by Molly Tanzer
“I don’t need you to fetch anything for me,” he snapped. Dorina must have looked as taken aback as she felt, for he sighed, and added, “I simply mean that I am able to get what I want, for myself, when I want it.”
“I never doubted it,” she replied. “But, as I’m parched, please excuse me.”
“Wait,” he said, putting his hand on hers as she began to rise. “Please—Miss Gray, was it?” He smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “I apologize. I am so accustomed to people taking pity on me that my first impulse is always to refuse them the opportunity to do so.”
“I see,” said Dorina. “Well . . . I confess I thought to be helpful, but not out of pity.”
“Oh? What then?”
“Experience. I was once corseted so tightly for a party, I sat by myself the whole night because I feared I would faint if I stood. I was so thirsty, and eventually I became terribly cold, and I just wished someone would . . .” She trailed off, for Mr. Walmsley did not seem particularly enthralled by her tale. “Well, I know they’re not the same thing, but it impressed upon me the importance of making sure people are having a good time when they’re sitting alone. Forgive me if I was in error.”
His hard expression softened. “Thank you for explaining yourself,” he said, “and in spite of my ungratefulness, I do appreciate your concern.”
“Does that mean you would like a drink?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Dorina approached Jonas, who was sipping on his own cocktail, lounging against the bar. “Might I trouble you for two of those delightful-smelling concoctions—for myself, and for Mr. Walmsley.”
“Of course; I’ve another bottle of champagne chilling,” said Jonas, and after uncorking it, poured two. He did not do the thing with the sugar cube and the substance, but remembering Henry’s admonition, she did not press him, merely thanked him and returned with the two glasses.
Mr. Walmsley had obviously been watching her, but when he accepted his drink, he sipped and said only, “Good champagne.”
“Of course,” she replied.
“And yet . . . on its own, it does not seem to satisfy our hostess.” His eyes flickered to Lady Henry. She was currently deep in some sort of intense conversation with Dr. Sauber, who was gesturing wildly whenever she gave him the opportunity to reply. Dorina longed to go over and listen in, but she realized by talking to Mr. Walmsley she had the opportunity to learn about this little gathering—the truth about it, not just what the full members would reveal.
“I . . .” She coughed into her hand, realizing she didn’t quite know what to say. “I’m just happy to be here.”
“Of course.” He toasted her with his glass. “To good things,” he said, and drank.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Good things. The ones that come to those who wait.”
“Oh, I see.” Dorina wasn’t sure she liked Mr. Walmsley. “Have you been waiting long?”
“I suppose not, in the grand scheme of things. But it does make one curious, doesn’t it? To be invited to a gathering like this, and not be allowed to participate in what makes it truly exceptional?”
“What do you . . .”
“I believe we ought to go in, don’t you?” said Mr. Walmsley, nodding to Henry. Dorina looked up and saw Henry, gesturing at the door. She kept her sigh to herself—was anyone here anything less than completely cryptic?
Dinner was delicious, but Dorina scarcely tasted the artfully prepared dishes; she was too occupied listening to the conversation of the other members. Though their professions and appearances had surprised her, their banter was of the sort she had always wanted to engage in. They were all of them witty, thoughtful, arch, and intelligent . . . and yet, now that she had found herself in the center of exactly what she’d dreamed of, Dorina found she had nothing to say. She ate and drank more than she was accustomed, just to have something to do with her mouth other than speak—it was terribly intimidating, being in the midst of such a cultured group. They did their best to draw her in to every topic of conversation, but her voice seemed to be frozen in her throat.
When the sweets were served, Dorina couldn’t help but notice hers and Mr. Walmsley’s looked a bit different. Their tarts were the ones she and Henry had bought earlier at the Borough Market, whereas the others, while similar, were just a touch browner on the sides. Curious. She caught Mr. Walmsley’s eye, and he nodded ever so slightly to her before digging in.
