All the Perverse Angels

by Sarah K. Marr

  The snow had decided to fall again, gently but immodestly. Straying flakes danced through the pillars of the temple and fell on too-warm stone, vanishing as soon as they found the audacity to touch it, like the snows of Gourmont’s “Danaette”—feathers from the wings of angels—crossing a window-frame threshold to caress their waiting adulteress. At Barbroke, that day, they returned to seek their advantage. I closed my bag and walked out, into the white, into Whistler and colourless blue, following Penelope and Diana’s footprints up to the house at the end of the avenue.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Friday, 30th December, 1887

  Today has dawned with a brightness that was not to be expected from yesterday’s portentous clouds and flurries of snow. From my bedroom window I can see across that part of the estate which lies to the south of the house. There is a lake some distance away, which we must have crossed in the darkness, but which came as a surprise to me on opening my curtains this morning. There are small areas of woodland, and miniature facsimiles of temples in the Græco-Roman style. Two monuments remind me of the London Obelisk, and seeing it with Father, newly erected by the Thames: “A needle with no hole for thread,” he said. Everything is blanched except for the lake.

  This morning I expect to meet Lord and Lady Barbroke. Diana told me last night that her younger brother, Peter—the Viscount, now, I suppose—has been staying with friends and will not be with us until this afternoon. We made no plans for today, but I am hopeful that I shall see a little of this wonderful house and its grounds.

  I want to write the events of this morning in some form of shorthand, that I might tell all as quickly as possible. However, I find myself sitting in pleasant surroundings, alone, and with no prospect of company for an hour or two. Thus, I have decided to make something of an exercise from the entry, and describe each thing in its fullest measure. If the only companionship I am to enjoy is my own then I shall make the best of it and keep a record fit to relate to Matthew when at last I can see him.

  Breakfast was a grand affair, served in a room at the rear of the house. The walls are decorated with murals depicting scenes from Shakespeare. I ate toast and kedgeree beneath a bank where the wild thyme grows and Titania sleeps. Lady Barbroke told me that she commissioned the pieces to brighten the room, which had been ignored for some years and had grown, in her words, “devilishly melancholic.”

  Lord Barbroke has been called away to some business in the village and intends to stay there until his son arrives at the station, so they may return together. Thus it was that our party was reduced to three this morning. Diana seemed happy to allow her mother to hold the conversation. I did not mind this arrangement: the Countess was delightful company and as far from airs and graces—which she might so naturally assume—as Diana herself. She expressed the hope that I should not be too bored at the house over the next few days, and I assured her that I should not. I must, she told me, see the library, and the grounds—if the weather remained favourable—and the Bernini. Diana interjected that the Bernini was only a copy, to which her mother replied, “But of course it is, darling. Who would think otherwise?” So saying, Lady Barbroke subjected her daughter to the briefest of grave stares. Diana, in turn, looked at me with a slightly wide-eyed exasperation and muttered, under her breath but loudly enough for me to hear, “Great-great-grandfather.” Then she addressed her mother: of course she planned to “show me the sights”; she was quite capable of entertaining a guest. Lady Barbroke’s only reply was a weary nod of the head.

  After breakfast the Countess retired to her private rooms to catch up on correspondence and Diana and I were left alone. She was distracted as we walked through to the main staircase and at the bottom step she turned and explained that she was feeling a little “all-overish” and would like to sleep a while. She asked if I should not mind spending time alone, and told me I should feel free to enjoy the house. If I needed anything then I had only to press the bell by any of the doors. I nodded my unavoidable acquiescence but then, as she ascended the gently curling staircase, I called out after her, asking that she show me the way to the library, at least. She beckoned me to follow.

  On the landing at the top of the stairs a short, oak-panelled hall ends in a heavy door with brass fittings. Diana pointed and told me that it would not be locked, but the bookcases inside might be, and the keys were to be found underneath Socrates. She withdrew to her rooms with my “thank you” hardly out of my mouth. I opened the door and light flooded over me.

