[story] pygmalion

[ib_archive]

author: tari gwaemir (tarigwaemir)
email: tarigwaemir [at] gmail.com



"Well, well, well. Whoever expected little Patricia Grosvenor would return to London as Lady Dalton?"

"Memories are so short these days. How many here would remember the utter scandal she caused with her marriage ten years ago?"

"Why, I still remember. And I think it's ridiculous how people are fawning over her husband now. Why, he's barely respectable! I would not have set foot in this house if--"

"--if your curiosity didn't overrule your sense of propriety, you mean. I notice that you are here at His Lordship's invitation like the rest of us?"

"Wasn't there something shameful about their marriage? I heard that they eloped to Europe--"

"No, I heard that they had an affair and had to marry in secret because--"

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised, if that were the case. After all, Lord Dalton himself is hardly legitimate--"

Patricia pretended she didn't hear the whispers as she smiled and nodded at her guests. With exquisite patience, she ignored the raised eyebrows and knowing glances exchanged when they imagined she was out of sight.

A fan tapped her sharply on the shoulder. "I must say, dear Patricia, you have my full admiration. Not only do you manage to make the best of an unfortunate marriage, but you go so far as to become the social success of the Season! But then again, after leaving England in such disgrace, I suppose your Grosvenor pride demanded nothing less."

"Aunt Mildred!" She curtsied hastily and motioned for the footman to take the old woman's coat.

"You're as graceless as ever, I see. But it matters very little now, doesn't it? How did you do it? Aside from sheer stubbornness, that is."

"I don't know what you mean," Patricia replied stiffly.

"Isn't it obvious? Turning that husband of yours from a stammering fool into a rising politician. I quite applaud you. I thought you had lost what little sense you were born with when you marched out of your father's house in a fit of temper, but perhaps you knew what you were doing after all."

"Aunt Mildred--"

"Don't make that face at me, dear. It's only the truth. They called him 'poor boy' to his face and 'lackwit' behind his back, and when you married him and ran off to Europe, the entire family was certain that you'd gone mad."

Patricia took a deep breath and assumed her most condescending tone, "A pleasure to see you again, Aunt Mildred. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other guests to attend to."

Aunt Mildred sniffed and snapped open her fan. "Trust me, dear Patricia, whether you like it or not, you can never silence all the gossiping tongues that come your way. And mine is hardly the worst."

Patricia's smile thinned. She curtsied without a word and walked away.

"Have they all left?" she asked as she settled into the chair with a sigh.

"All except your Aunt Mildred, who is staying the night in one of the spare rooms." Lord Dalton, newly appointed Foreign Secretary and husband to Patricia Dalton née Grosvenor, perched himself awkwardly on the footstool next to her. What a ridiculous sight, she thought affectionately, watching his tall, thin frame attempt to sit unobtrusively on the small seat. It was hard to imagine now that he was indeed the same man as the self-possessed host of the earlier evening.

"Did you have a chance to speak with Lord Salisbury? He is very well-respected in the House of Lords, and it can do no harm to cultivate his friendship."

He smiled and replied, "When have I failed to heed your advice, my Lady?"

She felt a little cold at the glibness of his words. "Well then, I suppose this dinner party can be counted a success."

"Thanks to your efficient planning."

"Mrs. Pearson made most of the arrangements." She turned her face away.

"Patricia?"

She didn't answer.

"Is so-something the matter?"

The silence stretched painfully between them.

He said abruptly, "I'm to leave for Sweden in a fortnight."

She sat up in her chair. "So soon?"

"The visit is mostly cere-ceremonial."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "I wish they'd let us know sooner. I'll have to prepare what needs to packed, make arrangements for the staff--"

"I'm going alone."

She froze. "Pardon?"

"It's a short visit. You needn't accompany me."

"But Oswald!"

He leaned over and took her hands in his own. "Please. Tr-trust me. You've taught me well."

She looked up into his simple, earnest face and despaired a little. "Are you certain?"

"No. But I c-can't be always be relying on you, Patricia."

Her hands tightened on his. "Write to me."

"Yes, my Lady."

letter from Oswald Dalton to his wife, dated twenty-fifth of February

My Lady,

We've arrived safely in Sweden and settled into ambassadorial quarters. Everyone speaks to me with considerable care; I gather that the English diplomats have a reputation for being somewhat fussy. There seems not much business to be done. I am being entertained with concerts and plays every night, while presumably the real work is being done by people with less important titles.

You know that I'm not much of a letter-writer, so I'll end here.

