The Devotee

(This is the longest chapter in the whole novel, which I regret, but I think that if I split it up, it would seem split-up.)

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

Tues 8 August 1905

They ave ad to give back the car, so I wos sent out shoppin.

I been savin my own money for weeks, and i ad 2/ of my own. I got all the things on the list. It was bloody eavy but they are too cheep to get it deliverd so they use me as their donky.

I ate goin shoppin for the house becos I always ave to say,put it on our accownt.

Half the shops I go in to they look me all stern an they tell me,Tell your mistress that her accownt is in arreers, I shall over look it this time but we reqyier payment. Like its my folt. An of corse I ave to sayYes sir sorry sirlike Im the one who aint payin the bills. Im the effiin maid. Aint my money their not gettin.

Strange thing is they give me the stuff any way. Like you can go on forever not payin bills if your posh like the Fs are. Becos the shops reckon you will pay up some day. This is calld credit. I dont ave no credit but seems the Fs ave loads of it.

Any way i came back by the book shop in Kensington High Street. With all the shoppin but with my own cash.

I went in an lookd arownd but couldnt tell wot was where an i dint ave much time and i ad all that eavy shoppin. So i went up the casheer.

Casheer acts like im not there. After a bit i sez, scuse me.

Middle age bloke with glasses. E looks up and sez, yes.

I sez, you got any books by Tennyson.

E looks down again at his big accownt book.

E sez, yes they are on the poetry shelvs.

I sez, can you tell me where that is please cos i dunno my way rownd your shop.

E don't look up but e sez, you want to by a book by Tennyson.

I sez, yes.

E sez, witch book were you arsked to get.

I sez, i werent arsked to get nothin its for me.

E sez, O you admyer the poetry of Tennyson do you. Like he dont believe me.

I sez, yes.

E sez, wot is your faverit.

I sez, well i like the Idylls of the King but my faverit short one is The Kraken.

Theres this young woman standin by watchin us. He smiles at er likeLook at this retchid ouse maid i will show up.

She smiles back polite like.

The wot, e sez.

The Kraken, I sez.

E sez, kracken, not kray ken.

I feel my self go red cos I only read it and dint know ow to say it. But I sez, yeah that one.

Wot is your faverit line, e sez, lookin down at his book again.

Now. I been readin these other Tennyson poems wot is in Mrs Fs office, and i remember em. Im good at rememberin things I read.

So i sez nothin, till e looks up at me, an i straiten up and look im in the eye.

And i sez in a good strong voice, Below the thunders of the upper deep, far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, his ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep, the Kraken sleepeth.

E blinks.

I sez, faintest sunlights flee about his shadowy sides. Above im swell uge sponges of millennial growth an height, an far away, into the sickly light...

People are starin at me.

I sez, from many a wondrous grot an secret cell, unnumberd an enormous...

I got stuck cos i dunno ow to say 'polypi' i mean who knows that. The woman give me a little wave and i look at er and she says, quiet-like, polli-pie.

Thank you, i sez, unnumbered and enormous polli-pie winnow, with giant arms, the slumberin green.

It was so od i felt this mad powr inside me as i sez it. Like i wos ment to say it. It wos like i wos preachin in church.

I sez, There hath he lain for ages, and will lie battenin upon uge seaworms in his sleep, until the latter fire shall heat the deep, then once by men and angels to be seen, in roarin, he shall rise, an on the surface, die.

Theres this dead silents. I look aroun and everyone in the shop is lookin at me.

Or near everyone. Probly peepul i cudnt see werent lookin at me.

Casheer look like e was about to shit himself.

Yes, e sez, it is terribly good isnt it. Com this way, please.

Nobody in a shop ever sez please to me before.

E takes me over to the poetry. There you are, e sez, that is our stock. Here are the collecktid poems in ten volumes, this is a nice edishun.

I sez, ow much is that.

E sez, one pound and five shillins

I sez, O that is too much, i only ave two shillins.

Ah, e sez, and starts hemmin and hawin.

I look at all the books and theres so many. I see Idylls of the King and i take it off the shelf and i look at it and its 5/. I put it back.

You know wot, i sez, never mind Tennyson, you got any Browning.

Mister Bryning or Mrs Bryning, e sez.

I sez, wot theres two of em?

Yes, e sez, Mrs Bryning was not inconsidderubble in erself.