  The library runs almost the entire length of the east wing of the house. On the south side the windows stretch from waist-height to within a foot of the high, ivory ceiling. Half-way up the remaining walls there extends a thin, oak balcony, supported at intervals by plain, stone corbels. The balcony is connected to the floor by a pair of cast-iron, spiral staircases, one at each end of the room. At the east a third spiral staircase—this one possessed of a wooden handrail—descends through the floor, disappearing into the gallery below. Apart from the south wall every inch is covered in bookcases, and every bookcase is filled with titles. Each case is identified at its top by skilfully executed numerals, in gold paint with a black outline, according to its location within the room. Below the balcony the cases are closed, some with glass fronts and others with an open-work of brass wires. Above the balcony the books appear more recent in date and less ornately bound, and here the shelves are open. For a while I circled the room, moving from case to case, reading the spines of the books: astronomy, medicine, a large section given over to the fine arts, literature, poetry.

  Beneath one of the windows is a small oak desk, on which there sits an inlaid walnut box and, beside it, a marble bust with “ΣΩΚΡΑΤΗΣ” carved into its base. If one lifts the bust one finds the keys to the cases, just as Diana had said. Inside the box is a card catalogue, with each card bearing the number of a particular bookcase. On some cards the subject has been written beside this number, and occasionally struck through and rewritten in the course of some historical rearrangement. The rest of each card is taken up by a list of the books to be found on the shelves of its case: the books are not given in any particular order, but there are few enough of them in each case for this index to be somewhat useful. The book lists, too, are full of crossings-out and postils. Several entries announce a book “lost” or “lent but not returned”.

  I glanced through the cards and stopped at case 23, which was recorded as containing literature of the seventeenth century. In truth the list was a curious mixture of scientific and historical reports, descriptions of court proceedings, and the inevitable collection of Civil War pamphlets, both for and against the monarchy. I was about to replace the card and continue my tour with a perusal of the cases on the balcony when I noticed, written in faded brown ink, an entry reading, “Wrb, S., Ye Straunge &c.” It seemed to me to be an impossibility, that this might be the very same book that now informs our painting.

  Case 23 is at the east end of the room. I walked over to it with the card in one hand and the Socratic keys in the other. I peered through the glass, from book to book, to see if I could see the title which I sought, but I could not. Throughout the library many volumes have nothing written on their spines, and the thinner ones are collected together in green, cloth-covered boxes with cryptic, faded or illegible paper labels. The fourth key, of the seven which I held, unlocked the case and I began my search in earnest. I thought it unlikely that the book, were it the Warber, would be so thin as to merit inclusion in one of the boxes and so I began by methodically removing and examining those books which I could not identify by their spines alone. There are, it is true, some interesting works amongst them, but not one has been authored by Samuel Warber.

  I found one of the cloth-covered boxes to be smaller than the others, and I decided that this would constitute the next object of my search. I was not disappointed for, on opening it, I was greeted by the sight of a leather-bound volume, roughly the same size as that belonging to Father. I opened the fr
ont cover without lifting it from the box, and saw there, on the title page, “Ye Straunge Hystory of Thomysin & Oliuia” and the name of the author, “Samuel Warber”. This would be a worthy enough discovery for a day of gentle diversions, but then I saw the date of the book. It is there, at the bottom of the title page, in red ink, next to “London”: 1670. This is a first edition of Warber, an original printing, quite possibly the only one in existence.

  I sat down at a nearby desk, where the tall windows overlook the landscape. The sheep appeared as moving hummocks of snow in the distance. Slowly and with much care I lifted the book from its container but, before I had a chance to examine the prize itself, I exposed the items which it had previously hidden, secreted in a compartment beneath. A faded-green, silk bow holds a lock of hair—each strand is no longer than my thumb—its hue somewhere between brown and red, varying with the light which falls upon it. It rests on a pamphlet, which I removed, placing the delicate strands to one side. I copied down its title in my small note-book: “THE CONFESSION AND EXECUTION Of the Seven Prisoners suffering at TYBURN on Wednesday the 25th of October, 1676. VIZ. John Seabrooke, Arthur Minors, William Minors, Henry Graves, Richard Shaw, Katherine Picket, Samuel Warber.”

