by Kim Wilkins
“Virgil. Virgil say this isn’t true. You steal bodies from their graves so that Flood may experiment on them?”
“It’s true, Georgette,” he said, nodding. And then, because my body had become limp with shock, he pushed past me and out into the winter’s night. “Tell your Diary. Make your first black mark in it,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness. “But never tell me again that this existence of mine is a life. For I know it is nothing but a moving, breathing death.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wednesday, 12th March 1794
Yes, it is true I have not written for nearly four months. I would beg forgiveness, but of whom? Last year when I wrote I somehow imagined an audience for my Heart, whether in my lifetime or after it. Now I know that I am perhaps the only person who will ever read back over these words. But that is not the reason I have not written. The reason shall be unfolded as I try to fill the gap with a brief summary of my most recent winter.
Virgil took the rejection of his poetry very badly. He behaved as though he did not want to recover from the disappointment, going over the details repeatedly, rereading his poems and sometimes delighting in them, sometimes grinding his teeth over how awful they were. On one occasion, I had to wrestle from his hands some pages which he intended to burn.
Most awful of all, however, was that he could not write.
I would see him sit down with pen in hand, fresh ink nearby, a new page to be filled. Some desperate scribbling would follow, then some desperate crossing-out, screwing up, throwing towards the fire. I could not bring myself to chastise him for wasting paper, which is an expense we can only barely afford. After trying for a few hours, he would slip quietly to the bedroom for his laudanum, then return to sit by the fire, that mute melancholy daze settled upon him, as the firelight reflected off his skin. During this time, if I so much as picked up a pen to write a letter to Hattie, he would adopt the most anxious expression, his fingers would begin to tap, and he would watch me as eagerly as a starving man might watch a feast. I could not bring myself to write in this Diary. Although it was never spoken aloud, we both held the vague superstition that every word I wrote was one less he could use.
The last of my savings ran out just before Christmas, and we became quite desperate financially. Virgil was anxious about our situation in the mornings when he awoke, but by midday he had taken some of his liquid saviour and would be more able to cope, and more likely to assuage my worries with vague assurances. He took less and less care of himself, and I thanked the Heavens that Dr Flood insisted that he bathe after every evening’s work. Still, his fingernails were black with what I could only assume was graveyard dirt, his hair became lank and unkempt, his skin became pallid rather than pale, and his clothes were often misbuttoned or hastily layered upon him, so that he looked rather like a man who had slept on the road at night.
On Christmas Eve, we had an awful argument, for he let slip that Flood was paying him partly in opium. I must admit that I am still not fully able to tolerate the kind of work Virgil does for the Doctor, so any mention of his name always angers me. I insisted that there were more important things we needed than his laudanum. I have not had a new dress since I ran away from London, and the ones I now wear are so robbed of colour and shape that I cannot bear to look at myself in the glass. I resemble a pauper.
Of course, I must remember, I am a pauper.
While Virgil angrily defended his right to receive laudanum from Flood, I could read in his eyes an awful, awful guilt. His pain was too much for me, and I immediately despised myself for wanting to take away the only thing that made his life bearable. But, oh, how I wish it were me who could make him contented, or the prospect of our child’s imminent birth. I never mentioned it again, though I am desperate he would stop taking the cure. I simply cannot bear to see that guilt and terror in his eyes.
My own pain I can endure, Diary. But I am not strong enough to endure his.
I heard from my parents, via Aunt Hattie, shortly after Christmas. I was informed that should I wish to return to Lyon, all would be forgiven, but that I was never to see or speak of Virgil again. Hattie has, I think, told my mother of the approaching birth, and that knowledge has worked upon her conscience. Still, I have no intention of leaving Virgil, though sometimes at night I dream of the chateau, and when I awake under the black roof beams of this tiny cottage, I nearly weep with shock and disappointment.
