.
.
CALLASSA
Invicta Veritate
.
Father’s Icon
1882
.
.
.
Cast of Characters
Gertrude Lawrence………A portrait painter.
Mortimer Smythe…………Poet, enlisted in The Corps of Sappers. The Master of Making Days.
Theodous Gilbert…………The undertaker.
Mephistopheles……………The wraith, Lucifer. Quod Caro.
Sir Charles Linton…………Late of the war in the Crimea. Owner of Wentbourne Manor.
Manufacturer of umbrellas.
Charles, junior……………..The younger Linton. Philanderer.
Julian Soames-Bartlett…….An artist of unconventional leanings.
Arabella Soames-Bartlet…Wife of Julian. Arrived in England from the Indian sub-Continent.
Alfred Butler-Ellis………..Policeman. Investigator of Extraordinary Crimes.
Albert Smith………………Stage Hand. Artemis Theatre.
Hippolyte………………….Retired Actor.
Mr. Higginbottom………. Art Director at The Artemis Theatre. Dipsomaniac.
Various Officers of the Army. Policemen. Itinerants. Harlots.
In dedication : William Blake. (1757-1821).
.
.
.
GERTRUDE LAWRENCE
Father’s Icon
Extract
.
Gertrude has discovered a bureau in the attic of the house her late father bequeethed her, that within in its confine, embrace the art he taught her to create. There is much in the bureau, among which are very strange drawings and writings that inform in its myriad aspect, both the great beauty she is among and also the most ugly. The latter she has encountered prior, the undertaker, Theodous Gilbert.
.
Father’s Icon is set in Victorian London. It eclipses a short time span, about three months of 1882. The focus is on how a particular group of Victorians both regarded and represented the contact with, what contemporary society might refer to as ‘supernatural phenomena.’ That is; how and why the hitherto unknown and undetectable manifested to these people at this time, the trembling, cold and ghastly fear that ensued, the disembowelling murder, the tentative embracing of a novel perception, the potential challenge to orthodox streams of thought …
Gertrude Lawrence is the main character. Gertrude is a young portrait painter, a woman with inherited freedom and equally, great insecurity.
Gertrude’s late father bequeathed her the legacy of his talent, his house and art studio. This is not all….There is more…Much more.
A consideration herein is the activity that members of a certain operatic fraternity (The Callassa Operetta Company) indulge during nightly gatherings. They are planchetters, who practice the art of divining, or communicating with ‘spirits’. In the case of Inspector Alfred Butler-Ellis, of Scotland Yard, who is the Investigator of Extraordinary Crimes, the consequences of so doing prove to be absolutely catastrophic.
.
.
City of London
autem
HRH. The Queen Victoria Regina
1882
.
After having neatly arranged a random selection of the materials from the bureau, into a large square and with each of the corners weighted down with a great many objects found in the studio, I was ready to begin my scrutiny.
Immediately, my attention was drawn to the note which looked as though it had been written with the aid of another hand. Again, the question arose in my mind whom the ‘other’ hand had belonged to? If indeed, this had been the reason for the wavy script.
I looked at the drawing of the ‘man’ who appeared part-human, part-bird. I decided that he would be the ‘raven-man’ for me.
Surely, it was not ‘his’ hand who had guided father?
“Raven-man, why did father draw you as though you could become invisible? I also like your name, Talsaw. It appears mystical and ancient to me.”
While continuing my reading, I pondered over the references made therein to living painters and also to those, most illustrious, who were described as being their ‘inspirations.’ These latter, being, da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphaelo Santi. About them, was stated thus :
.
Be we the inspirers and those inspired. Alas, artists
whom be gifts to humanity, also recreated our truth
in order to prevent their being engulfed by evil intent;
that despising, that death-desiring and its casting,
and does pierce all of human dominion.
*
I was left wondering if some kind of ‘presence’ was what my father had meant when he’d spoken of art being the product of ‘divine inspiration’? During Julian’s last visit, he had alluded to something very similar. Perhaps, the answers were actually here?
“These images,” I said out loud and to myself, “Reflect a world so very different than this life what with its carts, butcher’s shops and the like. Ha, I should say!”
I asked myself whether the fact of my lack of education in such matters was now coming to the fore, because I knew nothing of the ideas that intellectuals held in these affairs. They being, theologians, philosophers and such learned groups. Of course, it did not do to wander too far from the established path which, I guessed, this material certainly was encouraging me to do. Again, I began pondering over certain of the themes in my own work. These had equally unconventional and irreligious content and could easily be seen this way, just as I had thought before.