With much affection,
Oswald.

"There goes Patricia Dalton. How old is she now? She looks as if she hasn't aged a day."

"She can't be more than thirty. She was still a girl when she ran away from home, barely nineteen."

"Well, I think it would be more seemly if she carried herself more like a married woman instead of a debutante. Did you see the way she looked at the Earl of Wiltshire?"

"And the way his wife looked at her?"

"Oh, don't be so awful. Besides, she was always very pretty. They say she had ten proposals by the end of her first Season, but she turned them all down."

"But for what? For His Lordship, Oswald Dalton?"

"Well, we all thought at the time that she had ruined herself forever, but she must have seen something in him."

"Or at least decided that she could make someone out of him. I'll bet that she's responsible for his appointment to the Cabinet."

Patricia smiled a little ruefully as she positioned herself within earshot of the conversation. The women continued chattering, unaware of her presence.

"Or perhaps she fell in love. Dalton's not a bad-looking man. He has a handsome profile."

"You didn't know him then. He used to stoop so much that they called him a hunchback. And oh, that horrid stammer of his - it would have gotten on anyone's nerves."

"The Daltons might be able to boast of a long lineage, but they were already quite impoverished by his grandfather's time. Not to mention that the late Lord Dalton didn't even acknowledge Oswald as his son until he realized he wouldn't be leaving any other heirs."

"How--"

"--absolutely scandalous," Patricia finished as she turned to face the coterie of women behind her. "Do continue."

They looked at her with identical flustered expressions and dispersed, like pigeons disturbed from their rest. She took careful note of the faces she recognized, carefully putting aside the information to be considered later. She continued circulating throughout the rooms, her sharp ears catching more bits of choice conversation.

"You can be sure that anything that comes out of Dalton's mouth is his wife speaking."

"Really a miracle, how she single-handedly educated him. He could almost pass for a proper gentleman."

"A friend in Italy says that he made his money in the gambling houses all across the Continent. Paris, Vienna, Rome... wandering like gypsies, no doubt. Old Dalton certainly didn't leave him any inheritance to speak of, other than a rotting country manor and a seat in Parliament."

"It's easy to see how that marriage works. Ten years and not a single child to show for it. I'll bet she doesn't let Oswald anywhere near her bed. I'd feel sorry for the poor chap if he weren't too much of an idiot to know what he's missing."

She flushed and turned her head slightly to see who had uttered the insult. The man - Lord Winfield, a notorious gambler and man of fashion - caught her glance and gave her a wink. She walked away, but not without hearing him add, "I know her type. Pretty as a picture but cold all the way through. A woman was made to serve her lord husband, not pull him around on puppet strings."

The room felt hot and stifling. She excused herself from the party before she lost her calm.

"Don't mind your father, dear. You know how men are," her mother told her anxiously, steering her away from the closed door.

Patricia shook her head. "Of all the pigheaded--"

Her mother arched an eyebrow at her. "This, from the girl who ran away from home in a fit of temper and married the most unsuitable man in town to spite her father?"

"Oh, Mama." She sank into a couch and buried her head in her hands. "You make it sound so childish!"

"Wasn't it?" Her mother smiled and motioned for the maid to bring in tea.

"Sometimes I wish I had fallen madly in love with him instead. At least it would sound more romantic."

"Then you would be much more unhappy, darling, than you are now," her mother retorted. "Here, have some tea."

She obediently picked up a cup. "But Mama, am I happy?"

"That's a question that only you can answer."

They sipped their tea in silence for a while.

"Patricia dear, do you - is Oswald kind to you?"

"Oh, of course. He tells me everything. There aren't any secrets between us." She paused, with a small frown on her face. "We're perfectly comfortable together."

"Too comfortable, perhaps?" her mother asked quietly.

She sighed and studied her gloves. "It was different when we were living on the Continent, you see. I helped him get rid of his stammer, showed him how to dress like a gentleman, taught him how to gamble at cards - don't look at me like that, Mama - read Horace and Cicero to him in the evenings... we were so busy, all the time it seemed, and we barely had any time apart from each other. And now, he spends his days in Parliament and his evenings with other politicians, while all I can do is go to parties and concerts and listen to the gossip." She grimaced.

"He's away in Sweden right now, isn't he?"

"Yes, and he... asked me not to go with him."

Her mother gave her a sharp look. "Do you love him?"

"Mama! What a thing to ask! We've been married for ten years."

"What difference does ten years or five or fifty make?"

"Well, do you love Papa?"

"Yes, I do," her mother said simply.

