Laurence Alma Tadema - The Wings of Icarus

L >> Laurence Alma Tadema >> The Wings of Icarus

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

I have watched all the pink fade from the sky; the mottled clouds
are grey and sleepy-looking. I have turned away. You are smiling
very sweetly up there; my table is strewn with things her hand has
touched,--I am not quite alone.

Well, good night. I must go down to my dear old ladies and read to
them a while before they go to bed.

Your EMILIA.

LETTER VIII.

GRAYSMILL, September 4th.

You are a sweet to write so often, and I am a wretched niggard that
deserves not one half of what you give. I began to write several
times--of course you know that. Take care of yourself; the thought
of your coughing troubles me; each time I think of you I hear you
cough, and it makes me miserable. I met a child on the Common
yesterday, with hair your colour that fell back in thick curls from
a forehead almost as white as yours. Need I say that I kissed her?
Poor mite, she had such dirty clothes! She told me where she lives;
I must make inquiries about her mother. I might be able to help. The
existence of poverty is just beginning to dawn upon me. It is
strange how long one can live with one's eyes entirely closed to
certain things. In Italy I never thought about it; I sometimes felt
sorry for a beggar, but never quite believed in poverty as an actual
state; it merely seemed a rather disreputable but picturesque
profession. Here in England I have come face to face with
destitution; with hunger, labour, sweat, and barren joylessness. My
first thought was that money might set all this straight; I made
Uncle George laugh by seriously suggesting that I should give of my
superfluity to every cottage. Most people here visit the poor; I
went with Aunt Caroline at first and saw it all. I soon gave it up.
I cannot walk boldly into free human beings' homes and poke my nose
into their privacy; I cannot speak to them of the Lord's will and
persuade them that all is for the best. I can only give them money.
Little Mrs. Dobb, the rector's wife, thanked me with tears in her
eyes for a sum I placed in her hands yesterday. They say she does a
great deal of good, and if my money and her religion can work
together, by all means let it be so.

Meanwhile I ask myself every day: What is the use of Emilia
Fletcher? I really cannot see why I ever was born; my perceptions
are keen, but keener than my capabilities. I shall never be able to
do anything to help the world; yet I see so much that might be
done. I shall not ever be able to lead that life of simple truth,
of absolute fidelity to high-set aims, which I yet believe it must
be in every man's power to live. Which is the more to be
despised--he who perceives a higher path and lacks the resolution
to adhere to it, or he who trots along the common road out of sheer
short-sightedness? Clearly the first. I am a worm. (You have
probably heard this before.)

Well, I am not a very gay companion; I shall leave you for to-day,
sweetest.

EMILIA.

LETTER IX.

Sunday evening.

I have made a fool of myself; and yet I am happier to-night than I
have been this many a day, for I have at least shown myself honest.
I did it foolishly, thoughtlessly, I know, and yet,--well, I don't
regret it.

I went to church this morning for the last time. I went with Aunt
Caroline, as usual, but, as I knelt beside her on entering the pew,
I was seized with a great horror of myself. There was I, hypocrite,
with silent lips and silent heart, feigning to share in the simple
fervour around me, denying my own faith, insulting that of another.
However, I sat and knelt and stood and went through all the forms
along with the rest. The sunlight streamed in at the windows, and
lay coloured on the dusty floor, on bowed head and Sunday bonnet;
through one little white window, just opposite me, I could see a
sparrow bobbing up and down on the ivy. Then away sailed my spirit,
through the church wall, over the meadows, and into the copse; I
pushed my way through the underwood, and picked up a leaf here and
there, listening to the gentle voice of the wood-pigeon. And
then--you know there is one thought into which all thoughts
resolve--I walked with you, dearest, on the hilltops by Fiesole;
she, too, was there, and you both laughed at me because I tried to
dig up a wild orchid with a flint, and got my hands so dirty.

Then we had that long talk about the possibility of an after-life,
which began with the bulb of the orchid--do you remember?

"Nothing is lost in Nature," said my mother. "There is no such thing
as annihilation; death is surely transubstantiation."

