Soon it was time for Diana to leave. She jumped up, every bit as quickly as she had fallen on the bed, and began to put on her furs. Then she paused and, reaching into her bag, which I had not even noticed in the blur of her arrival, she took out the green-covered copy of Swinburne which I had left resting on her bedroom door. I am to choose a poem—not today, she said, for it was already too late—which I shall read to her on some future evening when we are alone together. Then, as she was reaching to open the door, I remembered Matthew’s letter. I did not say a word about it.
I hate the thought of upsetting Diana. She must be awfully delicate, these recent days. I am increasingly of the opinion that she has always been delicate, and that the air of confidence and social capability which she wears is as much a costume as her Thomasin garb.
Tuesday, 24th January, 1888
I wrote again to Matthew to let him know that a sitting at his studio would be possible on Friday. I have not yet decided what to say to Diana, but I was careful to leave the letter deliberately vague on the subject of her attendance.
Friday, 27th January, 1888
The weather cannot make up its mind what it wants to do. One minute it is pouring with freezing rain and the next it is perfectly fine and sunny. By rights it ought to be April. It was my misfortune to embark for the studio moments before one of the showers began, and arrive just as the sun appeared. Matthew put my clothes to dry near the fireplace and suggested that I wear a Japanese robe from his box of stage properties. It is silk, patterned with light-pink cherry blossoms on a background of dark fuchsia-red, and quite beautiful despite its being ragged in places.
We sat and talked, hesitantly, as though getting to know each other for the first time, which rested strangely with my state of undress. He told me that he had thought more on the representation of story in his painting. He remains uncertain as to the future course of his work, but has decided that this current piece—the painting of Diana and me—must be completed, and must be shown without a title or, if titled, must be titled in terms which identify the painting without being greatly prescriptive. He gave me an example to clarify my understanding, saying he would prefer to call a painting Ship at Sea rather than H.M.S. Pinafore Encounters the Wrath of Poseidon. Gradually we relaxed and events took their course.
I told Matthew that Lady Diana sent her apologies as she was unavoidably occupied with an engagement that had arisen only yesterday. He seemed untroubled by the news and asked if I wanted to sit for him, alone. If I did not feel as though I had deceived Diana previously—clearly a refusal to acknowledge an evident deception—it was brought home to me as I lay on the bed, propped on an additional pillow which served as Diana’s breast.
As he painted, Matthew and I talked about Christmas. His time had been quiet and spent at home, in the company of family members and a few close friends. He had been up to London, but only to pass a weekend with an “old chum” by the name of Robert, who is now in publishing. I almost wondered aloud if he might know Father, but a bright, insistent voice in my head told me that to build any other ties between Matthew and my family, however tenuous, could bring nothing but trouble. I conveyed the dullness of life at home, and how I had missed him during the long evenings. Of Barbroke I spoke little, and restricted myself to details of the architecture, the library, the gardens, statuary and church. The same bright voice delivered a warning that talk of events, even an innocent luncheon or dinner, would be a betrayal.
Now, as I sit here, I do not see that there can be such a betrayal. Diana knows of my relationship with Matthew. Indeed, her fit of pique on the last day of my stay was caused by that knowledge. Do I resent her for making me resort to subterfuge today? I think yes, and that it is she who has betrayed me in her destruction of the gentle friendship which she and I enjoyed. Oh! but I remember the temple and the library and all the other marvels of Barbroke, and feel that we are closer than ever before and share something that is ours, and ours alone. Or is it only a mash? Diana gives the impression that it is more than that, but should I, too, not reflect that same impression if I knew no better?
No, Matthew heard only the most banal of stories about Barbroke, and he reacted to them all with a subdued interest. He made no inquiries after Diana. He did not even ask if she would be attending the next sitting, which we have scheduled for a week hence.
Once I had returned to my dry clothes I checked on the progress of the painting. Matthew has clearly been working on it in my absence, as a great deal of the background is now complete, leaving the two figures in partial detail, with small ovals of bright whiteness where their heads should be.
