I made my plans. Saturday was three days away and I could use that time to dig out my camera and tripod and take photographs of the painting. To do so properly, separating the frame and canvas once more, varying the types and angles of light sources, would take the best part of a day, I was sure. Then I would go to the local library and photocopy the diaries, and any other letters and scraps of paper which seemed worthwhile. I felt some relief in knowing that I could keep the information, but there was a bite in resigning myself to the loss of the artefacts themselves. I wanted the original Klosterfriedhof and not just a pre-war black-and-white photograph, not just a half-erased de Kooning drawing.
Before I could take on the role of archivist, however, I needed to finish my work with the original sources. I settled down to read the few remaining diary entries.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Friday, 23rd March, 1888
Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a woman of unclean lips.
Tuesday, 27th March, 1888
I am home once more, and if my parents are aware of events in Oxford they are keeping their knowledge a well-concealed secret. Mother expressed her unhappiness at seeing me wan and thinner than she would like. Father fusses over me as he has always done, but talks now of books and business and my studies, in place of an affectionate interest in his daughter. I do that which is expected of me—eat my meals, attend church, listen to Mother read in the evening—but take every opportunity to withdraw to my own room, where I study or lie on the bed and think of her, and wonder if the next morning’s post will bring a letter.
Last Friday began as previous Fridays had begun. Diana and I met at college and walked the short distance to Matthew’s studio for the final sitting of term. I had with me the Swinburne, hopeful that I should get a chance to read to Diana, and she put it in her bag to protect it from the elements. We arrived just as the charwoman was leaving. She, recognizing us, let us into the building whilst noting how bitterly cold the weather was for the time of year, and declaring that she would hate to be the person responsible for our catching chills. Matthew was nowhere to be seen. He is a punctual man—that much may be said of him—so his absence struck us as unusual. Nevertheless, we agreed that he would have sent ahead in the event of a lengthy delay—a foolish notion—and that we might best spend our time in dressing for our roles.
I have always found it delightfully easy to make Diana laugh, and she, too, often gives me cause to giggle over the most mundane occurrences. So it was on Friday, as she became Thomas and I Olivia. We played our parts: I the loving wife and she the heroine who would be hero. She helped me on with my outfit, making much of my “passing fair” countenance and delicate limbs. I dressed her in her disguise, wondering aloud who would ever guess her secret and what woman would not swoon in her presence. We laughed and embraced. In the language of Warber, we passed the time in clyppynge and kyssynge, until Thomas took his new wife over to the bed. There we undid much of our work in dressing, and lost ourselves to each other, forgetting our surroundings. I realize, now, that I have always failed to find the words to describe these too-short times which Diana and I share. I shall be no more successful on this occasion. It is because the acts are not the essence of the experience, but only the private expression of that essence. That is to say, whatever I might write by way of description would appear to my eyes to be unbearably lascivious, lacking, as it most certainly would, the beauty of its inspiration. Diana and I may have laughed together at the rapture of Bernini’s Ludovica, but we were afforded that luxury by the presence of the statue itself, which took away any weight which might otherwise have been given to our flippant, schoolgirl nonsense. On these pages there is no balance to be had, so I shall leave it at saying we lost ourselves to each other completely and, in our privacy, without shame. It was only in the ending of privacy that shame returned, and with it anger, hopelessness and cruelty.
It was Diana who first saw the figure in the doorway. She became stiff and unyielding, so that I was aware of some change upon her even before she reached down and shook me by the nape of my neck. I looked up at her and she gave the slightest movement of her head, her chin falling then rising, gesturing towards the door over my shoulder. I do not recall who grabbed the sheets and pulled them over us—probably Diana, as I was still pushing the hair back from my face to see clearly—but within moments we were lying side by side, our immodesty covered, but covered far too late. There, at the entrance to the studios, where I thought I had discerned the figure of Matthew, stood Mrs. Taylor.
I am being called for dinner. There will be time enough to finish later this evening. I shall let Mother read to Father alone.
Dinner was a miserable affair, made all the more so by neither Mother nor Father discerning anything miserable about it: they are so inattentive to my condition. Mother asked if I should like to accompany her in some charitable work or other. Father thought I might like to join him when he next calls on his printers. I spoke when I needed the potatoes to be passed, or a little more salt. Then the meal was over and I asked to be excused, and Mother said she thought it would be nice if I spent a little time with them, and Father said he thought so too but asked if I felt at all unwell, and that seemed the easiest route for me to take. I affected a headache and took my leave of them. Now I am writing in bed and listening for the creak of the stairs, lest one of them appear at the door and I need to adopt the semblance of mild neuralgia.
