In the hallway I greeted Diana warmly, with language adopted to convey my relief that she was well and confirm my happiness in seeing her. She remained steadfastly dumb, even as she held herself in a posture so stiff that I took it to indicate a barely suppressed desire to shout. She moved, wordlessly, to the staircase and I followed her as she ascended.
When we were in my room she began to lose the semblance of composure. She thrust the note into my hands and demanded to know what the devil I meant by it. Had I lost my mind? Was I trying to scare her into some form of submission? Ought she to have had the college send for a doctor? A constable? I watched the anger drain from her with each question. Her shoulders relaxed and her arms fell to her side, until she stood before me, her face downcast, tears on her cheeks, her chest rising and falling with shallow, gulping breaths. She pointed a shaking finger at the note, still crumpled in my grasp, and said, in the faintest of voices, “I thought I should find you dead.”
How could I have been so foolish? “I have lived long enough.” The line seemed so perfect for my needs, so pointed in its expression of my loss. Oh! but it was perfect because I knew the next line, wherein the real message lay: “Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.” Diana did not have the book with her, and why would she remember every line, or have copied every single poem into her leather pocket-book? Ripped from the verse, alone and of itself, my note was nothing more than a final goodbye. I had been strewing flowers and uttering a benediction. I took her in my arms and ran my fingers through her hair. She grew limp and I should shortly have been unable to prevent her fall had we not moved slowly towards the bed. There we sat, side by side, each talking to the far wall of the room, or the floor.
Diana’s ire had subsided with that first outburst. In truth I do not think she was ever really angry. What I had perceived as anger was fear and a longing for relief, each of these pressing upon her a range of emotions which found their expression in accusation and reprimand.
We spoke, at first, of our time at Barbroke, seeking to concentrate on a topic which belonged to us both, and from which we took comfort. Then Diana asked me about Matthew, and my reasons for deceiving her. She had never thought that she would immediately replace him in my affections, she said, only that we should talk on the subject and, together, find our way. I had not been unfaithful to her with Matthew, she said, any more than I had been unfaithful to Matthew with her. This I felt to be of little comfort, but I bit my tongue. My seeing him without her knowledge, and concealing that meeting, these were actions of a different complexion. In these, she said, I had behaved selfishly and without any thought for her. This much I already knew. I tried to explain. I told her that it had all happened quickly on my return to Oxford, and that I had acted impulsively, finding myself isolated and unaware of the true depth of her feelings. Is that the truth? I may be telling the stories I need to hear if I am not to believe myself the worst sort of friend.
As for the note, I apologized for that, too, and she accepted the honesty of my contrition. Indeed, I seemed to have brought her the relief which she sought. Had we turned to the essence of our friendship, had we taken the opportunity to express our feelings towards one another, I am not confident that she would have found it to offer any solace. I have not yet come to an understanding of my emotions. The love—is it love?—which I feel for Matthew has withered once more, just as his for me. It saddens me but it comes as no surprise. Diana is some other phenomenon entirely. I find myself thinking of the drawing by Michael Angelo: the demon gnawing at the calf of some poor man. Does the suffering unfortunate know what is happening, what creature attacks him? Or does he know only the pain, and wonder at its identity, and strive to comprehend and through comprehension find deliverance? Drawings of that type are always warnings to the living, are they not? No one has seen a demon, or felt its bite, and yet we look at the pictures and some dark memory rises: it is a memory of neither demons nor their bites, but of whatever we most fear. I fear those memories themselves. I fear them all the more for not knowing their source or their nature, for knowing only that they surely exist. Matthew did not bring them to the surface, as I might have supposed he would. Diana, however, throws out nets for them, dredges, casts lines baited with I-know-not-what. If it is not a physical act fastened hard upon the hook then it must be some emotion. If the reeling-in is not driven by the illicit made tangible then… What? It is something in the admission of love, the acceptance of the divine in one for whom such godliness should be proscribed. Or it is not. We did not require an answer and I should not have been able to provide one, even if we had.