The tart was delicious, regardless. As Dorina was deciding whether or not she would disgrace herself if she picked up the last of the crumbs with her finger, Henry, who had been seated at the head of the table, stood and called for everyone’s attention.
“Welcome, all,” she said. “I am so very glad you were all able to make it tonight, for we shall begin our series on the five senses, isolating them, one by one, in order to fully explore and appreciate them. I think I can safely say, being among like-minded individuals”—this drew a chuckle from the group—“that life itself is the first and most delightful of arts. To live—to live well, I should say—is to create art with one’s body . . . with one’s soul.
“As we have Miss Gray with us tonight, joining us for the first time, I would like to say a few words on the mission of tonight’s program, and the mission of our group in general, if everyone is amenable.” Nods, smiles all around. “Well then: let me begin with the senses. The senses are how we appreciate life. In spite of this, the senses are often maligned, misunderstood. The worship of the senses is considered to be frivolous at best, and immoral at worst. The art that tantalizes our eyes, the music that delights our ears, the scents that ensorcel our noses, they are celebrated only when they are under the control of some sort of governing body, whether it is the Royal Academy . . . or the church. To that I say—no. As I am in polite company, at least reasonably so, I shall restrain myself.
“Instead, let me say that I propose that we, as aesthetic adventurers, indulge our senses unrepentantly. Outsiders would decry this as sinful, for people these days are afraid of their senses—their sensations—their passions. Fear keeps them from truly understanding themselves. I reject this. I say, we must not starve our senses, we must not suppress them, we must make them . . . well, I do not like to say spiritual, but we must make them an object of worship. We must give in to beauty, surrender ourselves to pleasure and enjoyment. We must return to hedonism, but we must also make it our own—for we are not sentimentalists, seeking to re-create an emotion time and again. It is our holy duty to create a new hedonism, a philosophy of passionate experience.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Mr. Blake, the children’s book illustrator. He pounded his hand on the table, surprising Dorina—the rather goat-faced man was perhaps the last of the assembled she would expect to interrupt their hostess so enthusiastically, save perhaps for Mr. Walmsley.
“Puritanism is uncomely, and until I see evidence of an afterlife, and the God who requires abstinence to experience it, I reject it,” continued Henry, after nodding her thanks to Mr. Blake. “But, while a solitary rejection can be ever so satisfying . . . I am very glad indeed that I have found you all to help me reject it.” There was applause from everyone at this. “Most of the assembled have chosen to devote ourselves to experience, and that is beautiful—more noble to my mind than rejecting what this life has to offer. Sweet or bitter, vulgar or refined, the mission of this group is to reject personal asceticism, which produces nothing but unhappiness, and instead concentrate our attentions on life, every aspect of it. We have devoted ourselves to lifting veil after veil of the dusky gauze that others would use to swaddle the world. We embrace the fantastic. We call forth the gods of the old world and the new, the gods of dark and light, of pain and pleasure, of love and hate. This is the only way to quiet the restless mind, to light the flameless tapers of modern propriety, to see fresh colors and new shapes, to embrace the strangeness that is fundamental to any romance.”
Was it Dorina’s ima
gination, or did Henry’s eyes flicker toward her as she finished?
During the pause, Dorina looked around the room, watching through the haze of spicy smoke from cigars and cigarettes, to see the effect this queer speech had on the assembled. They were all of them enthralled—even poor Mr. Walmsley looked as rapt as anyone else.
“I have spoken long enough, and I’m preaching to the converted,” said Henry, “so let us adjourn, and begin the program. Ah—but while we ready ourselves, I wonder if our newest like-minded friends, Miss Gray and Mr. Walmsley, would mind doing me a favor?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Walmsley, as if used to such requests.
“Jonas mentioned that he left the bouquet of flowers Mrs. Hill brought for us in the foyer, after putting them in water. Would the two of you be so kind as to retrieve them for me, and bring them into the parlor? We’re focusing on scents this evening, and I’m sure they smell delightful.”
