Gwendolen

by Diana Souhami

  In his German accent he replied, “That does not matter. It is always acceptable to see you sing.” The insult took away my breath. I felt myself blush with anger. Why did he need to say that? I had been asked to sing. It was a dinner party. The guests were thrilled by me, far more so than by his virtuosity. His was the first in a series of blows that tore at my pride and culminated, months later, in your return to me of my turquoise necklace.

  Catherine Arrowpoint compounded my humiliation by commiserating: “See what I have to go through with this professor,” she said. “He can hardly tolerate anything we English do in music. He tells us the worst that can be said of us. It is only bearable because everyone else is so admiring.”

  I tried to regain my poise, said I supposed I had been ill-taught and had no talent, and would be obliged to Herr Klesmer were he to tell me the worst.

  “Yes, it is true you have not been well taught,” he said to me and all who wished to hear. “Still you are not quite without gifts. You sing in tune and have a pretty fair voice.” He told me I produced my notes badly and the music I sang was “dawdly canting seesaw kind of stuff. Music for people with no breadth of vision. It makes men small as they listen to it. Sing something larger and I shall see.”

  So much for Bellini and so much for me. Klesmer was God, I the unworthy earthling, trapped by superficiality. “Oh, not now,” I said. “By and by.”

  “Yes, by and by,” Catherine Arrowpoint agreed, then joked it always took her half an hour to recover from the maestro’s criticism. After such pretense of allegiance with me, she invited him to play, “to show us what good music truly is.” Which he did. A composition of his own called “Freudvoll Leidvoll Gedankenvoll.” And I am sure his talent was huge, so much more huge than his manners. I tried not to cry.

  Clintock, the archdeacon’s son, came up to me and asked what Freudvoll meant, but I did not know. He said he wished I would sing again, for though he could listen to me all night he got nowhere with this sort of tip-top playing. I told him if he wanted to hear me sing, he was in a puerile state of culture, for I had just learned how bad my taste was, which gave me growing pains. He smiled politely and asked how I liked the neighborhood. I replied I liked it exceedingly, for it had a little of everything, and not much of anything, and most people in it were an utter bore.

  Clintock then talked of croquet and told me it was the game of the future. I hear my voice now as I cut him down: “I shall study croquet tomorrow. I shall take to it instead of singing.”

  That was how stung I was. I viewed myself as superior to Wancester Society, yet I was judged by it and found wanting. You might have rescued me and shown me a path. But all this was before I met you.

  Clintock informed me of a friend of his who had written a poem in four cantos about croquet that was as good as anything by Alexander Pope. He offered to send me a manuscript copy. I said he must first promise not to test me on it, or ask which part I liked best, “because it is not so easy to know a poem without reading it, as to know a sermon without listening.”

  He did not care to find barb or insult in my remark, he was staring at my breasts and legs, but Mrs. Arrowpoint overheard, made a judgment, and did not share her Tasso with me.

  * * *

  CATHERINE ARROWPOINT, PITIFUL of the smallness of my talent yet assured of Klesmer’s regard for hers, continued to invite me to dinners and soirées, but I could not see her again without a wave of jealousy and self-doubt, though her looks were unremarkable, her complexion was sallow, and her features were small. She was an heiress with unshaken confidence in her own talent, secure enough to disregard her plainness as an irrelevance, whereas I who was poor had only my looks and my dreams.

  After that evening at the Arrowpoints, though at Brackenshaw Castle, the Firs, and Quetcham Hall my singing had hitherto given such pleasure, I vowed never again to sing before an audience; I was as obstinate as I was offended. My admirers viewed me as exceptional. I was determined my detractors should see that too. I was not going to condemn myself to giving lessons to Alice like an impoverished governess or to help in the village school with Anna. If I could not be a singer, I would have a stage career. Mama told me I was more beautiful and alluring than the actress Rachel had been in Phèdre.