"Perhaps then, after all," said I, "the noblest part of us, the
self, that invisible core which we call soul, is just a drop, as it
were, in a great soul-ocean, whose waves wrap creation, and into
which we shall fall. What's the matter, Constantia?"

"I can't listen to you any more, you prosy things; you make me
melancholy. Go and be waves if you like, you two; I'm going to have
white wings and be an angel!"

* * * * *

"I believe in God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth."

These words roused me with a hard and sudden shock. I had completely
forgotten where I was; I looked about me, half dazed, and saw
everyone standing except myself. Must I, too, rise and say the
Creed? I did not hesitate, because I did not think. I simply stood
up and left the church.

After dinner I went to the rectory; I felt that my former hypocrisy
and cowardice must be atoned for without delay. Besides, as Goethe's
mother used to say, there is no need to stare at the devil, it is
better to swallow him whole. Well, I went to Mr. Dobb, and confessed
myself. He was less shocked at my disbelief than I had expected, but
my profession of it troubled him considerably. He spoke a great deal
about example, about the leading of the masses, and altogether seems
to hold avowed lack of faith, a greater sin than feigned belief.

Of course he had plenty to say on the subject; he seems to be an
honest man, and I must admit that much of what I heard impressed me.
I envied him the ease with which he spoke, the ready-coined language
he was free to use. I could find no words in which to prove that I,
too, had a religion. I wonder, shall I ever be able to tell another
what it is that I feel, as by means of a sixth sense, when earth and
heaven are fairest, when poets sing their best and music is most
divine, when the souls of men and women leap to their eyes and their
hearts lie bare; then something within me smiles and shivers, and I
say, "This--this is God!"

Oh, it is all very well to talk of being sincere! Again and yet
again I must say it. For the lips cannot speak what the spirit
feels. And then,--why, I spoiled my truthful day by a lie at the
end. How could I go to those two old dears and say, "I cannot pray
with you or go to church any more, I am an infidel." How could I? I
said instead, "My mother brought me up in a different faith; I tried
to go to your church, but I cannot, and I think you would not wish
me to act against my conscience in so sacred a matter, so we will go
our ways."

Oh, what a struggling world it is! And how weary one becomes of the
incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far
away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life without
love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to lie in
your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the
darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within
the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great
Heaven-roof of love,--to be lifted, weak and small and trustful, in
her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close against her breast?
O Constance, I would give all--my very eyesight--to feel an arm
about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to rest. We women are poor
wretches; no man would ever feel so, I think.

Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is
flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.

Good night, dearest.
E

LETTER X.

GRAYSMILL, September 20th.

Blessings upon you, my sweet dearest; your birthday is the day of
days to me. How could I live without you? I am purely selfish when I
wish you perfect joy and a long golden life; it is almost like
praying for fine weather! All the strings of my heart go towards
you, Constance Norris, and are knotted in your bosom. Be happy, be
well, my darling, else I suffer. We shall not be apart on your next
birthday, I think. I have evolved a marvellous scheme. Your mother
is still young, and a very handsome woman; why don't you marry her?
Really, it's a plan worth attempting; couldn't you persuade one of
your numerous admirers to transfer his affections? Then, Constantia
mia, we two could live together. We should mostly live abroad,
following the sunshine; but for a part of the year we should stay
here in England. Don't wrinkle up your dear nose! You will be every
bit as much in love with the country as I am, when once you know it
well. I wish I could show it you now; the woods are changing colour,
'tis a glowing world, and your lungs have never tasted such air as
blows on Graysmill Heath. You would be very happy in the woods in
summer; you could lie down and bring your face on a level with the
flowers, and I should sit by and love you. There would be little
sunbeams piercing the roof of leaves and twinkling about us, and
just enough breeze to clear your brow of curls. O Constance! Why are
we so far apart? Only one life, and then parted! But one must not
think of such things.

I send you a little ring that I found the other day in Miltonhoe;
there is a kiss on the red stone, don't lose it.

Blessings upon you, my heart of gold.

EMILIA.

LETTER XI.

GRAYSMILL, October 5th.