I looked over at one of my own paintings that had aroused Julian so, ‘The Sun Goddess’. The time of its creation was vivid in my mind. Simply as it had been executed almost without any forethought whatsoever. The painting appeared more astounding to me now, because it revealed figures that were not that dissimilar to the ones in these drawings. Of course, there was only so much inventiveness one could incorporate into the portrayal of ‘figures,’ and the combining of human, animal and bird forms, was not unique. Again, I cast my mind back to the time of creating ‘The Sun Goddess,’ because then, it had seemed important for me to attempt a portrayal of a different kind of time and place. In so doing, a showing of more than expected imagery. That, where an other-worldly potential could exist. One of the forms in my own painting was also a little like the raven man, being part human and part bird.
.
“How could the person who made these have known what I was going to look like? I asked, while staring at the beautiful portrayals of myself. On the last icon, was written a note, thus :
.
The perpetuation of beauty infuriates evil.
Gertrude Lawrence, is beauty personified.
Gertrude Lawrence, is beauty personified.
*
There was a letter written upon the last numbered page, thus :
.
Gertrude shall create sensational art. A showing
which these humans have never witnessed. She will
‘portray’ truth. She will ‘paint’ our manifesting.
But in so doing, it will bring her the ultimate
imperilment. Creating beauty is infuriating to HIM.
This is what all artists whom are, as we, face.
But Gertrude is ‘His’ extreme antagonist. ‘He’ has
purpose which is to create hatred, fear, ugliness
and suffering. It has been this way, since
The Mother’s wish. We want Gertrude to portray
truth for future humans, so she will be protected
by The Watcher. The Watcher is the Raven. The
Raven is, TALSAW. TALSAW IS WHOM THESE HUMANS
HAVE, WITH CHARMING UTTERANCE, WORSHIPPED AS, ‘GOD’.
*
This note I read many times. Its words were few, but suggested enormity. For long moments, I pondered whom ‘he’ referred to? Was it Lucifer, again? The one with the wonderful name, Talsaw, was mentioned again too. That Talsaw was, ‘The Watcher’. More than that even, Talsaw, was God, and in particular, would protect Gertrude Lawrence.
I thought of the sketch of the raven that stood upon the shoulder of the Pharaoh. This would make a magnificent painting. It would be titled, TALSAW: FEMINA PATRONUS. I wanted to shout the words as loudly as possible, for all the world to hear, “Talsaw is my protector, he protects all women, because he is God. Ha! What a god!”
The next note mentioned Mortimer again. It made me think deeply about how Mortimer had wanted to appear for me. This being, as someone different to who he was. It had partly been the reason he had made the impulsive decision to join the Queen’s Army. He wanted to be a hero. He did, it was so. The note read, hence :
.
Mortimer Smythe, Mortimer, Mortimer….You may
well contemplate. Consider, my friend, it be what
I say, but what is intended by my words. I cannot make
pictures of what be yonder out of your lifetime, because these
pictures do not exist in your mind and it is your mind
that I am using. I can appear to you as non-words, as
does the beauty of a melody. This, you can ‘appreciate.’
Even the voice of a foreign tongue. For you to attempt
the grasping of meanings unhuman would be problematic.
Such, is beyond appreciation for you in your state.
Consider, how I have portrayed The Mother Creator to
You. Refer to Her, in writing, as translated Greek
lexicon, ‘ZEUS’. Though I could refer to Her, as the
words; Geb, Ra, Amun Ra, Osiris or whomever and whenever in time,
but the reality is hence;
THE MOTHER CREATOR, IS ALL WORDS OF WHATEVER DYNASTY.
THE MOTHER CREATOR IS ALL THOUGHTS AND THEIR UTTERANCES
OF WHATEVER PICTURE INTENDED, AND THROUGHOUT ETERNITY.
Henceforth, I refer to Her majesterial adorning as: the infinitesimal
binding of which all ‘things exist,’ including these
human beings and what seems to you as the open
vastness, without ending. The shape of the circle
represents the completeness of Her. These descriptions,
I have taken from your repertoire of associations
and arranged them so to facilitate a dialogue with me, which
is meaningful to you. I have more to conjure on the topic
of this, my ‘visitation’ and may reiterate what I have
already stated many times. I muse over how we entered
the minds of whom you know as the ‘ancient’ poets.
