The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits (11 page)

"Well," says John, lying back against the horsehair upholstery with a wheezy sigh, "I'll return at four o'clock, shall we say, and present myself in the parlour to take you down to dinner—"

"Papa says I always order a very good dinner."

"—indeed, and then we shall have delicious hours of quiet tête-à-tête."

"Oh yes," she says eagerly. "You'll show me pictures of beautiful statues, and we'll discuss your book, and your Mr. Turner and his wild paintings, and I shall learn to mend your broken pens. But John, will you not miss your bachelor state?"

"I should hope not," he says, smiling down at her. "You will be a great solace to me; someone to come home to, someone to refresh my spirits and save me from my old despondencies. You'll be my mistress, my friend, my queen, my treasure, my only darling, my own Effie!"

She shudders with pleasure. "But John," she says after a moment, tugging at his cuff, "how do I know you will always love me as you do now?"

He grins at her between nose-blows. "That depends entirely upon yourself. A good wife has a secret power to make her husband love her more and more every day." He wipes his streaming eyes and gathers her into his arms. "And I know this much: God has given you to me, and he gives no imperfect gifts."

The countryside is a rumpled black blanket, only occasionally lit up by the coachman's swinging lamps. The newlyweds, enclosed in the carriage, cannot see each other's faces anymore. At the Bridge of Tilt, Effie lets out an enormous yawn, and murmurs, "That's nineteen times we've crossed water today."

Past ten o'clock: Blair Atholl at last. Effie is so stiff, Hobbs has to lift her out of the carriage. The inn is almost empty, on this Lenten Monday. Their hostess finds some syrup of violets for John's throat, and brings them some cold beef for a late supper.

Then John and their hostess exchange significant glances, and he stands up and holds out his curved arm to Effie. The newlyweds leave Hobbs downstairs warming his toes at the fire, and follow their hostess's lamp up two flights of creaking stairs. "This is quite the genteelest room in the house," she assures them, poking the fire, "and the rest of the floor is quite empty tonight, so you won't be disturbed."

Effie studies the drab watercolour of Ben Nevis that hangs over the mantelpiece.

"Might you need any help, dearie?" asks their hostess, nodding at Effie's travelling case. "Shall I send the maid up?"

The bride shakes her head.

Their hostess sets the lamp down beside the bed with a reverent air, nods to the gentleman, and shuts the door behind her.

When they are alone, John smiles at Effie. "You must be tired. I confess every joint in my body is aching. Aren't you tired?"

"A little," she says.

He goes to the window and checks that the heavy velvet drapes are quite shut. "
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
" he says rather nasally.

Effie stares at him.

"Juliet's speech after her wedding, don't you remember?"

She nods, smiles tightly. She examines the tall screen, with its enamelled wading birds, then goes behind it to undress.

John's brows draw together as he tries to recall the lines. "There's another piece about fiery-footed steeds," he mutters, tugging at the knot of his black silk cravat, "and something about being sold but not yet enjoyed ... and then I do believe she says,

Come, gentle night, come, loving black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun...
"

He stands in his long nightshirt and cap; a tear glitters in his left eye. Effie emerges in her voluminous nightgown and comes up close to him. "So beautiful," he murmurs. "So beautiful, that image of the stars, and all the sharp little '
t
's in the third line." He reaches out his hand and undoes Effie's plait now, reverently unwinding the three thick loops that encircle her head. She arches her neck like a cat. "My dear," he says, halting, "would you put your veil on again for a moment, as you promised? I barely saw it during the ceremony, in your parents' drawing room; I had my eyes shut almost throughout."

She laughs a little, and goes to fetch it from her case. "There," she says, turning with a flourish.

"Oh, Effie. Oh, my love," he murmurs, beckoning her to him and pressing his mouth to the fine white lace that lies against her eyelids. "If I look any longer I may die of joy..."

She shivers.

"But what am I thinking of, letting you catch a chill?"