Mrs. Taylor walked in silence, over to the table and chairs where we usually took tea. She sat down, unbuttoning her coat as she did so. Diana opened her mouth, presumably driven by an idea that an attack was imminent and might be prevented were she to express her own displeasure at our interruption. Whatever her reasoning, it clearly failed to state its case with any force, as no utterance came forth. For my part, I was transfixed by Mrs. Taylor’s eyes. I could not read the emotions in her face, irrespective of any and all efforts to do so. It was as though all the thoughts which were churning within her had blended to give a constant stillness, as waves upon water mingle and destroy each other. I could hear my own heart beating, faster than it had ever beaten during exercise, louder than it beat when Diana and I were alone together. When Mrs. Taylor finally spoke it came almost as a relief. What followed was at times calm, at times heated, but always the dialogue of a final act.
She opened with a question. Had we seen her husband? Apparently he was “tight” when he returned home on Thursday evening, and the two had argued. We were not told the subject of the argument, but the sentence was spoken in such clipped tones, and followed by such an accusatory pursing of the lips, that I took the meaning, and I am quite sure that Diana did, too. Mrs. Taylor went on to describe her sleepless night, her arrival at the empty studio long before dawn, and her lonely walk around the less salubrious corners of the city in the early hours of the morning. Finding no sign of Matthew she had returned to the studio in the hope that he had found his way there whence he had spent the night. And so it was that she sat before us.
She ignored Diana and turned her full attention to me. Had I no shame? Did I fully comprehend the unnatural character of my activities? What would my parents say? How could I ever show my face in college again? These questions being rhetorical, she moved on to blackmail without waiting for answers. Indeed, both Diana and I were yet to speak.
Mrs. Taylor set out her terms. I am to have no further contact with her husband, in person or indirectly, through any form of communication. If I find myself in circumstances which offer the possibility of my meeting him I am to take whatever actions are necessary to excuse myself before he and I exchange a single word. The quid pro quo—if blackmailers can be said to offer such a thing—is her guarantee of secrecy.
Diana had pulled the sheets up and over her head. I cannot but feel anger at her cowardice in a situation which was as much her doing as it was mine. I could not witlessly succumb to Mrs. Taylor’s demands, and fought back in the only way open to me. I informed her that were any me
ntion of my personal entanglements to be heard beyond the walls of the studio I should be forced to act: I should make known the shameful behaviour of her husband in preying on one so young, innocent and impressionable. It was a weak threat, but I perceived that it might work if it played to Mrs. Taylor’s own desire to avoid any hint of public scandal. Diana shifted downwards, deeper under the bed-covers.
Mrs. Taylor made no answer. Her head fell forward and her body heaved, slowly, in what I took to be an approaching crescendo of tears. Then, alas, I heard the sound she made: quiet at first, so that I thought she were keening under her breath, then louder and ever louder until the room was filled with her laughter. I asked her what had caused her such amusement, trying as best as I might to present a stoical exterior to the terror I felt. Her laughter continued, unabated. Diana’s head appeared again, looking first at Mrs. Taylor and then to me, for some answer which was not mine to give. There was nothing to do but wait. I dared not press my question, as I knew each repetition would be filled with greater and still greater tones of shrill consternation. Finally, after what seemed an age, Mrs. Taylor regained her composure.
The reply came slowly and clearly, that each word might convey the strength of Mrs. Taylor’s feelings and put an end to my unutterable stupidity. Did I really think she still had anything to lose? Surely I had heard the stories of her husband, even before he and I had undertaken our liaisons? One more rumour would make no difference. One more set of whispers amongst her friends, the staff at college, the students: what harm could that do except to me? I could claim to be the victim, or even declare that I had fought off unwanted advances, but they would say there was no smoke without fire, and there was I, a fine, sparking flint of a coquette.
It was my turn to lower my head, but I did so in order to cry, knowing I was beaten by this wretched woman. I have cried since—I cried this afternoon—but now I start to see Mrs. Taylor as the victim. I am the wrongdoer, and that is even harder to bear.
I told Mrs. Taylor I agreed to her terms. She rose and buttoned up her coat. I thought she would leave without another word, but at the doorway she turned and called Diana’s name. Diana was already half-way to the office, eager to leave Thomas behind and, with him, Olivia. She had wrapped herself in one of the sheets and walked slowly, looking like the abhorred wife of some disgraced Cæsar. She stopped, quite motionless, on hearing her name, but continued to face the east wall, so that Mrs. Taylor addressed her back and bare shoulders.
“Lady Diana,” she said, “I should have expected better of you.” And then, with a callous grin for my benefit, she added, “I am disappointed that you have chosen to aim so low in your choice of—how shall I put it?—close friendships.”
If I had expected Diana to leap to the defence of her “low friend” then I, too, should have been disappointed; but I held no such expectation. Diana’s silence throughout the ordeal, and her cowardly disappearance from sight for the greater part of its duration, had already disabused me of any hope that she might rail against these final words of Mrs. Taylor. She once more took up her slow walk. When the closing of the front door reached my ears she was already within the office and no doubt well along in her hurried dressing. So it was that the stream of oaths and abuse which I directed towards her fell on a closed door and an unhearing wall. I had not the will to get up, and sat, seething, propped against the back of the bed in Diana’s pose of these past weeks. When she reappeared she made straight for the door without a single glance in my direction. I thought to let her go and be done with the whole awful affair, but I called her name, and not as sharply as others might. She stopped, just as she had stopped for Mrs. Taylor, and lifted a hand to wipe dry her cheeks. She did not, however, acknowledge my exclamation but for the momentary interruption of her progress. She walked on, out of the studio.
