A Pretty Mouth (20 page)

Chapter Five: I Will Not Change, As Others Might

Henry could not risk lighting a candle, so it was not until very early the next morning, under the pretense of visiting the jakes before prayers, that he was able, with fingers all a-tremble, to crack the wax sealing the missive and finally—finally!—peruse its contents with his sleep-bleared eyes.

He tried not to be disappointed, but all it said was:

Do not speak or even look at me at all today. Instead, meet me after dusk in the Grove, at the Doric Temple. Come alone. Tell no one.

‘Till then,

I remain,

St John Clement

Even after reading it for a fourth time, squinting in the pre-dawn light, Henry could not make heads nor tails of the letter. Why should St John wish to meet with him if he didn’t want to speak with him? Why in the garden? And “after dusk?” After dusk could mean practically any time—right after dusk? Just before prayers, at eight in the evening? Midnight, technically speaking, was “after dusk.”

The bell calling all students to morning prayers tolled as Henry sat alone in the outhouse, the wood of the seat cutting into the flesh of his bottom. He swore, stuffed the parchment down the front of his robes, and scurried off to chapel. He slunk in the back door just in time, and safely took a seat in the back before anyone noticed him.

Christ was not the lord on Henry’s mind as the priest led them through the usual prayers. He kept glancing up, trying to locate St John’s lion’s mane of curls among the sea of bowed heads—and once he did so, he tried with his eyes and willpower to bore a hole into that well-formed skull in order to discern its contents. Such a strange young man, a chimera in more ways than one … what interest could he possibly have in Henry? Did he want to apologize for his actions? Humiliate him further?

That thought sent a chill down Henry’s spine, and he shivered on his pew. The thought of coming, innocent, to the Temple—only to discover the Blithe Company there, wild and womble-ty-cropt, ready to tear him to pieces like the horde of howling maenads they were …

Henry smiled to himself as he took his feet—Master Fulkerson and Mr. Berry would like that rather classical analogy, would they not? Well, they could expect that sort of intelligence from him from here on out. He’d show them all. Whatever happened that evening—even if St John wouldn’t be his tutor, even if the meeting was an ambush—he had finally found a reason to care about academics: Rochester.

Well, more specifically, eventually obtaining Rochester’s patronage.

But even with his newfound academic motivation and the promise of secret meetings, the day was a rough one for Henry. Never at his best after a sleepless night, the three or so hours he had managed to snatch after returning—and spending not a little time blinking at the darkness in his dormitory, wondering about the contents of St John’s letter—did not exactly increase Henry’s mental acuity. He was called on several times during Logic only to flub his answers entirely, much to the delight of the rest of the students; Geometry was an unmitigated disaster, Moral Philosophy humiliating, and, after dinner, Classics … Classics was the worst of all.

He had, after all, given Master Fulkerson all the ammunition he needed to make those hours of his life a living hell. Henry was forced to endure not only the Master’s opening remarks on how, despite having made a recent—if impromptu—study of “modern English poetry,” they would continue with studying Aristophanes’ speech in
Symposium
that day, but Master Fulkerson’s questions pertaining to material he had but dimly understood—and, truth be told, barely skimmed.

“Mr. Milliner!” called Master Fulkerson, not looking up from his podium at the bottom of the auditorium. “As you seem lately much occupied with matters of
love
,” he drawled the word to much hooting and howling from the appreciative class, the shitwigs, “let us hear your thoughts concerning the
Symposium
. Yesterday, after you took your leave of us, we ended with a spirited debate as to whether Aristophanes’ allegory was comic or tragic. Our Lord Calipash, tender soul that he is, seemed to think the plight of homosexuals rather sad. But what do
you
think, Mr. Milliner? Is it sad when one loves someone with whom he may never truly be, due to God’s laws, or society’s laws, or some other factor … such as, oh, I don’t know—
social class
?”

It was a nasty thing to say, even for Master Fulkerson. Henry could not help but flush—many of his classmates did, as well. Christ, if he had held his hands in front of Rochester’s face he would have burned them! But he had to answer, so he thought for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Master Fulkerson, I would say that, ah, since we, because of the gods and all, are now all born separately—well, ah, most of us,” he stammered, thinking of the twins he had seen last night, “it must be really difficult to find one’s other half—and, I guess, to know what to do once you do find him? Or her? Especially since we’re all so confused if love is a physical thing. Rather than spiritual.” He was blushing terribly now. “I mean, Plato—or Aristophanes, rather—seems to think love is spiritual a lot of the time, right, but he’s talking about sex, too … you know, like we were discussing yesterday, before I left,”
Good show Henry
, thought Henry,
nicely done indeed, show you were listening
, “it’s still the convention that you’ve got to, you know, marry and sire heirs and have a family and everything, even if you don’t want to. That seems a trifle unfortunate, I think, even if God in His wisdom has decreed that homosexuals are abominations and all that. As for social class, well, you’re really hard-up if you fancy someone higher than you, but if some rich lady or lord takes an interest, they can sometimes do what they like, like if she’s a widow for example. And a gentleman may refresh the old family stock with some wild blood, right? But a lot of the time it’s no good at all for unfortunate, star-crossed souls.”

He’d done it—by God, he had
actually
acquitted himself decently! Master Fulkerson was staring at him, obviously struck dumb by the sheer brilliance of his answer. Henry shot Rochester a smug look, but Rochester didn’t seem to be interested in meeting his eyes.

