Laurence Alma Tadema - The Wings of Icarus
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Laurence Alma Tadema >> The Wings of Icarus
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8 THE WINGS OF ICARUS
BEING
THE LIFE OF ONE EMILIA FLETCHER
AS REVEALED BY HERSELF IN
I. THIRTY-FIVE LETTERS
WRITTEN TO CONSTANCE NORRIS BETWEEN JULY 18TH, 188-,
AND MARCH 26TH OF THE FOLLOWING YEAR
II. A FRAGMENTARY JOURNAL
III. A POSTSCRIPT
BY
LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA
New York
MACMILLAN AND COMPANY
AND LONDON
1894
THE WINGS OF ICARUS.
THE LETTERS.
LETTER I.
FLETCHER'S HALL, GRAYSMILL,
July 18th.
_Dear and Beloved Constance_,--What shall I say to you? Here I sit,
in a strange room, in a strange land,--and my life lies behind me.
It is close upon midnight, and very dark. I can see nothing out of
window. The air is hot and heavy, the moths flutter round my candle;
I cannot save them all. I am trying to write you a letter--do you
understand? Oh, but I have no thoughts, only visions! Three there
are that rise before me, sometimes separately, sometimes all
together.
I see you, Mrs. Norris. We are standing on the platform, side by
side; people leaning out of window in my night-gown, watching the
mists rise in the valley. The air is very sweet here in England; I
see oceans of trees, great stretches of heath and meadow. Surely,
surely one ought to be happy in this beautiful world! I shall dress
quickly and go out. This letter, such as it is, shall go to you by
the first post, and to-night I shall write again, when I myself know
something of my surroundings. Good-bye then for the present, my best
and dearest.
EMILIA.
LETTER II.
July 19.
It is just half-past ten, my Constance; the two old ladies have gone
to bed. I am getting on very well, on the whole, although I had the
misfortune to keep them waiting three-quarters of an hour for
breakfast this morning. It was so beautiful out of doors, and I was
so happy roaming in field and wood,--happy with the happiness
sunshine can lay atop of the greatest sorrow,--that I stayed out
till nearly ten o'clock. I had taken some milk and bread in the
kitchen before starting, not realising that breakfast here is a
solemn meal. Poor old souls! they were too polite to begin without
me, and I found them positively drooping with hunger.
All the rancour that I had harboured in my heart this many a year
against my father's stepmother has vanished into thin air. One
glance at the old lady's delicate weak face, at her diffident eyes
and nervous fingers, dispelled once and forever any preconceived
idea that she might have helped him in his ardent difficult boyhood,
stood between him and his father in his day of disgrace. Had she
been a woman of mettle, I could never have forgiven her the neutral
part she played; but she stands there cleared by her very impotence.
I think she was nervous of meeting me, last night; she said
something confused about my poor papa, about her husband's severity,
adding that she was sorry not to have known my mamma, but supposed I
must be like her, as I looked quite the foreigner with my black
eyes. Her whole manner towards me is almost painful in its humility;
this morning she begged me to let her live with me, and die in this
house, saying she did not care to go and live with her son; upon
which I of course assured her that she must still consider
everything her own, and the scene ended in kisses and a
pocket-handkerchief.
There is something very touching about an old woman's hand; I felt
myself much more moved than the occasion warranted when she held me
with her trembling fingers, moving them nervously up and down, so
that I felt the small weak bones under the skin, all soft,
full-veined, and wrinkled.
Her sister, Caroline Seymour, is younger, probably not more than
sixty, and very active. She has a bright, bird-like face, over which
flits from time to time a sad little gleam of lost beauty. Her
fingers are always busy, and the beads in her cap bob up and down
incessantly as she bends over her fancy-work. Poor old souls--poor
old children! I think my grandfather must have led them a life;
there is a peacefulness upon them that suggests deliverance. He has
been dead just five weeks.
But the old house will see quiet days enough now. I have wandered
all over it, and find it a beautiful place in itself, although it is
so stuffed with wool-work, vile china, gildings, wax flowers, and
indescribable mantel-piece atrocities, that there is not a simple or
restful corner anywhere. Yet I find myself touched by its very
hideousness, when I think that it probably looked even so, smelt
even so stale and sweet, in the days of my dear father's boyhood.
There is a picture in the large drawing-room that gives me infinite
pleasure. It is a portrait of my own grandmother with papa in a
white frock on her knees, and my poor Aunt Fanny beside her, a neat
little smiling girl in pink, with very long drawers. There is
something in the young mother's face that, at first sight, made my
father's smile rise clearly to my memory. I have since tried to
recall the vision, but in vain.