  I long to write more at this point, but a footman has just appeared and informed me that luncheon is shortly to be served in the mural room. He offered to escort me, but I assured him that I knew the way and should be there forthwith. Suffice to say that the pamphlet is the record of Warber’s hanging. I shall return to it after the meal and make notes.

  I was mistaken in thinking that I should spend more time in the library, for it is now quite late and I am writing before I sleep, having been otherwise occupied the whole of the remainder of the day, without any chance of return.

  Diana and I lunched in the mural room. Lady Barbroke ate alone, sending her apologies: she was unavoidably detained with pressing affairs of the estate but looked forward to my company at dinner. I told Diana about my marvellous find in the library. She expressed an interest but seemed far less eager to share in my excitement than I had imagined she would be. She continued to clothe herself in an air of distracted preoccupation, but I felt it inappropriate to request an explanation or—to be more accurate—her countenance suggested that an explanation would not be forthcoming, however appropriate the request.

  As lunch proceeded I was preparing myself for the news that she wished to abscond to her rooms, so I was most pleased when she asked if I should like to take a tour of the grounds with her. She glanced out of the window and told me that she had spare furs and boots, so I need not worry about the cold. Now, writing with an understanding of her reasons for wanting my company, I can see that the invitation was perfectly in keeping with her demeanour.

  Suitably attired we walked south from the house, down towards the lake, on a curving path which took us past one of the monuments visible from the window of my bedroom: a tall, fluted column, with a carved ship at its top and a square pedestal for support. The lettering on the front of the pedestal—I assume it is the front as it falls beneath the prow of the ship—informs the reader that it is a celebration of the victory at Trafalgar, and a memorial to Nelson himself. To the rear, a second inscription gives the famous flag signal and, beneath that, the words, “They did their duty.” Diana said that she had never cared for it, and thought it common-looking, but she said it with a smile, the first I had seen since my arrival. Then she clapped her hands together and walked off at a pace, down the gentle slope.

  The northern bank of the lake stretched away on either side of us as we reached the end of the path. To our right lay a small island, linking two snow-dusted, wooden bridges to create a passage to the opposite bank. Farther to the west the ground quickly turned from open grass to woodland, and arching branches dipped down into the water at intervals. Eastwards, the landscape was all gentle drumlins of snow. There was a row-boat tied to a post a few yards away and, in the near-distance, a stone bridge, half-lost in mist, faded from existence before it reached the water. I must have crossed it by carriage on my arrival. At the waterside a thin layer of ice trapped roaming bubbles of air, and held dead reeds in place by their stems.

  Diana made for the island. I followed, pulling my collar tight around my neck as the sun weakened above gathering clouds and the cold began to bite. On the island there stands a finely sculpted urn dedicated to Alexander Pope, with lines from his “Ode on Saint Cecilia’s Day”. They tell of Cecilia’s having more power than Orpheus, as he only raised shades from hell whilst she lifts souls to heaven. Diana was already across the second bridge as I finished reading, and she called to me to hurry before the snow started to fall. It was too late: the first flakes appeared as I joined her by a pair of gatehouses and we looked away to the south, along a length of the main drive from the village. I wanted to ask her where she was taking me, but the fact that she had thus far chosen not to tell me gave me to think that there was little to be gained in the asking, and possibly much to lose, given the inconstancy of her temperament.

