The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  Until then, I remain, yours very sincerely,

  M.R.J. WRAXALL

  II

  The Palazzo Riccioni

  OUR JOURNEY TO Florence was uneventful. Mr Perseus had not wanted to tarry longer in France than was necessary, having a decidedly disapproving – and, to me, unaccountably prejudicial – view of the country and its inhabitants. This caused us immediately to strike south, at all possible speed, to Lyons and Avignon, and thence to Cannes, where we stayed in the late Lord Brougham’s beautiful villa, * and so on to Nice.

  The way into Italy, along the steeply wooded Ligurian coast, was delightful, even when the January rains sometimes swept in from the choppy waters of the Mediterranean; but I never minded this, for to me it rendered the little fishing ports, and the forests of lemon trees and pine through which we passed all the more deliciously romantic and picturesque.

  Away from England, Emily’s temper had quickly improved. Her son’s spirits, likewise, had visibly lightened as we had made our way southwards. Although he often remained wrapped in silent thought for long periods, he became increasingly attentive towards me the nearer we came to our destination; and on the morning that we crossed into Italy, his manner had changed markedly.

  ‘Italy!’ he exclaimed, throwing down the carriage window and breathing in a draught of the clear warm air. ‘The most beautiful, most noble country in the world! So much superior to France, in every way.’

  Now to this absurd proposition I could not possibly agree; so I took courage, and told him so. There followed a playful duel of words, in which he extolled the scenic and national virtues of Italy, whilst I of course passionately championed those of the country of my birth. This quickly descended into a tit-for-tat exchange of the most ludicrous claims and counter-claims, which ended in laughs and smiles, and in an appeal to Emily to adjudicate on who had got the better of the other.

  ‘I refuse to take sides,’ she said, giving us both a smile of maternal indulgence. ‘They are both great nations – although not as great as dear old England. But perhaps my son is teasing you, Alice, knowing that you were brought up in France.’

  ‘You know I never tease,’ said Mr Perseus. ‘I am always perfectly serious. You may depend on it.’

  After passing three pleasant days in Pisa, where we established ourselves most comfortably in the Hotel Gran Bretagna, we at last proceeded on the short final leg of our journey to Florence.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, amidst the sound of bells, and beneath a cloudless cerulean sky, we were set down before the imposing façade of the Palazzo Riccioni, within sight of the Church of S. Maria Novella.

  THE PALAZZO HAD been secured by Mr Perseus from his godfather, Lord Inveravon; he had also taken a smaller country house, the Villa Campesi, a stone’s throw from the Monastery of Vallombrosa.

  The Palazzo was of considerable size, on four floors, with over thirty rooms – far more than our needs required. Emily’s new maid, Miss Allardyce, had of course accompanied us, along with one of the Evenwood footmen, James Holt, an eager, strongly built lad of about my own age (chosen by Mr Pocock over Charlie Skinner, much to the latter’s disgust), who had come as a general factotum. These two, together with a surly Italian cook, his wife, and daughter, constituted all our little household.

  Having taken over a large chamber on the first floor for his study, Mr Perseus immediately set to work on his new poem, and on a collection of sonnets, which he had begun before leaving England. To these literary labours he dedicated many hours each day, and for the first two weeks of our residence I saw little of him, except when he would occasionally join Emily and me for dinner.

  Being eager for me to see all the great sights of the city, Emily would rise early to compose a list of the palaces and churches and other places that she wished us to explore that morning. In the afternoons, however, overcome by the morning’s exertions, she would retire to her apartment, leaving me to my own devices.

  Then, of course, we had our social obligations – wearisome dinners with all the most prominent Italian and English residents of the city, receptions, a masked ball, evenings at the opera or the theatre. When even Emily tired of these diversions, we would remove to the Villa Campesi for a few days, to enjoy the country air, and take slow walks through tree-dense valleys. Sometimes we drove to the hamlet of Tosi, with its stone cross and its splendid views of mountains, rushing torrents, and deep, dark ravines, thickly clad with tumbling banks of dusky pine-woods, and wide tracts of beech and chestnut. Although leafless now, they foretold, in their abundance, the aptness of the glorious Miltonic simile describing the innumerable host of the rebel angels. *

  I do not intend to present a day-to-day account of what passed during our time in Florence. Three events, however, I must set before you, which I shall now do, as briefly as I can, by recourse to extracts – fleshed out where necessary – from my Book of Secrets, which of course had accompanied me to Italy.

  And so let us begin.

  29

  An Italian Spring

  Florence: February–April 1877

  I

  S. Miniato

  14TH FEBRUARY 1877

  IN THE EARLY afternoon of St Valentine’s Day, Mr Perseus came back from composing descriptions in situ of the Ponte Vecchio for his new poem on Dante and Beatrice. Usually, after such excursions, he would closet himself in his study; but today he declared himself tired of work. Would I care to walk with him, after he had taken some late luncheon, to S. Miniato al Monte? Gratified by such an invitation, and by the warm manner in which it had been made, I gladly accepted, for it offered the first opportunity since arriving in Florence to be alone with him.

