Twelfth Night

TWELFTH NIGHT

His name is John Austin respected art critic. He’s about to awaken, draw the curtains, and be in awe of a Venetian sunrise he’ll think a natural wonder. The wonder is it’s all been arranged. I’ll let him tell you about the sunrise. More than art, he loves to talk about himself. 

“What a vision! The outline of masts, sails, ships were barely perceptible in the haze. The sun had poured its rays through a mist as it once did for Turner or was it possible I’d developed a quickened sensibility?”

    It is to be expected; he attributes the dazzle to a solar deity or proudly to his inspired gift of perception. Ah, a knock on the door.

”Come in, Carmella.”

“A woman brought these dianthus and verbena flowers early this morning, sir; she gave no name”

“Just dropped them off without saying a word?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a most glorious morning, is it not, sir?     It’s my day to take Anna to view the paintings of Tintoretto at San Rocco.”

“Our concierge is fortunate to employ a young woman who not only serves her English guests, but also tutors her daughter on the glories of Italian art.”   

“Thank you, sir. You enjoy your day too.”       

“The flowers are the very ones upon the windowsill in the painting of Carpaccio which I came all the way to Venice to copy.  Who could’ve brought them? Indeed, who could have even known about them?”

Who, indeed, Austin?

“I don’t recall describing the painting to any of the dinner guests last evening, and they couldn’t have seen it for the curator had graciously allowed me to take the painting to a separate room to copy.”

The musicians in the other room were playing some Vivaldi. Our hostess, , Austin, and I were discussing the disadvantages of our sex.

“Come now, Austin, surely you must admit being a man gives you a freedom in and about the city we women don’t enjoy.”

“I don’t believe it gives us any more freedom than it gives you. In fact, I think it’s quite the other way round.”

“But John, you men have the advantage here in Venice. Your apparel allows you ease walking the canals, spanning the bridges. With our voluminous dresses and coats we have to be careful not to wet them in the puddles or be blown into the canals themselves.”

“Oh, no; women are by no means the weaker sex. That they are believed to be so is a myth perpetuated upon men by women who seek to disarm us in order to conquer us.”

“Do you truly believe women, especially the young and innocent, have such designs upon men?”

“Indeed, I do, and for me, the strength of the former is often greater than that of their elder peers.”

   “Listen to the gentleman speak. He talks of myths, and I ask, who, more than the art critic, propagates such myths?”

“If women are indeed weaker in any way, it is due to their failure in fidelity.”

Mrs. Sayre suddenly gasped and whispered, “Oh!”

“Is it Mrs. Sayre, then?”

“Yes.”

“Permit me to introduce myself.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Austin.”

“I hope I’m not being too presumptuous, but I couldn’t help notice you seemed to be staring at me through dinner. I had the impression you were “studying” me.”

   “Not at you, but something behind you. During dinner, I sensed the presence of an apparition behind and over you. She was young and dressed in gossamer, which could have served as a nightgown, a wedding gown, or a shroud. When you questioned the fidelity of women, she put her right hand to her right cheek. It was then my scrutiny must have become intense for you turned quickly around to see what I was staring at. I gathered from your response, you saw nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

“When I looked again, the apparition had disappeared.”

“May I ask, , are you at all acquainted with a family by the name of Marsh.”

“No, I don’t believe I am.”

“Thank you.”

No, Austin was not the sort to be easily taken in by a self-proclaimed psychic. She could very well have been a fraud seeking to ingratiate herself into relationship with a celebrity.  But he didn’t believe her dishonest. It was the placing of the hand to the cheek. It was the very gesture of Saint Ursula in the Carpaccio painting. But he wondered why should a ghost of Saint Ursula be dismayed by his measure of the fidelity of women? His Lily, on the other hand, certainly would have thought she had cause.

Lily was but twelve years old when Austin met her and seventeen when he proposed.

     “Lily, I’ve waited five years. I’ve watched you evolve into a woman more physically attractive by nature and more desirable by nurture. I feel I’ve had something to do with your growth.”

     “Oh yes, John; yes, you have.”

     “I can wait no longer. Lily Marsh, will you be my wife?”

     She did not answer immediately.

     “Lily, is it so difficult for you to answer?”

     “I fear we don’t worship the same God.”

     “Do we worship different gods or the same God in slightly different ways?”

     “I worship the god your mother does, and I do so, as she, evangelically. You worship a pantheistic God.”

     “There are many rooms in the house of God, Lily. Can we not live in the same house and worship in different rooms?”

     “You may be able to worship in a different room; I don’t believe I could.”

     “Is that why you hesitate to say yes? There’s more, isn’t there? “

     “Mother wrote to Eugenia to ask if there were any reason why I should not consent to be your wife.”

     “And what did Mrs. Miller say?”

     “Read this.”