I am tired. I am tired of remembering, and writing, and crying.
Wednesday, 28th March, 1888
It was the end-of-term dinner on Friday night. I lay on my bed, calculating precisely the best form of malady to feign in order to avoid attending. Then, as the time approached, I had the sudden, terrible thought that Mrs. Taylor had not kept her word, that she had told Miss Callow—and anyone else who would care to listen—of my indiscretions with Lady Diana. I could not fail to attend, lest I condemn myself by a guilty absence. I dressed swiftly and joined Elizabeth at a table towards the rear of the room, far from the head table where Mrs. Taylor sat, talking to Miss Callow and the other tutors. In my imagination I saw her direct her gaze to our table during the course of some conversation, and then, pair by pair, the eyes of her fellow conspirators fell upon me, eager to pick out the leading lady of her tale. Lady Diana could provide no distraction: she did not join us that evening.
Despite my fears I discerned no evidence that Mrs. Taylor had breathed a word to anyone, either before dinner or after. During each goodbye from a fellow student I searched for any indication—any smirk or nervous tic, any reticence to spend time in my company—that might suggest an awareness of Friday’s events, but found none. The tutors expressed their hopes that I should spend the vacation in productive studies, and not fritter it away with social events and frivolities. Not one of them, even Miss Callow, showed any deviation from similar addresses to the other students.
So, I have brought the story up to date. On Saturday morning I boarded a train back home and here I am.
I have neither seen nor heard from Diana since she walked away on Friday. I might write to her, but what could I say to convey the piteous amalgam of anger and desire which I feel towards her? I wish I had not been with her at Barbroke, for then I might not form such a clear picture of her, alone in that place, amongst the art and books, or walking in the gardens, or sitting in our temple overlooking the lake. I wish she would fade like some banished wraith, rather than haunt me as she does.
Friday, 30th March, 1888
A letter has arrived from Barbroke. Mother handed it to me, remarking on the quality of the paper and suggesting it had come from Lady Diana. I tried my best to respond with just the right amount of enthusiasm: too little or too much and I should have faced a series of questions on the problems I was experiencing in my friendship. Mother is well-meaning but she can be tiresome, and I could not abide the thought of any delay in opening the envelope and reading its contents. I told her that I should take it to my room so that I might read it in peace, and compose a reply if one were needed in haste. Her face fell a little, as though in disappointment that she could not share in the news, but she said nothing as she handed the envelope to me.
Mother’s disappointment was as nothing to my own on reading the letter. It was not from Diana. As soon as I saw that the handwriting was not hers I turned my attention to the bottom of the last sheet to see the signature, and in the hope that Diana might have added a postscript. The letter is from her mother, and there is no postscript.
Dear Miss Swift,
My daughter has been feeling a little unwell these past few days and has asked that I write to inform you of her decision not to return to Oxford this year. She and her father have discussed, at not inconsiderable length, her determination to end her formal studies and they are both of the firm opinion that her education would be better rounded by a foreign tour of some sort: preparations will take place over the course of the following month. I am sure that, as her friend, you will understand and support the choice which she has made.
On a personal note, I wonder if you might care to tell me of any incident which occurred in Oxford to bring about this change in her outlook. She had seemed so terribly excited to be going up last year, and, until these past few days, we had heard nothing from her but the most effusive praise for the place. I know that you and she were close. Might you please spare a few words to put a mother’s mind at rest? I should hate for her to be running away from some youthful mishap, to be suffering the loss of her Oxford, solely because she feels unable to confide in her own, loving parents.
Sincerely
yours,
Maud Barbroke
I have paper on my desk bearing the necessary addresses and date, but no more. I have no reason to suppose that the Countess knows anything other than that of which she has written. Her request for “any incident which occurred in Oxford” seems perfectly genuine. Yet there is no question of my divulging any detail whatsoever of recent events. Should I lie? If so, should I insist that nothing untoward took place, to the best of my knowledge, or make up some tale that will fulfil her need? I cannot do the latter with any sort of clear conscience, so it must be the former. But I cannot tell so flagrant an untruth in that manner, so that, too, must be wrong. I do not know what to do. I am writing these lines to occupy my mind and prevent it from racing in two directions at once: backwards to Oxford and Diana, and forwards to a future without her. The former is upsetting. The latter is almost unbearable.
Finally, after much deliberation, I have settled on a short, but polite, response. “Thank you so much for your letter. I shall miss Lady Diana very much. I am afraid that I am unable to shed any light on the reason for her decision. I can only surmise that her desire to travel outweighs other considerations.”
All the Perverse Angels Page 26