I was sitting in the lychgate again. I must have paid, I could not have left without paying, not with Tweed watching. My hair was wet. I shivered and moved to one end of the wooden bench, hugging the corner of the walls to keep out of the wind. The cottage was only a minute’s walk away, but I had no desire for a waiting room, Emily’s antechamber, with a fireplace that no longer held a fire. Above me the tiles syncopated a rhythm to accompany the music of the gutters and drains. Gentle creaks from overhead chairs, woven in the gloom behind diamond panes and there, outside, my reflection again, only I could not see it from where I sat so only supposed and then wondered if it saw me, on the steps above the canal, under the tiles of the gate, with the church looming.
There was a story in my plastic bag and in the neat piles back at the house. I could have read the whole thing in a couple of days, clear days, days without smudges. I could have skipped straight to the end. But maybe Keats had it right with his idea of Negative Capability: there should be no irritable reaching after fact and reason, and beauty should overcome all else. I shivered again as the dampness seeped through to my skin. Everything was tones of grey, everything but the pallid stone walls.
I was lying in a warm bath. I must have paid, I could not have left without paying, not with Tweed watching. Except I had been by the church, so yes, I paid, and then sat at the gate. Sitting at the gate, damp. Which is why I was cold and needed a bath. In my hands I held one of the old guidebooks from Gerald’s boxes. I made a mental note to return it to the neat piles on the table before Emily returned. She would be angry if she knew I had risked damaging it with bathwater and bubbles. Drawings and Studies by Raffaelle Sanzio in the University Galleries, Oxford. I stopped at plate 77, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel. Under the engraving, in faint pencil handwriting which matched Penelope’s diaries, was written, “We all have our struggles, but oft-times they bless us.”
Once, when I was young, little more than an infant, I saw my father fight. It was the first time I saw him angry, and the last time I ever saw him. His opponent was not an angel. I held my empty ice cream cone in front of me, above the melting vanilla which ran and pooled on the concrete at my feet. Dad was telling the large man that he should apologize and buy me another, even if it had been an accident, and yes, I was small and not easily seen, but still… And then the man hit him and I thought it odd that it did not make any sound, but then nothing made any sound because Dad was falling, and his head was on the concrete, and if I fell like that I would cry but he was silent even when I knelt by him, when the man had gone and it was safe again. My mother rushed over and then some more people joined her, and when the ambulance arrived all their faces flashed blue in the lights. My aunt explained, late that night: she said it was a brain thing but it had a complicated name. I told her that my father would be able to explain it when he got back from the hospital.
Subarachnoid hæmorrhage. I looked it up myself, years later.
I was resting on the couch when Emily returned. She was preceded through the front door by a pizza box which she balanced on one arm, held above her briefcase. She approached the table but seeing it covered in papers she slid the box towards me and I took it in my hands.
“We can eat off the cardboard, on the couch. Then you can tell me the story.” She nodded towards the papers and disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with several squares of kitchen roll to serve as napkins.
“Okay. So, what have you found out?” she asked.
I replied between bites, suddenly aware that I had eaten nothing but biscuits all day.
“Not much. I’m not in any rush. They belong to a woman called Penelope Swift. There’s a few diaries and some letters. And then various bits and bobs which all have to do with her being in Oxford. I just got to the bit where she actually goes there, in the diaries. The guidebooks are from there, and the letters are addressed to her college.”
“When?”
“When was she there? Eighteen eighty-seven.”
We ate our way through another slice each before Emily spoke again.
“Interesting. Early for a woman student. Anything about the painting?”
“Not yet, but I think maybe she’s one of the people on the bed. I mean, she must have had some interest in art, in Oxford at least.”
I reached over to the side-table and picked up the Raffaelle book to show to Emily.
“I don’t know how you can do it,” she said. “I’d read through everything to see what was going on. Then fill in the details afterwards.”
“Well, you’re a lawyer. I’m not. Maybe that’s the difference.”
“I suppose. Pill?”
Purple. Emily pulled out some papers and rested them on her lap. She trawled through them, decorating the pages with occasional, illegible scrawls in red pen. I tidied away the remnants of the meal then sat next to her, reading the Raffaelle’s companion volume. On the first plate, beneath a trestle table holding a cadaver, Penelope had written “écorché—means skinless”.
Yellow. Bed. We all have our struggles.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Monday, 5th December, 1887
Diana brought me a gift today. To be precise, she brought three gifts: two guide-books and a silver, mechanical pencil. It is a pretty, fluted thing with “S.M” stamped upon it: the mark of Sampson Mordan. Father has one of their pencils. I asked her to what I owed this generosity and she replied that it is simply what friends do. The guide-books include all the prints which we saw in the University Galleries: one covers Michael Angelo and the other Raffaelle. They are far nicer than Diana’s Handbook Guide, each being filled with marvellous engravings of the works. These, together with the pencil, seemed far too grand a gift and at first I gently refused to accept them, as it will be impossible to return the kindness. Diana, however, would have none of it and placed them directly into my satchel. They are, she explained, to be brought out and used as required and, she hopes, often in her company so that she, too, may benefit from the purchase. There was no reply to be made but a heartfelt expression of gratitude.
