Post by dianahawthorne on Apr 22, 2009 1:08:38 GMT -5
Let Me Be Gentle With You
***
Song text is from Joni Mitchell’s song “The Gallery” (with a few alterations). I don’t own “The Gallery” or The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. This fic is written from Deirdre's (Teddy's wife) point of view.
***
When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies.
Then you began to hang up me
You studied to portray me
They first met so many years ago, when they were studying at St. Andrew’s. He was an art student, and she was attracted to his bohemian ways and the dark comma of hair that fell into his eyes.
He took her out to tea several times before she got up the courage to ask him about his portraits. His eyes lit up with excitement as he took her hand and brought her to his studio, a fourth-floor room near the Greyfriars Kirkyard.
There were many portraits, mostly of women, and she looked through them all with a discerning yet appreciative eye. When she looked up at him she saw him studying her intently, as though he was placing her in a portrait he had yet to paint.
‘Will you pose for me?’ he asked her, and she agreed, flattered.
In ice and greens
And old blue jeans
And naked in the roses
Then you got into funny scenes
That all your work discloses
It was winter, so he first painted her standing by the window, the icicles behind her catching the light and shimmering. By the time he was finished with that portrait, it was spring and the roses were blooming.
The next time she visited the studio, she was greeted with a bouquet of roses. She held them to her nose and inhaled their heady scent. She always believed that was why she kissed him a few moments later.
He quickly pushed her back to the bed, the roses falling forgotten on the floor. Though they were both Catholic, the fact that premarital sex was a sin did not enter their minds.
Afterwards, he picked up the roses and handed them to her.
‘Stay still,’ he said, ‘don’t move,’ and set up a blank canvas. She watched him paint her, her clothes still on the back of the chair, his dungarees still on the floor.
Lady, don’t love me now I am dead
I am a saint, turn down your bed
I have no heart, that’s what you said
You said, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
‘You don’t love me!’ she cried out, the night after she discovered his portrait of her. ‘You don’t care about me or the children! How can you be so cruel?’
He didn’t have an answer, but looked at her in silence, his eyes soft and guilty.
Somewhere in a magazine
I found a page about you
I see that now it’s Jean
Who cannot be without you
It was in the school’s yearly magazine when she first saw a picture of them together. He was watching her hungrily, and she looked back at him with equal passion. It was a poor quality group photograph of the teachers, but it didn’t matter. She could see that her husband was in love with her, could see that she could not live without him.
‘Why don’t we invite Miss Brodie for tea?’ she suggested, and he ignored her.
I keep your house in fit repair
I dust the portraits daily
Your mail comes here from everywhere
The writing looks like ladies
While she stayed at home with the children (five of them now, with another on the way), dusting the portraits he’d painted of her, he snuck out of the house. One evening she crept up to his studio and found a pile of postcards, postmarked Egypt, Germany, Italy, London, and even Edinburgh.
These postcards marked a passionate affair, though the writing consisted of one line of poetry.
‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said one sent from Egypt.
‘And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn. They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,’ read one sent from Germany.
‘Would none had ever loved but you and I!’ proclaimed one from Italy.
All were signed with a simple ‘Jean.’
Lady, please love me now, I am dead
I am a saint, turn down your bed
I have no heart, that’s what you said
You said, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
He slipped into bed late one night, smelling of paint, and she knew he had been working on his portrait of her.
‘What were you doing?’ she asked anyway.
‘Nothing,’ he lied, and began to kiss her.
‘Do you love me?’
‘Let me show you,’ he replied, and gently made love to her.
Afterwards, she cried. He was cruel to lie to her about this. She couldn’t bear it anymore.
He listened to her cry but did nothing. Perhaps she was right, he thought, he doesn’t have a heart.
I gave you all my pretty years
Then we began to weather
And I was left to winter here
While you went west for pleasure
She gave him the best years of her life, and this is how he repaid her – remaining in Edinburgh, ostensibly to paint, while she took the children to their grandmother’s house in Ireland. He always remained behind, no matter the season, always claiming his painting as an excuse. She knew he was telling the truth, but knew also that there was another underlying reason for his wish to remain in Edinburgh.
