In a way I do not fully understand, I think your madness spared me. As I listened to your wild rantings my mind took refuge in ordinary things: a shaft of sunlight on your dressing table, clouds chasing each other across the sky. It was as if your visions stood in for my own feelings, enabling me to go on with my life.

That year, we went to Cornwall on our own. The weather was glorious, I remember, and Thoby, Adrian, and I roamed the coastal paths for miles. You refused to come walking with us. Once the sea was so wild that I took off my shoes and stockings and strode out into the foamy spray. The wind tore at my hair and my skirt billowed round me and I felt as I looked at the surging torrents as if I could accomplish anything. We returned from our walk to find you cloistered in the sitting room, poring over one of Father’s books. You had pulled the curtains half-shut. Thoby and Adrian fell silent as we entered the gloomy interior.

“What’s that you’re reading, Ginny?” You lift the book high enough for me to see that it is Hardy’s elegies.

“The waves were heavenly. You should have come with us.” It is Thoby now who takes up the fray. He settles himself on the sofa, his skin radiant from the sun.

“Yes, we thought we might get a boat and go to the Godrevy lighthouse tomorrow.” Thoby’s high spirits have made Adrian bold. You sit resolutely silent, your book held before you like a sneer. At last Thoby flings his feet off the sofa and stands up.

“I’m going to see what’s happening with lunch. I could eat a horse!” He launches a cushion at Adrian and the pair race each other out of the room. I linger for a moment, consumed with guilt. It is only when I get to the door that I hear your voice.

“There’ll be no going to the lighthouse tomorrow. It’s forecast rain.”

Paris. The daring simplicity of Manet. Surfaces struck as planes of color—maroon, lemon, pale blue. Light allowed to infuse the painting so the essence of the subject is caught.