The maddening fog

A glimpse into a shared moment between two lovers in Victorian London

I heard the click of his latch key in the door, strangely delayed after the cessation of his languid footfalls upon my stair. He had paused, then, just beyond the threshold, arrested perhaps by a chance interest in some passerby or other. His attention was perpetually besieged by alluring curiosities in the form of uncommon people and objects and scenery. When at last the door opened, he seemed to pause again.

“Close the door.” I ordered from within my studio, not looking away from the canvas lest I lose the image I was trying to capture, “You’re letting the fog in.”

He laughed heartily at that. It ought to have bothered me, but his laugh was velvet and felt like home more than this crumbling brick building ever would.

“My dear fellow, you haven’t left this house in three days. What could you possibly know of fog?”

“There’s always fog in London.” I replied, continuing to build up the shadows creeping from the far right of the portrait without casting a glance toward my companion.

I heard Arthur move languidly behind me, each step long and deliberate. He placed a hand on my shoulder, long fingers squeezing gently. I didn’t move my eyes from the painting not outwardly acknowledge the contact, but immediately missed the sensation when it was gone, my companion moving away to recline into his preferred chair. There were really only two to choose from, and the other was invariably strewn with discarded sketches and drafts.

“Mind if I smoke?” He asked, drawing out a gold-tipped cigarette and lighting it without waiting for an answer. He asked only out of some apparent need to maintain an air of courtesy, even though the requirement for any had long since been discarded between us.

“Don’t set fire to any of my work.” I cautioned, and then added, “Unless it’s that terrible thing of Hermes that you seem to be so infatuated with.”

“If you hate it so much, why not let me buy it from you?” He asked, voice taking on that gravelly edge that accompanied his opium-tainted tobacco.

I chanced a glance at him through my eyelashes while mixing a new hue for the ambient shadow. He always managed to make an art of everything. The cigarette was held loosely between two fingers, so much so that on anyone else it might have seemed precarious, but for him it was sheer elegance. One long leg was crossed over the other, perfectly tailored trousers pulling up just slightly to reveal one dark stocking.

“You know why.” I answered absently, the sight of Arthur far more vivid in my mind now than the image of what I was trying to recreate on my canvas.

He sighed audibly and began to leaf through some of the sketches lying within his reach.

“These are rather good, Vern.” He said, taking a long drag from his cigarette, “You capture movement like no one else. You really do. You ought work some of these up into paintings. There are really not enough paintings of real life with all its grime and sweaty toils.”

“I can hardly afford to waste good tin on paint and canvases for paintings that no one will buy.”

“I would buy them.”

“You would not.” I replied resolutely, and somewhat angrily, for the topic was an old and wearisome one.

And, in any case, my current project was proving troublesome enough. The forms of things were straightforward, but it was the light that challenged. Too much shadow. Always too much shadow. The fog that seemed to filter light so strangely only made matters worse, and it seemed to be that much thicker of late.

“Is that the portrait for Lady Carlyle?” He asked at length, although the question might have been preceded by other commentaries that I had not noticed, for it seemed to flow as if the sequeter from some earlier sentence.

I nodded in the affirmative, but didn’t answer for my mind and eyes were on the edge of the window visible beyond the canvas. It seemed as if the terrible fog was drifting in through the gaps therein.

“She’s very fond of you, you know.”

“I know.” The light on my canvas no longer matched that of the scene I was attempting to create.

“You should attend more of her gatherings. I know she’d be thrilled to see you.” Arthur lay back, dropping his head against the top of the chair, and allowing blue wreaths of smoke to curl from his lips, “As would I. Society is so dull without you, Vern.”

It was the doing of the fog, I knew. The light had seemed so perfect only minutes before.

“Society creates plenty of its own entertainment, Art.” I replied distractedly.

“Yes, but it is invariably tasteless and wearisome when you’re not there to enjoy it with me.” He rejoined in that infuriatingly listless way he always affixed to words of sentiment.

“You know what people are saying.” I muttered solemnly, at which he sniffed indignantly and lit a fresh cigarette.

“And you know I absolutely do not care.”

We lapsed into silence, wherein the roar of the bustling London became a monotonous backdrop, indistinct and almost calming in its separation from our little hideout.

“Have you anymore of that cherry brandy?” He asked after a time, never able to keep from some form of verbal outburst for more than a few minutes.

“In the cabinet.” I replied, although he already knew that. He also already knew there would be plenty left because I never drank it without him.

