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You might think that a thoroughly G-rated movie lie Miss Potter is utterly wholesome and unslashable,
but no tale is safe from my wicked pen, and within every character,
or at least every character played by the delightful Mr. Ewan McGregor,
lurks a heart of slash.
Title: the Strange Case of Mr. Norman Warne
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Historical, Miss Potter
Pairing: Norman Warne/John Gray
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Obscure, to say the least. Also, not a happy ending.
Disclaimer: Part historical slash - playing with people who lived a long time ago/part movie slash, because even when he’s uptight, upright and innocent as a lamb, Mr. McGregor screams sex. Not intended to imply that anything within actually happened, although nothing is impossible..
Dedication: To the wonderful sue_chose_this, who probably did not believe that I could, in fact, slash Ewan McGregor in Miss Potter, or rather, prior to Miss Potter… and explain Norman's strangely staid-yet-foppish-without-overt-flamboyance appearance.
Note to the Reader: These are the unedited notes of Mr. D___ B___, as they were found amidst his personal belongings, left behind in his room at the Sainte A___ Hotel and recovered by his next of kin, after his mysterious disappearance on or about the 10th of July 10, 1936.
It appears that in an earlier part of his life, Mr. B___ fancied himself somewhat of an investigative journalist, although he gave up that hobby when he married a Miss F___, a wealthy socialite, in the fall of 1909, after which Mr. B___ joined the insurance firm owned by Miss F__'s father. Mr. B___ maintained his position as a junior account manager until June of 1936, when he left the home family home following a violent disagreement.
According to police records, the hotel night clerk was the last person known to have seen Mr. B___, who went out on the evening oaf the 10th accompanied by what the clerk described to the authorities as "a young man of a feminine demeanour." There were no signs of foul play, and no indication of Mr. B___'s destination on the night in question.
The notes, which date from before Mr. B___'s marriage, concern the life of one Norman Warne, youngest of the Warne publishing family, who died at the age of 37 in the summer of 1905. The papers were torn out of a notebook or notebooks of the same manufacture, and seem to be quotations from interviews. Each quotation had the name of the speaker written at the top of the page in blue ink. A pen containing that same blue ink was found on the bedside table. The papers were found arranged on the bed covers, along with a note scrawled on the outside of the manila envelope in which, presumably, the papers had been stored.
The notes are reproduced here in the order in which they were arranged on the bed, according to a photograph taken of the scene, which was contained with the papers in the original manila envelope, as it was given to the family by the police when they recovered the body. The notes are unaltered, except for the addition of a few clarifications.
The note on the envelope reads: "Seize the day!"
The Strange Case of Mr. Norman Warne
Millie Warne: Norman was a delightful child, so creative and carefree. He liked nothing more than to play out of doors, weaving chains of flowers and studying nature. He made up little songs and dances, and he would dedicate them to this animal or that tree. He was delightful.
Harold Warne: Well, as the youngest I suppose Norman was what one might call spoiled. Mother doted on him. She indulged him, but I would not say it was to a harmful degree. He may have had his way during the day, but by teatime he was indoors, clean and neatly dressed, and always wearing shoes.
Fruing Warne: Barefoot in the grass was how Norman spent his childhood, always with green stains on his trousers and bits of flora stuck in his hair, and wild hair it was. Shockingly red, I dare say. How mother put up with it I don't know. He was like a little heathen, worshipping the sun in the meadow, caked in mud, unnatural I say.
Millis Warne: He was not a dirty child! No, he was exuberant, that's all. You mustn't listen to my brothers. Oh, he got into his share of scrapes, but that's the way boys are, isn't it?
Eloise Darner: I was not employed by the Warne family until Master Norman was eight or nine years old, so I couldn’t tell you about his early childhood, but he was a cheerful youth, somewhat wild, yes, but not in a nasty way. He enjoyed the out of doors. I heard stories about him running around in the altogether when he was a wee lad. Families like to tell tales, all in fun. There was none of that by the time I came into the household, I assure you. Master Norman was always fully clothed. Except his feet. He liked to go barefoot. The lady of the house was a bit indulgent about that, I suppose. He was the youngest, after all, and very different from his brothers. The older ones were, I don't mind saying, a bit stodgy.
