Storm Glass

by Jane Urquhart

Eventually I soothed myself by sending him small objects as a kind of reply to his constant messages: a starfish from my warm native sea, three of my dark eyelashes, and finally one of my shoes, filled with the blood of the previous evening’s performance. I knew that by the time it reached him, travelling through the freeze in the messenger’s pocket, the liquid would be frozen—a ruby of sorts—some real colour in exchange for the silver of the jewels and the pure white of his absence.

  After that we spoke once, outside the door that was my entrance to the theatre. He asked if I was pleased with my surroundings, with the servants, the furs, the jewels, whether the music was correct, too fast, too slow, whether my supply of shoes was sufficient, my dressmaker adequate. Answering his questions I examined his eyes, so amazingly pale. But some flame was there, the edge of the fire at night, cold blue. Heat disguised as ice.

  Later, when all was black beyond the edges of the stage, I thought I saw the silver braid of his uniform, shining like a skate blade from the depths of the theatre. Me dancing La Sylphide, becoming for his country “the daughter of the air,” his obsession and then his indifference around me like blue peripheral light. When I left the theatre I saw the two miniature mountains of our only conversation standing side by side with our footprints behind them, his static, mine restless and confused. I laughed aloud in the presence of such meaningless evidence.

  My dressmaker was enthralled by my black hair. She said it shone like the wings of blackbirds and made her sad since the presence of any bird was brief in that country unless it was caged and forced to sing in some rich woman’s boudoir. And I said that I’d always wanted hair like corn silk, like spun silver. Then she promised me the costume I wore that evening, silver threads as fine as hair, running through the gauze. After the performance I refused to remove it, wore it under fur to my coach, to the journey that I made each night, five miles over ice to my house.

  Travelling, I could hear the icicle beard of the driver clattering in the wind. When the light inside the carriage changed I knew we had left the city. I had never seen the winter landscape at night. Breathe though I might on the windows of the coach, the frost was too thick to be penetrated. This night, however, the light of the city was replaced by a colder, bluer illumination, and I knew there was a moon. My small stove threw shadows on the interior of the coach, the empty plush seat across from me. Exhausted from the performance, lulled by the motions of travel, I fell into a deep sleep.

  And dreamed my special coloured dreams of flying. Landscape, southern and lush, passing beneath me with such clarity I could see each pebble at the bottom of the sea as I followed the coast. Poppies, red and yellow, grew on the edges of highways, wisteria in full bloom over doorways. Dark pines, cypresses reaching up towards my arms, soft curve of hills, the gentle herds of animals. And my dancer’s shadow down there, created by sun, fluctuating with each change of elevation.

  I awakened to an utterly opposite geography. The coach had stopped and its door was flung open to endless snow, sharp stars, moon and velvet sky. Imprinted on this, darker than the rest, was the figure of a man who, masked and covered by a long cloak, had, at last, responded to my invitations.

  The driver, immobilized by fear at the sight of the pistol, said nothing. And the man behind the mask filled up the night with his silence. But when he placed the skin of an animal on the snow and turned to remount his horse, I understood that he wanted a solitary performance, wanted me to dance, for him, alone, in a frozen, anonymous landscape, where no trace of evidence could possibly survive. The pistol shone, like a final denial, in his hand.

  When I began to dance, I danced towards the heavens, that whirling vortex, an extension of my costume stretched across the sky. I danced and hardly touched the skin beneath my shoes. Black music, blue music, then silver in my ears. And then the music of the moon, transparent and frightening, like the hot steam of his breath against the cold. Sweat crystallized along my inner arms, my bare thighs, until frost covered my body like fine down. Once the moonlight shone on his exposed teeth where he carried either a grimace or a smile, and once on the ice-blue edge of fire in his eyes. As I reached for something in the sky and was finished, a handful of diamonds landed at my feet. And then my private music was broken apart, into the sound of his moving away.