  Here follows the account of the first of the three events that I later wrote in my Book of Secrets.

  OUR FIRST WALK

  We leave the city by the Porta S. Miniato. A steep cypress-lined slope leads up to the Church of S. Salvatore al Monte: a most beautiful situation, with wonderful views of the city – a prospect much admired by Michelangelo, according to Mr P.

  Conversation quietly general until returning home.

  Mr P (abruptly changing the subject): Are you happy in your present situation, Miss Gorst?

  EG (somewhat taken aback): Perfectly, thank you.

  Mr P: Do you not have any ambition to be more than you are at present?

  EG (unsure as to where this is leading): Why should I wish to change what is entirely to my liking? Mr P: Everyone should have ambition to better themselves.

  EG: Most people in this world might regard such an ambition as a luxury they cannot afford. They are too concerned with present struggles.

  He seems a little put out by my Jacobinical tone. Silence descends. Then he asks whether I would not wish to escape my condition of dependence and servitude – for that, in his opinion, despite all its advantages, is what it is.

  I enquire how I should escape it, even if I wished, for I have no other course of life open to me, no fortune but my own meagre talents, no expectations or prospects but those I must make for myself.

  Mr P (after considering for a moment): There are other, and better, states of dependency than the one you are presently required to accept. Have you never thought that you might one day marry?

  Of course my heart leaps at the question, even though it seems to have been put with complete disinterestedness.

  I ask (assuming an air of mild indignation) how someone in my position could contemplate the possibility of a marriage that would remove the necessity of making my own way in the world. It is a large enough hint, but he does not take it, only nods his head, and says that he supposes that I am right.

  We reach the Porta S. Miniato again to find ourselves caught up in a large crowd of people, who jostle us apart for a time.

  Once we are reunited, Mr P asks whether I would ever wish to return to France, or whether I now consider England to be my home.

  I tell him that I shall always think of my former life with the greatest fondness and gratitude, but that I could not n
ow foresee any reason for ever quitting England. This appears to please him, although all he says is ‘Splendid!’ and then that we must hurry back or we shall be late for tea.

  On our return to the Palazzo R, he thanks me for the pleasure of my company. There seems to be nothing in his voice or manner beyond politeness, and yet I am sure I see a strained look in his eyes, as if he feels himself in the grip of some strengthening emotion, to which he is unused, and which he can neither control nor overcome. But perhaps my imagination is running away with me.

  He ascends the stairs to his study. At the top, he turns for a moment to look back down at me; and then I am certain that

  I am not deceiving myself. Something is stirring in the heart of Mr Perseus Duport, as it is in mine.

  SO BEGAN THE almost daily routine of walking out with Perseus of an afternoon, either through the city, of which he had a great knowledge, having visited it on a number of previous occasions, or when we were at the Villa Campesi.

  As the days passed, my pleasure in his company increased, in spite of his continuing to display a stubborn and provoking aloofness, and a disposition that seemed instinctively inclined to consider things from his own lofty and exceptional position. The flame of true affection, if not yet that of love, had been lit – of that I became increasingly persuaded, by sundry little signs in his manner towards me, even though his reticent temper checked any outward display of feeling. Having become an accomplished student of his mother’s changeable moods, however, and having learned to interpret all the subtle means she employed to mask the true state of her feelings, I began to apply my skills to the similar habits of concealment that she appeared to have bequeathed to her eldest son.

  His pride and self-regard being so easily ruffled, I adopted the same submissive and accommodating manner towards him that I had done towards his mother. Despite his frequent lapses into morose silences, I soon discovered that he possessed an enthusiastic volubility on certain topics: the poetry of Milton and Dante; the theories of Mr Darwin; Boccaccio; the organ music of the elder Bach (a passion, strangely, that he shared with Mr Thornhaugh); above all, anything associated with the ancient line to which he was the present heir, and of which I, too, although he did not yet know it, was also a part. When prompting him to hold forth on one of his favourite subjects – which he would do in a rather schoolmasterly, lecturing fashion – I would play the part of the admiring and appreciative pupil, thirsting at the fountain of his superior knowledge. It is an old trick, I dare say, but an effective one: a man, I soon discovered, likes nothing more than to be thought mentally superior to a woman. His knowledge, both specific and general, was not to be compared to Mr Thornhaugh’s; but he was exceptionally well informed on a number of interesting subjects, besides his pet ones, and I was a practised and eager listener. I saw the satisfaction that my assumption of intellectual subordination gave him, and as each day passed, by the use of such surreptitious flattery, we began to grow ever more comfortable in each other’s company.

  II

  A Letter from England

  OVER TWO MONTHS had passed since we had left England. For some time, Emily had continued in good spirits, and her health seemed much improved by the beneficent effects of the Florentine climate and by the change of scene – aided, I was sure, by the temporary release from Mr Vyse’s unwelcome attentions, and by some diminution of the terrible anxieties that had constantly afflicted her in England.