     “From his peculiar nature he is utterly incapable of making a woman happy. He is quite unnatural in that respect, and in that all the rest is embraced.” Is that what she calls it –- being made “happy.”

     From the moment he met Lily Marsh, Austin felt he’d found his Beatrice, the embodiment of all which was delicate, beautiful, inspirational, and divine. But fate interceded; and Lily suffered a most tragic, premature death. But let us listen to Austin once more.

“Was it possible it was Lily’s spirit the psychic guest had seen over me? Could her spirit have even inspired my discovery of the Carpaccio paintings in the first place and my visit to Venice?” 

Of course it wasn’t Lily who brought  to Venice. No, a power even stronger than the allure of a young girl for an older man of letters has arranged the expiation of John Austin.

“I wondered why Carpaccio had placed St. Ursula in a bed for two? Was the empty space for the angel who appeared before it? Why not simply place the angel so its shadow fell upon the bed and thereby provided an emblem of a spiritual marriage?”

Even in personal matters,  cannot help but play the critic, presuming to improve upon the Italian painter’s design with the shadow of the angel rather than the angel itself.

“Or perhaps the maid of legend was but a foreshadowing of a more recently departed virgin who awaited a reunion with her older, but still virginal, lover? I hoped the painting in the Accademia would answer these questions.”

Only you, Austin, would think of uniting a virgin with a saint through the casting of its shadow upon a bed. That imagination of yours makes my mission so easy. 

“The mist which had contributed to the Turner vision of the lagoon this morning, had cleared. As I stood on the

bridge, I felt like Dante in his ascent to the spiritual, the aesthetic; for me the two were one.”

Note there’s no room for the natural in ’s peregrinations around Venice.

“I also beheld in the calm waters the mirroring of the facades of homes and the flowers framing the portals. Venice was known as the City of Water or Bridges or Light, but for me it was more truly the City of Reflections. 

He will spend a few moments in the Accademia examining his pastel copy of the Carpaggio and thinking of the story of St. Ursula. Young Ursula and her royal suitor had agreed to wait three years before they wed. Austin and Eugenia had agreed on their wedding night to wait three years to consummate their marriage. The king had agreed to convert to the Christianity of his future young bride before she would consent to wed him. Lily made a condition of any marriage, as you have heard, he convert back to the evangelical religion of his mother. 

Oh her way to wed the king, Ursula was martyred at the hands of a barbarian, who killed her because she would not convert to his worship of strange gods. And Lily died before he could revert to the evangelical worship of his mother. 

It’s clear, isn’t it? Look! The figure he’s added lying besides Ursula resembles the artist who’s just created it.  Ursula is still covered by the sheet; Austin’s shadow is not. Like a sword placed between the knight and his fair lady to protect her chastity, the Austin figure remains apart, separated from his beloved.

    He’s rolled up his new drawing and put it in his carpetbag. He’s on his way back to his rooms. Come, I’ve a surprise for him; I think you’ll find it an apt preparation for the purgation he must undergo.

“I came to a small shop at the corner of a narrow alley and was fascinated by what I beheld in the window. It was a missal opened to a dazzling illumination! On the recto side was a richly illuminated letter R. In the vertical line knelt a maiden in an attitude of prayer. Winding its way along the curved upper part of the letter and down the diagonal line was a creature, half dragon, half serpent. Looking at the illuminated letter, I found it difficult to determine whether the maiden felt threatened by the beast, or the beast, repelled by the maiden.  What was not in question was I had to have the missal.”

Of course you must have it, Austin; I knew you would; that’s why the merchant set it in the window. Come, I’ve more entertainment in store.

Having a little time before he needed to get ready for another dinner this evening on the feast of the epiphany, he decided to stop by the Piazza San Rocco and view another of his favorite artists, Tintoretto, the little dyer.   

Inside the church, Carmella spoke to her ward as Austin looked on.

“Look Anna, look at the swarm of cherubim accompanying the annunciation next to the seedy brick, the broken marble, the frayed, straw chair, and the torn basket at the Virgin's feet.”

    “Oh, Carmella, you’ve actually read the book I gave you.”

    Anna, look above you; the profane is more attractive than the sacred, is it not?  Ah, my child, you could not have done anything better to disappoint Austin but to pause and gaze above at the pornographic transformation of the satanic snake into slithering, eely reptiles insinuating themselves among the bodies of the naked, damned Israelites.

“The day was ending as it had begun, a mist settling in upon the city. This time it was thicker, a dark veil falling all over Venice. And I had to venture out to attend another dinner party in celebration of the epiphany.”

“Austin, I believe you know Mrs. Cousins.”

“Of course he does. We go back a long way. I was a good friend of Mrs. Marsh and Lily. For a while John, Lily, and I studied pre-Raphaelite painting.”

“Well, this night, you two must make do with the study of the music of Venice. I have prepared a little entertainment. The musicians are in the parlor almost ready to begin.”

