I turned the page but there was nothing there about The Coral Chain, either, just an article covering the death of Albert Weisgerber—a painter and an illustrator for Jugend itself—printed beneath a dark, charcoal drawing of German troops gathered at dusk for his funeral. Wilhelm was to join Albert in death before the end of the Great War. It was the only thing I knew about Gallhof, other than his name and the print of his painting in an old magazine. As for the woman who wore the coral chain, I knew nothing about her except that she posed nude for a painter called Wilhelm Gallhof.
The woman is thin, but not too thin, not skeletal. She lies on her back, diagonally across the canvas, her head in the upper left, her body lifted by pillows, and her feet pulled up, knees together and raised, so her calves rest against her thighs. Her head is tilted to her right, cheek resting on patterned fabric. Almost all of her, in fact, rests on different swathes of cloth. They echo the busy pattern on the curtain which hangs behind her, breaking up the monotony of colourless walls. Only her lower torso and feet rest on pure white, a bolt of floral lace running from one side of the bed to the other. She is looking into a hand-mirror, which she holds in her right hand so that only the rear of the mirror is visible. It, too, seems to bear some sort of pattern but it is only a smear of green-greys, purple-blacks and browns. It could be a woman dancing or just the reflection of the surrounding textiles, an abstract pattern or nothing but verdigris and polish. The coral chain, a necklace of red-pink spheres, wraps tightly around her neck once, twice and then takes a longer loop, resting on her collarbone, drawing a line across the top of her left breast and then rising up, away from her body, to her left hand where she holds it pinched between thumb and forefinger before it falls again and passes behind the arch of her neck. She is admiring it—the necklace—or herself, or both.
It became obvious to me why I had so quickly lost my association of Diana’s mirror with the picture. The composition of the work, its colour palette and framing, did not allow my eye to linger on the woman’s face, her necklace or her mirror. Instead my gaze fell downwards, over her breasts and down to her hips and the white lace, the light of the image. And there, just above her right foot, inviting me closer, four more loops of coral chain as an anklet, the focus of the entire picture. It was as if the woman, lost in her own reflection, had given me the chance to survey her, voyeuristically, illicitly. I was neither welcome nor unwelcome. I was unseen. I began to feel that I was doing something reprehensible in admiring the pages, that the woman had been tricked into posing and I was no better than Gallhof himself in my collusion. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf.
Penny and Diana watched from the wall. I had always believed that they wanted to be found, that they belonged with me, that they were mine. But perhaps they were Gerald’s, or Taylor’s, or belonged under a sheet in an attic, finally left alone with themselves. Penny looked out, across Diana and through the dulling varnish. I tried to read her face, her eyes, again, knowing all I knew, but she gave nothing away. Taylor just painted Olivia, concerned for her marriage, awaiting Thomas’s revelation, unable to reassure her Thomasin that she knew who—what—was holding her. But no, she was my Penny and I was thinking too hard for want of anything better to do on a lonely Sunday.
I put Oxford: History and Traditions onto the bookshelf, unopened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Barbroke, Thursday, 17th December, 1891
Dear Mr. Taylor,
I hope you are well. As you will no doubt recall, you received and accepted a generous offer for your painting Waiting for Sunrise shortly before it was due to be hung in exhibition. The purchaser of the painting, whom you may remember as a Mr. Cartwright, was sent on my behalf, having been instructed to approach you on my learning of the work’s intended inclusion in a show open to the general public. Mr. Cartwright, recounting his negotiation with you, made me aware of the changes to the picture during the latter stages of its completion but I felt that, nevertheless, it ought to remain within the sphere of those involved in its creation.
The painting has, for these past two years, been stored in my private rooms here at Barbroke. Now, however, I find myself unable to remain in possession of it. I have given thought to its destruction, but that seems an act of barbarism to which I cannot be party. Miss Swift has surely no desire to be reminded of the circumstances accompanying its production nor, I suspect, does she find herself in accommodation which would afford her the privacy required for ownership. So, I have been pondering the best course of action.
Please understand that I, for my part, feel no shame in my role as Thomasin. Indeed, my parents have seen the picture and, whilst not enamoured of it, saw nothing in it which they deemed inappropriate. Their moral and intellectual attitudes are often modern, but then they are not burdened with an understanding of the story behind its painting, which might colour their opinions. Perhaps I should say “stories”, since the subject of the painting itself is quite as controversial as the lives of the actors behind the masks. No, it is not my decision to pass the canvas to my parents, or any other relative.
You will certainly have guessed that the crate accompanying this letter contains Waiting for Sunrise. I imagine you have already opened it, impatient to see its contents. It is yours, Mr. Taylor. I give it to you for only two reasons. First, I believe you will have no desire to destroy it. Second, I believe you will now recognize that it is in your best interests to keep it from public view. Whatever efforts you may have made to calm the worst excesses of your wife’s temper, I cannot see that the reappearance of the painting into your life would serve to ameliorate matters further. I suspect quite the opposite to be true. It is thus with some forethought that I have arranged for the crate, and this letter, to be delivered directly to your studio.