My father's half-brother, George Fletcher, a widower with a large
family, who lives four miles from here, came to see me this
afternoon, and I took a great dislike to him. (Did I hear you say
"Of course"?) But really, dearest, these introductions are very
painful; it is most unpleasant to have the undesirable stranger
thrust upon one in the guise of friend and protector, to find
oneself standing on a footing of inevitable familiarity with people
whose hands one had rather not touch. He kissed me, Constantia, but
he certainly will not do so again. Fortunately, I like my two old
ladies; things might be worse.
To-morrow my lawyer comes from London to speak to me on business. I
shall be glad when the interview is over, for I understand nothing
at all about business matters. I can indeed barely grasp the fact
that I have come into possession of land and money. Heaven only
knows what I am to do with it all.
Write to me; write soon. You seem further away from me to-day than
you did last night; and yet I should miss you more if I could
realise my own existence. Can you make your way through these
contradictions? It seems to me this evening that I, Emilia, am still
beside you, that some one else sits here in exile with nothing
written on the page of her future, not even by the finger of Hope.
Good night, dearest.
Yours ever and always,
EMILIA.
LETTER III.
FLETCHER'S HALL, GRAYSMILL,
July 26th.
What do you think stepped in with my bath this morning? A long
narrow letter sealed with a heart. I kissed the blue stamp and
spread the three dear sheets out on my pillow. Oime, Constantia, how
I love you! But why write about _me_? Why waste pen and ink
wondering how I am? Tell me about yourself, tell me all you do, and
all you think; tell me how many different hats you wore on
Wednesday, and how you misspent your time on Thursday; tell me of
all the nonsense that is poured into your ears, of all the rubbish
you read; tell me even how many times your mother wakes you in the
night to ask if you are sleeping well. I long for you so that the
very faults of your life are dear to me, even those for which I most
reprove you when you are near.
Let me see: it is past midday with you; you and your mother are out
walking. I hear you both.
"Constance," says Mrs. Rayner, "put up your parasol!"
"Thanks, mother," you reply; "I like to feel the sun."
"You'll freckle."
"Through this thick veil and all the powder?"
"You'll freckle, I tell you. Put up your parasol."
"Oh, mother, do let me be!"
Here Mrs. Rayner wrenches the parasol out of your hands and puts it
up with a jerk; you take it, heaving a very loud sigh, upon which
your mother seizes it again and pops it down.
"Very well, be as freckled as you please; what does it matter to me,
after all? It's so pretty to have freckles, isn't it? Please
yourself! Only I warn you that you'll look like a fig before the
year's out!"
Oh, dear me, it seems I'm in good spirits to-day! Why not, with your
letter in my pocket? I am sitting out of doors in the woods. I love
this place, apart from its own beauty; I like to think of my father
out here in the open, dreaming his young dreams. Indoors in the old
house I am often miserable, with a misery beyond my own, remembering
how he suffered once between those walls.
No, I am not really in good spirits, although there comes now and
again a little gust of light-heartedness. You know me. For the rest,
I hate myself, I am a worm. The empire of myself is lost; I am
sitting low on the ground, where my troubles laid me, letting what
may run over me. I hate myself both for my abject hopelessness and
for my incapacity to take comfort at the hands of those about me.
But oh! the deadliness of their life is past description; they have
neither breadth nor health in their thoughts. I am not speaking of
the old women; their lives are at an end; they sit as little
children there, simple of heart; what they were I ask not, nor boots
it now, for their day is done. But George Fletcher and his family,
and my various more distant relatives, and my neighbours far and
near--oh, I shall never be able to live here! Believe me; you will
soon see me back. Good people, mind you, one and all, according to
their lights; God-fearing, law-abiding, nothing questioning, one and
all. I shall soon expect to see the earth stand still and roll
backwards. Yes; there they trot upon life's highway, chained
together, dragging each other along; not one of them dares stop to
pick a flower lest the others should tread on his fingers and toes.
And they are so swaddled up in customs and conventions, baby-learned
forms of speech and bearing, that there is nothing to be seen of the
real man and woman; indeed, I cannot say that I have yet found a
mummy worth unrolling. Yesterday a kind of cousin brought her
children to see me. There was a small girl who had already learned,
poor wretch, to play her little part, to quell the impulses of her
young heart, to tune her tongue to a given pitch. She sat on the
edge of her chair, feigning indifference to everything, from Chinese
chessmen to gingerbread-nuts; it was a positive relief to me when
her younger brother, who has not yet learned the most necessary
falsehoods, yelled lustily and smashed a tea-cup. I should have been
glad to do both myself.
