by Molly Tanzer
Well, more specifically, eventually obtaining Rochester’s patronage.
But even with his newfound academic motivation and the promise of secret meetings, the day was a rough one for Henry. Never at his best after a sleepless night, the three or so hours he had managed to snatch after returning—and spending not a little time blinking at the darkness in his dormitory, wondering about the contents of St John’s letter—did not exactly increase Henry’s mental acuity. He was called on several times during Logic only to flub his answers entirely, much to the delight of the rest of the students; Geometry was an unmitigated disaster, Moral Philosophy humiliating, and, after dinner, Classics … Classics was the worst of all.
He had, after all, given Master Fulkerson all the ammunition he needed to make those hours of his life a living hell. Henry was forced to endure not only the Master’s opening remarks on how, despite having made a recent—if impromptu—study of “modern English poetry,” they would continue with studying Aristophanes’ speech in Symposium that day, but Master Fulkerson’s questions pertaining to material he had but dimly understood—and, truth be told, barely skimmed.
“Mr. Milliner!” called Master Fulkerson, not looking up from his podium at the bottom of the auditorium. “As you seem lately much occupied with matters of love,” he drawled the word to much hooting and howling from the appreciative class, the shitwigs, “let us hear your thoughts concerning the Symposium. Yesterday, after you took your leave of us, we ended with a spirited debate as to whether Aristophanes’ allegory was comic or tragic. Our Lord Calipash, tender soul that he is, seemed to think the plight of homosexuals rather sad. But what do you think, Mr. Milliner? Is it sad when one loves someone with whom he may never truly be, due to God’s laws, or society’s laws, or some other factor … such as, oh, I don’t know—social class?”
It was a nasty thing to say, even for Master Fulkerson. Henry could not help but flush—many of his classmates did, as well. Christ, if he had held his hands in front of Rochester’s face he would have burned them! But he had to answer, so he thought for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Master Fulkerson, I would say that, ah, since we, because of the gods and all, are now all born separately—well, ah, most of us,” he stammered, thinking of the twins he had seen last night, “it must be really difficult to find one’s other half—and, I guess, to know what to do once you do find him? Or her? Especially since we’re all so confused if love is a physical thing. Rather than spiritual.” He was blushing terribly now. “I mean, Plato—or Aristophanes, rather—seems to think love is spiritual a lot of the time, right, but he’s talking about sex, too … you know, like we were discussing yesterday, before I left,” Good show Henry, thought Henry, nicely done indeed, show you were listening, “it’s still the convention that you’ve got to, you know, marry and sire heirs and have a family and everything, even if you don’t want to. That seems a trifle unfortunate, I think, even if God in His wisdom has decreed that homosexuals are abominations and all that. As for social class, well, you’re really hard-up if you fancy someone higher than you, but if some rich lady or lord takes an interest, they can sometimes do what they like, like if she’s a widow for example. And a gentleman may refresh the old family stock with some wild blood, right? But a lot of the time it’s no good at all for unfortunate, star-crossed souls.”
He’d done it—by God, he had actually acquitted himself decently! Master Fulkerson was staring at him, obviously struck dumb by the sheer brilliance of his answer. Henry shot Rochester a smug look, but Rochester didn’t seem to be interested in meeting his eyes.
“Mr. Milliner,” said Master Fulkerson at last, “that was, I think, the single worst response to a question I have ever personally heard uttered here at Wadham, even these days, when merry-making seems to have replaced scholarship as the predominant goal of our student body. That you would express such nonsense under the roof of this hallowed place of learning shames me. Yes, me—for if you for one minute think that was an educated opinion, worthy of giving voice to in the English tongue, I have failed completely in my—”
“But it is sad when anyone is denied a perfect union with his true other half!”
The students, who had begun to whisper and jeer, fell silent at the pronouncement that rang out in a low, clear, musical tenor. Henry felt as though all the wind had been pulled out of his lungs with a bellows. St John had spoken out of turn—and on his behalf?