Millie Warne: He grew into an artistic young man.
Harold Warne: As he got older, Norman channelled that energy into art. We had some hopes for him as an illustrator, not that we would encourage art as a career, mind you, but as the youngest son there was no need for Norman to learn the business end of things. His place was at home, with mother. He took to drawing and design quite naturally, but to be perfectly honest, he was never what one would call 'good'. Not at the drawing part of it. He had a flair for design, though. Good eye. Good colour sense. That is important in publishing, you know. Presentation is important. He had a future. He certainly did well with the Potter woman's little books.
Fruing Warne: He turned into a bit of a fop, I'd say. He wasn't prancing about in the woods anymore, think goodness for small graces, but he began to dress in an outlandish fashion. Quite irregular. Too much colour, far too much. And flowing things, scarves and the like. Inappropriate business attire, that's what I'd call it.
Millie Warne: Norman had a lovely eye for colour and detail, and he wasn't afraid to show it. It may have been a bit bold, but what's the harm in that? I thought he was very handsome youth.
Jack Hareson: Oh, you've heard about him, have you? He was eccentric around the house. Not that I spent much time in the house. The Warnes aren't the sort to allow the hired help inside unless they're working, so I spent my time with the horses. I saw enough. Like I said, Mr. Norman was a tad eccentric around home, but after he left the house he got even more so. I'd drive him out to that place on the Vale, the one where all the artists and writers used to go, the house of those two men. There was a Charles and another Charles. I would collect Mr. Norman after dinner, and in the carriage he would do things to his clothes and his hair. Kept his hair long. That was the fashion at the time. And he had colourful kerchiefs and the like. The sort of thing you'd see in the more bohemian tearooms. I never said nothing to the missus. She was a right nice dame to me, kept me on up until my leg gave out and I couldn't climb up to the carriage now more, and I got nothing but respect for her, but I had respect for all her sons too, and there was no reason for me to be saying anything to anyone abut what Mr. Norman might be doing or not doing when he went out.
Eloise Darner: Master Norman was meticulous in his attire, not the slightest bit improper, although his choice of accessories may have seemed a little peculiar to the more staid members of the family. I'd call it showy, but not gaudy. He was terribly proper with me. I was in charge of the laundry back then, and he was always polite but precise about how he wanted his things cared for. Everything had to be ironed and starched just right. Or, rather, not starched. Master Norman liked things to flow naturally. And he liked things to match. Or contrast nicely. Striking would be a word I'd use. Oh, and his hair - you never saw anything like it!
Millie Warne: Norman let his hair grow quite long for a while, there. It was the style.
Harold Warne: Silly, what? Well, we've all grown mutton chops and other things that must look extreme to people from other places. Norman didn’t grow much on his face back when he was so young. I suppose growing his hair long like that was some sort of a fashionable statement.
Fruing Warne: Ridiculous. He had hair like a girl, that's what it was. Long and red. Down to his shoulders! Thank heavens he eventually cut it off.
Millie Warne: It was so soft, and it had a shine to it. I suppose he must have brushed it quite a bit. I was jealous, because it wasn't acceptable for me to wear my hair down like that. How I would have loved to let my hair down like that in public.
Harold Warne: Can't say I cared for the company he kept. Not that he kept much of it around the house. Norman was out most nights, a young man sowing his oats, as they say.
Fruing Warne: Out every night, off to his little soirees and salons. Fancied himself quite the artist. But that didn't' last long, did it? No, only a few years, I'd say. Those are the most dangerous years, between the ages of 19 and 21.
Harold Warne: We all do silly things at that age. Many of us. I believe I was besotted with a laundress when I was that young. It didn't last long. It never does at that age.