Yours sincerely,
Diana Fitzpatrick
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Oxford
Dear Lady Diana,
Do, please, forgive the delay in my replying to your letter of 17th December: the Christmas season has found me unrelentingly plagued with relatives, friends and acquaintances, and hardly permitted a moment to myself. In truth, I have also been looking for the words with which to thank you for your kindness. Finding nothing appropriate coming to mind, yet aware of the terrible solecism of tardiness in putting pen to paper, I venture to respond, nevertheless.
Although I could not be sure of your man’s involvement in the purchase of the painting, I admit to having had my suspicions. The price offered was generous: I make no false claims to greatness at this time, having, over these past four years, slowly arrived at an acceptance of the limitations of my abilities, at the cost of much happiness. I have of late lost all my mirth, as it were. I do not tell you this to encourage a little Schadenfreude, as the Germans have it. Rather, I hope that you will see some hint that the events in Oxford have left their mark upon me as they have upon you and Miss Swift, and that, as a consequence, I am far from the man you knew.
I want to assure you that the painting will be kept in my studio, carefully stored and free from the adverse effects of extreme temperatures, grime and dust. It is true that Mrs. Taylor would look unkindly upon the reappearance of the work, despite my best efforts to set matters to rights with her. That alone would be sufficient reason to keep it hidden. However, I should like you to know that even if Mrs. Taylor’s wrath were not under consideration I should still abide by your wishes in the spirit of kindling a friendship which I too-soon snuffed out.
sent: 4th Jan 92
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Henley-on-Thames, 8th June, 1892
Dear Mr. Taylor,
You were once kind enough to give me a small hand-mirror as a gift. I feel that, under the circumstances, I ought to return it to you. Here it is. I wrapped it carefully and do hope it reaches you without any damage. We have managed so terribly well, you and I, in avoiding the crossing of our paths these past few years. Now, however, dear Lady Diana is gone, and I wish to write those words which were never said—or so
me of them, at least—so that everything may be put behind us.
I read of Lady Diana’s leaving in the London papers, shortly after her departure. I am sure that you imagine me to have been saddened by the news but I should like to ask you to understand how great is the pain I feel. After she returned to Barbroke my letters remained unanswered. Indeed, I stopped writing after my fourth letter vanished without acknowledgement. Now I shall never speak to her again.
I wonder still, as I have wondered over the past years, what your wife told you of that morning when she arrived unannounced at the studio. Am I the first to tell you that she was there at all? No, I cannot believe that. You must at least know that she spoke to Lady Diana and me. I think it in her nature to have threatened you just as she threatened us. Certainly, I never found myself evading your presence in Oxford and that would suggest that you played your part in keeping far away from me. I think I am safe in assuming that you know, at least, that Mrs. Taylor brought all things to an end.
Lady Diana wrote to me in her final days. I did not receive the letter until a reply was impossible. She must have planned it that way, giving the envelope to some servant to post when the time came. She asked me why I had not written, Mr. Taylor. I placed my letters on the table in the hall of college and yet they were never posted. For this I can only blame myself, and ascribe their interception to my own foolishness: I should have seen them into the postbox with my own eyes. Unless, of course, you think there is someone else I should blame.
Lady Diana’s letter was short. She said she was sorry for everything that happened. Do you not think that kind of her? She asked if I could forgive her for abandoning me. She asked me if I could forgive her, Mr. Taylor. After being forced away by other parties, she still asked for my forgiveness. One day soon I shall return to Barbroke, to the church at the top of the rise. I shall stand in the stillness and remember her as she was in those days of Oxford, but I shall never be able to tell her that there is not, nor was there ever, anything to forgive.
She sent a few items of sentimental value with her letter. One was the hand-mirror which I now pass back to you, lest you think I keep it as some manner of souvenir. I never kept it. I gave it to her on the very night of the day you gave it to me. She did not know, of course, that you had ever laid a hand on it. Now she has returned it to me as a keepsake. No doubt she imagined it joining her other gifts: the note-book and silver pencil, the guides to the Galleries, the first edition of Warber. Oh! but of course it could not, even had I not given it back to you.
Was it you that took those precious items from my room during dinner, Mr. Taylor? Or your wife? And not just the note-book and other items but also my diaries and academic writings. Do you have them now, Mr. Taylor? I wonder. When I returned to my rooms to find them missing I thought I should hide away and never be seen again. I wailed, I am not ashamed to say. Yet I found that I had the strength to come down to breakfast the next day, and all the days thereafter. Keep them if you have them, Mr. Taylor. I no longer care.
Penelope Swift
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Oxford, 11th June, 1892
Dear Miss Swift,
Thank you for your letter. I am saddened to learn that you had no place for my gift. I accept it back with a heavy heart but with understanding.