“Mr. Milliner,” said Master Fulkerson at last, “that was, I think, the single worst response to a question I have ever personally heard uttered here at Wadham, even these days, when merry-making seems to have replaced scholarship as the predominant goal of our student body. That you would express such nonsense under the roof of this hallowed place of learning shames me. Yes,
me
—for if you for one minute think that was an educated opinion, worthy of giving voice to in the English tongue, I have failed completely in my—”

“But it
is
sad when anyone is denied a perfect union with his true other half!”

The students, who had begun to whisper and jeer, fell silent at the pronouncement that rang out in a low, clear, musical tenor. Henry felt as though all the wind had been pulled out of his lungs with a bellows. St John had spoken out of turn—and on his behalf?

“My Lord Calipash,” wheezed Master Fulkerson. “I didn’t realize you had some wisdom to bestow upon us this day. Had I but known, I should have called on you. My apologies.”

Henry was amazed—St John was the only boy who didn’t flinch at the Master’s acid tone. Had he … had he gone mad? He seemed oblivious to his danger; when Master Fulkerson spoke like that, everyone knew heads would soon roll.

“Perhaps not
wisdom
,” said St John, heatedly if not loudly, “I could not be the judge of that. But
agreement
, there is no doubt! Mr. Milliner’s phrasing was perhaps rudimentary, but his reasoning shows … a compassionate heart. I know well enough, Master Fulkerson, that your intention was to mock our person for our theory on the matter, and mock Mr. Milliner too, for his admittedly questionable decision to write poetry during your class, but wise men—men I personally admire—have thought long and hard on the subject, and come up with no better solution! Why, when I think of ‘Platonick Love’ by the master-poet Abraham Cowley, I—”

“Calm yourself, Lord Calipash,” said Master Fulkerson, banging his palm on the podium. “You speak from your guts and not your mind. To begin with, contemporary poets, especially those as inferior and frivolous as Cowley, have no place in this classroom.” The Master mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “You are also failing to take into account that Aristophanes’ encomium is not meant to be read as seriously as the rest. Any Christian would recognize it is an impossible origin myth. ‘Male and female He created them,’ and in His image, yes? And answer me, too—if Aristophanes’ theory is to be taken seriously, heaven help me, when these big round prehistoric humans were split in two, what would have happened to their
souls
?”

“Perhaps the soul can be split,” said St John, with vigor. “Perhaps it can be further manipulated than that, even! Christopher Wren believed perfect blood transfusion was possible; why, if the soul were to be isolated, or even captured, could it not—”

“Save it for Master Deutsch’s Natural Philosophy class, though he will likely find your theories as nonsensical as I do,” interrupted Master Fulkerson. “Well, well. I see I have been far too lax in my management of this class. Even my students with some mean bit of academic promise are shouting silly theories and day-dreams when we should be
learning
. I must have committed some grave pedagogical error indeed. Now, to remedy that …”

It was all his fault, thought Henry wretchedly. How awful, to see St John humiliated so! Miserable, during the rest of the class Henry diligently took notes, refusing even to lift his eyes from his parchment; walking to dinner, though Rochester tried to talk to him about this-and-that as they headed to the dining hall, he only grunted his replies, too consumed by thoughts of what he might encounter at the Doric Temple to pay attention. His mind was so thoroughly occupied that when Rochester stomped away from him like an infuriated little girl he genuinely had no idea what offense he could have committed against the lad.

But time passes, though it may seem slower or quicker depending on one’s circumstances. Though Henry despaired of it ever doing so, the sun did indeed sink that day, and he did indeed manage to wait until it did so before approaching the Temple.

To his surprise, St John was already there, smoking sweet-smelling tobacco out of a long clay pipe and peering at a book in the fading light. His servant Thomas, a black-haired young man with a rakish moustache, stood beside him, arms clasped behind his back, leg turned out, revealing a well-shaped calf.

Henry saw them from behind at first, for St John sat with his back to the college, leaning against one of the columns. The sight of his straight, sprawling limbs and naked head took Henry’s breath away. He had never seen his idol in such an unconscious moment, and sitting there, hat tossed aside, legs crossed at the ankles where they rested on the second step of the temple’s stylobate, arm hefting his book aloft and moving his lips as he read—he was certainly not aware he was observed.

Henry coughed politely to announce himself, not wanting it to seem like he was eavesdropping, or whatever one might call watching someone who thinks he is alone.

St John exhaled a blue plume of smoke. “I think our visitor has arrived. Leave us, Thomas,” he said and handed over the pipe.

Thomas bowed, accepted it with a flourish.

“Does my lord require anything else?” he said. “Should I remain close-by, in case of—”

“I said leave us, Thomas.”

Thomas bowed again and strode away into the gloaming, pipe cradled in his hands.

After he had retreated from view, St John sighed, and read:

“In thy immortal part,

Man, as well as I, thou art;

But something ‘tis that differs thee and me;

And we must one even in that difference be.

I thee, both man and woman prize,

For a perfect love implies

Love in all capacities.”

Henry waited for more, but that seemed to be the last of it.

“Very pretty,” he said, wishing he could think of more to say, but being in a garden—at twilight—with St John—who was reading, he was reasonably certain, love poetry … it was overwhelming.

“You wouldn’t consider it
inferior
? Or
frivolous
?” St John turned ‘round and looked up at Henry with anxious eyes. “Master Fulkerson and I are not always of a mind, of course, but to hear him casting such—such
vile aspersions
upon my dear Mr. Cowley! How could he expect me to bear it?”

“I … I suppose I couldn’t really say,” said Henry. “Master Fulkerson and I have never been of a mind on anything, so perhaps I am more used to disagreeing with him.”

St John laughed, a beautiful high laugh belonging more to a boy than a young man, and patted the stone beside him three times, two short, and one long.