  I returned to the south with jewels in my luggage and anger lodged like glass inside the network of my veins. When I dance now in my own country they call me the daughter of the earth. My costumes are crimson and yellow; passion and anger are in my gestures. The anger is the window that I look through to the world. It is what I eat and what I dream and what I dance. I keep it close to me always for clarity. It is the source of my energy, the root of my self.

  And, now when I open the drawer that holds them, the diamonds look like artificial ice among the other stones of blue and white. Even this hot anger could never melt their cold, which is clean and exact and permanent. And speaking deep within their icy centre is the blue flame of his eyes. Here, inside this drawer, where I keep loose fragments of that time: the night sky, pain and frozen stars, the joy and then the anger, the terrifying love he never felt for me. All of this, locked and unlocked by the key of anger.

  Ice and sapphires.

  Ice and pearls.

  Venetian Glass

  COVETOUSNESS

  I discovered her in Florence. Her mother owned a house there to which my companions and I were often invited, as were other grand tourists of the time. This house, I remember, was vast and damp; so damp, in fact, that paint could be peeled from the wall by a careless brush of the sleeve and the books in shelves were warped and covered with mould. The room she entered that first time was lit by a single inadequate fire whose warmth did not extend as far as the furniture. But she, entering, brought heat with her, or so I thought at the time.

  She was my first obsession. Quiet and steady, she moved through the rooms of that house carrying silver trays filled with glasses of sherry for her guests. When she passed by the large windows, light reflected from these goblets and shone on the contours of her face, adding an artificial flicker of emotion to a surface that otherwise remained in a state of passive ease.

  My tutor was concerned about my response to her and lectured me long into the night. Although he spoke of Raphael or Signorelli, or the faces of Giotto’s women, or Botticelli’s, I knew it was to distract me from her face, which had begun to shine in my mind like a constant moon. Sometimes he referred to the itinerary we would follow when the winter months were finished, describing the relics we might find along the way: the incorruptible tongue of Saint Anthony in Padua, the bones of the cardinals in the Campo Santo in Pisa. But I knew he was speaking of my tongue, my bones, warning me of the effects of unprescribed, unpremeditated love.

  The object of our journey was twofold, designed for the purpose of furthering my education and in the hope that we might bring back some tangible souvenirs to adorn, temporarily, the walls and shelves of my father’s country house, and later, when the plans for my marriage were completed, to permanently adorn mine. And so, when we were not trying to determine the vague shapes of frescos in dark old churches, we were scouring bazaars and shops for treasure. Although my tutor, who had made the tour several times, had a much better eye than mine, neither of us was an expert and we were often mistaken in our purchases. However, I am pleased to report that several of those souvenirs remain with me still: a tiny Sassetta, depicting an obscure saint surrounded by gold leaf, some sections of Roman statuary, which have been authenticated, and Etruscan pottery shards. We picked up other, less notable Italian primitives, some fine silver, and also some wonderful chairs in Naples, for very little cost. My tutor suggested we delay any purchases of lace until we reached Venice, as well as any purchases of glass.

  The girl in Florence had finished her education, as much as women ever will, could play the pianoforte, make pictures in watercolour or needlepoint, and write sentimental verse in a clear round hand. She and her mother had lived in Flore
nce for over a year and, as a result, she knew a great deal more than I about the paintings and sculpture there. Yet none of this attracted me to her. It was something in her manner, or something I invented in her manner—a kind of permanent state of grace in my presence, which seemed to grow and substantiate itself as she became less and less a stranger to me. Not that I saw it in her face. Her expression remained unchanged. But I felt, in the air around her, a quivering intensity, like the life and landscape you see trembling on the surface of a pond.

  The winter passed in a series of afternoon tea parties and evening dinner parties, either at her house or at the homes of other English in the area. I think of it now as a kind of game. If I laid down the correct cards I was able to sit next to her at the table or better, across from her, to allow my eyes to speak to hers. She was a beauty, no one contested that. Her throat I remember as being particularly fine; and some life pulsed there that I could not quite interpret. This fractional knowledge fascinated me, that and her complete serenity. I wanted the details of her thoughts, wanted to be the man who broke open what I believed to be her camouflage of calm.