“Is it to be some Vivaldi, then?”

“Oh, my, no; Lady Fitcher had the Vivaldi last night. This twelfth night, we will enjoy Albinoni. Come.”

“I’ll be there in a moment. I want to check on the fog.”

    “Have you forgiven me, John?”

“Forgiven you, for what, Mrs. Cousins?”  

“For agreeing to deliver Mrs. Marsh’s letter to your ex-wife asking if she saw any objection to your courting and marrying her Lily.”

“God protect us from such mothers.”

“Would you include your own in that invocation?”

“Especially my own.”

Oh, there’s history here, you see. When young Austin went off to study at Oxford, his mother went with him. Sh feared for his health, rented rooms to be near should he need her. The two took tea every afternoon.

“But Lily was such a frail, susceptible young thing, John.”

“And what was I but a frail old man?”

“You know what Eugenia said in her response to Mrs. Marsh’s?”

“The whole of British society knows.” 

“Why did you not consummate your marriage? Why give Eugenia and the painter grounds for an annulment? Was Eugenia repulsed by the idea of a physical union?”

“No, it was not Eugenia who was repulsed.”

    “Well, then, you did Eugenia a great service. Had you made love, any annulment or divorce would have been inconceivable.”

“One would have thought she would have been grateful and wished me some measure of happiness.”

“Perhaps, Eugenia could not forgive you the wasted years?”

“It had never occurred to me she’d regard marriage to one who granted her freedom to indulge in gay dinners and fanciful dances, to invite into her home guests she wished and entertain them in a manner it pleased her as wasted

years. But now, I can see how she may have thought so, have felt so.”

“You do know Eugenia also wrote she believed you were unfit as a husband not only for herself or for a girl as young as Lily, but also for any woman.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No. I see now you were the only man meant to be Lily’s husband.  I believe she died for love of you, John. It’s that for which you must forgive me.”

“I can only forgive you as much as I can forgive myself.”

I credit him for taking the blame for his and Eugenia’s failure to consummate their marriage. But pleading culpability now is not nearly sufficient penitence. Such redemption requires more.

“I decided to walk back to my rooms rather than to take a gondola, hoping the exercise would unravel the mental knot in my mind and the physical one below my nape, but instead I found myself more and more lost in a mist-shrouded Venice.”

    “Mroowwwwww!!!!!!!!!”

“I looked for the source of that feline cry. I found it, the grotesque carved figure of a stone lion the glow of gaslight had animated and given the impression it had been the source.  I knew I must get back to my rooms as soon as possible.”

“Come, signore, you take my gondola. I take you to la casa del gatto, no? Come!”

“Although the suggested destination was common enough, the ghastly, red eyes were not. Every step now to the summit of the bridge was so laden with dread I felt as though I were climbing a mountain, and every step down so slow as if I were descending an inferno. 

“The fog was so thick I could only proceed feelingly to evade falling into the canal or stumbling over any impediment. I finally arrived back at my hotel and looked forward to a fire I hoped Carmella had thought to light.”

Be careful, Austin, of what you wish you for.

“Carmella had prepared a fire, and relieved, I thought to have another look at my newly acquire treasures. As I glanced at the intricate calligraphy of the missal for a few seconds, the red and black dragon gradually began to move around the curve and down the incline of the letter.”

He slammed the missal shut and took out his pastel copy of Ursula.

“When I turned to my Carpaccio, I found I had drawn Ursula slightly softer than she appeared in Carpaccio’s original. Ursula now looked more like my Lily than she had in the pastel copy I had made.

“A red stain suddenly appeared on the drawing, but I could find no trace of wet paint among the shifting shadows cast from the fire on the ceiling above. There was no longer any doubt; the nightmare had begun!

“The red stain began to lengthen and take form and slip under the white sheet covering Ursula. The sheet began to undulate as the demonic creature crawled across Lily’s body. I picked up the drawing and threw it into the fire.

“As it burned, the parchment unfolded, and the flames rising from the parchment metamorphosed into snakes of many sizes and russet hues against the sooty black background of the fireplace. 

“I closed the drapes only to see reptilian shapes moving in, out, and through the lush foliage of the Venetian fabric. I closed my eyes. I sought the only remedy left to me and headed to my bed. I pulled back the blanket. 

“There was the black cat with the head of the gargoyle and the ghastly red eyes of the gondolier. It moved its misshaped jaws, but no roar issued.  And for the first time since I returned to my rooms, I became conscious of the silence in the room. 

“I was somewhat relieved I had lost the sense of hearing; I prayed to God I would soon lose the sense of sight. I felt something crawling up my leg. I looked down; the same undulation of the sheet covering Lily was now making its way beneath and up the wool of my trousers.”

His cry resonated through the room, across the wide lagoon, but Austin heard it not.