I should very much like to have you comprehend my part in events, since it does seem that I have been cast in the role of villain in this drama. I wonder if you might allow that we three were brought together by some external force; something one might call “fate” or “predestination”. For my part, I can only say that I attended that first evening at the college with no intention whatsoever of making your acquaintance. As events unfolded I can honestly declare that I was never given occasion to feel that our relationship was built upon anything but shared emotions. On reflection that is not quite true, as I recollect a change in your demeanour, at least in its expression towards me, as your friendship with Lady Diana grew. Would it not be a curious thing if I had not reacted to that change which came over you?
I do not know anything of your diaries or the other items taken from your room. I was not even aware of their theft until your letter arrived.
Perhaps she is right.
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Whitstable
Dear Anna,
I am sorry that I upset you when you visited last week. I was behaving as I thought best at all times. Anyway, I am sorry.
I had a few additional pieces of the puzzle to share, but you left before I was able to give them to you. So here they are. I would like you to keep them. I think they mean more to you than they do to me.
The four letters are the last ones in my possession which have anything to do with the story. The letter from Matthew to Diana is his draft of the correspondence but the scribbled “sent: 4th Jan 92” at the bottom certainly indicates that a good copy was posted. It seems that he never received a reply from anyone at Barbroke, which I consider only natural given the circumstances. The final letter, the one from Matthew to Penny, was never sent. The last sentence seems to be Matthew talking to himself before he put his pen away.
I don’t know who took Penny’s things. Maybe it was Matthew, to protect himself. Maybe it was Constance, keen to find out the truth or looking for ammunition to use against Penny, if necessary. Whoever stole them, they ended up in my family. I am sending them back to you. I know that you will take good care of them.
If I had the Warber I would give it to you, too, but that seems lost now, as is the pamphlet which Penny found with it in the library at Barbroke. The lock of hair is here for you, though, and also a short note on the pamphlet, written by Penny. The mirror was sold at the same time as the painting.
The photograph will explain Diana’s letter.
What else do you think Diana gave to Penny? There is no clue in the letter, and the “items of sentimental value” certainly did not include the painting. Would you let me know, please, if you ever find out? There will always be tea and cake waiting for you in Whitstable.
God bless you,
Gerald
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The package I received with Gerald’s letter contained all the items he listed, including a faded, torn photograph, only a few inches on each side. A woman sat stiffly on a chair, in front of a plain backdrop. Her body and legs faced slightly to the right whilst her head was turned towards the camera. Her hands were resting on her lap, one on top of the other. She looked dour, but I could recall few formal, Victorian portraits in which the sitters did not look dour. I held the image against the painting to confirm what I already knew, that this was Penny. I turned it over, to see if there was a date or location written on the reverse. There, in neat, pencil handwriting, I read, “Constance Taylor. March, 1886.”
Rossetti—grave-robbing Rossetti—had done the same thing. Fanny Cornforth sat whilst he painted her for his Lady Lilith; sat and combed her hair, combed the locks that would twine around a young man’s neck and never set him free, according to Goethe. They did not bind Rossetti. He freed himself less than five years after Lilith’s completion, returning to the canvas and replacing the face of Cornforth with that of Alexa Wilding. Rossetti may have thought Wilding’s aspect more dangerous, or perhaps the buyer wanted the painting to match others already purchased from the artist. Not that it was important: I felt no better for knowing that precedents existed. There was no solace in academic analysis.
I could not escape the loss of my Penny. I had seen Diana as impassive in the face of Thomasin’s fears, but with the photograph in my hand I saw in her only the forbearance needed to embrace an imposter. Constance had been watching me as she must have watched Penny, and perhaps that was only right: she was hurt and Penny was the source of that injury, the knife twisting in the wound. So Penny was Emily, lost. But I was Penny, surely, after all this time. I must be Penny, or I could not help her, could not be helped by her.
There was a telephone number on the letter from the Laycombs. I called it. Mrs Laycomb answ
ered. I explained that I had been somewhat over-enthusiastic in my curiosity, and she was gracious in accepting my apology, and my promise that the painting would be returned within the week. There had been, I told her, some confusion when we left the village: I had wrapped the painting in a blanket, intending to return it to the attic, but a friend had mistakenly put it in the car. Mrs Laycomb wanted to know my impression of it. I told her that it was pleasant enough, but nothing special. In return she declared that she thought it “a pretty thing” and was looking forward to hanging it in her London place.
Within an hour the painting was wrapped, addressed and deposited at the local post office. Diana’s mirror was tucked inside the parcel, too: however much I might have wished it were mine, it was not, and I could not take pleasure from it—or take whatever it gave me—knowing that I had stolen it. I even included the photograph of Constance, who could never be my “pretty thing”.
All the Perverse Angels Page 28