I sez, well what Mr Browning ave you got for two shillins.

He runs is finger over em and pulls one out.

Ere you are, e sez, Men and Wimmin. You can ave that for a shillin.

Ill take it, i sez.

We go back to the cash desk and he writes out the reseet.

Wot do you think of Browning, i sez.

He snifs and sez, a littl too moddurn for me.

I was out side puttin the book in my pockit and the young woman come up to me smilin and sez, Ello, that was very well rememberd of you.

I sez, well i ave to remember pomes cos i cant usually aford to buy books.

She sez, if you like you can come down to our school and read in our libery. My names Dorothy Skelton.

She sounds a bit like me. Not stupid like me and not posh like EF but somewere in between. She as dark hair and a nice sensibbul smilin face.

Ida Plank, i sez.

Very nice to meet you, Ida, she sez, I am a soshalist.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

Tue 8 August 1905

When I awoke this morning it took a few moments for me to remember exactly what I had done the previous night.

It is strange that two physical actions, so minutely differentiated, should be attended by such widely different associations, emotions and taboos.

A man putting his penis into my vagina is, under most circumstances, an act fully approved of by society. The same man putting his penis into my anus is an act widely regarded as abhorrent and disgusting.

I got out of bed and looked in the mirror, and I could not entirely shrug off a sense of repulsion. Yet I know that, on some level, this is ridiculous.

Yet I also know how I feel.

Or is this merely what it feels like to beexperienced?

I washed, dressed, and went down to breakfast.

Mr Scope was exactly his usual self. He made no secret insinuations about what he and I had done last night.

In any case, I was glad to put it out of my mind when Mr Squire and I sat down in his study after breakfast, to work on the memoir.

Mr Squire strolled up and down for a moment, and then paused.

'Miss Fawcett,' he said, speaking slowly, 'we come, now, to a point in my life of which I have been reluctant to speak. But I can no longer put it off. I have felt that if I were to speak with perfect honesty, it might present the public with something that they would inevitably take to be a sort of perfect clue to my work. Which is not the case, but I know how people receive secrets in the lives of artists, and how they want those secrets to act.'

I waited, not knowing what he meant.

'It is not at all easy for me to speak of this,' he said. 'I am not even sure that I wish it to be in the book. But, after over forty years, I have to tell it.'

'Do you wish me to take it down,' I said.

'Yes,' he said.

I waited.

He paced up and down for some time, and then began to talk, and I began to type.

He talked of a group of his college friends, from Harvard, back in the 1860s.

They were of course an all-male group, very close. They had studied English and philosophy and law together, and caroused together, and swum together.

Gradually, one of these friends began to assume a kind of prominence in his recollections: a young man from Boston named Everett Holding.

Mr Squire remembered Everett Holding with great affection: his intelligence, and humour, and kindness, and a kind of grace he had, that made other people like him.

Everett Holding was apparently not so brilliant a student as some, but then Mr Squire admitted to never having been a wonderful student himself.

But, within their group, although Mr Holding was not the natural leader (that was, apparently, another young man who went on to become an American Senator), he was the core around which the group formed. He may not have had the dynamism of the future senator, and Mr Squire was apparently the one whose intelligence and taste they regarded the most highly, but Everett Holding was the most beloved.

We reached that point just before lunch, and then Mr Squire, evidently somewhat moved, said that we were finished for the day, and that I might take the afternoon off, and he left the room hurriedly.

Mr Squire did not come down to lunch, but took it in his room. I lunched with Mr Scope, on omelettes and salad in the dining room. (Mrs. Hill makes a lovelyomelette aux fines herbes, with herbs from the kitchen garden.)

He and I greeted each other cordially and ate in silence for some time.

'How are you, Miss Fawcett,' he said.

'I am well, Mr Scope.'

'How is the master's work going?'

'Very well,' I said. 'Mr Squire is in full command of his powers.'

'I am glad to hear it.'

I ate for a while.

'Miss Fawcett,' he said in a low voice, 'may we meet again tomorrow night? I must travel to London tonight, but I shall be back at Curl tomorrow.'

'Certainly,' I said.

'You have no...'

'I do not know if "regrets" are the word, Mr Scope,' I said quietly, 'but, either way, I wish to continue.'

He nodded. The maid came in to pour us more wine. I had already had one small glass, and declined another.

