Mysteries of Winterthurn

by Joyce Carol Oates

  I pen this hurried and shamed missive, dear Xavier, that you might learn of my impending marriage from my own lips, as it were; & not noised amazedly about town. The Reverend Harmon Bunting (whom I am learning by degrees to call Harmon,—but it is a most taxing enterprise, as I have so long venerated him, as Reverend Bunting: & wonder at the teasing propinquity of Harmon to Harmony,—a mellifluous yet forcible sound)—this kindly & charitable gentleman of the cloth, & yr. erstwhile Perdita, have already entered into a union of sorts, kept secret from the world; but soon to be celebrated at the altar. Dear One, know that my decision has been made after many a sleepless night, of anguish, & tumult, & fervent Communion with God (alas, how one-sided this intercourse seems, in my awkward experience!—a sign, I cannot doubt, of my unworthiness). I so fear Damnation,—deserved Damnation, I know, like my wretched Mother before me—that I must cleave to Christian Virtue in its most visible & unambiguous form; & align myself with Good; & shun forever the hot excesses of our love,—if “love” such wildness be—the lawless kisses & forbidden caresses & ah! I dare not utter all else: for I have vowed to Jesus Christ never again to muse upon such impurity. Indeed, once I am “baptized” MRS. HARMON BUNTING, & no trace of my original self remains,—shall not a wondrous cleansing & amnesia not be performed, upon my sin-stained Soul?

  As to Mr. Bunting’s knowledge of certain secret excesses & promises,—I essayed to speak without subterfuge to him, in the privacy of his rectory office, yet halfway wondered (as, for upward of an hour, I wept, & sobbed, & bewailed my fate,—my predilection for sin), whether the chaste gentleman quite comprehended all that I uttered, in the extremity of my despair: save to meet my gaze with his own (so healthsome & clear,—eyes of sea-blue shading to gray—lucid as washed stone): & speak to me, at unhurried length, of certain admonitions & teachings of Jesus Christ, & of St. Paul: &, not least, to lead me in heartfelt prayer: Mr. Bunting on his knees in my presence, & I on mine, for near a rapturous hour. Mr. Bunting,—that is, Harmon—has vowed to be my “spiritual bridegroom,” as, he somewhat grimly murmured, I have had my surfeit, doubtless, of the other sort. So kindly, & charitable, a gentleman!—he has offered to speak with you, if you so wish: & to proffer you spiritual advice: albeit (thus he frowningly & I know not how justly emended) he doubted your capacity for Christian wisdom at the present time,—as, it seems, you have been negligent in attending church services; & your occupation (preoccupation, I truly think it must be called) leads you to an unwholesome contemplation of Evil, & an indifference to God.

  Indeed, Mr. Bunting has behaved so graciously in all this, & is so markedly uncondescending in his manner toward me, I see at last why he was called to God, at so early an age (scarcely twelve years, it seems); & why he has been so long approved of, & granted somewhat “precocious” favoring, by the exacting elders of the church.

  Thus, the die is cast.

  As to Love,—why, Perdita must hold her tongue forevermore; & observe a discreet silence.

  (INDEED I shall hold my tongue. For I am NOT FREE TO SPEAK. I am AFFIANCED. & SOON TO BE WED. & hereby to solemnize my vow, while church bells faintly & dolorously chime I know not what hour, with shaking hands I shall remove the beauteous turtle dove you gave me,—ah, Xavier, so long ago!—I shall remove this soft-feathered creature, from out its pretty wicker cage: & essay, with what little strength yet remains to me, to wring its neck: that mercy be at last granted it, for its melancholy, & torpor of heart. Requiescat in pace, O innocent thing!)

  This final missive to pass between us, blurred & maculate with my tears, I shall send by way of my dear sister Thérèse,—who will not, I know, dishonor its seal; nor attempt to prize from you, in however circumlocutory a way, its unhappy contents. If you like, sweet Xavier, do hate me: for I know, I am fully deserving: & doubtless shall cherish, in my innermost being, a memory, or actual living vision, of your impassioned regard for me,—whether it be the folly of Love; or the carnivore energies of Hatred.