Friday, 9th December, 1887
This evening Matthew’s wife joined me at the dinner table. It is not unusual for her to dine with the students. Indeed, it is well known that she has been tasked with the “pastoral care” of the college’s charges, and sees meal times as an opportunity to ensure that “her girls” are healthy and content. Sometimes she departs with her chosen dinner partner, presumably to talk privately about a particular trouble which weighs heavy. On one occasion, and only one, I saw her bring a student to tears, but I remain charitable enough to suppose that this was engendered by some external misfortune which troubled the poor young woman.
Matthew and I met earlier today. We followed our routine: I arrived some time prior to Diana, allowing an hour or so of privacy before we heard her carriage approach. I almost wrote that these occurrences were unremarkable, but now I find it deeply troubling that I think them so. Certainly, all was the same as on previous occasions. My fear is that such a situation might ever become “normal” to me. It is as though the virtue of the thing—if it is virtuous at all—is to be found in its prohibition, or the romanticism of that prohibition. Perhaps I am desperately seeking to excuse my behaviour by creating a naive narrative of illicit love, realized against all odds.
Mrs. Taylor chose to refer to her husband in a most circuitous fashion, having first observed the niceties of inquiring as to my health and asking to hear my general thoughts on life as an Oxford student. Was I, she asked, finding time to indulge in any activities outside the confines of college? There was, without doubt, a test in this question, but its exact nature was hidden behind the inscrutable façade of Mrs. Taylor’s unceasing smile. On the one hand, she might have known of my hours at Matthew’s studio, and thus be seeking some confirmation from my response. On the other, if she knew nothing at all of my private life she may have been drawn to pry into my affairs by her own insecurities: after all, she was, in Diana’s words, “long-su
ffering”. If the former case, then a failure to mention my visits could do nothing but justify any suspicion that this was something untoward. If the latter, then I should be conveying information which ought to have been divulged by her husband and, again, there could be no escaping the same conclusion. As Father would say, I was on a very sticky wicket. I find myself thinking of this woman as my enemy; a woman who has done no harm to me, and whom I have inarguably wronged. She is, for want of a better epithet, a rival in love.
I smiled back at her then, over dinner, and recalled our recent meeting in the hall. As she was aware, I replied, Lady Diana and I had taken an opportunity to spend a few, pleasant hours at the University Galleries. We are forming a close friendship and delighting in our shared interests. Mrs. Taylor took a sip of water, but said nothing. She looked at me with what I took to be an air of expectation. I could no longer bear the pressure of this wordless inquisition. I told her—with a care to avoid all sentimentality and embellishment—that I was enjoying sitting for her husband and then, without pausing for reply, asked her if he had made any comment on the painting which I might find instructional.
Then it was my turn to sip my water and wait. Mrs. Taylor placed her glass down with an unnecessary degree of studied precision. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, closed her eyes and inhaled, and then opened them as the smile returned to her lips. It was, it occurred to me then, as though she were preparing for a piano recital. She played the piece with the greatest of skill: her husband did not often talk about his work; of course she knew I was sitting for him; it must be most enjoyable for me, and for Lady Diana; she must drop in one day and see how the painting is progressing. I remarked that her attendance would be delightful. Indeed it would, she agreed, and it would be nice to have the chance to advance our acquaintanceship. She glanced at the clock on the wall and made her excuses: she and her husband have an engagement.
I finished dinner alone, copying notes from the Galleries into the new guide-books, where they sit as marginalia. Now I am in my room, wondering if Mrs. Taylor does have an engagement this evening or is, as I sit at my desk, confronting her husband over the nature of his relationship with a student in her care. Diana and I are to visit the studio on Wednesday—Friday is the college Christmas dinner and we are all required to busy ourselves in preparations throughout the day—so I suppose it is then that I shall hear from Matthew if my actions today have caused him problems.
Wednesday, 14th December, 1887
Wednesday has been taken up with Millais, and Waterhouse, and Sargent. I descended to breakfast to find a long letter from Matthew waiting for me in the hall.
My Dearest Penelope,
I am afraid that I shall not be able to meet you this week, as we had planned. Please do forgive my not writing to you sooner: I had hoped, until early this morning, that I should be able to attend the studio, but my circumstances and my disposition make it impossible to undertake further work on the painting at this time.
As you have no doubt surmised, my wife and I have had discussions about your sittings; discussions which have been at quite some length. I had, of course, informed her of my intention to have you and Lady Diana sit for me, and for two or three weeks she seemed untroubled. More recently, however, she has been prone to inquiring about each sitting on the evening after its occurrence. Was it successful? Were my models—a term which she somehow endows with an element of venom otherwise reserved for her descriptions of the more criminal elements of society—were my models sufficiently skilled to maintain a pose for any reasonable period? How was the set dressed? And so forth.