Thence made portraiture of immortality, in worded
pictures from their world.
.
The note’s contents were astonishing and I knew that I would have to read it many times not only to understand fully what was being stated, but moreso, ‘how’ it had been given. It seemed that therein, was a very forceful indication of my father’s having been communed with by spirits, or ‘visitors’ as the note implied.
“Hmm….Is this creepy? It’s not meant literally though, I mean, how could it be?” With incredulity, I placed the materials on top of the bureau because there was much more to be perused.
“Ouch.”
While searching at the back of a drawer something with a very sharp point had pricked one of my fingers and in the process, caused me to quickly withdraw my hand.
Beneath a piece of paper were the remains of a small box. Inside this, I discovered what looked like a talon of the claw of a large bird, so I prodded the object with a finger. It was very old because the skin was about to fall apart. Its curled and bony protrusion was, as I had discovered, very sharp.
While holding the small box in the palm of my hand, I recalled the sketch that had been one of the first I had examined, that of the raven-man, Talsaw, in battle with ‘Mephistopheles’. Now, I was wondering whether that depiction had somehow been an event? Had Talsaw been protecting my father? I ruminated, but likewise, with my prior studiousness, could grasp nothing.
“Hmmmmm. For something to take place, things have to be ‘real’….Otherwise it’s all mere nursery rhyme. I do not understand what I’m talking about. Do I?. Ha!”
I placed the box containing the claw atop the bureau and beside the lamp.
The next item I pulled out made me lift my skirts and sit on the floor. It was a painting on linen, representing an icon. Unrolling it had made the surface of the paint crack and break off altogether in places. It displayed my father as a figure with wings. Beside him was another winged, male-figure. The strangest thing was, that part of the bodies of both figures were fading into nothingness. They surely were and it was not an accident of the paint. At the bottom was written, thus:
.
My beloved, my cherishment,
……..my inspiration, Raffaelo Santi.
.
I knew that father’s work had, at times, shared very similar characteristics to those of Raphael. “Father had greatly revered the most esteemed artist. I know and this was his way of showing respect. Obviously, father had painted this?” I began toying very tentatively with the idea that the wavy handwriting actually belonged to Raphael. Momentarily, I began shaking my head, unknowing of what to think or whether I would ever understand what father was intending.
Inside the drawer there had been a bulky item which the small box containing the claw had been standing upon. I got up from the floor so to retrieve it. The object, I discovered, was a book, bound in purple coloured linen. It looked as though it had been sewn together by hand. On the cover and in white, was the design of the talisman, three interlocking circles within a larger circle. Beneath the design was written the title:
.
ZEUS
.
I resumed my sitting, and with my knees before my chest. I rested the book upon my knees so to be able to examine its content. The cover did not come open easily because the book had never been opened before. Slowly and very carefully, the linen and paper cover was bent back.
The first page read, thus :
.
This, the Book of Zeus, of, The Mother Creator,
be what we wish it to mean. It be of Her, in
human portraiture, but was not one formed by
human intention. Zeus, The Mother, be all
that existeth.
This be, the book of unequivocal Truth.
.
“Oh, my, my my,” came my exclamation and while running my fingers over the words. They were written in the same wavy handwriting, that of Raphael, whom father, if I was understanding correctly, had shown to be his guide and his inspiration.
Suddenly, there came a banging sound from down below. As I stood, the distant banging continued, then a shrieking sound caused me to become almost deafened. With hands over my ears, my prior panic was quickly returning. There were far too many unexpected happenings descending upon me.
The shrieking ceased and it became obvious that it had been a raven making the noise. The attic being so enclosed having exaggerated its sound. However, the banging continued. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM…It was so very loud that I began to wonder where it was coming from because its intensity suggested that it was the roof which was being banged. Obviously, such could not be the case and I began gathering my composure, following my most unexpected fright. I would have to go down and see whom it was.
“Mortimer, it’s Mortimer. It has to be! Oh, Mortimer.” I was now crying out in disbelief at this happiest of surprises.
With the lamp and the beautiful purple book in hand, I carefully walked over the floorboards and toward the small entrance. Then quickly clambered down the steps, almost tripping over my skirts in the process.
The banging, I had decided, was coming from the studio door. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The sound was reverberating throughout the corridors of the house.
This was very unlike Mortimer, as he always entered by the front door of the house and had never knocked so violently. Possibly, he was desperate to get in? Why?