  Your despairing Cousin,

  & “friend” no

  more,—

  Perdita

  Cousin Thérèse

  So benumbed was Xavier Kilgarvan by the catastrophic, and most humiliating, outcome of the trial, and so heavy-hearted, as a consequence of his family’s tragedy, it cannot truly be said that he greeted Perdita’s valedictory letter with quite the flood of emotion it would have evoked, in more equitable and healthsome times: and, quickly perusing its contents with furrowed brow, and red-lidded and puffy eyes, in a somewhat discourteous manner (as the trembling bearer of the missive, poor Thérèse, was forced to stand by in attendance), he swallowed grimly, and murmured, “Well,—‘she should have died hereafter,’” and discountenanced his visitor by letting the sheets of scented stationery fall, as if neglectfully, to the carpeted floor—!

  (As to this surprising response,—it would have required, I think, no uncommonly perspicacious lover, to have construed, over the past several weeks, that Perdita was by degrees, and most deliberately, withdrawing her affection from Xavier: or had already, in the secrecy of her woman’s heart, withdrawn it: for, proffering but vague and insubstantial excuses, she had failed to honor three or four of their engagements; and, at the last of their meetings, had behaved in a distinctly inaccessible manner. “Ah, you do not love me any longer, Perdita: you too are abandoning me,” Xavier cried, scarcely knowing, at the time, what his uncalculated words meant; or the import of Perdita’s white-lipped protestations. “I,—abandon you! Why, it is as much a possibility,” she said vehemently, “as the earth detaching itself from the sun, and veering off, of its own wild volition, into the depthless and lightless abyss of Nothing!”)

  Though she could have had no way of knowing the actual contents of the mysterious letter she had been prevailed upon to deliver, Thérèse had nonetheless understood that the liaison between Perdita and Xavier,—for such, she feared, it must be called—was being terminated, and most abruptly, by her sister; and her maiden’s heart ached with inarticulate sympathy and pity, for the undeserved sufferings that had, of late, fallen upon Xavier’s comely head. How swiftly it had all happened!—and, given the ways of the law, how irrevocably! For while Valentine Westergaard would surely have appealed the verdict, had it gone against him, the prosecution was helpless to appeal: and would have to accept a defeat both absolute, in moral terms, and near-universal, so far as publicity was concerned. For all of the Valley, and much of the State, was abuzz with news of the sudden reversal of Fortune’s wheel,—the “Cruel Suitor’s” amazing freedom, and the arrest and indictment of his “Footman” accomplice; the evident victory of Angus Peregrine, and the devastation of his opponents. (In truth, as those persons acquainted with the Law well knew,—poor Angus not excepted—this “victory” was so much ancillary to his meticulously plotted defense campaign, it could have afforded very little pleasure; and the defense attorney’s role in the proceedings was deemed as comical, or pitiable, depending upon one’s magnanimity. Mrs. Spies had brought back from her Monday Afternoon Society the scandalous news,—how authentic, Thérèse could not know—that Colonel Westergaard and his grandson were so much in contempt of Angus Peregrine, for his near-fatal error in introducing Colin Kilgarvan into the trial, it was now doubtful that Peregrine’s fee would be paid!—and the taunt was, the hack lawyer might hire himself another of his kind, to sue for his money, if he thought the public humiliation was not too steep a price to pay.)

  As for Xavier,—it was no groundless rumor, but an actual fact, that, immediately following his brother’s arrest, his aggrieved mother had suffered a nervous collapse; and lay abed in delirium, calling for her “betrayed son, Colin,” and cursing her “traitorous son, Xavier.” (Well may the reader express surprise, and doubt, at the extreme terminology I am obliged to employ; yet it is no exaggeration, that Mrs. Kilgarvan, that most gentle and Christian of mothers, in raving, and thrashing about in her bed, and tearing at her bed linen, had fallen to cursing her youngest son!—with such vehemence, and
such a queer admixture of profanity and baby talk, Dr. Hatch soon came to wonder whether she were possessed by a demon. “Albeit it is altogether antithetical to Science,” he frowningly said, “to ‘believe’ in such influences.”)

  So strained were the circumstances at the Kilgarvan house, Xavier had thought it wisest to decamp,—nay, if truth be told, he had been evicted from his home—and had, in haste, acquired a four-room flat in a modest brownstone off Parthian Square, for the months of February and March. It was the wretched young man’s intention that he should make discreet appeals to his mother, over an extended period of time; and his hope,—pray God, it will not be fruitless!—that, by degrees, he might be forgiven.