  As soon as I discovered that she, her mother, and a few companions intended to tour Italy in the summer, I began to arrange my itinerary to coincide with theirs. I was becoming aware, however, that from that point on my actions would have to be subtle. So I decided that I could not appear in each of the towns they planned to visit and when I did appear it would have to seem coincidental. I was a clever young man. I planned my strategy with the knowledge that, in certain circumstances, withdrawal is just as powerful as approach. I knew how to impose my presence so that it would later articulate my absence. To disappear from the room, for example, in the middle of a discussion in which I had played an important role and to which there had not yet been a conclusion. To speak of fictional marvels that I longed to show her in a forthcoming city and then never appear in that city, giving her no directions that she might find these wonders herself. To read a letter in her presence, allowing moods to pass like weather across my face, and then not divulge the contents of that letter. The idea being to create, in a hundred small ways, a void that only increased conversation and contact could fill. So that eventually, in farther foreign places, she would begin to search for me.

  And even at that young age, as if by instinct, I knew the effects of place. In Rome I ran to extravagance, entertaining her, and those of her party, at every possible moment, taking them to concerts, plays, fine feasts, making no attempt, at first, to speak to her alone, even though the blood rushed to my head when she turned toward another at the table or sent a quiet smile toward an actor in the Commedia.

  At last a day arrived when her companions and mine, friendly as a result of the extended contact I had thrust upon them, decided to make an excursion to pay their devotions, such as they were, to the Virgin at Monte de Guardia. She and I stayed behind to visit the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. There, in that strangely columned interior, on those cold and swelling geometric floors, I knew that setting had meshed with purpose and I spoke, for the first time, of my affection for her. I remember church dust catching the hem of her skirt and a shaft of late afternoon sun passing through stained glass and touching her shoulder. And I remember the moment when the serenity of her expression changed, the moment when she opened to me.

  My tutor, meanwhile, had not forgotten his employment. As persistent as a toothache, he was always at my side, tempting me with slightly damaged panel paintings, or worn tapestries, or yellowed ivories from the Middle Ages. But by then my dreams were full of her. Details of her costume occupied my thoughts: the pearl button of her glove, or the violet braid on her skirt. I imagined her in mirrors, plaiting her hair or fixing a cameo in the small hollow between her collar-bones. Moving from the strong sun of Italian noons into the blind dark of churches I felt I was moving into her arms, as if they were as strong and mysterious as this foreign religion we seemed to be constantly invading. Even now, as an old man, when I think of Rome, it appears to me in the form of her pale brow and the puzzled look around her eyes. The shock of this, her first shift from a calm and neutral territory, had stunned her as a blow or sudden loss might have, and I remember her figure, slightly bent under this loss, drifting under dark oil paintings, day after day.

  We moved on to Bologna in later spring. It was already dry and hot and dust gathered on eyelashes, her eyelashes. I swear, if I could have seen it all as a reflection in her eyes, I would have been content. But appearances had to be kept up. My tutor, and indirectly my father, had to be appeased. My education had to be furthered. Words like Gothic and Renaissance had to be stamped into my soul.

  She meanwhile held to me. Her presence, as if winged, disturbed the still air. Her body blocked the view, like an Italian portrait where the charming landscape is all but obliterated by the head and shoulders of a countess. I was unable to look past her to the monuments I was expected to remember. In our evening conversations my tutor was appalled by my lack of recall; told me my head was hollow, called me visually illiterate, until I explained that monuments perplexed me—that unless they were smashed into shards they were immovable, incapable of being crated and shipped to England and therefore irrelevant to my future. Unless it carried with it the possibility of possession, no physical object could hold my attention long.