Charles Rickett: Norman Warne? Oh, goodness, that's going back a long time, isn't it? Let's see, that would be '88 or '89… Norman used to visit us at The Vale quite often. He was friendly with an illustrator, bit of a protégé of mine. I don't know if I should mention his name - he later became somewhat infamous in certain circles, although at that time he was very respectable, as far as anyone outside our little circle knew. Norman came along with him to a party, and began to visit on his own shortly thereafter. Charming young man, quite beautiful in his own way. Almost angelic, wouldn’t you say?
Charles Shannon: Of course, Charles will tell you he looked angelic. He was that type, the type that Charles enjoyed. Boyish, pretty eyes, gorgeous long hair, although the hair was a bit too red to be in fashion. Blond was more popular. I remember Norman's hair well. It got more vivid in the summer. He spent a lot of time outdoors, as I recall, so it got quite shocking. Thick and with just enough of a wave to it, yes. Quite attractive. But I would not call him angelic. His nose was a little too masculine. And his jaw a bit too… square. And he wasn't…frail.
Charles Rickett: Robust, yes, I would characterize his look as robust, although not in an overly athletic manner. He was fresh. Energetic. And he loved to laugh. He had a delightful laugh. It would fill the room. When I say angelic, perhaps I mean cherubic. Joyful and without restraint, and not at all iniquitous.
Jack Hareson: I seen the likes who went to those parties, all dandies with their fancy waistcoats and their frills. They'd look you up and down like they was looking at the Sunday joint. Now, I never seen nothing that would dishonour the family. I was lucky to be working for them and I knew it. It's not the coachman's place to be judging anyone, least of all the lad inside the coach. But they was a slippery lot. I saw the way they looked at Mr. Norman, and I didn't like that. I don't think he noticed. He was too good a soul to be wicked like that.
Millie Warne: He was an innocent up to the day he died. Poor Norman. He was awkward in social situations. I think we sheltered him too much.
Charles Shannon: Norman was wonderful at parties. I recall him being fairly affectionate.
Charles Rickett: Kissing on the cheek was how he greeted everyone, friend or stranger. Very open that way, yes. And charming. Oh, he could charm his way out of anything, and probably back in again. But a little charm can be a dangerous thing. It can beguile almost anyone.
Charles Shannon: John Gray.
Charles Rickett: That was a fateful meeting, wouldn't you say? I remember it well. The two of them lit up at the sight of each other.
John Gray: Norman Warne? Never heard of him, and I no longer write that sort of poetry. I'm not interested in talking to anyone unless it is on official church business.
Millie Warne: Norman was passionate about whatever he set his mind to. He was determined, and single-minded when necessary. Once he decided what he wanted, he did not rest until he got it. Why, you could see it in his work with Miss Potter. He fought tooth and nail to have her work presented to the public in the way he envisioned it. He believed in her artistic vision, and he believed in his ideas about how to convey it. He was always that way.
Mr. R. T___: I'll tell you about Norman Warne, as long as you don't use my name. I don't travel in those sorts of circles anymore, and the circles I do travel in… well, you understand. Fine young man, although a bit naïve for that lot. We were a rambunctious crew, dedicated to life and love and changing the world. Aren't all young men? Norman threw himself into it, the art of it, the glamour, if you will. He had a fierce hunger for artistic adventure. And there was none that made him more hungry than John Gray.
Charles Shannon: You've never seen anyone like that. He [John Gray] was so beautiful it was unreal.
Charles Rickett: Blindingly attractive, or so it was said. A bit too pretty for my taste. And perfectly turned out. It was Aubrey [Beardsley] who brought him around, I believe.
Mr. R. T___: Those aesthetic poets, they all looked alike to me, but John Gray stood out in any crowd. Norman was positively smitten. And Gray took it all in stride, as if it were perfectly normal for beautiful young men to follow him around like a puppy dog.
Charles Shannon: John and Norman were thick as thieves, for a time.
Charles Rickett: Inseparable. And who could blame either of them? If you were the most beautiful young man in the room, wouldn't you want to spend your time with the next most beautiful man in the room? Though the jury is still out on which was which. I'd say it's a matter of personal taste.