  We passed through a ha-ha, which I had not seen from the house—that being the nature of a ha-ha, of course—and on, past a stable block, until we reached the wall of a churchyard. It is a pretty little thing, the church, and all the more so when clad in its winter finery. Inside, in the half-light, Diana walked across the nave to a line of arches. Each arch holds a pair of dark red, velvet curtains, separating the congregation from the family tombs of the Fitzpatricks. She parted the curtain on the far left and walked through, holding the curtain for me. Then, saying nothing, she walked away, back to the nave, leaving me alone. There before me, on the floor, was a marble sculpture of a young man in military uniform, lying on his back with his hands resting, one on the other, low on his stomach. Behind this figure, beneath a mullioned window, the four slab-walls of an unbuilt chest tomb leaned against the stonework of the church. I saw, propped against them, an inscribed plaque which memorialized Diana’s brother. An area of the floor lay separated by the cleanness of its herring-bone brickwork and the brightness of its mortar. Diana has sat near this spot each Sunday since returning from Oxford, and at Christmas services, knowing what was hidden by curtain and brick, and what she must face in some horrid ceremony to come, when the tomb will be completed and the family will sanctify their loss once more. It was only with the greatest effort that I fought back my tears. I walked along the line of tombs, composing myself in readiness for Diana. Albert’s tomb will be the penultimate one against the wall: there is one remaining space, beside the little altar at the other end of the row, doubtless reserved for the current Earl and his wife.

  Diana was waiting for me in the porch of the church. I told her that I understood, and she nodded and took my hand. We walked, still hand in hand, back towards the house. This time we followed the route of last night’s carriage ride, round to the right as we approached the lake and over the stone bridge. Diana was more talkative now, as though sharing her sadness had taken some of it from her. She asked me what I thought of Pope—I told her I had not formed much of an opinion—and then she drew out a leather-bound pocket-book, in which she has copied some stanzas from Swinburne’s Poems and Ballads. These, she said, are verses I ought to come to know and appreciate: students at the Universities used to recite them from memory in moonlit college quadrangles. She told me it was withdrawn from circulation shortly after its first being published, and asked if that brought to mind any interest of mine. It did, of course, and I remembered making the connection in the autumn, when she and I spoke of our passion for poetry, and when I was too nervous to share my thoughts. One review, Diana said, described Swinburne as “the libidinous laureate of a pack of satyrs.” How, she asked, could one not love the work of a man of whom such words were written? Then, for a few care-free seconds, her laughter cut through the surrounding tranquillity.

  We crossed the bridge and broke from the main approach, turning to the east and following the path past some sort of miniature temple, until we st
opped before a curious rock- and shell-encrusted, low building which sits above a small cascade. This, according to Diana, is supposed to represent the home of an anchorite, a sage to whom one could turn for wisdom. It is no such thing, it goes without saying. Nevertheless, even this elaborate folly adds a certain character to what is an already picturesque scene of trees and rill. Inside the “grotto” the little light which there is—particularly on overcast winter days like today—comes from an arched opening above the tumbling waters. It affords a perfect view down towards the lake. Diana explained that the gardens are laid out in two halves, split roughly along a line running from the front entrance of the house, across the water and between the gatehouses. The western gardens represent love and life, whilst the eastern, in which we then stood, are an allegory of learning and death. She should have liked to take me to the west, she told me, but the monuments there afford a lesser degree of shelter from the elements. I asked her if she might like to read some poetry to me as we admired the view. “Not here,” she said. She took my hand again and we retraced our steps.

  When we reached the temple Diana sat, at once, on a bench against the back wall, whilst I admired the murals. They portray a set of scenes in which a woman, dressed as a warrior, overcomes a much larger male opponent, amidst some tumult and a considerable entourage of admiring putti. It is all a little too florid for my liking and stands in sharp contrast to the grace of the two statues of Minerva—according to their pedestals—which rest in wall-niches on either side of the temple. In one niche she is portrayed aloof, in a military helmet and breastplate, a spear in her hand. In the other she is a more gentle figure, resting on the stump of a tree, holding a small owl before her.