Obedient, she plucks the veil off, folds it away, and scurries to the high bed. She has to climb up two mahogany steps. John gives his nose a final wipe and gets in the other side. They stare at each other like children, laughing under their breath. John starts to say something, then hushes, reaches out towards the ribbon at her neck.

But Effie, gathering all her nerve, pulls the nightgown up and over her head in one long rush, and lays herself entirely bare.

A pause, and then John moves close, very slowly, close enough to see her, smell her, drink her in. Effie feels her cheeks scald with shame and pleasure. She squeezes her eyes shut.

Nothing happens. Nothing stirs in the room, and she opens her eyes again.

Something has checked him. His reddened eyes are wary, puzzled.

"What is it, John?" Effie's voice is a squeak. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing, my dear."

The cold is dimpling her skin, sharpening her nipples now. "Was I immodest? I only wanted—"

"That's not it." His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. "This is such a ... an unfamiliar situation, would you not say?"

"Oh. Yes."

"You are..."

"What? What am I?"

"So different from the statues." He produces an uncertain little smile.

"Different," she repeats. And then, after a long moment, "In what way, different from the statues?"

He assumes a jovial tone. "Having all your arms, I suppose I mean, and your head on too!"

She stares at him like a forest creature disturbed on a road.

John gets down from the bed and walks over to the window. The boards creak. The backs of his legs are hairy below the nightshirt. He divides the curtains an inch or two, to look out. "There appears to be a light on Tulach Hill; perhaps a bonfire," he remarks softly.

Effie says nothing. She has pulled up the blankets, and wrapped her arms around her nakedness till nothing can be seen but her white face, her spilling hair.

He turns at last, decisive. "My dearest," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing his legs, "what do you know about the relations of married people?"

She stares at him. "Their parents, you mean? And brothers and sisters?"

"No, no—" and he smiles a little twistedly. "I'm referring to ... marital relations. Has your mother explained anything to you of such matters, by any chance?"

She shakes her head, looks down at the counterpane.

"What few ideas you have on the subject must come entirely from literature, then."

"I suppose so," she mutters, her cheeks dark with embarrassment.

"What worries me," says John thoughtfully, "is that you may not realise the risks entailed."

"Risks?"

"Marital life, in this special sense, is not to be entered into lightly. You are so very young—not yet twenty—and your system has been subjected to such anxiety about your father's monetary troubles—and it occurs to me now that the gentlemanly thing to do might be to postpone the whole business."

"Postpone it?" she repeats. "But I wouldn't mind—I mean, I am prepared to take any risks that, that need be taken—"

He interrupts, tapping the counterpane. "Also, I dread that any ill health on your part might disrupt our expedition to the Alps with my parents. The double excitement of travel and marital relations could prove too much for you, Effie, as it often has for women of stronger constitutions. And then if there were to be any immediate consequence—"

She blinks at him.

"A child, I mean," he says gently. "Why, we might not get to cross the sea again for ten years!"

Her mouth turns down at the edges; her crimson lip is trembling.

"Believe me, my sweet, if I am willing to control myself, it is for your own good."

"Yes," she says through her teeth. "But John—"

"Oh, my love," he interrupts, "I am asking you to trust me to decide this, as your husband. But of course, if at any time in the future your views depart from my own—if you at any point find that you wish consummation to occur without further delay, for the sake of your own health or happiness—all you have to do is tell me."

"Tell you that I wish it?"

"Yes. Truly, Effie. For instance, I would do it this very night if I felt it was your wish," he says eagerly. "Is it?"

"No," she says, looking away to the edge of the candlelight, "no, of course not, John."

He grins at her. "I think you're somewhat relieved, isn't that so?"

"Perhaps," she whispers.

"The more I think about it, Effie, the more I see that our marriage should be based on the soundest spiritual principles, not mere passion." His voice rises in enthusiasm, as if he is lecturing on art; his cold seems to be gone. "And in the fullness of time, my dear, when I make you my wife in that special sense, I think we will both be glad that we showed forbearance tonight."

"Perhaps so."