And now you’re flying back this way
Like some lost homing pigeon
They’ve monitored your brain, you say
And changed you with religion
She was surprised when he showed up a week before they were to leave, a day before Christmas. He greeted their children with enthusiasm, but his eyes were hollow, his motions were routine, and he didn’t laugh, not even when their eldest sang along to ‘O play to me, gipsy,’ accompanied by Henry Hall’s orchestra on the radio.
Lady, please love me now I was dead
I am no saint, turn down your bed
Lady, have you no heart, that’s what you said
Well, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
That night as she prepared for bed, she watched him carefully. He stood at the window, staring out sightlessly to the meadow beyond.
‘What happened?’ she asked him, and he shook his head, not looking at her. ‘Well, why don’t you come to bed?’
He did as she suggested, slipping between the covers.
‘I haven’t been very gentle with you,’ he said in hollow tones. ‘I’ll try not to be cruel anymore.’
She laid her hand on his cheek and he closed his eyes, unwilling to look at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and she kissed him lightly.
‘It’ll be all right,’ she replied, forgiving him for his transgressions. She even forgave him for loving her.
When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies
But now their faces follow me
And all their eyes look shady
After she died, he grew ill.
‘Don’t love me when I’m dead,’ he told her. ‘Find someone else.’
She never gave him a response, and he died six months later without ever having an answer.
It took another three months before she could bear to go up to the studio – she hadn’t been there since she discovered the postcards those many years ago. They were still there, as was everything else, but there was a new portrait in a place of prominence, the place that had once been occupied by that first painting of her.
It was her, she knew it was, though she had only seen her in that one blurry photograph nearly twenty years earlier.
She seemed to be watching her, brown eyes regarding her as she regarded the portrait.
She knew that she had always held her husband’s heart, knew that he had died because she had.
There was a postcard propped up in front of the portrait, which she picked up.
‘No one has ever loved but you and I,’ it said, the handwriting loose and shaky, as though the writer had been very ill – which, indeed, she had been at the time.
There was a book of matches on the table, and she picked them up, preparing to strike a match to burn the postcard. Something stopped her, however, and she set the matches and the postcard down. Turning on her heel, she left the studio, her eyes still following her.
***
Song text is from Joni Mitchell’s song “The Gallery” (with a few alterations). I don’t own “The Gallery” or The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. This fic is written from Deirdre's (Teddy's wife) point of view.
***
When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies.
Then you began to hang up me
You studied to portray me
They first met so many years ago, when they were studying at St. Andrew’s. He was an art student, and she was attracted to his bohemian ways and the dark comma of hair that fell into his eyes.
He took her out to tea several times before she got up the courage to ask him about his portraits. His eyes lit up with excitement as he took her hand and brought her to his studio, a fourth-floor room near the Greyfriars Kirkyard.
There were many portraits, mostly of women, and she looked through them all with a discerning yet appreciative eye. When she looked up at him she saw him studying her intently, as though he was placing her in a portrait he had yet to paint.
‘Will you pose for me?’ he asked her, and she agreed, flattered.
In ice and greens
And old blue jeans
And naked in the roses
Then you got into funny scenes
That all your work discloses
It was winter, so he first painted her standing by the window, the icicles behind her catching the light and shimmering. By the time he was finished with that portrait, it was spring and the roses were blooming.
The next time she visited the studio, she was greeted with a bouquet of roses. She held them to her nose and inhaled their heady scent. She always believed that was why she kissed him a few moments later.
He quickly pushed her back to the bed, the roses falling forgotten on the floor. Though they were both Catholic, the fact that premarital sex was a sin did not enter their minds.
Afterwards, he picked up the roses and handed them to her.
‘Stay still,’ he said, ‘don’t move,’ and set up a blank canvas. She watched him paint her, her clothes still on the back of the chair, his dungarees still on the floor.
Lady, don’t love me now I am dead
I am a saint, turn down your bed
I have no heart, that’s what you said
You said, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
‘You don’t love me!’ she cried out, the night after she discovered his portrait of her. ‘You don’t care about me or the children! How can you be so cruel?’
He didn’t have an answer, but looked at her in silence, his eyes soft and guilty.