I must unpack my books. A Broadwood is on its way from London; in a
few days I hope to have made unto myself some kind of oasis in this
desert. I have taken possession of the two rooms on the topmost
floor that were my father's nurseries; and there, with my things
about me, I mean to be happy against all odds.
Good-bye for to-day. Do you remember this morning a fortnight ago?
It might be last year--it might be yesterday! How strange is the
beat of Time's wings!
Your EMILIA.
LETTER IV.
GRAYSMILL, August 2d.
Now that's the kind of letter I like to have! Only my heart sickens
for thee. At each word I hear your voice; at every pause, the little
ripples that run away with it so sweetly. I cannot even find it in
me to scold you for your many follies. Young woman, I don't approve
of you, but you are the sweetest creature that ever walked this
earth. Thanks be where thanks are due that I am a woman; you would
have been my bane had I been born a man!
But, to be serious, I have been thinking things out; you must leave
your mother, Constance, and come to me. You have lived this kind of
life long enough; and--believe me, my dearest--you are not strong
enough to bear it longer unharmed.
Shall I be a little cruel to you? Well, my own, I think that if you
looked into your heart, searchingly and truly, as you always declare
you know not how, you would find that it is more cowardice than duty
binds you to Mrs. Rayner. She bore you, you say, she brought you
up--Good Lord! and how! If you were not a pearl among women, what
would you be by this time? No, you know as well as I do that it is
cowardice, not duty, prevents you from taking this step.
I shall never forget what you said to me once, when first I knew
you; it was in Florence, and we were leaning out of window in my
room. I remember it the better because it was during this
conversation that I ventured to put my arm round your waist for the
first time.
"Now I call this pleasant!" you said. "Here am I looking out of
window with a nice girl's arm round my waist, and right away from my
mother. She doesn't even know where I am!"
I loved my mother so much that this shocked me extremely, and I told
you so. You flushed, I remember, and cried:--
"Oh, but you don't know what my life is! You don't know what it is
to long with all your might to get away from somebody, somebody who
has hung over you ever since you were born, so that she seemed to
stand between you and the very air you breathed." And then you told
me about your marriage; how, in order to be free from her, you took
the husband, rich and infamous, into whose arms she threw you in
your innocence; how, at the end of a few months, you returned home
doubly a slave, to be crushed, year in, year out, by love that
showed itself almost as hate; bound now in such a way that if any
other love were offered you, you could not take it.
And how old are you now? Twenty-four. Still her puppet, her doll,
for that is what you are; she dresses and undresses you from morning
till night, then struts up and down the streets of Europe, showing
her pretty plaything. You say she has no thought but you, loves you
so much that it would break her heart if you left her. Look here,
Constance: you knew my mother; you know then what it means to live
nobly and truly in the light of a greater goodness than the world
yet understands. God, or whoever made you, made your soul very
white; how dare you let the smuts fall upon it? How dare you tread
among falsehoods, you that have heard of Truth?
Try, my dearest, try to be brave; surely it is the duty of each one
of us to live the noblest life he can. The world is so beautiful! It
is only ourselves and our mistakes that lie foul upon it. When the
most holy of human ties, defying nature, becomes the bane of those
it binds, it is better to break it than to let one's life cast a
daily blot, as it were, on the sanctity of motherhood and the love
of the child.
Come to me; live with me in peace awhile! We will think and read
together, master ourselves, and find some path to tread. I, too, am
in need of resolution. Whilst my dear mother lived, she held me by
the hand. You know how, when two walk together, the weaker
unconsciously leaves it to the stronger to lead the way? Well, so it
was with me; and now I must learn to find my path alone. I know now
what she meant when she said that the first use to which a man must
put his courage is to being himself.
All good be with you, dear heart.
EMILIA.
LETTER V.
GRAYSMILL, August 7th.
Dearest, I wrote you such a stern letter the other day, that I feel
I must write again before the week comes round. It was, after all, a
silly promise we made each other to write just once a week, neither
more nor less. This time I write at odds with myself. It's all very
well to talk about sincerity, it baffles one completely at times;
there isn't a greater liar under the sun at this moment than Emilia
Fletcher. My outward life is all out of tune with my inward self.