  In the sober chill light of midday he knew himself blameless: for, after all, he had but devoted himself unstintingly to the highest ideals of Justice; and had endangered his own life thereby. At other times, however, when his vision was subtly distorted by the abrupt oncoming of night, or, it may have been, by the fracturing of reason, which an indulgence in alcoholic spirits (however measured, and restrained) inspires, he judged himself,—ah, knew himself—guilty, in the very terms his mother charged. For, in aspiring so passionately to bring Valentine Westergaard to the scaffold, he had succeeded in bringing his brother to that extremity instead!—the irony of the Law being, Colin Kilgarvan must be charged with having aided and abetted a murder, or murders, in the first degree (whether such acts were performed by a mortal man, or no)—such a crime being punishable by hanging—though Valentine Westergaard had been acquitted of his particular charges. And now poor Xavier was wracked by nightmare images, and terrifying waking dreams, of his brother hanged: and in that very place in Courthouse Green where Isaac Rosenwald had died, so many months before.

  He took no solace from the fact that, in such cities as New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, the verdict in Westergaard’s favor had been greeted with incredulity, and outright scorn: the New York Times condemning it as “so extreme and farcical a miscarriage of Justice, it undermines not only our faith in the jury system, but our faith in human nature itself.” For, closer to home, through the Valley, and in Winterthurn City, sentiments were quite the reverse; and the Winterthurn Gazette spoke for the great majority, in hailing the verdict as a “stirring vindication of the American tradition of trial by jury,—nay, a tribute to the American virtues of common sense, and fair play, and Christian compassion.”

  As for opinions in society, or in the street,—Xavier shut himself away from them, in wise caution: a pulse beating erratically behind his eyes, and his fingers “aching” to do violence, when he was in the presence of an enemy. “I shall bide my time in silence,—in secret,—in cunning,” he consoled himself, “and someday,—why, someday—I know not how, I will wreak Justice upon his head!”

  “HE SHOULD NOT DWELL ALONE, and in such melancholy surroundings,” Thérèse thought, when admitted to Xavier’s little parlor, or sitting room, on the third floor of the brownstone. “It cannot fail to be injurious to his spirit; and, ah! what is that odor of staleness, and disarray, and sorrow—?” Somewhat awkwardly, Xavier aided Thérèse in slipping off her heavy woolen cape; and, with an air of frowning gallantry, took from her her muskrat muff, and long white cashmere scarf, to set upon a table; the while the keen-eyed young woman glanced nervously about, to take in the undistinguished proportions, and yet more undistinguished furnishings, of his temporary home.

  How dreary it was, and how inappropriate, for him!—for, despite the wintry sunshine that slanted through the windows, and gave a sparing sort of glow to the faded chintz draperies, and despite the charming needlepoint carpet that covered much of the scuffed hardwood floor, the parlor bespoke a melancholy indifference, and impersonality: a mere rented place: without a soul, or even a personality: not a setting (so Thérèse half-angrily thought) for a gentleman of Xavier’s high worth and character. And how very queer it was, that the parlor walls had been covered, it seemed not long ago, in a silvery striped paper, that wriggled and writhed in the corner of the eye, like narrow fish, or eels; and how incongruous, that the furniture,—a settee with badly faded Aubusson upholstery, a bowlegged French armchair, a tub chair covered in floral chintz—had pretensions, as it were, of grandeur; albeit grandeur sadly past. It was one of those rooms, Thérèse saw, into which a negligent landlady had settled her outworn and outgrown pieces, in the hope that her bachelor tenants might not greatly care, or even notice.

  And, ah!—that Xavier Kilgarvan, of all persons, now made his home here.

  She saw too, with a small cringe of disapproval, and dismay, how littered much of the parlor was, with newspapers,—or sections of newspapers: as if Xavier had laid them carelessly down, and forgotten them; or even thrown them irritably about. And were those not unwashed glasses, here and there upon a table, and on the fireplace mantel; and was that not a bottle (whether of wine, or sherry, or some more potent drink, Thérèse cared not to see), set casually on the bare floor beside the divan—?