How shall I describe the painting? It is accomplished and, viewed as a whole, a fine likeness of the scene in the studio. As one would expect, Matthew has allowed his imagination to overtake the lacklustre truth of cloth backdrops and mothy linens. The result is a pleasing representation of mediæval stonework and draperies. I fear I may be damning with faint praise: in all honesty, the painting does not stir me to high emotion, and this even though I revel in the story it represents. What will another viewer take from it? For every Michael Angelo or Raffaelle there must be a thousand nameless artists whose work nevertheless bestows on our world some pleasing decoration. Before I left Oxford last year I saw in Matthew a man with a name that might stand with Turner and Millais. Now I see “Taylor” as though it were carved into the base of a decent copy of Ludovica, the creator of a reminder of greatness, but not greatness itself.
I made only a single mention of Mrs. Taylor, as I prepared to leave. I think I asked, “What of your wife?” I was almost persuaded that Matthew did not know of whom I was speaking, such was the mixture of tiredness and puzzlement with which his expression was endowed. It was as if he left the very idea of her at home when he departed for his studio. I could not articulate my question in any fashion more direct so I stood wordlessly and waited for some verbal response, half expecting it to be, “My wife? My dear, I am not married.” It was not, of course. Matthew demanded to know what I meant by asking after her. I meant a great number of things. Did she suspect the nature of our meetings? What would she do if she discovered us? How could we continue our sittings if she objected? On and on the questions went, but not a one was spoken aloud. Yet Matthew’s rising impatience was cause enough for me to find my voice: what did Mrs. Taylor know of our meetings? Again, I thought he did not comprehend the question, possibly not even the language in which it was posed, such was his portrayal of bewilderment. Then, just as I believed he was going to answer, he instead changed the subject and, announcing that he had a Christmas present for me, he hurried away, into the little kitchen. When he re-emerged he held a silver hand-mirror, tied round with a red, satin bow. It is beside me now. On the back, along the handle and around the edges, are flowers in low relief, which Matthew told me are lilacs, the flower of “the first emotions of love.” I blushed furiously at his mention of love, and hugged him as I thanked him, to hide my glowing cheeks.
It is getting late and tomorrow I am to pass some hours at the Galleries. I felt obliged to return in the company of Elizabeth, to whom I have spoken so often of the afternoon spent there with Diana. I am expected to give her the Grand Tour, and only hope she will not mind my reading out of the guide-books for much of it. It will not be the same.
It is a beautiful mirror but I am beginning to doubt that I am worthy of its sentiment.
Saturday, 28th January, 1888
Home at last, after far too much time spent in the company of Miss Ashdown. We arrived at the Galleries a little after one—no waiving of the 2d. this time—and I steered the same course through the exhibits as I took on my previous visit. I found it impossible to relax: at every moment I expected Elizabeth to ask about Matthew or Diana. My conscience sat on my shoulder, whispering the truth to me, over and over, and leaving me convinced that my companion would hear, and question, and demand remorse. Yet I sit here having spoken not a word that might compromise the privacy of my relationships.
Miss Ashdown contented herself with news of the beauty of Barbroke and brought to the conversation, in return, assorted fragments of gossip which were forgotten even before leaving the Galleries.
All of this would have remained unremarked upon in these pages were it not for the fact that the day of such uneventful boredom was a mere harbinger to her goodbye, delivered at the doors to our respective rooms. To my adieu she replied, “Do please be careful, Penelope. There are few as accepting as am I, even in a place as modern as the one in which we find ourselves.” I stood open-mouthed—literally open-mouthed—as she closed her door behind her.
Damn her. Damn her and all like her. I have no heart for false friends.
Sunday, 29th January, 1888
I had decided that today would be the day on which I told Diana of Friday’s sitting with Matthew. I had planned to be a terrible coward and tell her in a public place. However, the opportunity did not present itself.