“My Lord Calipash,” wheezed Master Fulkerson. “I didn’t realize you had some wisdom to bestow upon us this day. Had I but known, I should have called on you. My apologies.”
Henry was amazed—St John was the only boy who didn’t flinch at the Master’s acid tone. Had he … had he gone mad? He seemed oblivious to his danger; when Master Fulkerson spoke like that, everyone knew heads would soon roll.
“Perhaps not wisdom,” said St John, heatedly if not loudly, “I could not be the judge of that. But agreement, there is no doubt! Mr. Milliner’s phrasing was perhaps rudimentary, but his reasoning shows … a compassionate heart. I know well enough, Master Fulkerson, that your intention was to mock our person for our theory on the matter, and mock Mr. Milliner too, for his admittedly questionable decision to write poetry during your class, but wise men—men I personally admire—have thought long and hard on the subject, and come up with no better solution! Why, when I think of ‘Platonick Love’ by the master-poet Abraham Cowley, I—”
“Calm yourself, Lord Calipash,” said Master Fulkerson, banging his palm on the podium. “You speak from your guts and not your mind. To begin with, contemporary poets, especially those as inferior and frivolous as Cowley, have no place in this classroom.” The Master mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “You are also failing to take into account that Aristophanes’ encomium is not meant to be read as seriously as the rest. Any Christian would recognize it is an impossible origin myth. ‘Male and female He created them,’ and in His image, yes? And answer me, too—if Aristophanes’ theory is to be taken seriously, heaven help me, when these big round prehistoric humans were split in two, what would have happened to their souls?”
“Perhaps the soul can be split,” said St John, with vigor. “Perhaps it can be further manipulated than that, even! Christopher Wren believed perfect blood transfusion was possible; why, if the soul were to be isolated, or even captured, could it not—”
“Save it for Master Deutsch’s Natural Philosophy class, though he will likely find your theories as nonsensical as I do,” interrupted Master Fulkerson. “Well, well. I see I have been far too lax in my management of this class. Even my students with some mean bit of academic promise are shouting silly theories and day-dreams when we should be learning. I must have committed some grave pedagogical error indeed. Now, to remedy that …”
It was all his fault, thought Henry wretchedly. How awful, to see St John humiliated so! Miserable, during the rest of the class Henry diligently took notes, refusing even to lift his eyes from his parchment; walking to dinner, though Rochester tried to talk to him about this-and-that as they headed to the dining hall, he only grunted his replies, too consumed by thoughts of what he might encounter at the Doric Temple to pay attention. His mind was so thoroughly occupied that when Rochester stomped away from him like an infuriated little girl he genuinely had no idea what offense he could have committed against the lad.
But time passes, though it may seem slower or quicker depending on one’s circumstances. Though Henry despaired of it ever doing so, the sun did indeed sink that day, and he did indeed manage to wait until it did so before approaching the Temple.
To his surprise, St John was already there, smoking sweet-smelling tobacco out of a long clay pipe and peering at a book in the fading light. His servant Thomas, a black-haired young man with a rakish moustache, stood beside him, arms clasped behind his back, leg turned out, revealing a well-shaped calf.
Henry saw them from behind at first, for St John sat with his back to the college, leaning agains
t one of the columns. The sight of his straight, sprawling limbs and naked head took Henry’s breath away. He had never seen his idol in such an unconscious moment, and sitting there, hat tossed aside, legs crossed at the ankles where they rested on the second step of the temple’s stylobate, arm hefting his book aloft and moving his lips as he read—he was certainly not aware he was observed.
Henry coughed politely to announce himself, not wanting it to seem like he was eavesdropping, or whatever one might call watching someone who thinks he is alone.
St John exhaled a blue plume of smoke. “I think our visitor has arrived. Leave us, Thomas,” he said and handed over the pipe.
Thomas bowed, accepted it with a flourish.