We somehow managed to make it through winter. We eat modestly, and have not had wine or spirits for many months. Virgil still has not written anything. The weight of unexpressed words upon his heart is very heavy, I fear. I cannot remember the last time I heard him laugh. He seems to have very little interest in me, though he is always kind and gentle and asks after the child. All this, though, with the interest an Uncle might show to a Niece, and I presume it goes without saying that we have not made love in a very long time. I would say that it breaks my heart, but I…No. It does break my heart. Virgil is not the only occupant of this cottage who experiences pain or love or desire. I feel too, though I might not be able to express it so eloquently in tears and rages.
Yesterday, however, we had an unexpected visit. So much time has passed since I have seen any other face but Virgil’s, that when the knock at the door came I dropped my darning in surprise. Virgil, who was dozing in the chair opposite me, awoke with a start.
“Is somebody at our door?” he asked.
“I think so.”
He pulled himself to his feet and I followed him to the door. Outside it rained. It was late afternoon and Doctor Flood did not require Virgil’s services that evening. I think we both feared the worst – bad news or debt collectors – but when the door was opened, it was Edward Snowe who stood upon our step, a leather bag held in one hand.
“Edward!” I exclaimed.
His smile of greeting died upon his lips as he looked over Virgil. My husband’s decline has been gradual in my eyes, but now I looked upon him and saw what Edward must see. A sick, dirty, pauper.
“Virgil, are you unwell?” he asked.
I knew not whether Virgil would invite Edward in or send him packing. Most of his rage from his earlier disappointment centred around Edward, but he hadn’t mentioned his old friend for many weeks now.
“No, I am very well,” Virgil replied, firmly. “And you?”
“I’m…May I come in? It’s rather damp out here.”
We had not been host to guests for so long, it seemed we had forgotten how to treat them. We brought Edward inside and took his hat and cape, and settled him by the fire with a tray of tea. I felt as though it were a parody of true hospitality. The tea tray was tarnished, the cups cracked, the chairs upon which we sat threadbare, and our clothes were almost grey from prolonged wear. Edward, in contrast, was dressed in a brocade waistcoat and black coat, his boots obviously new. Dressed, in fact, how Virgil had himself once dressed. I felt a pang of sadness for the loss of my husband’s fine taste and appearance.
Virgil and Edward re-acquainted themselves with each other, in polite tones which belied their long friendship. I could not restrain myself for very long from asking the question which was poised upon my lips.
“So, Edward, where is Miss Andrews?” From the moment I saw Edward, I had feared her arrival.
Edward gave a nervous laugh. “Ah, I wondered when somebody would ask me that. Charlotte has left me.”
“I’m very sorry,” I replied. I suppose I needn’t reveal that I was not sorry.
“She has run off with an Italian count. Last time I saw her she insisted I call her Contessa, and she was dressed very fine indeed. I suspect she has become a wealthy woman.”
Oh, what a twisting, churning envy I felt then. For I was once a wealthy woman in fine dress, and I was born to it and bred to it. In my sudden rage I nearly blurted out the truth about Charlotte’s two deliberate miscarriages, but seeing the downcast aspect of Edward’s glance, I held my tongue. I would only hurt him.
> A short silence descended between us. I glanced at Virgil. He was always so transparent to me. While his eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth set in a hard line, as though he wanted to appear hostile to Edward, his eyes were warm and hopeful. Perhaps he was remembering the experiences and dreams he and Edward had once shared. Perhaps he longed for some company.
“Are you in Yorkshire for long, Edward?” I asked.
“I…well…I’ve just been to see Flood. He owed me some money and it should be enough to cover my coach fare back to London. I suppose I should leave this evening with the mail.”
Virgil’s mouth softened. But I knew he would not ask the question, so I asked it for him. “We should be most happy if you’d stay with us a little while, Edward,” I said. “Though we live very modestly, we have a room spare.”
“I should be most delighted to stay. That is, if Virgil agrees.”
We both turned to Virgil, who made a pretence of begrudgedness. “Yes, I suppose you had better stay.”