Somewhere in a magazine
I found a page about you
I see that now it’s Jean
Who cannot be without you
It was in the school’s yearly magazine when she first saw a picture of them together. He was watching her hungrily, and she looked back at him with equal passion. It was a poor quality group photograph of the teachers, but it didn’t matter. She could see that her husband was in love with her, could see that she could not live without him.
‘Why don’t we invite Miss Brodie for tea?’ she suggested, and he ignored her.
I keep your house in fit repair
I dust the portraits daily
Your mail comes here from everywhere
The writing looks like ladies
While she stayed at home with the children (five of them now, with another on the way), dusting the portraits he’d painted of her, he snuck out of the house. One evening she crept up to his studio and found a pile of postcards, postmarked Egypt, Germany, Italy, London, and even Edinburgh.
These postcards marked a passionate affair, though the writing consisted of one line of poetry.
‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said one sent from Egypt.
‘And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn. They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,’ read one sent from Germany.
‘Would none had ever loved but you and I!’ proclaimed one from Italy.
All were signed with a simple ‘Jean.’
Lady, please love me now, I am dead
I am a saint, turn down your bed
I have no heart, that’s what you said
You said, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
He slipped into bed late one night, smelling of paint, and she knew he had been working on his portrait of her.
‘What were you doing?’ she asked anyway.
‘Nothing,’ he lied, and began to kiss her.
‘Do you love me?’
‘Let me show you,’ he replied, and gently made love to her.
Afterwards, she cried. He was cruel to lie to her about this. She couldn’t bear it anymore.
He listened to her cry but did nothing. Perhaps she was right, he thought, he doesn’t have a heart.
I gave you all my pretty years
Then we began to weather
And I was left to winter here
While you went west for pleasure
She gave him the best years of her life, and this is how he repaid her – remaining in Edinburgh, ostensibly to paint, while she took the children to their grandmother’s house in Ireland. He always remained behind, no matter the season, always claiming his painting as an excuse. She knew he was telling the truth, but knew also that there was another underlying reason for his wish to remain in Edinburgh.
And now you’re flying back this way
Like some lost homing pigeon
They’ve monitored your brain, you say
And changed you with religion
She was surprised when he showed up a week before they were to leave, a day before Christmas. He greeted their children with enthusiasm, but his eyes were hollow, his motions were routine, and he didn’t laugh, not even when their eldest sang along to ‘O play to me, gipsy,’ accompanied by Henry Hall’s orchestra on the radio.
Lady, please love me now I was dead
I am no saint, turn down your bed
Lady, have you no heart, that’s what you said
Well, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
That night as she prepared for bed, she watched him carefully. He stood at the window, staring out sightlessly to the meadow beyond.
‘What happened?’ she asked him, and he shook his head, not looking at her. ‘Well, why don’t you come to bed?’
He did as she suggested, slipping between the covers.
‘I haven’t been very gentle with you,’ he said in hollow tones. ‘I’ll try not to be cruel anymore.’
She laid her hand on his cheek and he closed his eyes, unwilling to look at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and she kissed him lightly.
‘It’ll be all right,’ she replied, forgiving him for his transgressions. She even forgave him for loving her.
When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies
But now their faces follow me
And all their eyes look shady
After she died, he grew ill.
‘Don’t love me when I’m dead,’ he told her. ‘Find someone else.’
She never gave him a response, and he died six months later without ever having an answer.
It took another three months before she could bear to go up to the studio – she hadn’t been there since she discovered the postcards those many years ago. They were still there, as was everything else, but there was a new portrait in a place of prominence, the place that had once been occupied by that first painting of her.
It was her, she knew it was, though she had only seen her in that one blurry photograph nearly twenty years earlier.
She seemed to be watching her, brown eyes regarding her as she regarded the portrait.
She knew that she had always held her husband’s heart, knew that he had died because she had.
There was a postcard propped up in front of the portrait, which she picked up.
‘No one has ever loved but you and I,’ it said, the handwriting loose and shaky, as though the writer had been very ill – which, indeed, she had been at the time.
There was a book of matches on the table, and she picked them up, preparing to strike a match to burn the postcard. Something stopped her, however, and she set the matches and the postcard down. Turning on her heel, she left the studio, her eyes still following her.