Charles Shannon: I wouldn't put them in the same category, no. I know Charles was quite taken with Norman, but no one could compare to John.
Mr. R. T___: And then someone brought Oscar to a party, and that was it.
Charles Rickett: He'll deny it until the day he dies, but everyone knows that John Gray was the real inspiration for Dorian Gray.
Charles Shannon: Oscar wrote most of it [The Picture of Dorian Gray] before he ever met John. It was just the name. Maybe he went back and fiddled with some of the descriptions after he met John. That's the official story, anyway. Does it really matter?
Mr. R. T___: In my estimation, Norman Warne was devastated by the whole affair. There he was, the chosen companion one moment, basking in the light of the great and gorgeous Gray; cut dead the next. Gray didn't want to have a thing to do with him once Oscar came along.
Charles Shannon: Oscar was like that. He saw what he wanted and he took it. What choice did John have? He'd been happy with Norman, but happiness is nothing next to fame, to a man like that. And that's not saying anything bad about John. Fame is a wicked temptress, nigh impossible to resist, especially when she comes in such a witty form. From Norman, John could get fleeting pleasure, but Oscar promised him immortality. The sort of immortality that made Norman look like what he was.
Charles Rickett: Norman was the son of the man who printed books. Oscar was the glorious scribe.
Mr. R. T___: Oscar was a greedy bastard. He looked down his nose – and it was a considerable nose, if you ask me – at Norman.
Charles Rickett: I can't blame Oscar for anything. He didn't know how attached Norman might have been. John certainly didn't let on. He dismissed Norman as a follower, a dilettante. A crude tradesman with pretensions to artistry. I can't say any of us leapt to Norman's defence, much to my shame. An older man, one I can't name, he swooped in like a vulture to pick up the pieces.
Mr. R. T___: Who told you that? I did no such thing! The lad was heartbroken. I merely comforted him in his time of need. And young as he was, he was not exactly new at the game. He'd been around a while. He was no innocent.
Millie Warne: Norman had a bad patch, I'd say it was around his twenty-first birthday, just before. Happy and carefree one day, and in a black mood the next. He kept going out, but I had the feeling he didn't really want to socialize. He was just doing it to save face. Although why, I can't tell you. I have no idea who he was socializing with in those days. Other young men, I suppose. He was certainly busy. It was totally out of character for him.
Jack Hareson: He started drinking a bit before he got out of the carriage. I could smell it on him. Like he needed a stiff one to deal with the crowd. He didn't enjoy going out again. To be honest, I thought he looked a bit ill. You know, lovesick or something. Not that I ever saw anything untoward. Not directly. There was a fight that one time, aye, outside that place where the artists went. An older man, a rich one. I was coming to fetch young Mr. Norman, and this older gent was following him, chiding him. There must have been some fisticuffs before I got there. Mr. Norman's clothes were askew, and his hair was mussed something fierce. He was spitting mad, and in no mood to be calmed by me. I pulled him away from that place, put him in the carriage. He asked me to take him out to the countryside, and he howled at the moon for a bit. Reciting some damn poetry or other.
Charles Rickett: It was an unfortunate scene. I fear Mr…. our friend had rather forced himself on poor Norman. Oscar, being Oscar, had to make some comment about it. I'm sure it would have been amusing if Norman had not been so… distraught. And then John… John could be thoughtless.
Charles Shannon: Laughter can be the cruellest sound, don't you think?
Fruing Warne: Something snapped him out of it. He had his foul moods for a while, but then he settled out. First to go was that awful hair, thank heavens for small mercies. Maybe it was because he kept out of the sun, our out of the outdoors, really, once he matured. The colour dimmed a bit.
Harold Warne: Norman found his twenty-first birthday to be quite traumatic, I thought. I suppose he finally decided to grow up. That's a painful decision to make, and delaying it that long had only made it more painful for him.