Perhaps if you saw me with my old ladies, you would say: "Quite
right; please them by all means, sit with them, drive with them,
make small talk, listen to their little tales. It pleases them, and
it doesn't harm you." But I answer: Is it right? Is it not rank
hypocrisy? Is affection won by false pretences worth the having? I
tell you, I am playing a part all day long. I read to them out of
books that I either despise or abhor; I play to them music unworthy
of the name; I nod my head in acquiescence when my very soul cries
no. Nor is that all; I take my place each morning in the centre of
the room, open the Bible, and in pious voice, I, Infidel, read forth
the prayers that are to strengthen the household through the day.
When, at a given point, all the maid-servants rise, whirl round in
their calico gowns and turn their demure backs to me as they kneel
in a row, I know not whether to laugh or cry. O Constance, it is
infamous of me! And why do I do it? Out of consideration for them?
out of kind-heartedness? Not a bit of it! Vanity, my dear; sheer
vanity. If they cared for me less, if I did not feel that they
almost worship me, holding out their old hands to me for all the
pleasure that their day still may bring, would I do it? No; for then
I should not care, as I feel I do now, to keep their good opinion,
even at the expense of making myself appear better, according to
their lights, than I really am. I am a worm; I never thought I could
sink so low. It was so easy to live in tune with Truth beside my
mother; but she was Truth's high-priestess; she never swerved from
the straight path.
I went to church last Sunday; there's a confession! Another such act
of cowardice, and I am lost. It never entered my head, of course, to
go the first Sunday I was here; and as it so happened that I had a
headache that day, no comment was made upon my absence. But on
Saturday the vicar said something about "to-morrow"; Uncle George
invited himself to dinner after service; and when Aunt Caroline
asked me, at breakfast on Sunday, what hat I was going to put on, I
replied, "The small one," and followed her like a lamb. I don't know
what to do now. This afternoon, the good little old lady asked me to
call with her on a friend whose father died last week, and I went,
Heaven knows why. I was well served out. There they sat a mortal
hour, blowing their noses and praising their God, until I could have
shrieked. When I had safely seen Aunt Caroline home, I set off for a
long walk in the gloaming; the silent earth was stretched in peace
beneath the deepening sky, the moon rose among great clouds that
floated like dragons' ghosts upon the blue. And I cried out within
myself for very pain that I who had perception of these things
should live so lying and so false a life. Perhaps I am not quite
myself yet; so much sorrow came to me at once that all my strength
has left me. But it is cowardly to make excuses.
I hear you: "There you go, old wise-bones! Here's a storm in a
tea-cup! It's much better to behave properly _out_side anyway, than
to hurt people's feelings and make them think worse of you than they
need, by showing them what a wicked infidel you are. Besides, what
does it matter?"
Little one, do you remember how we shocked each other that Christmas
morning in Florence, when we made a round of the churches together?
I can see you still, you pretty thing, crossing yourself at the door
of Santa Maria Novella. With all the strictness of my nineteen years
I was simply horrified.
"Constance!" I cried, "what on earth are you doing?"
"I don't like to be left in the cold," you replied; "if there are
any blessings going, I may as well have my share."
"But, dearest," said I, "you don't believe in it!"
"Of course I don't, but it may be true, for all that; how do we
know? Do let me enjoy myself, you dear old granny! The stale water
may not do me any good, but it won't do me any harm either, now will
it?"
Oh, dear, how the smell of the church comes back with the remembered
words! It was a long time ago. Dear and sweet one, I must not think
of you too much, I long for you so.
Yours in endless love,
EMILIA.
LETTER VI.
FLETCHER'S HALL, August 12th.
You must do as you think best. You know that I long for you, that
the thought of your wasted life is constant pain to me. Think again,
think every day, and if ever you can make up your mind to leave Mrs.
Rayner, you know that I am here, that all I have is yours also. I
shall say no more.
So you have seen him, and he asked after me. Well. What was he doing
in Homburg, I wonder? Not that I care. I really believe, Constance,
that I care no longer. And yet it so happens that last night I
thought of him a good deal. It came about so. Grandmamma had gone to
bed, and I went into Aunt Caroline's room to light her candles.
There are some little water-colours round the mirror that she
painted as a girl. I stopped to look at them, and the poor soul took
them down one by one to show me. There was a story attached to each,
and her eyes brightened with remembrance of the past. Most of the
little pictures were different views of the same house. Suddenly she
gave a little smile.
