Malicious Designs

Malicious Designs

Emma Kansiz

1815, South England

As I have been telling friends and associates since the ruinous day he moved into the manor directly across from mine, I have been completely out of sorts. This man, this ball of conceit they call Walpole Collingwood, has offended me on two counts.

I will now elaborate upon these assertions. Before I learned of his identity, I already nurtured a certain distaste for the man. Firstly, Collingwood bought a manor that I, myself, had in my sights. It was a tale as old as time: he beat me to it. Now I am quite old enough not to hold childish grudges over real estate. But frankly, it set our acquaintanceship off to a most unpleasant start. I interpreted his intentions, his trivial niceties, and his peculiarities with the veneer of malice because, indeed, I felt malicious towards him. 

Had it been another aristocratic somebody from the city, it is likely that I would have disliked them with the same force. But possibly not. Had we bonded as gentlemen over some common intellectual passion or perhaps had more similar dispositions, I might have been inclined to put my original malice aside. But, I regret to say that I found Collingwood most tiresome, with scant, if any, redeeming characteristics. He was jocular, playful, and breezily conceited. It was rather appalling to see a man so cavalier about his own inflated self-importance. There was no austerity to him, just a jolly, sneering mockery of all that is serious and modest. 

Another offense, much graver than the first. When I learned of the man’s name from an acquaintance who, it appeared, was quite content to ruin my day, a swell of fury erupted within me. I was all too familiar with that wretched name, I was.

It was in a review that I first saw it in print, in London’s well-redeemed National Inquiries on Taste and Aesthetics. It was a review of my woefully misunderstood treatise on medieval art, published early last year, entitled A Treatise on the Simplistic Tradition in Medieval Art. The review, unabridged in all its horror, is as follows:

"The dubiously esteemed Mr. Garnett is rather of the mind that he has the authority to revise history and mold it to his own corrosive, syphilitic notions. The subject of his wrath? Medieval art! The blasphemy of it is readily apparent. He believes medieval art is simply a tapestry of stick figures blindly prostrating and gorging themselves on bread. 

He mocks the careful lines and taut illuminations as being the product of blind monks drunk on their own miserly sobriety! And who might the grand Mr. Garnett think he is to cast such ire on an entire period of artistic creation? He is certainly of the conceit that he is perched like some ancient giant in the collective imagination but I daresay he is merely a waning figure living out his dotage constructing tedious polemics and picking trivial fights. 

A Treatise on the Simplistic Tradition in Medieval Art is, in effect, a bonfire of all the beloved medieval tropes that we have deemed so sacred! Well, if he believes that a foray into medieval art is a foray into the mind of a simpleton, then I dare say a foray into his treatise is a foray into the mind of a wastrel!"

Review, produced upon request by the Taste and Aesthetics Committee, Walpole Collingwood

Oh, the pain of revisiting his words! Walpole and his cronies had seen fit to blaspheme the text, calling it an intellectual cannon sinking the ship of the medieval tradition. They said it was a ranting, raving text of a possessed mind. They said it was academically dishonest, stuffed with sophistries and deceit. Revisionist art history without the redeeming feature of being enjoyable to read! 

One could feel the disdain dripping off the page. One could taste the visceral delight Walpole took in diminishing the hard-won accomplishments of a better man than himself. But the wheel is turning in my favor, and it won’t be long before I give him something to disdain! Walpole, evidently, thought me foolish and irrelevant, and I was raring to disabuse him of that sentiment.  

Our mutual neighbor, Sir Hunter, was hosting a soiree the following evening, and I had my sights set on Walpole’s ruin. Initially, I had thought it sufficient to cast aspersions on him in the public eye, shaming him in the presence of our region's brightness and most unforgiving. But I eventually grew weary of this idea, realizing the hardship involved in taking down a man of Walpole’s stamina and charisma with mere words alone. A well-placed prod in the gut would have a more pronounced, but certainly a less illustrious, effect. 

The plan was steeped in the kind of gothic intrigue and labyrinthine chicanery I find so gratifying. I had obtained the little vial of poison from men unknown, Venetian traders of the sort who never give a business partner their real name. The duplicitousness and evasiveness involved in the acquisition of the poison were delightful and fostered in me a tireless commitment to my strategy.

The strategy was clear and decisive and echoed with the audacity of medieval times when scores were settled in altogether more violent and gruesome ways. But this was ultimately more elegant, and in keeping with the times, it possessed the tidy finality of a mystery novel.

A nondescript black suit and a quiet, demure disposition that won’t arouse notice in the eyes of the guests. A circling of the prey, pompous in his gilded garb and jewel-encrusted cane. A well-timed drop or two of poison into Walpole’s champagne flute. 

The words of the review haunted me and goaded me on: I daresay he is merely a waning figure living out his dotage constructing tedious polemics and picking trivial fights. 

Well, Walpole, You’ll be living out your dotage on the floor of the grand ballroom, clutching your throat and cursing the day your pen ever touched paper!

I blew out the candle in my study, grazed the vial before slipping it back into the desk, and patted my treatise affectionately. It was late, and tomorrow would be a tiring day, requiring the full scope of my mental and physical capacities.