“Does my lord require anything else?” he said. “Should I remain close-by, in case of—”
“I said leave us, Thomas.”
Thomas bowed again and strode away into the gloaming, pipe cradled in his hands.
After he had retreated from view, St John sighed, and read:
“In thy immortal part,
Man, as well as I, thou art;
But something ‘tis that differs thee and me;
And we must one even in that difference be.
I thee, both man and woman prize,
For a perfect love implies
Love in all capacities.”
Henry waited for more, but that seemed to be the last of it.
“Very pretty,” he said, wishing he could think of more to say, but being in a garden—at twilight—with St John—who was reading, he was reasonably certain, love poetry … it was overwhelming.
“You wouldn’t consider it inferior? Or frivolous?” St John turned ‘round and looked up at Henry with anxious eyes. “Master Fulkerson and I are not always of a mind, of course, but to hear him casting such—such vile aspersions upon my dear Mr. Cowley! How could he expect me to bear it?”
“I … I suppose I couldn’t really say,” said Henry. “Master Fulkerson and I have never been of a mind on anything, so perhaps I am more used to disagreeing with him.”
St John laughed, a beautiful high laugh belonging more to a boy than a young man, and patted the stone beside him three times, two short, and one long.
“I propose you sit beside me,” he said. “And I propose that after you sit, we talk.”
Henry tried not to make himself ridiculous as he awkwardly lowered himself beside the Lord Calipash, and almost managed it. He only grunted a little.
“Last night,” said St John, “was unfortunate.”
Henry said nothing. The image of two red-headed twins eagerly fornicating floated across his mind like a cloud across the moon, as did the memory of the feeling of dung coating his face.
“There are rules, Mr. Milliner, to our little symposia, you know. You would not have been tossed out in such a way had you learned them before attending.”
“And how might I have achieved that?”
“Your little friend, did he tell you nothing? I was surprised to see him. I believe his first time among our company gave him indigestion.”
“He told me it was anonymous, but I didn’t think—”
“Well, next time you’ll know.”
Henry twitched. “Next …”
“Did last night give you indigestion, too? How surprising; I thought you made of sterner stuff than little Johnny Wilmot, the half-pint Earl. He is such a dildo!”
Henry laughed, delighted. “No, no! I was quite intrigued—and curious to know more.” He took care not to blurt out this last like a yeoman’s son proposing to a dairymaid. “I simply had no reason to suspect that—”
“We desire you to become a part of our entourage,” said St John, and Henry hoped against hope he was speaking in the nobleman’s third, rather than on behalf of the Blithe Company as a whole. “We desire it most ardently. But you must tell us a little more about yourself, Mr. Milliner. What are your plans? For your life?”
Henry decided to be honest. “Nothing particularly noble, my lord,” he said with a shrug. “I wish only to earn enough to be comfortable eating and drinking my fill every day, and to marry a woman who will keep my house tolerably well. My father achieved this via lawyering, and as he had his heart set on me following his trade, I decided to do what he wished, believing it could help me achieve my goals. I have tried to please him in the following, but I fear I have not done so well at that. I am not … academically gifted.”
“What are you gifted at?”
“Taste, my lord.”
St John seemed surprised at this. “Taste?”
“Yes my lord. I have always had an ability to identify which is the finest blossom of the bouquet—even if, being only the son of a lawyer, I have never had the pleasure of plucking the bloom.”
St John laughed again. “You have a gift for language, Mr. Milliner, which after hearing your poem, I confess I had no expectation of. What a delightful surprise, that your conversation should be so entertaining.”
Ouch. “Thank you, my lord.”
St John said no more. They sat in silence as twilight yielded to dusk, bird-song to bat-squeak, and Henry felt a chimera himself, all made up of strange parts. That St John had complimented his person gave him joy, while he was wounded at the blackguarding of his poetry. He was pleased to hear he should be invited to future meetings of the Blithe Company while feeling their notion of entertainment was a little stranger than he had anticipated. And he was thrilled that St John was “taking an interest” in his life, though confused as to why, exactly.