Patricia set her tea cup down and stared at her mother for a long moment. Finally, she stood up. "I think I must be going, Mama. I'll call again next week."

from Patricia Dalton's diary, dated eleventh of March

I wish we never returned to London.

I thought I hated living on the Continent, always having to count money and pay bills, not to mention living in the intolerable summer heat. But England, oh England, you are a hundred times worse, with your smug, placid faces and all your superior little smiles. Oh, it's awful - I made the decision to come back, and Oswald only agreed, as he always does. So here we are, and I hate it. The Daltons are the social success of the town, with just the right touch of scandal to fuel gossip for an entire Season. But what else did I expect?

I called on Papa again today, and he refused to speak with me. I suppose he's no more stubborn than I am. But Oswald tells me that Papa is perfectly courteous to him and was probably responsible for the Cabinet appointment. I wouldn't be surprised, judging by the rumors going around.

He hasn't written back to me since

"I heard Lord Dalton returned to London today."

"With a new trade agreement to boot. Quite unexpected. How does one go to Sweden and end up negotiating with Austria over Baltic sea routes?"

"Perhaps the fellow has some hidden genius after all A diamond in the rough?"

"What a laugh. I'll bet it was all his wife's doing. I hear the Austrian ambassador to Sweden has a fondness for handsome women of the married persuasion--"

Lord Winfield again. Patricia grimaced behind her fan. He seemed no more than a frivolous dandy, but even the most indolent gentlemen had political allegiances these days.

"Don't be a fool, Dalton didn't take his wife. Didn't you see Lady Dalton at the Carlton last week?"

"She retired early on the excuse of a headache."

"Lacks spirit without a man in the house, eh?"

Patricia closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead. She retired to another room and found a seat in a blessedly empty corner.

"Patricia? What are you doing here?"

She looked up and quickly assumed a smile. "Oh, it's you, Oswald, I'm taking a rest from all this conversation."

He laughed. "Should I leave you alone then?"

"No." She caught him by the sleeve. "Stay, please."

He settled down on one knee next to her chair. "You needn't go about eavesdropping if it makes you tired, Patricia. Is all this espi-espionage worth the effort?"

"Espionage?" she said incredulously. "Don't exaggerate. Besides, it's useful to hear what people think. What's the point of having sharp ears if you don't use them?"

He gazed up at her with kind eyes. "Does it matter? What people think?"

She frowned, turning her face away. "Oswald, you're a man in the public eye--"

"Whatever happened to Patricia Grosvenor, who sh-showed up at my d-doorstep ten years ago, asking me to ma-marry her because she d-didn't give a fig for pu-public opinion," he asked, his quiet voice tripping awkwardly over the words.

Her eyes widened, but she did not look at him.

"Shall I take you home?"

She nodded.

"Why, Patricia Dalton! I haven't had a chance to speak to you since you returned to London."

She straightened in her seat. "If it isn't Cousin Eleanor! How are you, dear?"

Eleanor smiled and stepped to the side so that the man behind her could enter the box. "May I introduce my husband, Mr. George Williams?"

"How do you do?" They bowed to each other. Patricia noted, out of habit, the expensive cut of his suit and the ostentatious way that Eleanor placed her hand to better display her wedding ring.

"You're welcome to join me in my box, cousin," she said with a smile. "My husband is away for the evening."

Eleanor claimed the seat next to hers and leaned over immediately to whisper in her ear, "You've done very well in your husband, I hear."

"You seem to have done very well yourself."

"Oh, George? Well, he dotes on me and gives me everything I want." Eleanor settled back with a satisfied sigh. "After all, that's all one wants in a man."

Patricia hid a smile behind her fan. "You look happy. How long have you two been married?"

"Three years this coming month." Eleanor paused and glanced at her husband who was watching the play through his opera glasses, before whispering in Patricia's ear in a low voice, "I haven't told George yet, but I think I might be--"

She gestured vaguely at her lap. Patricia stared at her in incomprehension.

"You might be?"

Eleanor gave a nervous giggle and whispered into her ear again. "You silly, I think I might be pregnant!"

Patricia froze. "Oh, I see."

"I'm not certain yet, but I'm going to see Dr. Forsythe tomorrow. You're the first I've told after Mama."

"Congratulations," Patricia said finally, forcing herself to smile.

"No, I should be congratulating you. I hear that your Oswald has been doing magnificent things in the name of England."

"I am quite proud of his achievements, yes," she replied with a laugh.

"Who would have imagined? But I'd expect nothing less of you, Patricia. A man you deigned to marry would surely be a success, no matter what the packaging."