Slowly, as we talked, we shifted, until we lay together on the bed. It was not that we were unaware of our movement, but I, at least, felt that speaking of it would break the ease of our transition from argument to gentle sharing. There was a fragility, acknowledged in that which we allowed to pass between us and in that which remained unspoken. I tore up the note and threw the little pieces above us. They fluttered down upon our faces like the feathers of poor, fallen Icarus; like the snowflakes of Barbroke. I watched Diana laugh and remembered how I adore to see her happy.
She left about two hours ago. I have been lying on the bed, alone, reflecting on the evening and what is to come in the next few days. On Friday I shall sit for Matthew, in the company of Diana. I have given her my word that nothing “intimate” will happen between Matthew and me. His recent paucity of interest should render it a promise which is not so terribly difficult to keep. I shall come to the studio a little later than usual and she will join me shortly afterwards. I shall have enough time to tell Matthew of her impending arrival without finding myself alone with him for a period sufficient for other purposes.
I am terribly tired. Diana is going to meet me in the morning so that we may attend our lectures together. I feel a certain calmness, but whilst it is a change which is to be welcomed I fear it may come before a storm. My academic progress has been woeful thus far this term. I shall see Diana tomorrow, but then I must sequester myself from society, and read, and annotate, and live the cloistered life of the scholar. Until Friday, at least.
Friday, 24th February, 1888
It has been a trying day. At least I faced Matthew and Miss Callow with Diana by my side. I am hopeful that these challenges—faced and overcome—are my Cape Horn, and now I may expect an easier passage.
I do not understand how Mr. Taylor can be so disregardful of my attentions and yet so furious at the interference he perceives in the presence of Diana. I met him before our sitting, as arranged, but arrived late. I told him that I had found it necessary to return to college in order to retrieve my gloves, having forgotten them and finding the morning bitterly cold after a few minutes walking towards the studio. It has been frightfully cold: the fields look like a scene from a Christmas card, covered in hoar frost and mist. Matthew seemed untroubled by my tardiness. Indeed, he seemed decidedly less than enthusiastic about our meeting at all, but I have become inured to that. Such was his generally-expressed apathy that I was a little taken aback at the vehemence with which he communicated his displeasure at the news of Diana’s imminent arrival. Why had I not told him sooner? Could I not have written him a note? Was she returning for the remainder of the sittings? I did as I must and played the innocent. Surely, he needed Diana to finish the painting of Thomas, did he not? Had I given the impression that her absence was unending? He, of course, had no answers for my questions. We sat sipping tea, each constructing our own truths from the tension between us.
It came as a relief to us both, I believe, when the bell rang and Matthew departed to greet Diana. I could read no animosity in their countenances when they entered the room. True, Mr. Taylor was not smiling, but there was no sign of the scowl he had worn when he left. Diana was smiling, in that way of hers, just at the corners of her mouth. She hurried over and embraced me as I stood to greet her. Only two days ago we met for lectures, and lunch, and a gentle walk by the river, yet we held each other
as though each of those days had lasted a month. Then, hand in hand, we hurried to get changed into our outfits, leaving Matthew to clear away the tea “set”. When we revealed ourselves in character he was already behind his canvas, and we took our positions on the bed without further delay.
There is a feeling one gets when one has a secret and stands in the presence of those who are not aware of it. It is a sense of duplicity, and an undesired assurance that there must be signs of the deceit, visible to all around, as though one were handing out visiting cards bearing a hand-written note of the transgression. Such were my feelings as I settled my head on Diana’s breast this morning. I cannot list a single aspect of our appearance from which even the most perspicacious observer might have gleaned the deeper measure of our friendship. Did Thomas hold Olivia a little tighter? Not so tightly that the strain showed. Was Thomas’s brow softer than it had been? Not so soft that a person—even a person painting that face—would notice. Did I settle a little deeper into that yielding flesh? Did my gaze lose its focus and pass by Matthew entirely? If so, these subtle variations went unnoticed or unremarked. Yet they, and memories of Barbroke, were all that occupied my thoughts as I lay, inanimate, on the bed.