.
Extract Father’s Icon. Callassa. London 1883 :
I opened the first drawer, to display many items and so picked out the uppermost papers first.
There was a note in the now familiar wavy scipt. I stood back so to peruse. What it said was characteristically odd. Mortimer’s name was written many times thereupon. It was impossible to count how many, then at the end it stated thus :
.
‘Each Mortimer, is a thousand million, million, million,
million, multiplied by as many sixes as there are, or
thereabouts. Venerable, he be?
.
I laughed when I thought of Mortimer. No one is that old, are they?
The next note taken from the drawer I read while sitting in the place I had cleared during my previous foray, thus :
.
In human life, Mortimer shall ne’er face malice.
He will be kept for Gertrude.
He can only ever die with her and be released to perpetuity.
In human battles, his human body will be protected.
.
On the reverse was an outline drawing of Mortimer, almost a caricature, and there was also a line with an arrow pointing to the next piece of paper, thus :
.
The Almighty Mother, created the Orb of the Sun from Herself.
Proximately, the energy was available to make rises
and settings of Her, into eternity, from upon orbs
within different aspects of a circle. What is the source
of all motion within this circle remains The Mother
Creator, the all-powerful, our beloved.
Talsaw, the first wish, by The Mother Creator,
further caused to exist many intentions, whom, as
‘Himself,’ be a part of Her.
‘The Master of Making Days’, is as Talsaw, supreme,
omnipotent, after Mother, and before all. Talsaw, and
The Master of Making Days, made one orb into a
paradise all be it of suitability thereupon, within
The Mother. A domicle where multitudinous existence
could be effected in ‘forma sublunaris,’ so to co-exist
with Talsaw, and immortal creations. This, has always
been.
This domicile is of many of Zeus ‘children,’ their
‘form’ being beyond the capacity of this limitation of
expression.
.
I decided that these notes would be taken elsewhere, so to thoroughly consider their message. It would take more than one reading for me to do that.
I took the next small drawing. There appeared to be an order to them because numbers appeared atop each corner.
“OH, WHAT!,” I cried out.
In my hand, were small copies, of the icons. One for each year, executed precisely as the ones downstairs. These, displayed me from the distant past to the present and it appeared also, the future. But the dates on which they had been drawn were all the same. Yes, they were and the day of my birth, September 20th. 1859. Also, they had been produced by someone other than father. The style revealed identifiable differences. What this meant was impossible to know, nor how it could be the case. The icons representing me in what was presumably intended to be recently, were most precise.
“How could the person who made these have known what I was going to look like? I had asked this question while staring at the beautiful portrayals of myself. On the last icon, was written a note:
.
The perpetuation of beauty infuriates evil.
The perpetuation of beauty infuriates evil.
Gertrude Lawrence, is beauty personified.
Gertrude Lawrence, is beauty personified.
*
A letter was written upon the last numbered page, thus :
.
Gertrude shall create sensational art. A showing
where within these humans have never witnessed.
She will ‘portray’ truth. She will ‘paint’ our manifesting.
But in so doing, it will deliver her the ultimate
imperilment. Creating beauty is infuriating to HIM.
This is what all artists whom are, as we, face.
But Gertrude is ‘His’ extreme antagonist. ‘He’ has
purpose which is to create despising, fear, ugliness
and suffering. It has been thus, since
The Mother’s wish. We want Gertrude to portray
truth for future humans, so she will be protected
by, The Watcher. The Watcher is the Raven. The
Raven is, TALSAW. TALSAW, IS WHOM THESE HUMANS
HAVE, WITH CHARMING UTTERANCE, WORSHIPPED AS, ‘GOD’.
.
This note, I read many times. Its words were few, but suggested enormity. For long moments, I pondered whom ‘he’ referred to? Was it Lucifer, again? The one with the wonderful name, Talsaw, was mentioned again too. That Talsaw was, ‘The Watcher’. More than that even, Talsaw, was God, and in particular, would protect Gertrude Lawrence.
I thought of the sketch of the raven that stood upon the shoulder of the Pharaoh. This would make a magnificent painting. It would be titled, TALSAW: FEMINA PATRONUS. I wanted to shout the words as loud as possible, for all the world to hear, “Talsaw is my protector, he protects all women, because he is God. Ha! What a god!”