“Would you be open to a proposition?”
Startled, Henry nodded. “Yes!”
“Before even knowing what it is?”
“Oh. I, well—if you think it’s a good idea …”
“Think what is a good idea?”
Henry adored and despised the look on St John’s sweet face, the joy one sees in the eyes of a cat who has a bird pinned and beating against her paw.
“I shouldn’t tease you, Mr. Milliner. I simply delight in making you uncomfortable. Would you deny me my delights?”
“Never, my lord.”
“Well, then, what I propose is that you rent the cockloft above our private room. It is not much done, for chumming is the preference of the Dean for those of your class—social and academic—but today I spoke to him, and to your advisor, Mr. Berry. I think Mr. Berry was uneasy about me influencing you, but when I pressed him, he confessed he did not know of another who could help you with your Greek and with your goal of adding natural philosophy to your accomplishments.” St John laughed. “There was some worry about the increase in your rent, but I proposed that if I began to tutor you, they would reduce my rent by the same sum, so we’ll call it a wash. What do you say?”
Henry threw up his hands. “What can I say? You have defeated me, having anticipated all possible objections. I will, with great thanks to your noble person, accept your generosity—though I am bemused why you should want to offer it to me. I know what I am, and I know what you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my lord, that I will not be an ornament to your chambers—you cannot want me for that—and I fear with such a hopeless student as myself, despite your skill, you will never earn your laurels as a teacher. As for anything else, well, I have little money to pay out for freaks, much less regular ones.”
“Henry,” said St John, and Henry’s heart thrilled—he didn’t know St John even knew his name. To hear him use it! “Dear, dear Henry. Why—you’re shivering! Is it the chill of the early spring evening, or something else? You cannot be ill … well, we must get you inside and warm you up, just the same. And then, tomorrow, you shall move in to my cockloft. Is that not a wondrous thing?” St John leaned back away from Henry and looked at him appraisingly. “I think you judge yourself too harshly. I think you will be an ornament to our chambers. I tire of these lean, long Wadham boys with their pinched faces and angular lines. I cannot believe you are not sixteen, you have such a … mature look
to you. Your flesh gives you an advantage, Henry, you already look the successful lawyer—I dare say, once we train you up a bit, you will be impressing everyone, ladies and gentlemen alike.”
“Do you really think so?” Something occurred to him. “Train me?”
St John smiled, and pressed his finger to Henry’s lips. “Close your pretty mouth, my handsome protégé. If you are patient, all will be made clear to you. I will get your grades up so that you can join the Natural Philosophy class in the fall, and I will teach you how to act so that others do you the honor you deserve. I promise.”
Chapter Six: This Will the Substance; He the Shadow Be
Maximilian and young master Bruce were surprised when, the next day during their after-dinner study hour, Henry did not settle down with his books, but instead began to pack up his belongings; they both looked as if they’d unexpectedly bitten into lemons when Henry said, so casually even he was impressed, that the Lord Calipash had invited him to rent the garret above his private room, and he had taken him up on the offer.
“You?” Bruce wrinkled his nose. “But you’re absurd—not to mention that you lumber about like a drugged bear. He should have asked you to walk around up there before offering it to you. You’ll shake his inkwells off his desk!”
“Oh, well, you know how it is Brucie, when you distinguish yourself in some way, people will take an interest,” Henry said loftily. “I’m sure one day you’ll find someone who will recognize whatever good qualities I’m sure you must possess.”
“How very charitable of you,” said Bruce, and turned back to his notes with a sulky expression.
Henry tossed the last of his possessions into the center of his bed-linens and tied the ends, making a lumpy parcel, then tightened the leather strap around his books. “Well,” he grunted as he slung each over a shoulder, “I’m off. I’ll see you in class! Oh, don’t look so wet about it, lads. Try to be happy for me?”