Three several times have I begun to write to you, but I came to the
conclusion that it is better not to write at all than to give vent
to such feelings as mine. Besides, I had nothing, positively
nothing, to tell you. Furthermore, you did not deserve a letter.
However, as it is all too long since you honoured me with a
communication, Mrs. Norris, I feel I must write and remind you of my
existence. I am well, thank you, but the world's a dull place.

Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline--perhaps myself, who knows?--are in a
great state of excitement to-day because a niece of theirs is coming
here on a visit. I heard of her existence for the first time last
week, and immediately decided to invite her to Fletcher's Hall. For,
Constance, let me whisper it, the old ladies--bless their
hearts!--are killing me. This person, Ida Seymour by name, is a
spinster of some forty winters, a kind of roving, charitable star,
from what I gather, who spends her life visiting from place to place
with a trunkful of fancy work, pious books, and innocent sources of
amusement,--a fairy godmother to old ladies, pauper children, and
bazaars. My vanity has run its course, and I shall gladly yield the
place of honour to this worthy soul. May she stay long!

That is absolutely all the news I have for you, and, indeed, it is
more than you deserve; for you are about as lazy as you are sweet,
which is saying a good deal. If I don't get a letter to-morrow, I
shall be on the brink of despair. At the approach of post time, I am
nearly ill with anticipation, and afterwards fall headlong into
deepest melancholy.

Your ill-used
EMILIA.

LETTER XII.

GRAYSMILL, October 10th.

Sweet, your letter of Thursday comforted me wondrous much; but I
have something to tell you, and my impatience will not even let me
dwell on the joy it was to read words of yours again. Well;
yesterday was a dull day, the sky was covered all the morning, and
at dinner-time it began to rain. I sat in my room in the afternoon
and read "Richard Feverel" until, looking up from my book, I saw
that the rain had ceased. The wind had risen, and, in the west, a
hole had been poked through the grey mantle, showing the gilded edge
of a snowy cloud against a patch of blue. Out I ran, across the
garden and the little park that touches the heath, then through my
dear beechwood until I reached a certain clearing where the ground
goes sheer down at one's feet and where one may behold, over the
tree-tops, stretches of wood and meadow in the plain below. I sprang
on to a knoll, and there stood breathless, watching the rout of the
tumbled clouds.

Something started beside me,--I started also, for these woods are
always very lonely,--and, to my surprise, I saw a young man. Imagine
a very tall slight fellow, carelessly dressed, at one and the same
time graceful and ungainly,--I have come to the conclusion that he
is physically graceful, but that a certain shyness and nervousness
of temperament produce at times self-consciousness and awkwardness
of bearing. It is difficult to describe his face; I don't know
whether he is merely interesting or actually beautiful; here again
there is some discrepancy between flesh and spirit, for the features
are not regular, but the expression exquisite. I suppose he might be
considered plain; his nose is large, rather thin, and not straight;
his mouth is large but finely shaped; I think he smiles a little
crookedly. Anyway, his eyes are beautiful; they are set far apart,
and are strangely expressive. For the rest, he is more freckled than
any one I ever saw, and his hair--which is of no particular
colour--is rather long and thrown off the temples, save for one lock
that continually falls forward. You will think I am in love with the
apparition, to judge by the way in which I dwell on his description;
indeed, I am almost inclined to think so myself!

Well! I stood and stared at him; his hat was off, an open book was
in his hand, and he gazed at me as one not well awake, that has been
roused from dreams; with something in his looks, too, of the
startled animal that would run away and dare not. There is no
knowing how long we might have stood there staring at each other,
but for a sudden gust of wind that whisked off my hat, whereupon the
young man and I both started downhill in pursuit. The wind was
playful, and led us a fine dance; we were obliged to laugh. When at
last he caught and handed back to me my property, we were thoroughly
exhausted and sat down at the foot of the hill on the mossy
tree-roots. I am sure we must have looked very silly, for we were so
out of breath that we could not leave off laughing,--my young man
has the heartiest laugh I ever heard. When we had somewhat
recovered, I said:

"I wonder why one always laughs when something blows away?"