  As for Xavier himself,—Thérèse could not fail to note the strain in his courtesy; the perfunctory, albeit hurried, air of his gallantry; and a near-imperceptible agitation (betrayed, she sadly saw, by a small helpless flutter of the eyelids, as if he feared weeping): for, of course, it was certainly the case that he had been expecting the younger sister, and found himself, a second time, cruelly surprised, by the appearance of the elder. (Yet so powerful, and so resilient, was Thérèse’s love for Xavier, she counted his mere presence,—and her presence close beside him—ample reward for what some persons might, in contempt, call the humility of her role, if not its humiliation.)

  Keenly disappointed as he must have been, yet Xavier did not, in truth, seem altogether surprised: and managed to greet the blushing Thérèse with a modicum of smiling equanimity; and even to shake her gloved hand, with an altogether artless expression of warmth. For he did like her: nay, she felt certain that he liked her very much: and if only liking might yield to loving, why then, how the world should be transformed—! “It is only that his senses are bewitched by Perdita,” Thérèse thought, half in wondering, and half in disdain, “for I feel confident that he himself cannot ‘love’ so shallow a young woman.”

  While he frowningly perused,—indeed, seemed almost to skim—the letter she had been entrusted to bring him, Thérèse could not forbear studying him, in anxious detail: noting that his handsome countenance had been drained of its usual color, and had acquired, doubtless by degrees over the frigid winter months, that sepulchral pallor much prized by certain members of the female sex,—the which, they fancied, lent them an angelic radiance that enhanced their natural beauty. Much the same thing might have been said about Xavier (at least to Thérèse’s way of thinking), save that his cheeks had noticeably thinned; and somber shadows encircled his eyes. And his distraction earlier that morning must have been such, he had cut himself while shaving,—not once, but twice, on his tender chin: the evidence of which quite pulled at Thérèse’s heart.

  After Xavier had read through Perdita’s letter, and allowed its pages to fall to the floor, it was clearly time, Thérèse saw, for her to take her leave: for Xavier must want to be alone with his sorrow, or, it may have been, his rage: or a wild commingling of both. Yet, with unfailing graciousness, he lifted his red-flecked gaze to hers, and inquired of her whether she might like coffee or tea; or,—was it not midday, or even later?—a glass of sherry.

  “You are very kind, Xavier, but I must leave,—I fear I have been the agent of some distress, as it is,” Thérèse quickly said.

  “Well, if you have been,” Xavier said, with a pale attempt at mirth, “it is a further discourtesy to hurry off, and leave me to drink alone.”

  So it was, Thérèse felt prevailed upon to remain; and even accepted a small glass of sherry from Xavier, at which she sipped with extreme caution, finding the liquid stinging to the tongue, and doubtless more potent than she knew. In an attempt to make conversation, she murmured some words of sympathy regarding Mrs. Kilga
rvan’s ill-health: which remark drew from Xavier a droll smile, and the observation that she might visit his mother, if she so wished; but he, it seemed, was forbidden.

  This disagreeable news Thérèse had already heard, by way of Mrs. Spies and her Monday Afternoon Society; but she pretended surprise, and concern; and said, with a faltering sort of warmth, “Ah, I am sure that will not be for long: as your mother is too reasonable and forgiving a person.”

  “Perhaps it is reason that guides her, in this wise,” Xavier said flatly, “to withhold forgiveness.”

  This rejoinder was not so rude as it appears, on the printed page; but was uttered rather in a spirit of forthright declaration, after which Xavier took a sip or two of his drink, and yet another, and lapsed into brooding silence. Thérèse watched him almost fearfully, and wondered if he might,—ah, he might—humble himself, and ask, of a sudden, about Perdita; or, worse yet, confess his futile love for her; and unburden his heart to Cousin Thérèse. (“If this collapse in the formality of our relations should occur,” Thérèse instructed herself, the while her maiden’s heart beat calmly, “I shall forget my own pride, in commiseration with another’s grief; and perhaps our joint tears will mingle.”)

  But Xavier did naught except drain his glass, which seemed to fortify his strength, and to bring a little color to his cheeks: stooping then to retrieve the scattered pages of Perdita’s letter, and, making a show of not so much as glancing at them, shutting them away in a desk drawer.

  All timidly Thérèse inquired, whether he had any message for Perdita: and Xavier said, with a cavalier shrug of his shoulder, that there was no message: nor would there ever again be, from him to her.