"The packaging?" Patricia asked, amused.

"Well--"

"No need to walk on eggshells around me, dear. I know what they say. Patricia Grosvenor singlehandedly made a respectable gentleman out of an idiot." She sighed. "He was never an idiot. Only too poor and too shy."

"He used to stammer awfully. I could never understand what he was saying. But they say he's quite the orator now."

"Yes. He can stand on his own two feet now." Patricia gazed down at the stage. "Eleanor, may I ask you something?"

"Anything, dear."

"Does your husband need you?"

"What an odd question! Every man needs a woman, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"Just a silly thought, that's all." She raised her opera glasses. "This acting company doesn't quite live up to their reputation, don't you think?"

She had a fondness for Roman authors. Yesterday, she had read Vergil--Aeneas' trip to the underworld - and today she was reading Ovid.

"But, with wonderful skill, he carved a figure, brilliantly, out of snow-white ivory, no mortal woman, and fell in love with his own creation. The features are those of a real girl, who, you might think, lived, and wished to move, if modesty did not forbid it. Indeed, art hides his art. He marvels: and passion, for this bodily image, consumes his heart." [1]

He was sprawled on the floor, resting his chin in his hands as he listened to her. She paused and gave an ironic smile. "I imagine most men wish to be Pygmalion."

"Ho-how do. Ho-how do you m-mean?"

"To fashion for themselves the perfect woman: pliant, willing, dependent. Galatea owes everything to Pygmalion. She will only know what he teaches her, only think the way he wants her to think, only be what he wants her to be. Is she not, after all, his creation?"

"B-but she," he took a deep breath and tried again, "But she l-loved him, didn't she?"

"Did she even know what love was?" Patricia wondered, closing the book. "I always wondered. Still, I can't say I blame Pygmalion. In his own strange way, he must have loved her, really loved her."

"He d-did?"

She looked at him gently. "The hours spent with that uncarved ivory, honing it piece by piece, watching it take shape under his hands. That alone would be enough for love. Even if he had carved Galatea to be ugly and grotesque, I imagine he would have loved her anyway."

"He ma-made her b-beautiful. Though."

"Yes. He had his pride as an artist, after all He wanted other people to envy him, to think her beautiful too." She sighed. "Something I understand all too well."

He frowned in puzzlement.

"Never mind my silly thoughts. Tomorrow we'll find you some new clothes." She looked at him with a critical eye. "Remember to stand tall and let me do the talking."

He nodded and rose to his feet. She shook her head and pushed at his slouching shoulders.

"Straighten your back and relax your shoulders. There." She stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect."

He stood perfectly still, like a statue, and followed her with his eyes.

She knocked twice at the door to his study and walked in without waiting for an answer. "Oswald, I brought you some--"

He had fallen asleep at his desk, his cheek pressed against an open book. She suppressed a smile and set her tray down, before tiptoeing over to study his face.

It was a plain face at best. The short, tow-colored hair, the absurdly short nose, the weak chin, the too-large ears and hands - they made him look simple, even absurd. She put a hand to caress the hair. He did not stir - he must have been very tired.

She glanced at the page his face was resting on. The incense was smoking, when Pygmalion, having made his offering, stood by the altar, and said, shyly--

"Ovid," she said out loud and startled herself with the sound of her own voice.

He stirred but only to shift his head against the book.

She drew up a chair next to his and rested her head on her arms. The fire in the hearth dwindled, but she motioned away the maid who came to renew it.

Finally, his eyes opened. "My Lady?" he asked sleepily, a smile in his voice.

She nodded.

"I fell asleep."

"I was watching you."

He sat up and stretched his long arms. "I missed dinner."

"Cook has it warming in the oven." She glanced at the book. "I didn't know you were reading Ovid."

"For old times' sake." He smoothed out the wrinkles in the page.

"Os-Oswald," she said, her voice catching oddly.

"Yes?"

Her voice was very low. "When I asked you to marry me, you'd never laid eyes on me before. We'd never spoken, never even been introduced. So... why did you say yes?"

He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. Finally, he leaned down clumsily, gently clasping her shoulders, and kissed her forehead.

She waited, her heart beating rapidly.

"I think," he said, straightening again, "that G-Galatea must have l-loved him first."

"What?"

"From the very moment he saw a per-person in that raw ivory." He took her by the elbow and raised her to her feet. "Come with me to dinner?"

She closed the book. They left the room.

the end

[1] From A.S. Kline's translation, available here.