The next note mentioned Mortimer again. It made me think deeply about how Mortimer had wanted to appear for me. That being, as someone different to who he was. It had partly been the reason he had made the impulsive decision to join the Queen’s Army. He wanted to be a hero. He did, it was so.
The note read, thus :
Mortimer Smythe, Mortimer, Mortimer….Thou may
well contemplate. Consider, my friend, it is not what
I say, but what is intended by my words. I cannot make
pictures of what is beyond thy lifetime, because these
pictures do not exist in thy mind and it is thy mind
that I am using. I can appear to thee as non-words, as
does the beauty of melodies. This, thou can ‘appreciate.’
Even the voice of a foreign tongue. For thee to attempt
the grasping of meanings unhuman would be problematic.
Such, is beyond appreciation for thee in thy state.
Consider, how I have portrayed The Mother Creator to
thee. Refer to Her, in writing, as translated Greek
lexicon, ‘ZEUS’. Though I could refer to Her, as the
words; Geb, Ra, Amun Ra, Osiris or wheresoever be thought,
then and gone, but it is that,
THE MOTHER CREATOR, IS ALL WORDS OF WHATEVER DYNASTY.
THE MOTHER CREATOR IS ALL THOUGHTS AND THEIR UTTERANCES
OF WHATEVER PICTURE INTENDED, AND THROUGHOUT ETERNITY.
Henceforth, I refer to Her majesty as: the infinitesimal
binding of which all things exist, including these
human beings and what appears to thee as the open
vastness, without ending. The shape of the circle
represents the completeness of Her. These descriptions,
I have taken from thy repertoire of associations
and used them so to facilitate dialogue with me, which
is meaningful to thee. I have more to say on the topic
of this, my ‘visitation’ and may reiterate what I have
already stated instances myriad. I muse over how we entered
the minds of whom thou knowest as the ‘ancient’ poets.
Thence made portraiture of immortality, in worded
pictures from their world.
.
And forthwith, at my art studio and out of breath, I drew away the wooden latch of the door. Theodous Gilbert was standing and instead of acknowledging me, he glared over my head. He was displaying an angry countenance, as though he had intensely disliked having to wait. He lowered his eyes slowly down and onto me. Disrespectfully, he did not remove or tip his stove piper.
In the first instant, I had felt annoyed and disappointed that the visitor was not Mortimer, but that emotion had very quickly turned into terror as I looked at Theodous Gilbert’s deathly eyes.
Upon tearing away my gaze, I saw that around his lower jaw the warts were covered in dried blood, as though he’d been rubbing them with an abrasive substance.
Goose pimples appeared upon my shoulders and chest. I began to tremble.
“It is, I,” he announced, while fiercely staring down at my breasts. “I thought I, should collect my masterpiece.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Gilbert, sir……Your portrait.”
The portrait was well finished. With apprehension, I asked myself what he would think of the thing being draped and facing the wall? His following close behind filled me with an extreme of unease. He carried that same recognisable and extremely distasteful aura with him and it was enveloping me within its power.
Before bending to pick up the work, I turned. This day, there was also a pungent odour about him. It was sickly and difficult to define. He was aware of the movement of my nose as I made the attempt to breathe away the stench.
“Mind not the embalming fluid,” he said with a grin. “I can force so much into their cavities that they defecate back at me. It is so. Ha. Ha. Haaaaaaaar. Haaaaaaar. Errrrrrr.”
He continued laughing. Even though now, he was not standing close, his breath also contained a similarly foul odour. The mere thought of actually having spent time alone with this man was abhorrent. He was here again to repeat the torment. He seemed to catch sight of the purple book out of the corner of an eye. He smirked and then looked away from it and toward the paintings hanging upon the walls.
The door to the outside had been left wide open. The mid-afternoon light was bursting in, but still, the air inside felt very, very bleak. It was being made so by him, the one who apparently enjoyed inflicting disrespect and cruelty on the dead. The person, I recalled with terror in my heart, whom the drawings in the bureau had described as, Mephistopheles, ‘the one who would visit Gertrude’. The thoughts of who this man might really be were fast becoming unbearable for me. It was then that I espied one of the ravens. The bird was inside the studio, perched upon a ledge and almost at ceiling height. Oddly, it was watching Theodous Gilbert.
I was fearful of turning to bend in order to retrieve the portrait, but I did so quickly, all the same. In what had seemed like immediately, he appeared beside me so to quickly take it. Again something noticeably unnatural about his gait had presented. He had not been standing close, but very suddenly, he was there.