"It's a bargain, then. Our little secret bargain." John holds out his hand, and she puts hers into it, and he presses his hot mouth to the backs of her fingers.

Then he picks up her discarded nightgown as easily as a nurse, holds it high so that Effie can slip her arms in. He plants a kiss on her pale forehead. "Sleep in my arms, now, my darling."

She edges down into the blankets, into his heavy embrace.

"You'll need all your strength for tomorrow's early start, and the long drive to Aberfeldy. Good night, my love."

"Good night," she whispers.

But after the candle is out, he and she both lie awake in the smoky darkness.

"
Come, Gentle Night" is about the wedding night of Euphemia "Effie" Chalmers Gray (1828–97) and the art critic John Raskin (1819–96). They met in 1840, when she was only twelve, and were married less than eight years later at her parents' house at Bowerswell, near Perth, on 10 April 1848. My sources for this story are family Utters and legal documents included and discussed in Mary Lutyens's books
Effie in Venice (
1965),
Millais and the Ruskins (
1967), and
The Ruskins and the Grays (
1972), as well as other biographies of Ruskin.

In 1854 Effie ran away from her husband and had their marriage annulled on the grounds of non-consummation. A year later she married the painter John Everett Millais, with whom she had eight children.

The Cottage Ladies were breakfasting when word came.

Cousin Anna slid into her self-propelling chair and got as far as the front door.

"Wait!" cried Cousin Sarah. She took hold of the padded handles of the chair and bumped Anna carefully down the steps. On the path, Anna wheeled herself along with frantic thrusts of her hands. Sarah had to jog to keep up with her cousin; she lifted her skirt in both hands. The rain was over, but the October wind cut at Sarah's ankles and neck like a willow switch; she wished she'd thought to bring her Kashmir shawl.

When they reached the beach, the damp brown sand clogged the great wheels of Anna's chair, and she slowed to a grinding crawl. Sarah caught up with her, then, and started pulling the chair along backwards. Anna stared over her shoulder across the half-mile of pale Norfolk strand, across the dark splintered waters, to the ship. The two of them breathed in gasps. They didn't need to say a word.

The main mast was down, Sarah saw; the old red brig was keeling over sideways, as if drunk, or poisoned. On its side was a word in strange, angular letters. The wreck held to the invisible rocks under the hard gray water. Small oil-skinned figures could be seen here and there, roped to the rails. As the ladies came to a standstill and watched, a wave reared up foaming and bit the deck.

"Poor souls," said Sarah, but the wind ate up her words.

Her cousin's eyes were narrowed against the spray, like chisel marks in her wide Nordic face. "You there!" Anna cried, pushing a strand of rogue hair back into her cap. "Ned Sylvester!"

One fisherman left the little knot of men and ran over, hands folded respectfully. "Miss Anna. Miss Sarah," he added, with a sideways nod. "She's a Ruskie, seems like."

"Never mind where the ship's from. Why aren't you using the Apparatus?"

Sarah looked past the fishermen and there it was on a hand-barrow, the Patent Life Saving Apparatus, on which she and Anna had spent half their savings. According to the advertisement in the
Times,
it could shoot a rope across the sea twice a minute with the greatest degree of precision. But its iron curves bore traces of salty rust already.

"She's too far out for that," said Ned Sylvester, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "No hope for much but salvage this time, we all reckon."

"Don't say that." Anna's cheeks bore two red marks.

"Well, Miss," said Sylvester uncomfortably, his eyes shifting back to the shore.

"Have you so much as tried the thing yet?"

He shook his head, not looking at her.

"Come along, then." Anna jerked her head at her cousin to wheel her down the wet sand to where the other fishermen stood staring out at the wreck. "Exert yourselves, men!" she shouted. "Send for the Life Boat, and set up the Apparatus."

Sarah stood beside one of the fishermen's wives. She realised she was shivering; the wind off the sea was colder than she'd realised. "Has word been sent to Air. Fowell Buxton up at the Hall?" she asked at last. Her voice was too faint; she had to repeat the question.

The woman nodded, never taking her eyes off the listing ship.