“I won’t impose for long. I must be back in London in a week. Here, I have brought you something.” Edward leaned down and opened his leather bag. He pulled out three bottles of fine red wine and lined them up on the hearth.
Virgil’s voice became strained with emotion as he murmured, “Thank you, old friend.”
I scooped up one of the bottles. “Let us open one immediately. To celebrate your being here.”
I went to the kitchen to uncork the wine and pour three glasses. When I returned, Edward and Virgil were engaged in easy conversation, the forced politeness gone. I sat with them, and we drank and talked, and Virgil even laughed once or twice, though it was merely a ghost of his laughter really.
Because we had not drunk wine for so long, I was cautious. Virgil was not, and within an hour seemed quite inebriated. Darkness had fallen outside, and the air was heavy with the greasy smell of tallow candles. Our rooms look grimy in the candlelight, the shifting shadows seeming to make dirty or wet patches more apparent. Virgil sat amongst it, clothes in disarray, nodding into his chest in quiet moments. Edward tried to give me reassuring smiles, but I think we were both concerned that Virgil had drunk too much.
“Come on, old fellow, perhaps you should to bed,” Edward said, as Virgil began to doze once more.
“No, no,” Virgil said, waking up and stretching out his legs. “I’ve plenty more life left in me. Don’t be thinking to put me in my grave yet.”
“Virgil, dear, you’re very tired,” I said soothingly. “Are you sure you’ve not had enough of company and conversation?”
He began to nod off again, then sat up with a start. “Did you know,” he said, matter-of-fact, “that crocodiles can roar and hiss like lions?”
“No, I did not know that,” Edward said, trying to suppress a smile at Virgil’s odd change of topic.
“It’s true. And they can slow down their own hearts.”
“Come, Virgil, to bed,” I said, going to him and pulling him out of his chair. He went limp against me, and I practically had to drag him. Edward rose to help me.
“Don’t let me fall asleep. I shall dream of crocodiles,” he murmured.
“No, you shan’t,” I said, as we managed him into our bedroom. “You shall dream of summer forests and the smell of wildflowers.”
He flopped onto the bed and Edward removed his shoes. I straightened his head onto a pillow and pulled the covers over him. “A crocodile can run faster than a man,” he said. I kissed his eyes closed and he was soon drawing the deep, regular breaths of sleep. Edward and I exchanged glances and returned to the fireplace.
“Has he been very melancholy?” Edward asked. His voice was urgent, almost as though he had been wanting to ask the question since he had arrived.
“Virgil was always melancholy,” I replied, avoiding his eyes.
“Has he been drinking much of his drug?”
I nodded. “Every day. It seems to be his only solace.”
Edward gazed into the fire for some time, and I began to feel dozy myself.
“And how have you been, Gette?” he asked out of the silence. It was the first time he had ever used the pet version of my name. Somehow it seemed too intimate, but, starved as I was of affection, I responded too eagerly to the fondness in his voice.
“Not so very bad, Edward. We are managing, and soon there will be another one of us to love.” I laid a hand protectively across my great belly – I am such a cow at the moment, you cannot imagine – and looked across at him proudly.
“I can see that. Is Virgil happy about it?”
“Yes. At least I think he is. He is quite distant a great deal of the time.”
“Do you still keep your Diary?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I have been too busy, and I wished to save the ink for Virgil’s work.” I nearly told him that Virgil had not written anything these last four months, but stopped myself. It would have been a betrayal of trust. Virgil might not want others to know that his creative wellspring was not flowing.
“I’m saddened to hear it, Gette. You must have a record of your life, so that when you are an old woman you may sit by the fire in your grand house and read about these leaner years.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I replied.
Which is when I formed the resolution to return to you, Diary. And now that I have done it, I do feel better. It helps to write some of my feelings down, helps to clarify my thoughts. And it matters not if the only person who ever reads it is me. I may be a very different me one day, as Edward suggested. My parents at any time could forgive me and offer us a house or some money. Virgil might recover from his malady and begin to write an empire of gold. Nobody can see into the future.