“You do me almost as much justice as I deserve,” he said, while running a black gloved finger over the paint. His finger came to a halt at the mouth and then with a quick flick of his wrist he held it in the air and kissed the portrait on the mouth.
“HA. HA. HA. HA. HA. Satin-velouté, you reflect my human veil well. I commend you. HAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR.”
Theodous Gilbert was huge and I imagined all women being intimidated by him. They would quickly become petrified, just as I. He was, it was certain, capable of literally tearing me limb from limb and casting me far and wide.
Turning from his portrait, he said, with what appeared as a sneering and loathe-filled voice, “This day, you peer at me with a different eye. Though I, detest all humans, I, detest myself, my carriage. Can you not discern it so? CAN THEE?”
“Do I?” was my terror filled utterance, “I ….I… apologise.”
He offered me no reply. Instead, he began pacing violently around the studio with the portrait held before him. Then, he did something peculiarly offensive with it. He pushed the portrait of himself onto the one of me, lying partially covered and with an ostrich feather covering my face.The surfaces were coming together in a very macabre, oscene embrace. One which was unthinkable.
“There, your flesh feels so…..How can I voice, like satin-velouté, against mine. ERRRRRRRRRRR. ERRRRRRRRRRRR.”
He’d spun himself, now more ably to cast his glare over the paintings upon the walls. Across the room something took his attention and he moved extremely quickly towards it. The portrait of me, lying face down within the clouds, was at the same height as his head. He stared straight at it and began whispering,
“Ohhhh. Yes, yes, yes. Oh, yes, my pretty satin-velouté. Satin smooth outside, between and in.” He ran a finger over my legs in the painting, beginning at the back of the ankles and stoppingwhere the scar appeared across a buttock. He held his finger for an instant, then began tapping the painting. As he did so, I felt as though he were tapping on my own body, touching with force, each prod of his finger. Then, he pushed violently, so hard that the painting almost fell from the wall.
“THEE! THEE!” he bellowed out. “Be creating such pleasure for the appetite to satiate upon. Oh, my pretty satin-velouté. Ohhh. Ohhh. Errrrrrrrrrr.”
He swung his body around and looked straight at the raven, as though he’d been aware of its presence all the time. He began laughing loudly, very loudly. He was roaring with laughter. Roaring and roaring, the obscene being he was.
My throat had become very dry and now there was a greater trembling in my legs. This was terror. However difficult, I would gather courage and make an attempt at asking him to leave. I waited until he quieted.
“I, I, I,…have to begin working, Mr. Gilbert, sir.”
“Oh. Theedoos, ‘Theedoos’, please. Familiarity among. ‘familiars’.”
“But, Mr. Gilbert, I must……”
He’d moved and abnormally quickly in his coming to stand before me. He was smiling as he touched my face with a gloved finger.There was a frenetic, demented quality about his eyes. Its making was a display of massive power, amusement and madness, madness, madness.
“My satin-velouté, you know what I, be….Yes?. I, am ‘divine’ love. HA. HA. HA. HA. HA. HA. HA. Hearken to ME! I, BE THE POWER WITHIN ALL EVIL ACTS AND I, SHALL DO AS I, PLEASE. HA. HA. HA. HA. ERRRRRR. ERRRRRRRRRRR.”
While my eyes had been tightly closed the monster had strode toward the door. Then out, banging the door hard behind. His leaving had come extremely unexpectedly and left me transfixed. It was difficult to believe that he was really gone from the studio, but he had. Gone, the beast.
With haste, should he return, I ran at full tilt and placed the bolt across the door. There was also a further task that would not wait.
The sensation of wanting to be sick, I had been holding back only with great difficulty. His foul smell was responsible and it was still lingering in the air, forcing its way into my breathing and constricting my stomach. It had forced its way into my nostrils and down my throat.
At the washing bowl came relief, but each time I made a move away, the urge to be sick crashed upon me. His words and the sound of his voice were raging as loud and plaintive bells in my mind :
“You know what I, be. You know what I, be……The power within all evil acts. The power within all evil acts”. This was what he had told of.
All be it very slowly, the sickness went away. But something equally bothersome was presenting itself. While looking in the mirror, I could see blood from where Theodous Gilbert had touched me with one of his gloved fingers. The blood was his, from his warts and drawn in circles across each of my cheeks.