  * * *

  CHRISTMAS EVE BROUGHT my next humiliation. To show my theatrical talent, I decided to stage a tableau vivant from A Winter’s Tale before invited neighbors in the drawing room at Offendene. My intention was to let Herr Klesmer know that though my musical gifts might be unequal to Catherine Arrowpoint’s, my acting skills were another matter. I was director and principal player—Hermione, the beautiful, virtuous, vilified queen, shut away from the world for sixteen years. My cousin Rex, home for the holidays from his law studies, was King Leontes, my husband crazed with jealousy. Mama, in a white burnous, was my friend Paulina. Anna, Miss Merry, and Mr. Middleton—Uncle’s assistant clergyman, who had pale whiskers, wore buttoned-up clothes, and seldom laughed—were to have small parts. George Jarrett, the village carpenter, built the stage.

  The charade’s climax was the miraculous animation when I, the statue, came to life and Leontes kneeled to kiss the hem of my dress.

  Herr Klesmer was to strike the chord of animation. He sat at the piano. I stood immobile, elevated on a sort of plinth. Leontes gave permission for Paulina to make the statue speak and move. “Music awake her, strike!” Mama declared. Klesmer crashed the piano keys. As he did so, the panel in the wainscot opposite the stage flew open. There again, illumined by candlelight, was the dead face and fleeing figure. I screamed, collapsed to my knees, and covered my face. Mama and Rex rushed to help me from the room.

  The perplexed guests conjectured whether or not the scene was intended and wondered about the provenance of the panel. I was mortified. I forced myself to reappear quickly as if nothing was amiss. “We have to thank you for devising a perfect climax,” Klesmer said, and I flushed with relief and embarrassment and half took him to mean he recognized my acting talent. Later I learned he and everyone else concluded it was an unplanned mishap. His newfound tact was prompted by pity. As witness to my frailty, not my talent, he chose to spare me further mortification. Rex, who already loved me, saw proof of my sensibility and loved me the more. Other guests let the matter drop.

  I did not understand my eruptions of madness, and I was disturbed that the helpless fear which beset me in private could show itself in such a public way. Apparently Isabel, curious about the image that caused me acute distress, had taken the key and unlocked the panel. She trembled as she asked my forgiveness, which I granted out of a wish not to mention any of it ever again.

  In sport I was reckless in the face of danger, but the terror in my heart I could neither contain nor understand: of the dark, of being alone in confined spaces, of abandonment and death, of any sort of lovemaking. Mama called it my sensitiveness, but it was something else, a spiritual dread, a sense of isolation, a fear of being consumed or of loss of control. None of Uncle’s exhortations in church helped me. I came to think you might reconcile me to this inner darkness and guide me to a place of peace with myself. “Safeguard your fear,” you were to say to me. Down the years I have so often said that to myself: “Safeguard your fear, Gwendolen. Safeguard your fear.” I might have managed that with your arms around me.

  * * *

  REX WAS ONE of the men I spurned. Oh, and poor Mr. Middleton. And poor Mr. Clintock. Rex and Anna were devoted siblings. He was the light of her life, her guide and mentor. I liked his company and found him handsome and clever. The three of us would sing and play the piano, go riding, walking, and on picnics.

  Anna observed his love for me and rightly feared I would reject him. The simplicity of his devotion made me cruel. Though I loved him as if he was my brother, I could not return his passion. He was so upright, so defined by Pennicote: the dutiful son, loyal to his family, ambitious to serve as a lawyer, respectful of polite Society. Anyway Uncle would never have countenanced our marrying�
�young as we were, first cousins, and without money.

  Rex loved my frailty, strength, and beauty. He laughed at my jokes and respected my moods. Had we married, he would have been my attentive husband and wise, judicious friend. He would have encouraged my ambition, adored our children, provided a smart house and secure income. He was so opposite to Mama’s feckless husbands. But his virtues were a problem to me.

  I recall with shame the morning I inveigled him to ride with the hounds. I chose to ride despite forbiddance from Uncle and dissuasion from Mama, who was conscious of how my father had died in a riding accident. Uncle said no lady rode with the hounds except Mrs. Gadsby, who until she married the yeomanry captain had been a kitchen maid and still spoke like one. I scorned their concerns and lightly disobeyed. Lord Brackenshaw, who owned the hunt, had invited me. (His pink coat was always stained, and from his appearance it was hard to believe him a man of fabulous wealth.)

