambiguity of her sex. Her tunic of sapphire velvet reaches down to the mid-point of her thighs, revealing long legs accentuated by sky-blue hose. She wears a gold, satin belt—to be rendered in leather, Matthew told us—and black shoes with gold buckles, which are perfect for a young husband who fears he may shortly have to flee for his life. My Thomas stood before me, with her hands on her hips. Then she stepped forward, took my hand and led me to bed.
I rested myself where I had lain so recently—where my thoughts had remained—leaning back on the bolster of sheets and cushions. Diana joined me on the side of the bed closest to Matthew, who was, at this time, occupied with his easel and brushes, his pigments and resins, and paid little attention to us. She lay beside me and raised her left arm so it passed above my head. I rolled onto my right side and shifted down the bed, moving my head forward until it rested on her breast. She lowered her arm so that it fell, crooked, across my back, with her left hand resting high on my hip. She took hold of my left hand with her right, settled into position and let out a quiet “ahem” to get Matthew’s attention. He looked up from the business of sharpening pencils and gave a nod of approval.
Matthew made minor adjustments to sheets and curtains, lit candles, ruffled the folds of my dress and crossed, uncrossed and re-crossed Diana’s legs. As he did so he talked to us of the process which he intends to follow. After he has sketched the scene directly onto the freshly applied ground he will paint the scenery, leaving space for the two of us on the bed. Next, he will complete our bodies and clothing. Finally, he will paint our faces into the small remaining areas of pure white. He may, he said, apply a second layer of fresh ground to these last spaces so they remain wet as he paints, following the technique of Millais: this will allow him to achieve an exquisitely translucent representation of skin.
Diana asked why we needed to be there at all before it was time to paint our likenesses. Would it not be possible for Mr. Taylor to use mannequins—she called them “lay figures”—until ready for us? The answer—which was then obvious to me, but of which I am now less certain—is that my posing is the pretext upon which all else follows. Matthew, perhaps not wishing to express aloud that which I thought so easily understood, retorted with some comment about the difficulties of attaining lay figures, and his opinion that using a fancy “scarecrow” to model a princess is not the way of a true artist.
We sat for two hours while Matthew sketched and hummed and hawed, and muttered to himself under his breath, occasionally satisfied with his work, more often critical of his latest arc or line. The canvas hides Matthew from his waist to just below his chin, and is about half as wide again as it is high. At times he crouched a little, clearly intent on some point of detail, reduced to a pair of legs beneath the expanse of white and wood. Occasionally he emerged from one side of it, bobbing like a buoy on water, closing one eye and then the other, moving his head first left then right before vanishing as quickly as he had appeared.
Finally, he stepped back and took in the whole of his creation. He seemed content, and was pleasingly jocund when he declared that it was time for real life to assert itself upon us. When we returned from the office—dressed in our drab, quotidian clothing—the canvas was
facing the wall, and we had no opportunity to see the results of his labours.
Diana remarked that her carriage was not expected at college for another hour, but Matthew showed no desire that we remain with him any longer. He wished us a pleasant walk home and led us down to the front door. I ought to have understood that he needs his solitude to engage with the work of the day, to apply his critical faculties to their full extent, without interruption from the self-same models whom he is trying to sublimate into characters. Unfortunately, I let my emotions get the better of me, feeling that we were being dismissed sharply and without due gratitude for our efforts. I spoke to Diana, loudly, with words to the effect that we ought to be leaving as I was sure Mr. Taylor needed to tidy the studio and return home to his wife, who would no doubt be waiting for him. Matthew could not hide his scowl. I have not seen him angry before, but yesterday I most certainly did. Diana turned without a sound and descended to the drive, walking over to her familiar view across the river and fields. Yet Matthew did not give voice to discontentment. He told me that he would write with suggested dates for the next sittings, thanked me for my time, and asked me to convey his gratitude to Lady Diana.
I wrote yesterday of my visit’s being a great success. Now I have had a chance to sleep on it, and write of it, and I find my own anger at his reaction to my mentioning Mrs. Taylor. Perhaps it was inappropriate for me to touch upon his marriage: he doubtless struggles to encompass his affection for me within the strictures of marital fidelity. I should be more understanding of his feelings. But what of my feelings? Can he not see that I, too, must struggle with the emotions which our intimacy brings to me? A word of reassurance from him, some gentle statement of his intentions, would make the greatest of differences. Yet I can see that it may be unrealistic for these expectations to be held by one who is leading a man to be unfaithful to his wife. Can I really ask of Matthew anything other than that which is freely given? I cannot determine the argument through which I might reconcile these two sides of my own role in the thing: the gentle lover and the scheming mistress. Do I deserve his love? Am I a victim, as much as—more than?—Mrs. Taylor? Does she deserve his love?
All the Perverse Angels Page 12