Eloise Darner: Gone were all the lovely silks and his best suits. He said he gave them away, but I found scraps of the nicest kerchiefs one day, cut to ribbons, stuffed in the back of the dresser. I worked some of them into a rug I was weaving. You can see it on your way out. I keep it by the doorway. Warms my feet when I come in. Those bright greens and the rose and that sky blue, they came from Master Warne's things. They were discarded, so it's perfectly all right that I used them. Had to make some use of them. He wasn't wearing them anymore. He looked like he was in right mourning for a time.
Millie Warne: Norman was quite withdrawn and pale. I feared for his health. He moped around the house for a few weeks, and then he came to talk to me. He told me he'd been quite a foolish young man, and I told him I didn't belief it. Norman may have been a tad frivolous at times, but he was no fool. He argued with me, told me he was a fool, the worst kind of fool. I just knew it had something to do with love, but he denied it. He didn't deny the romance part, but he denied it had ever been true love. He made me promise never to tell anyone as long as he lived. And I didn't. But it can't hurt anyone now, because he's gone.
Charles Shannon: I heard he went to see John Gray, a few weeks after the fight. He'd not been back to see us – that was the last time I saw him, in fact. But people talk, and I heard talk of him appearing at John's apartments, and that he waited until Oscar was out.
Charles Rickett: Must we rehash those tawdry rumours? Even if it's true, even if Norman did go to John, to beg to be taken back, and even if John did turn him away coldheartedly, why should anyone talk of that?
Mr. R. T___: John Gray got his though. Oscar was a fickle as him. Once that young lord [Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas, "Bosie"] turned up, John was thrown on the discard pile along with Norman. They were a cruel lot. And I don't care what anyone says. Norman was the only one who didn't deserve any of it. I'll never forgive myself if I did anything to cause him any hurt.
Charles Rickett: John went into the church. Can you imagine, a man like that taking vows. But that was his type - melodramatic. That was his response to being rejected. Norman was, from all reports, much more sensible about things. He stopped associating with our crowd, perhaps out of embarrassment, but he didn't do anything ridiculous like taking vows.
Mr. R. T___: Ah, well, yes. That was John Gray. Always overly dramatic. It's an unfortunate tendency among our sort, I think. The artistic sort. No, I suppose Norman was not really one of us.
John Gray: Who are you? Who gave you this address? I don't want to talk to you, or anyone, about Norman Warne.
Charles Shannon: I lied. I did see him again. It was years later. He looked so different. I didn't speak to him, but I saw him. He was escorting his mother somewhere, and he was so solemn, so reserved. He had his hair short, oiled back, very severe. And he'd grown an imposing moustache, almost as if he were wearing a disguise. I hardly recognized the dear boy.
Harold Warne: I was pleased when Norman snapped out of whatever doldrums he was in. He smartened himself up a bit, started dressing more respectably. He even grew a moustache, and a rather impressive one, at that. He wasn't broken entirely of his old habits – he had a few things left, the odd fancy scarf, something with a pattern on it that was not strictly cricket, but he settled down nicely to take care of mother, and eventually, as we all know, he did make a success of himself in the family business.
Charles Rickett: He had a good deal of success with those books by Miss Potter. I wasn't surprised at all when I heard he was involved in that. Not exactly high art, was it? But it was the sort of thing Norman would enjoy. He was never a fine artist. He was workmanlike. And those books – I bought one just last week for my niece's children – they are rather delightful. Rather like Norman, actually. Sunny, you know. Darkness lurked beneath the surface, and the little characters were flawed, but they were charming, if a little awkward. Sunny and awkward and charming, just like Norman was. I must say, I was very sad to hear of his passing.
Millie Warne: He never spoke of it again to me, of love, not until Miss Potter. All those years he was like the garden in winter. Life was lying beneath the surface, waiting to blossom. And I was so very, very happy for him, and for Beatrix. I think she was rather the same way. A seed waiting to grow.
Harold Warne: I noticed, even before that last summer, that he seemed a bit flushed. He seemed excited about things. Maybe I'm imagining it. There is always guilt, when a family member passes so suddenly. If only we'd noticed he wasn't well. If only we'd taken him to the doctor or taken better care of him. He went out a lot that winter, and I do remember warning him about taking a chill. That may or may not have had anything to do with his illness in the summer, of course. It was just so…
Fruing Warne: Sudden. In the blink of an eye. We may have had our differences, but I loved him dearly. So shocking.