'It seems that Japan and Russia are at last signing treaties,' he said. I nodded.

We continued to eat in silence.

*

From the diary of Ida Plank:

Wed 9 August 1905

Dorothy Skelton is a very nice sort. She walkd back to the ouse with me.

She is part of the labour moovment. She elps run this school where they ave a libery where you can sit an read books. If only i ad all day to sit and read books.

An she is not posh at all, but is from Deptford. She went to collidge on a skoller ship. She sez the school where she works needs smart girls who can read an do sums. I sez i can read an do sums but am not so good at writin. She sez not to worry about that. If i can read an do sums then there is a lot of work i can do.

I would do any bloody work if it meant I dint ave to wash shit out of clothes.

Dorothy sez that everythin would be different if wimmin ad the vote. Im not so sure. But she is all for wimmin avin the vote. I sez, but we dont know nothin about guvverment, ow we sposed to know who to vote for. She sez, we do know somethin about guvverment, which is that wimmin dont ave the vote.

I mean when you put it like that, sounds sensibbul. She sez, its not ard to find out who will stand up for you and who wont. I dint know what to say to that.

I think she is neerly alwayz rite but she can be a bit of a pain in the arse cos she always wants you to agree with er. But i like her really. She dont look down on you but looks you rite in the eye.

Still it nags at me. I sort of dont want her to be rite, only becos itd be so much trubble. Too many bloody things to think about. But it still feels like it aint bloody rite that i dont ave the vote an that grabby littl shit Mr F is a emm pee.

Oh an i am readin Browning.

Browning is very diffrent from Tennyson. Tennyson makes me feel sad.

Browning is sometimes a bit borin. I dunno wot es on about it. But when e does poems that are like peepul talkin, like Andrea Del Sarto, it makes me feel like, O bless me i never knew there was peepul like that. Ow interestin.

Think I prufur Browning. Its better to feel like theres lots of interestin peepul in the world, than that the world is just all bloody sad.

*

From the diary of Edith Fawcett:

Wed 9 August 1905

My sleep is uneasy.

I feel that I am changing into some other creature. I am like a ship adrift on the open sea, whose navigator is overboard.

I find discipline and meaning in work.

Mr Squire is my magnetic north. I cling to him, as to a buoy, and I faithfully take down his words, letting him know that I will at least not betray him. I shall always be faithful and grateful to him.

This afternoon, Mr Squire began to describe the swimming sessions that he and his friends engaged in, in a deep pond in upstate New York (I must acquaint myself with the geography of the region, so I can be sure.)

He talked with great warmth about the joy and fellowship he felt with his friends as they swam, and cooked meals beneath the stars, and told stories, and shared their dreams and hopes, and drank cider, and enjoyed themselves as young men together.

But I sensed that he was moving closer and closer to something that he dared not tell me. I made myself all patient attention and loving receptiveness, wanting him to feel that there was nothing he could tell me that I would not transcribe--and, yes, if he were to ask me, destroy unseen by anyone else's eyes. I live to serve him.

But, at a quarter to five, he abruptly called a halt and left the room hurriedly, clearly overcome by emotion. I checked my carbons and stowed today's work into the desk drawer, which I lock.

I went to the library, feeling wrung out by the strain of hours of attention, and I read some Herbert. And then there came from the hall the cheerful sound of Mr Scope, returning from London.

I quickly made my way to the stairs and up to my room, where I washed myself and dressed for dinner.

Dinner was quiet (asparagus soup and fillets of salmon). Mr Squire was, evidently, emotionally tired from the day's labour, as was I. Mr Scope did his best to entertain us.

Then, after dinner, over port, Mr Scope told us some more stories, and Mr Squire rather sleepily smiled, and then went to bed.

Mr Scope and I were alone.

'Miss Fawcett,' he said, 'I sense from your demeanour that you are hardly at the top of your form.'

'Mr Scope,' I said, 'I undertook to keep up my side of the bargain. I am going to my room. In thirty minutes, join me. Knock five times, one-two, one-two-three.'

He nodded, and I went to my room, where I undressed, cleaned myself thoroughly, and then lay prone and naked on my bed, my face buried in my folded arms.

Presently there was the knock.

'Come in,' I said, and hid my face once more. I then closed my eyes, and heard the sound of cloth moving against skin, the creak of a chair.