“With pleasure,” said Mr. Walmsley, immediately if unsteadily lurching to his feet. Dorina also got up, confused, but she followed him happily enough.
“Thank you, my dears,” said Henry, and shut the door firmly behind them.
“I felt just as dazed, the first time they politely suggested I might go elsewhere for a bit,” remarked Mr. Walmsley as Dorina blinked, not actually sure how she had been ushered out of the dining room so quickly. “Console yourself knowing that one day, if you are judged worthy, you shall be allowed to remain.”
“How will they judge us?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been coming for months and have no insight.”
Months! Dorina cringed inwardly. She would be leaving London in a month and a half, meaning she might never know. And it wasn’t as if Henry had been enthusiastic about her attending in the first place . . . likely she’d put her off indefinitely.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Walmsley. “It’s not you—it’s not your youth, it’s not your innocence, your lack of cultural knowledge—”
“What do you know about my cultural knowledge—or my innocence for that matter, I wonder?”
He held up his free hand. “Nothing. The remark was an impertinence; I apologize.”
They walked slowly to the foyer. Mr. Walmsley said nothing further. Eventually, his studious silence made Dorina repent.
“It’s my turn to apologize,” she said as she collected the flower arrangement.
“It’s all right,” said Mr. Walmsley. “We both have chips on our shoulders, for we both feel as if we have something to prove.”
Dorina opened her mouth, but then closed it. She’d never thought about it like that, but he was right.
They continued down the hall together, toward the parlor. Neither spoke, until Mr. Walmsley cleared his throat.
“I think it’s nice,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“That we have something in common.”
“Oh.” She glanced over at him. He was smiling, and she saw that he was handsome—or at least, he had been, at one time. There was a softness to him, an openness, behind the wooden wall he’d put up. “Yes . . . it is, isn’t it? Both being in the same situation, and all . . .”
“Not quite.” A little of his stiffness came back. “I was vetted by Mr. Seward, who is my banker; you were brought by Lady Henry, who is your friend.”
“Friend . . .” Was that true?
“You think it is the perception of your youth that is causing Lady Henry to push you out the door; truly, it is her taking her time deciding whether you can be trusted.”
“Trusted for what, though?”
They had reached the door. With his free hand, Mr. Walmsley knocked twice.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” he asked as the door opened.
The program was over two hours in length. Thinking back on it, Dorina couldn’t quite recall what they had done to fill the time. Not that she had been bored; rather, her memories were hazy, confused. They bled together like the colors of a kaleidoscope. All she could distinctly recall was that sometimes they inhaled vapors of various colors or perfumes of varying vintages, odors bitter, sweet, and sour. Sometimes there was silence, enhanced by earmuffs—to allow them to isolate their olfactory senses—and at other times, there were chimes or pieces of music to listen to, or things to touch while they were blindfolded, all efforts to enhance their experience of the scents.
She did note—and remember—that she had detected no difference in the other members of the society after she and Mr. Walmsley joined them again. They did not seem to be drunk or otherwise intoxicated; they did not look flushed of face or breathless, or queer in any other way. Well, queerer, as they were a curious group to begin with.
No, they all seemed exactly the same as they had at dinner—an affable, intimate company, like some Dutch oil painting, but rather more attractive. What they might have done while isolating themselves from Mr. Walmsley and herself, she couldn’t imagine.
“Did you have a good time?” asked Dr. Sauber after the festivities had concluded and Dorina was reviving herself with a glass of very cold, very sweet white wine.
“Yes,” she said. “It was wonderful. But confusing, too . . .”
“Confusing how?”
“Well . . . I hope to become an art critic,” said Dorina, with a flash of guilt—she had recalled that she was here, at a fancy party, rather than interviewing her uncle, or taking notes on his works.
“Really?” said Mr. Blake, who had meandered over, a small stemmed glass of some brightly colored Italian digestif pinched between his fingers.
“Yes . . . I mean, I think so . . .”