  His daughters, Beatrix and Maria, were to ride with him, so I urged Rex to ride with me. Uncle was away. Rex reluctantly agreed and, without asking, took the old horse Primrose. It was a beautiful January morning, the branches of the elm trees were bare, the air was fresh, and the hedges were sprinkled with red berries. As we trotted along, Rex asked what I hoped to do in my life. I feared a forthcoming hint at marriage. I was amused by his adoration but alarmed lest he, or anyone else, might overtly make love to me. I did not want to hear the words or sense a desire to embrace me. The idea made me shrink. I told him I should like to go to the North Pole, compete in steeplechases, dress like a man, and be queen of the East like Hester Stanhope.

  “You don’t mean you’d never be married?” Rex asked. I said if I married, I should not do as other women did, nor be like them. He then made some silly speech about a man who loved me more dearly than anything else in the world and would let me do just as I liked. I asked if he meant Mr. Middleton, then cantered away after the hounds.

  I soon was far ahead. Primrose, stiff and slow, was not a hunting horse, and Rex struggled to catch up. In the effort Primrose caught her hoof in a hole, fell, broke her knees, and threw Rex over her head. He was stunned, his shoulder dislocated. Joel Dagge, the blacksmith’s son, found him lying alone on Mill Lane, wrenched his shoulder back into its socket, and helped him home.

  I knew nothing of all this. I supposed Rex to have given up and gone home. I enjoyed the chase and thought no more of him. All those taking part commended my spirited riding. At the end of a triumphant day, escorted by Lord Brackenshaw, I rode home with the fox’s tail fastened to my saddle.

  At the rectory Uncle chastised Rex for taking Primrose without asking, using her as a hunter, and allowing me to ride with the hounds. He ordered him to leave Pennicote the next day, spend the rest of his vacation in Southampton, then go back to Cambridge.

  Rex cried and said he could not leave without first telling me he loved me. Uncle told him it was impossible: he was too young, first cousins should not marry, and I must ally myself to rank and wealth. Rex, he said, would soon recover; life was full of such brief disappointments. Uncle sent Rex to his room and told him they would talk again in the morning.

  He then came to Offendene to tell Mama and me of Rex’s fall. Rex had suffered no great damage, so I could not care about it. I thought the incident absurd: I had a picture of Rex, ridiculous on Primrose, stumbling in the lane, his cheeks puffed and red. Uncle saw I was not the least in love, but he forbade me to hunt again. “When you are married, it will be different,” he said. “You may do whatever your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man who can keep horses.”

  I made some pert retort and left the room. The exchange wiped away my elation of the morning. I abhorred the idea of the wife as a chattel. I intended to hunt without a husband’s sanction. The previous evening I had told Mama men were too ridiculous and I could never fall in love. Of the men who wooed me, Rex was an adoring boy, Clintock wrote risible poems about croquet, and Middleton, the assistant clergyman, had watery blue eyes, pale whiskers, and yellow teeth.

  Uncle, satisfied by my lack of concern, gave Rex permission to walk over and see me the next day.

  Offendene was two miles from the rectory. Rex, his arm in a sling, arrived in the early morning. I, tired from the previous day, was not yet down from my room.

  He waited in the drawing room. I did not want to see him. I suspected he intended to inflict embarrassment on me. I wore a black silk dress and a black band in my hair. I stood by the fire, viewed him coldly, then said formally, “I hope you are not much hurt, Rex. I deserve that you should reproach me for your accident.” He responded with some gracious remark about the small price of paying for the pleasure of my company with a tumble.

  He talked about going to Southampton, said it was an empty place without me, and that all the happiness of his life depended on my loving him more than anyone else. I loathed such drivel. It felt like an invasion. He tried to take my hand, and I backed away. “Pray don’t make love to me,” I scolded. “I hate it.” He went pale, and his mortification compounded my contempt. I glared. He was twenty like me. “Is that the last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen?” he asked. “Will it always be so?”

  I observed his wretchedness, felt anger toward him for subjecting me and himself to this, and regret for the companionship I knew we now would lose. “About making love? Yes,” I said. “But I don’t dislike you for anything else.” I resented being forced to say such things.

  He looked entirely crushed. There was a pause. He said good-bye and left the room. I heard the hall door bang behind him.

  The whole scene had been intolerable. I sat on the couch by the fire and sobbed. Mama came in, circled her arms around me, pressed her cheek against my head, and tried to tilt my chin to see my face. I crumpled in her arms. “Oh, Mama, what can become of my life?” I sobbed. “There’s nothing worth living for. I shall never love anybody. I can’t love people. I hate them.”