Eloise Darner: I never did see a family so shocked. He was so full of life in the time before he… oh, it was such a shock! He was hardly sick at all. Just a cough that wouldn’t clear up, but before that there was nothing at all. He seemed so healthy. It just goes to show you.
Jack Hareson: That was the last time I drove for them, to take Miss Millie out to the gravesite. It was a clear day, and she wanted to see him something dreadful. I couldn't help her into the carriage, for my leg was bad, but she said she'd be able to get in and out herself. She just wanted a moment alone with her younger brother. So I took her, and when we got to the cemetery there was a man there, a priest, at the headstone. I never seen a priest cry before, but there he was, crying at the grave.
Millie Warne: It was terribly upsetting to see that priest, in our cemetery, crying like that. It was disrespectful to Norman. Or at least to our Church. He looked so out of place.
Jack Hareson: Miss Millie walked right up to him and told him to leave. She saw it as an insult, to see him carrying on like that. He was a funny chap, pretty like a girl, what with the cassock and all. His face was all red from crying, eyes swollen. He was pitiable, but Miss Millie was having none of it. She pushed him. Might have even slapped him, but I can't say for certain. I was trying to keep a respectful distance.
Millie Warne: I very politely asked the priest to leave. He claimed to be an old friend of Norman's but I can't imagine how Norman could have known such a man. Father John, he said his name was. John… oh, I can't remember. I was in such a state. Green or Grey or something. It was a colour. How appropriate that someone named after a colour would be mourning Norman. But I still told him to leave.
Jack Hareson: Now that you mention it, he did look a might familiar. Not sure where I seen him, but maybe he does some charity work in the place I been staying. Since my leg has gone bad, I've been drifting a bit. I'm quite amazed you found me, actually. You must be one of those private investigators, what? An author? I hope you'll track me down again if your book gets published. Anyway, so she pushed the priest away, but when I was driving her home I looked back. The road doubles back there, you know, and I saw him at the grave again.
Millie Warne: It was terrible for Miss Potter, to have to hide how she felt about dear Norman in public. Imagine not being able to grieve in front of anyone. It was difficult enough to maintain a proper composure while wearing black and a veil. At least if a tear or two leaked out, no one would gossip.
John Gray: Yes, fine, all right. I was not always a priest. I'm not ashamed of my past. I knew Norman Warnes. What of it? We moved in the same circles. He was in publishing, I fancied myself an aesthetic poet. All young, artistic, fashionable men of that time moved in that circle. There is no shame in that is there?
Millie Warne: But Beatrix had to pretend he was a mere business acquaintance, when I know he was so much more. That's what makes it so much more tragic. After waiting for so long, and then to have it all end so suddenly.
John Gray: He had a vivaciousness that none could match. I was dazzled by him – everything about him. His eyes sparkled, blue one moment, green the next. They changed colour. Did no one tell you about that? Ah, so changeable. And his hair. That too, seemed to change, from blonde to red, depending on the light, on the time of day, maybe even on his mood. Who knew? And his smile. Lord forgive me, but his smile was like the sun. It warmed me. And his laugh, that set me on fire. Oh, he had a laugh of such unadulterated joy. It would burst out of him, sometimes at the most inappropriate times. That was how much the Norman Warne I knew enjoyed life.
Millie Warne: Not that I think they were ever, I mean. Oh, no. Norman was shy, an absolute innocent. I'm sure they were not intimate beyond what was proper. I saw them hold hands. Beatrix did say they kissed. A long kiss. But nothing more.
John Gray: [crying] It was wrong of me, so wrong. He was an innocent. Maybe not in his body – he had not been shy about sharing that. And what a body it was, all robust curves and beautiful golden skin - but in his heart. His heart was untouched, and I allowed him to give it over to me wholly. I took it, greedily. I revelled in his love and his desire. I have prayed for forgiveness, but I doubt I shall receive it for that part of it, because I do not feel remorse for enjoying his affections. That was honest and pure and untainted. I admit, some of the things I did with his body were impure. Sins, yes. But what I felt in my heart, what he felt in his, no just and loving God could deny.