Occasionally Mr. Taylor asked one or the other of us to move her arm slightly, or adjust the tilt of her head, or some such refinement. He worked more slowly today than has been his habit on previous occasions, and spent more time to the side of his canvas, holding his brush at arm’s length and squinting at the scene before him. Diana whispered in my ear that if he took much longer he would have to paint her as she slept, and I could not suppress a giggle which, to my horror, passed untroubled through the drapery of the bed and echoed around the room. All movement behind the canvas ceased. The steady rise and fall of Diana’s chest halted abruptly: both she and I held our breaths, not inhaling again until Mr. Taylor returned to his daubings.
After three hours or so, Matthew told us that he had done all he felt able to do today. He thanked us for our time and began to clean his brushes without looking up again. I think I heard him muttering to himself, but I could not discern his meaning. Diana and I whispered to each other as we changed, not wishing to cause another disturbance. I watched as she undid the gold belt and removed her tunic, slipped off her shoes and hose, left Thomas behind and became Thomasin, and then, as she donned the clothes she had worn on her arrival, my Diana.
Matthew was in the kitchen when we emerged. He acknowledged us with a dismissive wave of his left hand. His right held a silver flask. As we descended the stairs we heard him washing dishes with an exaggerated clinking of glass and porcelain.
We had arranged for Diana’s carriage to collect her from college, to allow ourselves the pleasure of a walk in each other’s company. She asked if I thought we should be sitting again next week. I said I did not know. I shall write to Mr. Taylor tomorrow or Sunday to determine when—or if—he wishes to see us. Then Diana asked if I had chosen a poem from Swinburne for her. I had completely forgotten, overwhelmed as I have been with all that has happened during these past weeks. I did not judge this to be the best of replies and so told her that I find the entire book to be an embarras de richesses and am struggling to make a selection.
At about half the distance home to college Diana stopped walking and continued her inquisition. Had the intimacies between Mr. Taylor and me come to an end? This was an easy truth to tell: he and I have not discussed the physical aspect of our entanglement but I have kept my word. I shall continue to do my utmost to ensure that we do not find ourselves in situations which might afford him any such opportunities. It may have been an easy truth, but it was not one which met with Diana’s complete approval. She expects me to be frank with Matthew, which can do nothing but worsen an already difficult and tense relationship. I took her hand and assured her that all will settle and we shall have what we desire, without the need for confrontation. I worry that she thinks me selfish. We walked on, however, engaging in gentle, natural conversation which suggested I had assuaged the worst of her fears.
Miss Callow was waiting for us on our return to college. We had hardly set foot in the hall when she appeared from the door of her office. She greeted us warmly, asking politely if we should mind—“once we had removed our coats and so forth”—joining her in the office for a few minutes, “to discuss some matters of college life.” Such an invitation could be deserving of nothing less than foreboding, and Diana’s tight lips and raised eyebrows did little to quell my fears.
The Principal’s office—an office in which I have had, thus far, neither need nor opportunity to find myself—is an understated affair, much in keeping with the college. A dark mahogany desk is the only substantial item of furniture in the room, apart from the bookcases which line three of the four walls. The remaining wall frames two large windows overlooking the garden, with a potted aspidistra on a spindly stand between the two. Miss Callow was sitting behind the desk. She indicated that we should occupy the chairs across from her, which we did. I fervently hoped that she was about to address some administrative detail of our college membership, or seating plans for a dinner, or, indeed, anything but that which I knew was the reason for our presence in her office.
