entices dynamic conversation.”
I did not know what to say. I appreciated his compliment—without being unkind to Henrietta and Arabel. He was generous to continue his invitations. I was sorely tempted and, moreover, desired to go in so many ways. And yet . . . it was impossible. Although there was no physical lock keeping me at home, there was a lock that was just as formidable as iron, keeping me from venturing out . The lock was invisible, untouchable, and unexplainable to those who carried on normal lives beyond the walls of our home. They could not understand how I could ever be content. And so I had stopped trying to explain it. For I knew if I complained of my lot to Cousin John he would vehemently come to my defence and incite a royal ranting regarding the unfairness and unfathomable nature of my home imprisonment. He may have been Papa’s cousin, but that did not mean the two men agreed—about much. If I had given John leave, he would have fought for my freedom with slashing words and cutting arguments.
That I, a suffering damsel, did not wish to be saved by his gallant actions . . .
John paced back and forth, becoming agitated. I needed to calm him. “I assure you, this home that you take to be a gaol is a place teeming with arts and literature. I am not oblivious to the world.” I thought of an example and spotted the basket next to the sofa. “I read the latest magazines. I have read every issue of Punch since it came out two years ago.”
“I shall get you a commendation from the queen.”
He mocked me. But speaking of the queen . . . “In the six years she’s been on the throne, Her Majesty has had a tremendous effect on the arts. I approve of the step away from its past brazen nature, into art revealing a more respectable theme. Even I have been affected. Have you not noticed that my poems contain a more optimistic tone?”
“They are still consumed with death and dying.”
I raised a finger to make a point. “But within the death is a shred of hope, and the existence of good amid the evil. I have a new volume coming out at the beginning of next year. In it, you will see.”
He did not respond but plucked a dead leaf from a philodendron and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ve asked you to hear Mendelssohn play, and asked you to go to the theatre with me, Ba. You would so enjoy—”
“I do enjoy such things, cousin—in my own way. I am well informed as to the best plays in town, even though Papa forbids both theatre and opera from our experience. I know their story lines, their successes, and their failures. For instance, I know that William Charles Macready is making strides toward supporting new English drama. I heard he produced and starred in Robert Browning’s play Stafford , and Lord Bulwer-Lytton’s Lady of Lyons and Richelieu . And I know the difference in styles between the actors Kemble and Kean.” I thought of something else that might repress his worries. “What do you think of the new invention, the daguerreotype?”
“The . . . ?” He looked confused for but a moment, then nodded. “Nothing will ever take the place of a painted portrait.”
My brothers shared this view. “I agree that a painting has the advantage of color and style, but think of a man sitting down in the sun and having his facsimile appear as he is at that moment; a slice of time captured for all eternity.”
“They have to be kept under glass; they are very delicate.”
“Is not a painting delicate and hung in safekeeping on a wall?”
He put on his grumbled look. “ ’Tis not the same.”
“Exactly!” I said. “What also excites me is that the artist attempts with the visual what I attempt to do with words: stop time, create a moment, and celebrate the process.”
He studied me, and I could tell he was forming an opinion. “These daguerreotypes cannot be reproduced. How have you seen—?”
“That I have not seen does not mean I cannot appreciate.”
He nodded, but his lifted
I did not know what to say. I appreciated his compliment—without being unkind to Henrietta and Arabel. He was generous to continue his invitations. I was sorely tempted and, moreover, desired to go in so many ways. And yet . . . it was impossible. Although there was no physical lock keeping me at home, there was a lock that was just as formidable as iron, keeping me from venturing out . The lock was invisible, untouchable, and unexplainable to those who carried on normal lives beyond the walls of our home. They could not understand how I could ever be content. And so I had stopped trying to explain it. For I knew if I complained of my lot to Cousin John he would vehemently come to my defence and incite a royal ranting regarding the unfairness and unfathomable nature of my home imprisonment. He may have been Papa’s cousin, but that did not mean the two men agreed—about much. If I had given John leave, he would have fought for my freedom with slashing words and cutting arguments.
That I, a suffering damsel, did not wish to be saved by his gallant actions . . .
John paced back and forth, becoming agitated. I needed to calm him. “I assure you, this home that you take to be a gaol is a place teeming with arts and literature. I am not oblivious to the world.” I thought of an example and spotted the basket next to the sofa. “I read the latest magazines. I have read every issue of Punch since it came out two years ago.”
“I shall get you a commendation from the queen.”
He mocked me. But speaking of the queen . . . “In the six years she’s been on the throne, Her Majesty has had a tremendous effect on the arts. I approve of the step away from its past brazen nature, into art revealing a more respectable theme. Even I have been affected. Have you not noticed that my poems contain a more optimistic tone?”
“They are still consumed with death and dying.”
I raised a finger to make a point. “But within the death is a shred of hope, and the existence of good amid the evil. I have a new volume coming out at the beginning of next year. In it, you will see.”
He did not respond but plucked a dead leaf from a philodendron and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ve asked you to hear Mendelssohn play, and asked you to go to the theatre with me, Ba. You would so enjoy—”
“I do enjoy such things, cousin—in my own way. I am well informed as to the best plays in town, even though Papa forbids both theatre and opera from our experience. I know their story lines, their successes, and their failures. For instance, I know that William Charles Macready is making strides toward supporting new English drama. I heard he produced and starred in Robert Browning’s play Stafford , and Lord Bulwer-Lytton’s Lady of Lyons and Richelieu . And I know the difference in styles between the actors Kemble and Kean.” I thought of something else that might repress his worries. “What do you think of the new invention, the daguerreotype?”
“The . . . ?” He looked confused for but a moment, then nodded. “Nothing will ever take the place of a painted portrait.”
My brothers shared this view. “I agree that a painting has the advantage of color and style, but think of a man sitting down in the sun and having his facsimile appear as he is at that moment; a slice of time captured for all eternity.”
“They have to be kept under glass; they are very delicate.”
“Is not a painting delicate and hung in safekeeping on a wall?”
He put on his grumbled look. “ ’Tis not the same.”
“Exactly!” I said. “What also excites me is that the artist attempts with the visual what I attempt to do with words: stop time, create a moment, and celebrate the process.”
He studied me, and I could tell he was forming an opinion. “These daguerreotypes cannot be reproduced. How have you seen—?”
“That I have not seen does not mean I cannot appreciate.”
He nodded, but his lifted
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