  Then, in the first weeks of April, she began to show signs of a decline. Her face took on a worryingly wasted look; her hair, which I still occasionally brushed, became thin and lifeless; the natural, marmoreal paleness of her skin was now the pallor of infirmity; even her eyes – once so captivating in their uncommon size and luminous beauty – were sunken and watery.

  She now rose late in the morning, took the lightest of breakfasts, and then sat listlessly in the salon, often with an unread book in her lap, until luncheon, after which she would return to her room until tea. Our explorations of the city ceased; evening engagements were cancelled; and she now rarely required me to attend her. One morning, however, I was called up to her room.

  She was lying on a chaise-longue, a plaid rug laid over her, her eyes closed, when I knocked and entered. She said nothing for some moments; then she opened her eyes and looked at me with a kind of startled inquisitiveness, almost as if I were a trespassing stranger. In her right hand she held a partly crumpled letter.

  Here follows what I later wrote in my Book:

  CONVERSATION WITH LADY T

  I sit down beside her and take up her left hand. She smiles weakly, gives a little cough, and says that she has something to tell me: we must return to England, sooner than expected. To my surprise, she admits that a crisis has occurred in her affairs, but will not say more. I show her, with a brief downwards glance, that I have seen the letter she holds in her other hand, and boldly ask who it is from.

  Lady T: It is from Mr Vyse. You will remember Mr Roderick Shillito, who came to Evenwood with Mr Vyse as a guest at Christmas. I regret to say that Mr Vyse informs me that he is dead.

  I naturally affect shock at this terrible news. Was he taken ill? I ask.

  Lady T: No. He was the victim of a most vicious attack, and was not expected to live more than a week. He survived for nearly two months, although he had lost the power of speech and movement. EG: And is this why we must return to England?

  Lady T: No. There are other reasons – matters to attend to. I have been away for too long. Time is short.

  She makes no further attempt to explain why she wishes to leave Florence. Our eyes meet; hers are tired and frightened. I see that she wishes to say something to me that gives her pain. With an effort she lets go of my hand and raises herself up to a sitting position. Lady T: It is time to be honest with each other, Alice. We owe it to our friendship. I must tell you that Mr Vyse suspects you of deceiving me. He believes that you are not who you say you are, and that you came to Evenwood to do me harm. Will you swear to me again, dearest Alice, that he is wrong?

  I give her the assurance she has requested, at great length, and with all the injured fervour I can muster. I tell her, over and over again, of my undying gratitude for what she has done for me, raising me up, a poor orphan, from lady’s-maid, to companion, to what I am now: her ever-loving and most devoted friend. To my surprise, I even manage to produce a few tears, which I make no attempt to brush away. My ardent protestations appear to satisfy her; she lies back, and pulls the rug up to her chest, saying that she feels cold, although it is a fine warm day.

  Then she says that she has something else to ask me.

  Lady T: It concerns a visit you made, when we were in London, to a Mr John Lazarus. Will you tell me how you know that gentleman, and why you went to his house?

  EG (affecting innocent surprise): How – if I may ask – do you know that I visited Mr Lazarus? Lady T: Please don’t be cross, dear. Someone saw you – a friend of Mr Vyse’s.

  EG: A friend of Mr Vyse’s? I see. How fortuitous! Of course I have no objection whatsoever to telling you the reason for seeking out Mr Lazarus, having nothing to hide from you. I merely wished to assure myself that Mr Shillito was wrong concerning the identity of the man he met on Madeira; and so I wrote to Mr Thornhaugh, to ask whether he would make some enquiries on my behalf. It was he who discovered, through a mutual acquaintance, that Mr Lazarus had spent many years on Madeira, and that he was well known amongst the English residents there. And so I went to see that gentleman, to ask whether he had known anyone by the name of Gorst.

  Lady T: And what did you discover?

  EG: That the man Mr Shillito knew could not have been my father, who would have been a much older man at the time, and who, from what I have been told of his physical appearance, did not resemble in the least the man Mr Shillito met.

  At this piece of spontaneous invention, Emily smiles in relief, lays her head on the pillow once more, and closes her eyes.

  I sit in silent thought for several minutes, thin
king she has fallen asleep. But then she startles me by suddenly opening her eyes in a wild stare.

  Tears begin to course down her poor lined face, and she gives a low animal moan of despair. I take her hand and ask what is distressing her, but she only shakes her head. I tell her that she must rest, but she says she cannot, and that she has not slept for three nights past. EG: Why did you not call me? Perhaps I could have read to you.

  When she does not reply, I suggest that she might take a small dose of Battley’s.

  Lady T (eagerly): Do you have some with you, then?

  I fetch the bottle and administer a dose to her. With a relieved sigh, she falls back on the chaise-longue.

  ‘Rest now, dear,’ I tell her. ‘I shall make sure you’re not disturbed.’

  Within five minutes she has fallen fast asleep. I gently remove the letter from her cold hand. To my disappointment, it contains nothing of significance beyond the bare intelligence of Mr Shillito’s death. Replacing it, I softly quit the room, leaving her to her opium dreams.