And then the mattress shifted, and his weight appeared behind and above me, and he was reaching beneath me, and kissing my shoulder blades, and his other hand was spreading the grease over my anus.

I breathed in deeply, and breathed out, and prepared myself for another martyrdom upon the cross of my own self-disgust.

I have just read that sentence back. I am not at all sure what it means.

In any case, this time, being sodomised by Mr Scope was evenlesseffective at purging me of my guilt towards Ida. For, having done it once already, I was no longer apprehensive, and so Ienjoyed it.

At one point, I realised that I had been lying there for some minutes, with Mr Scope pumping his penis into and almost out of my rectum, and I had been simply revelling in the sensation.

Then I felt truly confused and alarmed, and some of my upset must have communicated itself to Mr Scope, for he leaned over and kissed me fervently and told me how beautiful I was. Which made me feel better, but also more confused, since, as I know he does not in general find women attractive, was he findingmeattractive, or merely fantasising that I am some beautiful youth?

Still, his kisses calmed me down, and I relapsed into my former sexual daze, until his fingers almost made me climax, and he spent himself inside me. And then he pulled out.

He has begun to be more delicate when he pulls out of me, which I appreciate. When one has submitted to being energetically sodomised, it is the least one can ask that the active participant, having completed the deed to his satisfaction, does not yank himself out of one, like someone flamboyantly pulling a cork out of a champagne bottle. It requires gentleness and patience. To continue the champagne analogy, one must pull the cork out of the bottle like one who wishes to celebrate a sporting victory in a room which also contains a sleeping child.

For the second time, I lay there--my, as it were, southwest passage having been thoroughly navigated--and I eyed him with my available eye.

'Thank you,' he panted.

I waited until my breathing had become regular.

'Why did you need to go to London, yesterday,' I said.

'I had to visit my mother,' he said.

'I see.'

'Why,' he said. 'What did you think I was doing.'

'I do not speculate.'

'Did you think I was cavorting up there?'

'Mr Scope,' I said, 'in all honesty, no.'

'Miss Fawcett,' he said, 'I may be a libertine, but I am not that much of one. I was visiting my mother, in Maida Vale. I can assure you that I have been with no-one but you since Monday.'

'Mr Scope,' I said, feeling very weary, 'I did not mean to suggest that you are promiscuous. I am in what is, for me, a very strange place.'

'I understand,' he said. 'Do you wish to continue, tomorrow?'

'Oh yes,' I said.

'Then goodnight, sweet Ganymede,' he said, and kissed me on my cheek, and got off the bed and began to dress.

I turned my head and watched him.

'Would it make things more enjoyable for you,' I said, 'if I were to assume more... mannish characteristics?'

'That might be fun,' he said, re-trousering himself. 'What had you in mind?'

'Perhaps you might give the matter some thought,' I said, still prone, 'and let me know if there is anything you would like me to do.'

'I will,' he said happily. 'Good night, dear Miss Fawcett.'

I sleepily waved him goodbye as he exited my chambers.

Then I wrote this diary entry. It is now nearly one in the morning.

So now I am, it seems, quite definitely, Mr Scope's female catamite. At least for the rest of the week.

The difference between tonight and Monday night is, of course, that on Monday night, the thing that made me lose myself, and give into my pleasure, was the image of Ida's sweet, intent, fascinated face, that morning in May.

Tonight, I was visited by no such image.

And I never climaxed.

Still, there is a small, grimy satisfaction peculiar to being sodomised, even if one does not achieve a climax.

It is sort of like what I imagine it is like to be beaten up. But less painful. One comes away from it feeling rather proud to have gone through it.

Thu 10 August 1905

Mr Squire continues to speak of his friendship with Everett Holding.

I continue to feel that there is something about this friendship which he is unwilling to talk about.

Well, I am hardly in a position to judge him for that, since there is plenty about me that I would not willingly tell him about, such as the fact that his devoted friend and disciple and I are currently engaged in regularenculade.

But I worry that my position as amanuensis makes it impossible for him to continue the memoir with the honesty that is so important to him.

In fine, I am more than certain that Mr Squire was very much in love with Everett Holding, and that his respect for my sex is stopping him from telling me the details, because he thinks they would shock me.

If only I could find a way to make it clear to him that, in my present degraded state, I could only be shocked if he were to tell me that he had been practising the Black Arts, or murdering people. Or was thinking of taking up the accordion.