We once again enjoyed—or were subjected to—the company of her tame don, the Reverend Professor Parker. I have not forgotten that it was he from whom news of our visit to the Galleries had started its voyage to the ear of Matthew’s wife. He seemed less jovial than I remembered his being during our previous encounter. When he was across the churchyard, muttering to some other fellow in a dog-collar, Diana informed me that he had appeared at her Oxford residence on Friday evening and suggested that he accompany her to the Sunday service. She was invited to join him and his wife for luncheon at their home, which is quite close to college. She is sure that her mother organized the entire proposal, probably when the Rev. J.L.P. attended the memorial service at Barbroke. It was the first mention of the memorial since Diana’s return, but I had no time to continue in that vein as the professor returned at a pace, as if suddenly gripped by a sense of negligence in his duties. Would he—Diana asked, without having consulted me—would he mind terribly if I joined the family for lunch, too? Since I was standing right there in front of the man there was little for the Rev. J.L.P. to do but acquiesce to Diana’s request. He suggested to her that I might have other commitments but she assured him that I had not. She was quite right, but I still find it to have been somewhat presumptuous. The reverend called over to his wife and the four of us walked the short distance to their home.
Mrs. Parker is a short woman, but every bit as thin as her husband. The two of them make quite the pair: he stands at least a foot taller than his wife, and she must half-walk, half-run if she is to keep up with his strides, which even Diana and I struggle to match. Mrs. P. is softly spoken, and offers only a few short sentences between long pauses. Unfortunately, these pauses are rarely proceeded by any question or observation upon which one might easily comment. I was thankful for her husband’s presence: without it our conversation would have been decidedly awkward.
The reverend became more light-hearted as we neared his home, as though shedding a character adopted when in church. He began to ask us about our time at Barbroke. Had I seen the library? Had there been a hunt? Even in my state of nervous suspicion, I could find nothing accusatory in his investigation. When it became clear that neither Diana nor I had any great tales to recount, he told us of his trip to Norfolk to stay with the family of an old school friend, by the name of Hector or Harry, I forget which. His stories were as flat as the Fens themselves, but I had to admire his gusto in relating them. I almost allowed myself to relax and enjoy being amongst company, but always the quiet, insistent voice, and Diana beside me in her ignorance of my deceit.
Luncheon was roast mutton and vegetables. We talked of our studies: what we hoped to achieve this term and our plans for the future, vague and insubstantial as they were. All seemed to be going swimmingly until the Rev. J.L.P. asked how our sittings with Mr. Taylor were progressing. Diana and I exchanged the same, surprised expression—all raised eyebrows and motionless cutlery—across the table. She, however, recovered far more gracefully and swiftly than did I. She replied in a voice utterly free from any hint that the question was unexpected. Mr. Taylor, she said, had been reconsidering his place within the art world and had advised us that our sittings would cease until he had “rediscovered a suitable way to please the Muse.” If I were not feeling terrible enough at this point, the Rev. J.L.P.’s response ensured that my guilt was almost unbearable.
According to our host, he had had it from Miss Callow that Mr. Taylor’s block had passed and he was keen to continue his work on our return to Oxford. Clearly, there are both up and down lines between Mrs. Taylor and our reverend. I stared at my plate as Diana informed all present that we—meaning she and I—were delighted to hear the news, and no doubt Mr. Taylor would contact us shortly to make arrangements. She looked over at me and all eyes followed hers until I thought I should be overcome with some dreadful hysteria and confess everything: Friday’s sitting, my relationship with Matthew, the events at Barbroke. Then, just as I felt I must say something or appear dumbstruck, Mrs. P. suggested we rise and take an afternoon constitutional around the University Parks. The relief I felt at the table has since been supplanted by my fear that Mrs. P. had taken pity on me, which can only mean that she was aware of my distress, and quite possibly the reasons for it.
Away from the confines of the reverend’s house our talk turned—thankfully—to the banalities of life. Our stroll extended from the Parks, to college. Diana and I took our leave of the Parkers and went straight to my room, where I did something which now seems foolish in the extreme: I gave Diana the mirror from Matthew. She saw it on my dresser, still with the bow around its handle, and asked me about it, and I could not think straight after all the events of the day. Oh! I ought to have told her the truth or, if not, some story about its being a Christmas present from my parents, or a relative, or an old friend from school. I ought to have told her anything but the words I found tumbling from my mouth: “Oh, that is… Well, it is… It is a gift for you.” The instant I had uttered this nonsense I realized my mistake, but it was too late. Diana protested, saying it seemed an expensive gift. I, even in my turmoil, found the wherewithal to assure her that it was the least I could do after the kindnesses she had shown me over the past months. At that she threw her arms around me, kissed me on the lips, and told me I was more wonderful than she had ever dared to hope. A call came from downstairs to inform us that her carriage had arrived, and she, and the mirror, were gone.