  By early June we were in Padua, a city of orange and yellow streets filled with chanting children. Again she and I found ourselves alone in one of those large, cold pieces of religious architecture that were so much a part of our journey. This time it was a pilgrimage place—the Basilica of Saint Anthony. She there in a dress of dark, dark blue, practically blending into the walls except for the moon of her face. The church was no beauty, a jumble of the worst of several periods. Inside this disorder the purity of her form was absolute, gradually reappearing as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. We performed the dance one does in such places: up the centre aisle, down the side aisles, round and round, past all those sombre confessionals where those of the faith describe their sins to a faceless grate. And then we came to the chapel where the treasure of the basilica was housed.

  There I stopped, completely overcome by it. There were crowns and chalices of gold inlaid with emeralds and rubies, filigree pendants and fibulas, sceptres and bowls and, most amazing, over one hundred reliquaries besides the one that held the tongue of the departed saint. It was an accumulation of radiance, a concise pageant of glory. I couldn’t imagine the hands of craftsmen who could work such miniature miracles. Such accessibility. I wanted to touch it all, to leave my fingerprints as evidence of my desire to possess it, to be in control of it. I wanted to harness the refracted light that bounced from precious metal to my brain. From that moment on, the rooms of my future were filling up with glass display cases in which I was mentally placing object after object.

  Beside me the woman I had been following for months turned from this, laughing a little at a finger bone surrounded by a tiny silver Gothic cathedral. She looked in my eyes for her own and found material need instead. Still I took her hand, leading her down the centre aisle, through the main portal to the square. There she, not I, sang the obligatory praises of Donatello’s Gattamelata, a man I considered too small for his magnificent horse, yet one of the few monuments I can still bring to mind as if I were standing before it right now.

  By the time we reached Venice our parties were openly travelling together. No one, my tutor included, opposed the courtship any longer. He had promised, in fact, to speak to my father about the unimportance of choosing a wife with a title, and the fine background of her particular family. We had won them all: she with her charm and I with my obstinacy. Then, within a few steps of my goal, the network of collecting threw its grid across my life. It was as simple as trading one obsession for another and as complicated as interlacing on a brooch. Almost imperceptibly the focus of my passion shifted. I began to finish all our discussions with definite, conclusive statements, tying all the strings of conversat
ion into a final tidy knot. And there was nothing left to say. I began to speak of actual wonders in the city and then to immediately guide her to those wonders. And there was nothing left to anticipate. I read all the letters I received aloud in her presence, clearing up any vague details with absolute definitions. And there were no unanswered questions.

  I discovered glass in Venice. My vision altered. The city itself seemed made of glass, reflecting from all that still water. At first I visited shop after shop with my companions, not yet wishing to be alone with it, my new treasure. I called it frozen liquid, captured gesture. After three days I set out by myself and crossed the lagunas by gondola, heading for Murano.

  During my first visit I bought sixteen lattimo chocolate cups with sepia cathedrals painted on their bottoms, and a great quantity of blue glass—imitation lapis lazuli for the handles of my future tableware, tens of vases in clear pastel, thin lines like roads on a map all across their surfaces, transparent plates where enamel landscapes floated. In subsequent days I had crate after crate packed and shipped to London. I chose cups, phials, pitchers, saucers, goblets, and large chandeliers. And then some works of a more fantastic nature: a ship complete with sails and riggings and a tree in full leaf. Finally, on my last day in Venice, I went in search of looking-glass and picked out five large mirrors surrounded by ornate glass frames.

  On the last evening I walked with her in the low sun by one of those lengthy sheets of water. I stopped to pick up a pebble and dropped it casually to the spot where her slender reflection wavered, watching as her image shattered, simultaneously, in the water and in my mind. From then on she was clear glass and broken from me. I could not see her but to see through her to the monuments of the city; her left arm becoming a distant spire, her shoulder the ornamental corner of a palace. The phial of her body seemed fine-edged and thin. I knew then that I had imagined in her a glass so delicate and clear she had become all but invisible to me. I could not touch her but to break her.