Greed was my sin, not lust. What I regret, the sin I will never be forgiven for, is what happened after I availed myself of his generosity. I turned my back on what Norman offered, and sought after all manner of sinful things from Oscar – fame, glamour, notoriety. And the sex. The sex with Oscar was something else. It was base. It was dissolute. Even the same act, the exact same act, with Oscar, as opposed to with Norman, could seem… Norman gave the sweetest kisses. When he offered his body, it was with a wholesomeness I cannot express. When I offered myself to him, he did not take; we shared.
Oscar took. Oscar took and thrust himself inside me and I felt dirty, but I wanted it. I knew he didn't love me. I knew I was an experiment, a toy, a phase. I didn't care. He promised to make me immortal, and perhaps he did. Perhaps. I wanted that, I wanted to be immortal. Yet more greed, that was. And hubris, even. Filthy.
I never felt dirty with Norman. With Norman I felt pure. When Norman entered me, I did not feel skewered and invaded; I felt joined. We were joined. And I threw that away, threw it in the gutter because of Pride and Greed and Lust and Sin.
And what have I proven to be? Oscar was brought down to the depths by me. Oh, you can say it was Bosie who brought him down, but his arrogance, his pride was fed by me. I nurtured the pride that would lead to his end. I gave up love for Oscar, I turned my back on Norman, on decency, on truth, to worship at his altar. He grew to expect it from everyone, until he thought himself above all others.
And then Norman. I know that I hold no real responsibility for his death. I was in my monastery on retreat when he grew ill. But his death was long-coming. His death was a slow process of not really living.
He came to see me, to beg me, and when I laughed at him, spurned him cruelly, he swore he would never love, would never live again. He took the scissors from my table, brandishing them in the air. He was crying, and instead of caring, instead of responding with love and decency, I turned away from him. Told him he could do as he liked, I cared not. I had Oscar.
Not for long. I'm sure, if he even heard that bit of gossip, that gave Norman some satisfaction, to know I'd been rejected the same way I rejected him. Life has a way of coming around like that.
I did, for a moment, fear Norman would do something mad. To my credit, I did not wish him ill. To my great discredit, my primary fear was that if he were to plunge the scissors into his heart, right there in my sitting room, I would not know how to explain it to the authorities. Heartless, don't you think? You see how far I'd sunk.
But no, Norman was far too practical for that sort of thing. And he was far less sinful than I. He would never do himself harm. Although he did disfigure himself, to an extent. He chopped off all that glorious red hair that I'd loved so much. Left it strewn across the carpet. The scissors fell from his fingers and put a gash in the rug. Oscar was furious. And Norman stood there, looking like a little boy. Helpless. Hopeless.
"No one will ever love me again," he said. He was crying openly, poor boy, as he chopped away at it. "No one will ever touch me again, and I'll make sure of that. I won't ever let them," he cried. "Thank you for curing me of this ridiculous obsession with love."
Such melodrama, I thought at the time. I threw him out, told him never to darken my door again. I'm sure I said "our" door, as if it were Oscar's too, but it never really was. Although you would have thought so, with the way Oscar railed about the hair all over the carpet. He was deathly jealous, for one so profligate with his affections.
Norman stopped halfway down the stairs, and he looked up at me. I don't know why I stood there at the railing, looking down at him. It was a callous thing to do. Norman stared up at me with his eyes full of tears and his shorn head making him look like a sacrifice, and he said, "I vow to you, John, that I will never love again."
And I never saw him again.
I did ask about him, and by all reports he'd made himself reclusive, and as stodgy as can be. The perfect son for his perfect bourgeois family. That glorious sunshine – his smile – hidden forever under the armour of a gentleman's moustache and polite demeanour.
Now, go. You have your tale. Go away, and never speak to me again.
The End.
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