"Wait a minute; I'll show you another picture, Milly--my best
picture." (They will call me Milly; there's no help for it.) "I have
never shown it to any one before, but you are a good girl; I think I
should like to show it to you."
She cleared a space upon her dressing-table, lighted a third
candle, a fourth, making a little illumination; then from her
wardrobe she brought an old desk, and unlocked it solemnly with a
key that always hangs upon her watch-chain. The desk was full of
treasures,--letters, flowers, ends of ribbon, all neatly labelled.
She opened a little case and placed in my hands the portrait of a
young man.
I hardly knew how to take it. "It is beautiful," I said; "what a
handsome face!" Then the veil of silence and old age fell from her
heart; she told me the whole tale. Nothing new, of course. She had
loved, and--strange to say!--the man had done likewise; they were
engaged, but because his family was not equal to hers in birth, her
brother-in-law, my grandfather, would not hear of the match, and
obliged her to break it off. Yet another sin to add to his score!
"I think," said I, "that you should have married him, all the same."
The old woman blew her nose, rose, and kissed me.
"You are the first that ever told me so," she said; "I think so,
too."
It was past midnight when I left her, and I must confess that my own
eyes were not dry.
"Is he still alive?" I asked, as I reached the door.
The old woman smiled.
"I don't know," she said, "but I shall know in good time; please God
we shall soon meet again in a better land."
I lay awake a long time in the night, marvelling at her constancy
and her faith. But then I wept to think how many women, even as she,
have held one only flower in their hands, clung to it still when
colour and scent were gone, refusing to pluck another; wept, too, to
think how many such as she are buoyed up by a hope I cannot share. I
wonder what it feels like, this implicit faith in an after life! It
must make a difference, even in love. Perhaps we who believe in one
life only cling with the greater passion to what we love, seeing
that, once lost, we have no hope of re-possession.
Well, it's a sad world. But a funny one, too. I was quite shy of
meeting Aunt Caroline again this morning, lest the remembrance of
what she had told me over-night should make her feel ill at ease;
lest, in fact, she had repented of her confidence. And I stood quite
a while outside the breakfast-room door, like a fool. But as I
entered, her beaded cap was bobbing over an uplifted dish-cover.
"Oh, good morning, Milly!" she said. "No, sister, it's not Upton's
fault. The bacon's beautiful, only cook can't cut a rasher."
And again I was in my common dilemma; I didn't know whether to laugh
or cry.
Good-bye, sweetest; take care of yourself.
LETTER VII.
GRAYSMILL, August 20th.
Good evening, Mrs. Norris. I am in a very good temper,--and you?
(N.B. I had an extra letter this morning; somebody spoils me.)
Now what shall I tell you, Inquisitiveness? Indeed, I tell you all
there is to tell. You complain that I never speak about the people
I meet; that's true enough. When I find myself in their company, I
make the best of it, but I never think about them between whiles.
As for Uncle George, why, I dislike him thoroughly. He is handsome
in his way, and looks remarkably young,--not that that is exactly a
crime! One of my principal objections to his person is a kind of
bachelor smartness he carries about with him. It is quite
ridiculous to see him with his daughters, the eldest of whom is
just eighteen and engaged to be married. There is nothing of the
simplicity of the country gentleman about him,--a simplicity that
in many cases covers a multitude of faults. No, I shall never be
able to bear him,--neither his juvenility, his jewelry, nor his
whiskers--certainly never the scent on his handkerchief! Ouf! I
hate him altogether. I promise you that when I find a human being
with whom I can exchange an idea, whose thoughts have even wandered
half a mile beyond the parish, I shall apprize you of the fact.
Meanwhile, dearest, you must put up with my company, as I myself am
learning to do. It seems to me almost that I need no one else! I
sit here in my room, out there in the woods, and I am content. I
read a great deal; I have just re-read the "Volsunga Saga," and
have begun Tolstoi's "Cossacks." I am trying, too, to continue my
mother's translation of "Prometheus," but the difference between my
work and hers is so great that I sometimes lose heart. However, I
shall try to finish it. Her beautiful face and yours look down at
me from the shelf above my writing-table, amidst a wealth of
flowers; and, as I look up, I can see the sun setting behind the
beech-trees, for I sit beside the window. The sky is full of hope,
the little clouds are glowing with colour, the trees with fulness
of life; a blackbird is singing his heart out in the willow by the
pond. I must needs believe that life is worth living....
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