It occurred to Dorina in that moment that these people had talked to her all night, been interested in her and her opinions and her conversation, without her having announced this loudly and first thing. They had cared about what she thought without her framing it as being about her goals in life. Something to think on, later, when she had a moment.
“You think so?” asked Miss Travers.
“I thought so, I should say . . .” said Dorina, a bit overwhelmed now that they were all crowding around her. “Now, I am not so sure.”
“You mean in the wake of tonight’s entertainment?” Dr. Sauber leaned in closer, but not in a way that made Dorina feel as though he was being inappropriate toward her, unlike what she had perceived in so many of her friends’ uncles and brothers and cousins.
She shook her head. “What I mean is that I have spent so long learning to see the beauty in everything. But the more I read, the more I learn. And the more I learn, the more I realize I am required to dismiss and discard, as well as embrace, if I am to be taken seriously.”
“Surely you preferred some of the night’s experiences to others?” asked Mr. Blake.
“Yes, but the pungent aromas made the sweet ones sweeter, and the sweet ones made the savory ones richer! Even the unpleasant scents worked with the nice ones, like they were all notes in some divine chord . . .”
A swift look passed between Dr. Sauber and Mr. Blake, but just as soon their attention was on her again.
“You have deduced one of our purposes,” said Dr. Sauber as Dorina looked back and forth between them, eyebrow arched.
“Lady Henry was speaking of something similar, earlier, but this idea of the aesthetic whole, it is crucial,” said Mr. Blake, jutting out his chin just like the goat he so resembled. “What is beauty without ugliness? What is kindness to someone who has never experienced cruelty? Only light can produce a shadow.”
As she nodded her agreement, she noticed Mr. Walmsley watching her; he drained his glass, and turned away. From his gestures, Dorina guessed he was saying his goodnights.
“Would you please excuse me for a moment?” Dorina rose, and before they could reply, she walked over to where he was limping to the door.
“Departing already? And without saying goodbye?”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist,” he replied. “While I find myself in sympathy with the philosop
hy and goals of this organization, I do not much like talking over my experiences. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Dorina.
“I must seem so insensible to you, but I can only be who I am.”
“You mistake me. Some people do not like talking about their sensations, their emotions. It does not mean they are any less potent.” For some reason, Evadne came into her mind, but Dorina pushed away the thought for the present.
“You are generous, my lady.” He bowed to her awkwardly, steadying himself on his cane. “It was a pleasure meeting you—I mean it. I hope to see you next time.”
And with that, he left her. Dorina stood alone, flummoxed, and then turned around, almost bumping into her hostess.
“Mr. Walmsley is an unusual fellow,” she remarked to Henry. “But, as we managed to each offend the other, and accepted the given apologies, perhaps we shall be friends.”
“I hope so. And what of the rest?”
“They are . . .” Dorina looked around at the little groups. Mr. Blake and Dr. Sauber were still deep in conversation; Miss Travers was laughing at something Mrs. Hill had said, as Mr. Seward freshened their drinks at the bar, and if Dorina wasn’t completely mistaken, Mrs. Dhareshwar was just shy of drooling over dear Jonas.
“She looks ready to pounce,” remarked Dorina.
“Oh, that’s Kamaladevi,” said Henry. “Apparently, for her at least, Jonas evokes certain . . . sensations.”
“I wonder what his are?” He was smiling and seemed to be responding to her overtures with politeness and humor, but she could sense no reciprocation of her obvious desire.
“Jonas has very particular taste.”
“Oh?” Dorina gave Henry a saucy look. “I wonder what the particulars are?”
“Are you interested?”
“I’m afraid I too must scarper,” said Mr. Seward, interrupting them before Dorina could protest. “Early day tomorrow . . . but really, Harry, you outdid yourself tonight. Really looking forward to next time.”
“And when is the next meeting?” asked Dorina.
“Usually every two weeks, but of course, things will interfere,” said Mr. Seward. “I hope you’ll be in attendance, Miss Gray?”