He rose and, going to the cabinet, came into my view. As ever, he looked impeccable in his evening dress and moved with an easy grace that was the envy of so many gentlemen in the London clubs. Quickly reaching for a sheet of paper and pencil, I waited with baited breath for that blessed moment when, after rising and pouring two glasses, he would invariably take a long drink from one. The very instant the first taste of the brandy touched his lips, his expression became one of such utter bliss, complete euphoria, that I never tired of attempting to capture that beautiful moment. The sketches were never quite right, but I delighted in trying nonetheless.

I quickly hid the sketch under a pile of preparatory ones for my current painting as he returned and handed me a glass, our fingers brushing in the process so that some of the fresh graphite on mine darkened his.

The brandy was good. Good enough for me to briefly pause in my work and sip at it while watching Arthur as he sat back down to embark on an enthusiastic discourse of our political institutions and their possible underlying philosophies. I cared not for politics and could rarely keep up with the train of philosophical thinking, but I could listen to him talk of them for hours. Had listened to him talk of them for hours.

When I eventually turned back to continue my painting, the light had changed again, and it seemed the reflection of it in the vase and great amber globe in my background had become twisted with all the poisonous hues of the toxic fog outside.

“That blasted fog!” I exclaimed, angrily brushing hair from my forehead, previously unaware that it had fallen there.

“Why do you hate the fog so much?” My companion asked in that infuriatingly rich tone of his, “I find it rather romantic. Anything could be happening barely a pace away, and one would never know it.”

“How is that romantic?” I demanded, turning to him.

“It is the purveyor of secrets, and secrets are at the core of any good romance.” He stated as if it were a natural fact. That it may well have been, that it certainly was in our case, was irrelevant.

“It distorts what ought be seen.” I replied, feeling in the moment unnecessarily argumentative, “There is such beauty in this city, but none shall ever chance to cast eyes on it for the indomitable fog."

He sighed and stood, picking up his hat and coat, and walking towards the door, “You are inconsolable, Vernon.”

“Don’t!” I cried suddenly, paintbrush falling from my hand to the bare wooden floor as I rushed to shut the door before the fog could get in or, worse, my companion step out into it. I stood with my back pressed against the door, between him and the outside, staring up at him in panic.

“Vern…” He might have tried to reason, but I cut him off desperately.

“Stay here tonight!” I pleaded uncaring of how pathetic or pitiful I might have sounded, “Don’t go out there. Please, Art. Stay here.”

Sighing and removing his hat to run a long-fingered hand through his dark curled hair, Arthur sighed deeply.

“I’m expected at the club.”

“To hell with your club!”

With a deep sigh, he smiled fondly and shook his head.

“Jealousy is a strange countenance on you, my dear Vern.” He murmured, bringing one hand up to cup with side of my cheek.

“I’m not jealous of you.” I replied as moodily as I could, but with his body so close and his breath shared with my own, all feelings of fear and anger seemed to ebb, “You know how I hate such places, and the people even more so.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you to be jealous of me.”

“I know.” I whispered, “You’ll stay?”

His hand moved to the side of my throat, and his countenance transformed into something devilishly playful, a dark smile creeping across his fine features.


“If you give me a reason to.” He answered, voice deep and rich like an excellent port.

“You know my reason.” I dropped my head against his chest and closed my eyes. His shirt smelled of tobacco and musk and home.

“The maddening fog.” Arthur muttered, “You know it exists only in your mind and your paintings. Not that the two are distinguishable.”

“You’ve seen it too. Or in the least you’ve seen the result.”

“What happened to William had nothing to do with the fog.” He said softly. I shook my head and felt his long arms wrap around my shoulders.

We stood that way for too long. At my back I could feel the chill of the growing night creeping through the old door, reaching out its cruel fingers towards us.

“You still haven’t given me a reason to stay.” He said just when I had started to fear that the outside air was getting too far inside the house.

“You mean, aside from the pleasure of my company?” I asked, feeling the deep laugh that rose from his chest in response.

“I mean precisely the pleasure of your company.” He replied, pulling back to look at me with those dark eyes of his.

“Will you not be missed at the club?”

“It will give them something to talk about.”

“You are incorrigibly vain.” I replied, leaning up to press my lips against his and relishing the taste of tobacco and brandy that clung to them.

With another rich laugh, he led me upstairs to the one room in this wretched house untouched by the terrible fog.

Author's Note

This is my first real attempt at writing fiction, so absolutely any advice would be so very welcome. And, in particular, I was trying to capture the feel of Gothic fiction, so tips on how to do this better would be greatly appreciated.