1832: Espèce deCanard
Private papers
I rose before the bell was answered, the room bleached with that kind of daylight particular to January—light that seems to doubt itself. The fire muttered resurrection. I had placed a sermon beside the bed last evening out of propriety and mere habit; this morning I used it as a coaster for my chocolate. Blandy brought the tray at the appointed minute, her eyelids respectfully improper in their knowledge of my nerves.
Bathing came next, as always. The new copper tub steamed like a discreet volcano. Four servants appeared, bearing kettles, each intent on discovering how near to silence a body can move when a duchess is not speaking. Cleanliness, I maintain, is the mind’s rehearsal for morality, though lately I begin to confuse the two. I think less of saints and more of scouring. Once inside the warmth, I lose count of time; there is a sanctity in being attended yet unseen. The ghost never visits during the bath, perhaps out of posthumous tact.
When dried and dressed—shift, corset, pale wool, the day’s first disguise—I took breakfast alone. My breakfast-room is both gaudy and penitential: mirrors on every wall and white narcissus that smell of cold intention. I ate an egg, half an orange, read the Morning Chronicle, and discovered the world remains insufficiently reformed. Bristol riots, ministerial resignations, a new patent for agricultural machinery—all progress hides its bruise.
Letters followed. I regard them as proof of existence, though not quite of life. Three invitations, one accusation, several demands for support in charitable campaigns I cannot name aloud without laughter. Amid these, a single anonymous note concerning a “missing volume of Palladio.” I have begun to enjoy my reputation for caring about such things; the living believe in librarians as others believe in saints. I dictated replies—measured phrases, useful delay—and sealed them with a decisiveness I envy in myself.
At eleven the library claimed me. I walk its length as others walk chapels, counting bindings instead of beads. I approve of books: they preserve thought without conversation. The house was quiet around me, save for a distant cough of responsibility downstairs. I found mildew in a Clarissa and guilt in my lack of distress. Even virtue moulders when shut too long.
The chaplain interrupted to test a sermon upon me. His theme was obedience. Mine, silently, was hypocrisy. We exchanged the words splendid and suitable as coin, each paying change for civility.
I dressed anew at noon for a walk. Grey satin and sable; stiff but consoling. The orangery was damp with the smell of green things dying valiantly. The gardener presented a camellia beyond rescue. I advised him to learn discrimination between devotion and obstinacy—a principle that seems useful above and below stairs. Outside, the park lay ironed flat by frost; even the peacocks had discretion enough to be silent. Solitude—mine, not nature’s—is the only estate I manage competently.
Lunch I took alone: one fillet of fish, a glass of hock, and a letter from my sister in Vienna, brimming with alpine flirtations. Her freedom smells of cologne and confusion. I prefer restriction. It has contours one may trace with a finger, like carving on a tomb.
Music followed, for form’s sake. The harp obliges; my hands know the motions, not the meaning. Through the ceiling came the muffled labour of the ballroom: hammerings, a ladder’s complaint, chandeliers rehearsing their glitter. The house, like the conscience, was preparing its illusion.
At four came the steward, Mr. Keel, whose accounts confirm my disinterest in arithmetic. I signed where he guided. A moral lapse in numbers feels less indictable than one in sentiment. There is, I find, satisfaction in neglect so long as it remains unconfessed.
By six, I was undressed for dressing: bathed again, sealed again into correctness. Blandy’s hands, competent and severe, became the metronome of transformation. The satin gown—white with silver veining—rendered me architectural. The rubies, disobediently red, provoked unease, but I wore them out of perversity; everyone admires a woman radiant with her own reservations. My reflection did not resolve into a person so much as an emblem. It will walk among them, I thought, while I watch from behind its eyes.
Eight o’clock brought the noise of carriages, that mechanical music of expectation. The guests descended; I descended. The ballroom seethed with glass and gratitude. I greeted, I inclined, I existed. Conversation swam past like a shallow current carrying parodies of friendship. I danced once—sufficient to demonstrate participation—then retreated under the pretext of correspondence.
In my withdrawing room I found the Palladio volume waiting on the escritoire. No servant had placed it there; one never asks the ghost directly. Inside lay a marginal note in my own hand: Symmetry is a moral persuasion, not a truth. I do not recall writing it. But it appeared precisely apt to my life, which has become symmetrical enough to disprove righteousness entirely.
After midnight I dismissed the musicians, the mirrors, and the company’s perfume. Blandy unstrung the gown, collected the gems into their velvet cave, and went away without remark. Below, the house murmured its post‑splendour fatigue.
Now, as I record this by candlelight, I find myself amused by conscience in theory. I think of my four hundred servants sleeping through exhaustion, their virtue secure in usefulness. Mine is more decorative and therefore suspect. Still, I perform it daily—the gestures of virtue repeated until the pattern glows faintly immoral.
I shall leave the candle for him. The ghost respects punctuality. Perhaps he will admire tonight’s deviation: I have allowed myself to think truth untidy. So much for symmetry.
The frost returns to the windows; the silence resumes its dominion. I will sleep knowing that everything has been conducted correctly, and nothing quite well.
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