"It is," he replied, with mock gravity, "what people call a wise
dispensation of Providence. There is nothing between laughter and
tears."

It never entered my head to get up and go my way; his shyness, too,
seemed vanished; we were quite at ease.

"Have you ever noticed," asked he, "how many different kinds of moss
there are in these woods?"--and we began to count the varieties as
we sat. At last I looked up and saw that the heavens were blue.

"I'm going uphill again," said I, "to see the sunset. How quickly
the sky has cleared! It almost seems as if some invisible broom had
made a clean sweep of the clouds." To which the young man answered:

"It was a birch-broom. I see the marks of it."

We climbed the hill side by side; it did not seem at all strange at
the time. When we reached the summit, the sun was setting in fullest
glory, and we were silent. Suddenly he cried:

"Let us be fire-worshippers! There is more of God in that great
light than in all the gospels of mankind."

"What a queer, comforting thing," said I, "to hear from a stranger
in a wood."

It struck me afterwards that perhaps I, too, had said a queer thing;
but we seemed to understand each other. Presently we sat down again,
and he talked to me about the Parsees; he appears to know a great
deal about them.

We narrowly escaped a second run downhill; again the wind seized my
hat, but he nimbly caught it on the wing.

"Why don't you do as I do?" he asked, passing his fingers through
his hair. "It's a great mistake to wear a hat, especially if one has
a turn for trespassing."

"Who tells you," laughed I then, "that I am trespassing? For aught
you know, this may be my own ground."

The young man looked at me curiously.

"Are you, then, Emilia Fletcher?" he cried.

I nodded assent; whereupon he held out his hand and jerked his head
forward; it was evidently an attempt at courtesy. I took the hand
and laughed outright: he looked so funny with his bright eyes
twinkling beneath the tangled forelock.

"I have heard of you," he said, "and I am glad to meet you. The
other day I asked to whom the land belonged, and was told that you
were half Italian and rather eccentric. You seem to be a human
being. I am glad to have met you. My name is Gabriel Norton."

Here the big bell rang out from the house, summoning me to tea,--it
had rung once already. So the apparition and I parted company.

I wonder if he has caught cold; I am sure that I have; I have been
sneezing all the evening.

It may be very pleasant and romantic to sit on the moss with a
wood-sprite after a shower, but perhaps it is not very wise.

I must go and say good night downstairs. I left Miss Seymour reading
sentimental ballads on pauper childhood to the old ladies; it must
now be close upon their bed-time.

Good night, beloved.
Your EMILIA.

P.S. I forgot to say that he has one really fine point: his hands
are quite beautiful. I keep on wondering what you would think of
him. O dio! how good it was to laugh again.

LETTER XIII.

GRAYSMILL, October 18th.

Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, and
welcome you there. The words we write in one mood are read when
another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in
spring by this time,--perhaps not. My poor little dear. I know
myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless misery,
but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am idle.

A woman that is debarred from woman's best profession--wifehood
and motherhood--must find some other work to do; idleness,
uselessness--above all, idleness--are the hotbed of all manner of
follies. The stupidest man in existence, working day by day at the
worldliest work, has the better of us in this, that he is weighted,
so to speak, and cannot flutter to and fro with every breeze that
blows. You say that you cannot work, that you have heard all this at
least a thousand times; well, never mind, hear it once more!

Take German lessons, your German is very bad; go on with your
singing, your sweet voice is very ignorant; read, make some study,
however unprofitable, of the French Revolution, the Renaissance, the
Conquest of Peru, anything, anything you like; or buy a
sewing-machine at least, and make flannel petticoats for the poor;
anything, Constantia, only don't for Heaven's sake sit there with
your hands in your lap, listening to the gabble of fools, while Mrs.
Rayner touches up a curl here and a frill there, from morning till
night, for ever and ever.

But now to other things, for indeed I am not in the fault-finding
mood you might suppose. Only, as you know well, I can always worry
about you, at any time.