Here, then, is a message to myself when I am old. If you are reading this, old woman, it is because you survived those times of poverty in that little cottage by the wood. I commend you. Perhaps you are surrounded now by children, by a loving husband returned to himself, and the fine things he buys for you. Enjoy it all, old woman, for here in the Past, things look very bleak indeed.
Saturday, 15th March 1794
The weather was so fine this morning that we decided to take our breakfast out of doors. Edward helped me pack a basket with cheese, bread, and cold cooked mutton, and we brought our last remaining bottle of wine with us. Virgil took an age to get dressed, and when he finally joined us in the kitchen, I was struck by how pale and sickly he appeared. However, I decided that it was merely because I had robust, sturdy Edward to compare him to. Around eleven, the three of us headed down to the cliff-top with our basket.
Spring is come a little early this year, and already the sun reflected off new shoots and green leaves, sticky in their infancy. We picked our way through the wood and found a soft square of green grass overlooking the sea, whereupon Edward and Virgil lay down their capes and we settled ourselves under the branches of an old, gnarled tree.
After we had eaten, I lay back and looked up at the pale blue sky through the branches of the tree, and watched clouds moving lazily in the spring breeze. Virgil and Edward were having a heated debate about Dante. I admit I was most pleased to hear Virgil’s voice imbued with colour and passion once again. I had not realised how important his disputations with Edward had been to him.
“No, no, the second circle of hell is the gluttonous. The third is reserved for fornicators,” Virgil said emphatically.
“I am certain it is quite the reverse.”
“Are you concerned you’ll be closer to Satan than you had planned?”
They laughed between them, and after a while fell silent. I heaved myself over on my side, which is no easy task with the load I am carrying. Virgil smiled at me lovingly, a smile which had almost faded from my memory. I was almost too shocked to respond. I made the resolution then that I would do all in my power to make Edward stay. He had cheered Virgil out of his opium haze.
“And so, Virgil,” Edward said, leaning back on his elbows. “Have you enough poems now for
another collection?”
Virgil shifted uncomfortably. I pressed his fingers in mine. “I’m working on a long piece,” he lied. “Why do you ask?”
“I have saved this information for the right moment. I had occasion to speak with Mr Pitt, formerly of the Hammondslowe Press, now the manager of a small press called Saint John Pitt at Russell Square. He remembered our previous collection and said that he had been most impressed with it at the time. He has asked if we have another in progress. With a view to publishing it this summer.”
I watched Virgil closely. His hands shook almost imperceptibly, a tiny muscle on his jawline pulled tight. “Is he not interested in publishing our first collection?”
Edward shook his head. “He said, and rightly so, that a number of the poems are immature in their stylings. He is only interested in new work.”
New work. Exactly what Virgil had been unable to produce in the last few months.
“What do you say, old friend? Shall we give it another go?”
Virgil faltered over his words. “I…ah…I shall have to think about it. I’ve been working on a long piece, a great epic. I have…few ballads…no sonnets.”
“Ah, but it won’t take you long to dream up a few more, I dare say.”
“I-”
“Come, let us talk no more of business,” I said, trying to change the topic before Virgil went to pieces. “It is a lovely day for a long walk.”
“A long walk, Georgette? In your condition?” Edward said.
“Why, yes. I feel as healthy as a horse, and have done since the very start. Let’s save your plans for later.”
Virgil stood and helped me to my feet. Edward packed up our basket and we left it beneath the tree and walked out towards the rocky cliff path. We followed it around towards the village and the cemetery, where I noticed a man walking towards us from the other direction.
“Virgil, is that Reverend Fowler I see up ahead?” I asked. I was immediately concerned for him seeing me in my condition. Around Edward and Virgil I was comfortable, but the eyes of the Reverend were less forgiving, more given to scrutiny and judgement. I know what Puritans the English can be.