Since that time I have done little. I ate dinner with Elizabeth. Perhaps I have judged her too harshly. We spoke only of irrelevancies, but her desire to be in my company seems genuine and I am left with the impression that hers is an open door should I need her help. She is older than am I, and there is an air of the maternal about her. I suspect it is this against which I have railed, rather than any contrariness in action or opinion.
Diana and I have a lecture together, tomorrow. She is to meet me here and travel with me, either on foot or by carriage, depending on the weather. I must tell her what has happened. I cannot bear the thought of disappointing her expectations so deeply. More than that, I fear I shall lose her because of these actions, which is to suppose that I have her now. At the beginning of the week I was reassuring myself that she recognized the nature of our friendship with the same clear-headedness as I ascribed to myself. Now I discover I am the one by whom the loss will be keenly felt, the one whose head is full of confusion and whispering voices.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
No more snow in London. No monks, no refuge. Hopper again: Jo, alone, with coffee and the darkness outside the window. Friedrich, watching everyone as they turned away. Friedrich, turning away himself, the anonymous Rückenfigur even he did not know. I saw the want of these people in the world outside and in the hand-mirror I had brought with me.
Taylor’s painting remained faithful. It hung, alone, on the walls of the room in which I ate, worked and slept. I had removed all the other decorations—the mediocre acquisitions of just-so-many Sunday markets—no longer caring what Emily thought. And so it hung alone, and I shar
ed my flat with Diana and Penny, for as long as nobody detected their change of address and came searching for them. It seemed only right that they were positioned where I could give them the companionship they deserved. I found them, after all, when they had been lost for so many years. Alison asked about them, on the occasions when she called to see me, which she did often. I told her that I was still researching, that it was too soon. She was glad I had something to keep me occupied. I wondered if she would change her mind, as Emily had done.
I continued to read the diary, of course. Penny told Diana about her sitting with Taylor, but she did not mention that he was the source of the mirror, realizing that nothing was to be gained by brutal honesty. They were in Penny’s room: low lights, scattered papers underfoot and Chatterton on the bed, or something dying, at least. Diana asked Penny if anything more than painting took place in the studio on that first Friday of the new term. Penny told the truth and gained nothing by it. Diana left without saying another word. But she must have returned to sit for the painting, because there she lay, just as she lay on her tomb. A painter possessed of greater talent could have worked from sketches and memory, but not Taylor.
I ambled through the pages which followed: a few days, a week, a few weeks. Almost every mention of Diana was a statement of her disappearance, an absence of letters, an empty seat at a lecture. Just once did she appear in person, a face in the window of a passing carriage. Penny could not even be sure it was Diana.
Penny’s sittings continued, as did the affair with Taylor. Her reports of their hours together became abbreviated, more time-sheet than cherished memory, a grudging acceptance of the acts themselves and the nature of the actors. She had become the protagonist of her own story and unwittingly relinquished her authorship; except for the day she thought she saw Diana, passing along Broad Street amongst the stones of central Oxford. Then, at least as she told it, she regained herself for long enough to question, to put aside all justifications from circumstance and step out of her ingénue role. Perhaps that was why she declared herself uncertain as to the identity of the woman in the carriage: being sure it was Diana would have forced her to face the reality of her emotions. Having nowhere to run, she could not afford to experience something from which she desired to escape. So, she spent her time lying to Miss Ashdown and avoiding Mrs Taylor. She tried to make new friends but found that the time to make friends had already passed. She wrote to Diana, twice, but never received a reply and did not bother to keep copies of the letters she sent. She tried to decide if she ought to give back the Warber and the Swinburne, the silver pencil and guidebooks. In the end, after a week of contradictory entries, she concluded that they should remain with her unless there was an expressed desire for their return. She had lost her silver mirror to Diana, she reasoned.
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