I have, yet again, been sheltered from the true egregiousness of my actions by Diana. Miss Callow dressed her observations in academic clothes. She said she had noticed a “deterioration” in our work which was causing her some distress. She inquired whether or not we were both entirely content, being up at Oxford. Or might we have problems at home with which she could be of some assistance? Diana and I dutifully apologized for our lack of academic success and shook our heads at the suggestion that we might be sad or troubled. Only then did Miss Callow submit that we were “spending a little too much time in activities unconnected with the life of the college.” I was unsure of myself and unprepared to rally a defence. It was my Thomas who fought off the dragon. Diana began her reply by expressing the great love which her family has for art and literature, the deep affection which they hold for the University, and the delight they express that a daughter of theirs should be amongst the first women to enjoy the privileges of an Oxford education. She will have—according to her father—opportunities which will be the envy of much of the civilized world, not only academically, but in the experiencing of life itself, in witnessing the creation of beauty from the minds of the great. She may have been overly theatrical but, whatever the failings of her rhetoric, the point certainly hit Miss Callow. It cannot have hurt our defence that the Fitzpatricks are benefactors of the college, far in excess of any costs accruing from Diana’s attendance.
Miss Callow responded with a terse “very well” and an admonition to improve our studies, for our own sakes and “for the sake of the college’s reputation.” We are, in short, to make her proud that we are her students.
This seemed to be the end of the meeting. Miss Callow rose and thanked us for our time. We expressed our gratitude for her interest in, and care over, us and made for the door. I did not dare look at Diana for fear that, in my relief, I should begin to giggle as I had at the studio. Then I heard my name being called and I turned to face Miss Callow once more.
“Miss Swift, I have asked Mrs. Taylor to help you with college life, to ensure you feel able to concentrate on your lectures and classes. She assures me that she will be most pleased to work with you in order to minimize any distractions over the coming weeks.”
I repaid Miss Callow’s infuriating, unwavering smile with one of my own, thanked her, again, for her support, and left to join Diana in the hall. She told me that her carriage would be arriving shortly and that she intended to meet it at the end of the driveway. I offered to accompany her, but she insisted that it was far too cold and that there was no point in our both catching a chill. She departed and I returned to my room, where I have been sitting at my desk, writing, ever since.
I keep expecting a knock at the door and a voice full of cloying kindliness to announce itself as belonging to M
rs. Taylor, just here for my own good, and what a good that will be, no doubt: what a good for Mrs. Taylor, that is, but not for me.
No knock comes. I shall read. I shall read Swinburne and I shall choose a blasted poem for Diana, and read it to her, if she does not run off again.
Saturday, 25th February, 1888
A note from Mrs. Taylor was awaiting me when I went downstairs this morning. She has decided that we should meet on Monday to agree upon the ways in which she might best help. If only her husband were as forthcoming with communications. I shall hide myself away with my books until then and see if I cannot gain an intellectual high ground which might make Monday’s meeting somewhat bearable.
Monday, 27th February, 1888
The meeting was not at all bearable. I shall not waste ink on it. Suffice to say that Constance Taylor is as interfering an old busybody as I should ever have the misfortune to know. She wanted me to meet her again on Friday, and on every subsequent Friday: there was some allusion to the finer points of my Greek translations, on which I struggle to see the value of her opinions. Can it be a coincidence that she chose the day of the week on which I sit for her husband? I really ought to have used that as my excuse but I lacked the courage. Instead, I used Diana, saying that we met every Friday and I felt it was an important part of my college life, and of Lady Diana’s, too. I think I was successful: at least, I have escaped the unwanted commitment for this week. Again, I am a participant in a charade—the real story hidden, unspoken—though now I am quite certain that both parties understand its nature exactly. It is only the niceties of society which shore up the walls and prevent them from tumbling down around me, and how long can they last? How long can we continue to live within the artifices of others? The clouds are scudding across the sky outside my window. The blue is coming and going, and I want it to steady.
All the Perverse Angels Page 24