On the evening of last Friday she came home in a particularly vexed state and, finding me reading in my study, removed the book from my hands and demanded my full attention. It was, she told me, completely inappropriate that I should involve myself with two young students and that, were I not to cease this “madness” immediately, she would see to it that the appropriate action was taken by the college. I asked what might be the nature of this “appropriate action” and was given to understand that it would most likely involve your being sent down. I hope that you will easily imagine the vehemence with which I sought to deter her from this precipitous course.
Now, some four days later, the cooler aspect of her nature has gained dominion over the more heated. I should like to claim that this is due to my reassuring influence but, in truth, the greater part of her retreat is driven by an appreciation of Lady Diana’s standing at Oxford, and in wider society. Any action taken against you, even if not precisely duplicated against Lady Diana, would no doubt still cause the casting of aspersions on Lady Diana’s character. Clearly that is not something which my wife, or her employer, would wish to occur.
This being the case, you may wonder why I cannot meet you today and, indeed, why I bother to mention my wife at all. To answer the latter question: my reasons for telling you are twofold. First, your living situation renders it unthinkable that you and she will not continue to meet each other—say, over the course of some meal, as you did on Friday—and I should like to know that you have the information necessary to ensure an evenly matched and equanimous exchange of pleasantries. Second, and far more importantly in my estimation, I wish you to know that you are precious to me, and that I have it in my heart to protect you.
On the first question, I can only say that it is my disposition which causes me to cancel our appointment. You will recall that Lady Diana asked me about this year’s Exhibition at the Royal Academy. Had I shown anything? It was an obvious dig at my abilities as a painter, for I am quite sure a woman of her background must have attended the Exhibition. Thus, she was asking either in the knowledge that I must confess my absence, or in the expectation that I had been there but hung so badly that she had not seen my work. I suppressed my anger at the time, and it has passed in the days since, but I find myself gradually losing faith in my abilities, and questioning the motivation for my continued pursuit of painting as a livelihood.
The Exhibition is a mire of double-standards and entitlement. What did Millais show this year? Lilacs. A young girl with blonde hair, wrapped at the waist by a wide, satin ribbon, who holds up the skirt of her white dress to form a shallow bowl in which rest the titular flowers. She looks up at what? The sky? The boughs of the tree behind her? God? She is beseeching, as though she expects some hand to descend and bring the plucked stems back to life. What is it all about, Penelope? It is—as is his Nest—a sentimental nonsense. The Magazine of Art agrees with me: “suggestive of the Christmas number style of art” and “steeped in the tritest kind of popular sentiment.” But it is John Millais, and so the works are hung well and the public clamours for them. His other pieces are no better, even if slightly less mawkish. Two portraits—Hartington and Rosebery—are two dull subjects for two dull pictures: grey men in black coats. And Mercy? Another predictable tableau of French Catholics and Protestants, just as he painted thirty years ago. “Its not very lucid expression is unredeemed by any beauty of colour,” says the Magazine. But this is Millais, Penelope. The man founded the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I swear one day he will be President of the Academy. Millais!
Waterhouse showed his Mariamne, which is the largest canvas he has produced to date. It is accomplished, certainly, but can you tell me the story of Mariamne? I suppose that you can: I envy you your education, even as it continues to flourish. I did not know the tale, or had long-since forgotten it. The catalogue, though, filled ten lines with the story. So why then do I wish to look at the painting? If I want stories I may read them in my Bible, or in all the other great books of this age. If I want to admire the skill of the painter then do I really care about the subject? I take from the Waterhouse his ability to paint a large canvas, and to capture a tale in oils. I want more, Penelope. I want a painting to make me feel something: not because of the technique it evidences, not because it calls up some woeful story, and not because it washes me in purest sentimentality. There must be something more. There must be something in
trinsic to the art itself. If a painting shows me rain it is rain I wish to experience and not the image of rain. I want to hold the scene in my mind, close my eyes and feel each drop.
Ah! but then there is Sargent, back from Paris—where I hear demand for his portraiture has declined precipitously—and bringing the French style with him, to such acclaim. Do you know his Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose? It is described as an “extremely original and daring essay in decoration.” Penelope, it was a revelation to me. Two young girls, dressed in simple white dresses, face each other, but each seems utterly unaware of her companion, so intent are they on the task at hand; and what a task it is: so uncomplicated, yet so utterly perfect. Both girls are lighting paper lanterns, leaning over them so that their faces take on a subtle yellow-orange cast. They stand surrounded by lilies which gently reach above them, intertwined with more hanging lanterns, glowing softly. There is no mythology in the picture, no great historical tale, no self-important bombast. Everything blends in evocation: subject, composition, technique, all that Sargent has done. Stand in front of the painting and one is a child again, with a lit spill in one’s hand, at dusk, beneath the lilies.
All the Perverse Angels Page 14