“Oh, I cannot bear this! I cannot! I cannot! I cannot!” My returning sickness took away any urge to weep. Gilbert’s visit had encompassed mere moments, but had been the worst encounter ever in my life. There was something very strange about the way he had left, so quickly and with fantastic movement. As before, while he had been in the studio, he seemed to have been able to shift himself faster than mere legs could make a person move. Recalling this, made my hands tremble even more, tremble and tremble.
.
Extract. Father’s Icon. Callassa. London. 1882
.
Gertrude is spending time away from her painting the portrait of Sir Charles Linton and is walking with Charles Linton Junior in the grounds of Wetbourne. They have stopped at a garden fountain. There is a border of perennial red and white and a privet hedge to accord privacy.
.
Charles guided me around the fountain and towards an iron bench. When there, he took a handkerchief and placed it for me to sit on. The unnecessary action made me smile in gratitude.
Immediately after sitting, he said, “Gertie, I have done nothing but think about you. Really, I have and you damn well should know,”
I offered an answer. “I do not understand,” I told him. But it was not true, because I did understand what he’d meant from the emotion evident in his voice. This was not what I wanted to hear.
“I think, I mean, well, since you were here, last, my mind has been up and down the hills. I keep seeing you wearing your smock and that hat, and holding your palette. I am smitten over you, Gertie. I am.”
The extent of his outpour of emotion made it very difficult for me to think of an appropriate response. The tenderness in his voice had brought with it a desire to be free of his presence and return home straight away. He was smothering me.
Having not answered him, I retreated into my own thoughts. The visits to Wentbourne had been very few. This fact made me question whether perhaps all the female visitors had been similarly treated? Charles owned wealth and he lived in splendour, so should have been snapped up like a victim of a praying mantis. It was surely so.
“Charles, please forgive me,” I offered. “But I’m afraid that I do not know what to say.”
Having shuffled himself closer to me on the bench, he began his reply, with the same tender but smothering voice.
“Look, Gertie, why not stay until this evening? We are holding a dinner party. I have a sister, Ivy, who will be entertaining the guests by playing her violin. Someone might accompany by singing too. It would be a damn wonderful opportunity for me to show you off. Well, how about it Gertie, my girl? How about it?”
As a gust of wind through the still and the tranquility of my mind, there came a bitter reminder of how lonely my own evenings had become lately. Even so, I held back from what seemed the most appropriate thing to do, and that was accept the invitation. Restraining me was the fact that acceptance of the invitation would also mean acceptance of Charles, as a potential suitor. He was awaiting a response and would be declined by me in a sensitive way.
“Thank you Charles, for the invitation to attend what would be enormously enjoyable for me, I am honored that you have asked me. I could not possibly stay. I have no change of clothes.”
I thought of the last statement about not having clothes almost spontaneously and was quite proud of myself for having done so. I could feel him looking at my hair, at where it was fastened at the back of my bonnet. In a hurry I had finished off the bunne with oily perfume and as with past occasions when used, had applied too much.
“I understand about your needing a change of clothes,” he said.
“You know Gertie, I admire you so. You always dress wonderfully, like today with your splendid blue bow. I admire the way you walk…..everything. Damn it. I do so.”
“Thank you, Charles, but please, tell me ‘why’ it is that you admire me.”
I wondered whether I should have asked the question or changed the subject because asking him to clarify his feelings could lead to having to discuss them. I listened.
“I don’t ignore the things that are happening, you know. I respect women who are making their voices heard. You, Gertie, are most unlike other women because you have talent and earned independence.”
Although I liked what he was saying about women making their voices heard, I was tempted to ask him if that was why he employed women domestics and became upset when they did not bring his tea and cakes on time? It was really a question of whether he meant that particular statement, or that he was trying to impress.
While gently touching my hand with his, he said, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever set eyes on, Gertie. Truly, you are.”
“Oh, Charles, I do not think you can possibly think such things.”
“I do,” he replied, touching my hand again. “I do.”
.
.
.
.
CALLASSA
.
.
HRH. THE QUEEN
VICTORIA REGINA
1882
Imperii Semper Victor
Adversitate. Custodi. Per Verum
Invicta Veritate
.
Note for darling sweet Philip
I can continue this and present a different visage of Victorian society. I can do this via Gertrude’s time spent with the artist Julian Soames-Bartlet and his wife, Arabella. Or prior, while at the Artemis Theatre, or how she must cope with the ordeal that besets her. Or anything really. Darling XXX
.
.