Well, I have seen my wood-sprite again, this very morning. I could
not sleep after six, although I twice covered up my head with the
bed-clothes and made believe I was not awake; so I got up, and the
young sun was so beautiful, driving the mists out of the valley,
that I went out.

Between the flower garden and the park, there lies a shrubbery;
green paths wind in and out between high walls of box and laurel,
leading one at length to a little blue door in an old wall. Well, I
was stepping along between the evergreens as fast as the moss on the
pebbles would let me, swinging my hat round as I went, and singing
loudly, when I thought I heard footsteps round the bend of the path.
I turned the corner--nobody; only a little scrambling sound, and the
treacherous flutter of a branch in the laurel hedge. Of course I
immediately thought of poachers, and in my imagination already saw
Emilia Fletcher stretched a lifeless corpse upon the ground. I took
three backward steps, then paused. Silence and stillness reigned.

Pooh! thought I, it's nothing, and with a bold, swift step I walked
past the fearful spot. No sooner had I passed than there came
another crackle; I turned and beheld a luminous eye between the
branches. Whether I turned pale with fright or not, I cannot tell;
but a hand came forth, a foot, then, with considerable difficulty,
an entire body; and on the path before me stood my dishevelled
friend, covered with green dust and blushes.

"I have no excuse to offer," said he.

I laughed; there was nothing else to do.

"You did startle me," said I, "but I forgive you."

I did not ask him what he was doing in my shrubbery, nor did he
offer the least explanation.

"Are you going for a walk?" said he, simply, "and, if so, may I go
with you?"

I was glad enough, and we had taken a few steps forward when he
suddenly clapped his hands to his pockets.

"I shall have to get into the bush again," he cried, with rueful
face; "I must have dropped 'Peer Gynt.'"

And in he scrambled, returning triumphant with an exceedingly shabby
book.

We walked a full hour and a half, through the park, through the
woods, and through the park again, for he insisted on bringing me
back to the little blue door. We talked mostly about "Peer Gynt,"
which, by the way, he is reading in the original. He seems to read
every possible language, although he declares he speaks nothing but
English. We did not talk at all about ourselves, so I know nothing
further about him, save that he lives in a cottage on the heath
towards Miltonhoe, with his father and his aunt.

When we parted company, he asked me if I would mind going to see his
aunt.

"I believe," said he, "that she ought to call first on you,--at
least, she says so,--but that she'll never do. If I landed her at
your very door, she'd never find courage to ring the bell."

"Very well," said I; "I'll come to her instead."

And the sprite vanished.

I think I shall go to-morrow, or perhaps next day.

Good-bye, sweet,
Your EMILIA.

LETTER XIV.

GRAYSMILL, October 23d.

You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend. I have a
great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call him, who,
by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or I.

Well, I went last Thursday. It took me some time to find the
cottage. After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded
part of the Common, in a slight hollow. It is a sort of double
cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden. I marched
through a rickety gate, and made for the house door. The garden is
one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, luxuriant
still, in spite of the late season. I was just bending over a
chrysanthemum when I heard a startling "Hulloa!" and found myself
accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in hand, at the opposite
end of the gravel walk. He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy
trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw
hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his
head.

"Hulloa!" he cried again.

I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting,
whether Miss Norton were at home.

"She is at home," replied the man, "and who may you be?"

"Perhaps you will kindly tell her," said I, making up by my civility
for his lack of it, "that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her."

Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.

"God bless my soul!" he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers,
"so it's you, is it?"

He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so
I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.

"Come on indoors," said he; "let's surprise them; Gabriel will be
delighted," and he set off at a trot, I after him. He was not a
grand runner. I conjectured at once that his health is not good, and
that he probably looks ten years older than he really is. His hair
is almost white, his face deeply wrinkled.

When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I
found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room. There was a table
in the centre covered with bundles, books, and papers, on the summit
of which, precariously poised on the lid of a biscuit-tin, stood a
jug and some glasses; piles of books lay on the floor; in one corner
stood a stack of brooms, rakes, guns, fishing-rods, sticks, and
umbrellas; and a marvellous medley of coats and hats, baskets,
cords, etc., loaded a groaning row of pegs.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8