  “The time will come, dear, the time will come,” Mama said. I put my arms around her neck, clung to her, and said, “I can’t bear anyone but you to be very near me.”

  And it was true. It was as if a key was needed to unlock my heart and turn me from a child into a woman so that I might love someone else besides Mama. That key I came to believe was held by you.

  Of course Aunt and Anna blamed me for Rex’s distress. It must ever be the woman’s fault. Anna remained courteous but became wary and distant. My aunt believed if Rex adored me I must have behaved like a coquette and led him on. She thought Mama spoiled me. But if I could not say yes to Rex, what could I say but no.

  Rex became depressed and unreasonable and announced a wild plan to give up studying law, go to Canada as a forester, and live as a peasant in a hut. Anna vowed to go with him to cook and mend his clothes. She said it would be an escape from crinolines, feathered hats, gloves, and after-dinner small talk. Uncle allowed Rex a term out from Cambridge, forbade any further mention of his feelings for me and “the whole business,” and said the less it was mentioned the sooner it would blow over.

  * * *

  TIME PASSED. THERE was the Italian question, the Polish question, the Schleswig-Holstein question. Gladstone resigned as prime minister, in Chipping Norton rioters tried to free the sixteen women known as the Ascott Martyrs, and in London Alexandra Palace was destroyed by fire only a fortnight after opening. But Wancester was peaceful and unchanging. Horse dealers and saddlers plied their trade. Farmers sold their hay. The most exciting news in Pennicote was that Sir Hugo Mallinger’s nephew, Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt, was to visit and stay at Diplow Hall for the hunting season.

  We had heard rumor of Sir Hugo’s dislike of this nephew; how poor Lady Mallinger was afflicted with a sense of failure for having borne four daughters and no son to inherit the Mallinger estates; how this Henleigh Grandcourt, already rich beyond the dreams of most, stood to inherit, because of the law of primogeniture, Topping Abbey, Ryelands, Diplow, and the rest.

&
nbsp; There was much anticipation about the arrival in Pennicote of such a wealthy bachelor. He was thirty-six, his mother also owned land, and there was some hereditary title, so given a couple of other judicious deaths, more riches and status would be his. Provided he was not too gross in appearance or irredeemably venial, any shortcomings of character were as nothing in the light of such virtues.

  Mama told me you were commonly supposed to be Sir Hugo’s beloved son, the result of a passionate romance with a foreign princess, but as you were illegitimate you could not inherit from him. I thought you sounded mysterious, the victim of an injustice on a par with those directed at women.

  Mr. and Mrs. Arrowpoint hoped their Catherine would win Henleigh Grandcourt’s hand. Quetcham Hall was magnificent and Catherine already worth half a million pounds, but the rich like to become richer. To their chagrin, she had recently turned down Lord Slogan, who owned much of County Cork. Uncle and Mama, seduced by the prospect of country estates, a London town house, and hunters and racers, hoped for Grandcourt to be smitten with me. Uncle chose not to hear gossip from male acquaintances about Grandcourt’s personal life. Mama saw no solution to my ambition except through marriage and hoped, even if Grandcourt did not win my heart, I would find him suitable or at least acceptable. I was aware that after the fuss with Rex, I would provoke harsh criticism if Grandcourt evinced interest in me and I then spurned him.

  Grandcourt was expected to appear on the twenty-fifth of June at the Brackenshaw Archery Club competition, to be followed by a dinner and dance at the Castle. Tickets were for the privileged; I was invited as a new member on Uncle’s recommendation for he and I shared an enthusiasm for archery. He was one of the best bowmen in Wessex, and I thought it an elegant, artful sport—my namesake, Gwendolen, was the Lady of the Bow.

  * * *

  THIS WAS OUR first summer at Offendene, we had been there eight months, the hours of daylight were long, and the weather was warm after months of rain. On the day of the meeting I chose to wear white cashmere with a pale green feather in my hat. I sensed Mama’s anticipation as I dressed. I teased her: “You and Uncle and Aunt all intend me to fall in love with this Grandcourt,” and I made a gesture as if drawing my bow. I assured her that with me in the fray no other girl had a chance of piercing his heart.