Laurence Alma Tadema - The Wings of Icarus
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Laurence Alma Tadema >> The Wings of Icarus
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He tells me that he has written a great deal, and has promised to
bring me a bundle of poems to read at my leisure. "You must
understand," said he, "that you will be the only one to whom I ever
showed them." I feel very proud.
To revert to what I said above, I believe, too, that it is very bad
for any man not to have a fixed occupation; however great his
natural energy may be, it either relaxes with time, or expends
itself uselessly. The mere thinker often ends by hovering on the
confines of lunacy.
Good-bye, dear love.
Your EMILIA.
LETTER XIX.
GRAYSMILL, November 30th.
I write to you very soon, partly because of your letter that crossed
mine, but principally because I feel that I must write you a few
words before I go to sleep. I have just gone through Gabriel's
poems, and am beside myself with wonder. Constance, the creature is
a genius. I marvel at my happiness, that I should have touched his
life. No, I'll not write; I feel that, if I do, I shall write bosh.
Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at this moment,--and he
too.
December 1st.
We had a walk this afternoon. He looks pale, poor dear! he has had a
cold. How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one loves!
We had a great altercation about his poems. I could not speak of
them when I put the manuscript into his hands; any words I might
have used must have sounded fulsome flattery. But later on, I
asked:--
"Have you thought of a publisher for your verse?"
He shook his head and made a face at me.
"You must certainly publish those poems," I said; "you surely know
that they are unusually beautiful, and that you have no right to
keep them to yourself."
"Dear Emilia," he answered, "I like to hear this from you, but you
are mistaken. My poems are not so remarkable as you imagine; you are
too near a friend to be a fair judge. They are intensely
subjective,--that is, by the way, one of their faults; they reflect
me; therefore you, who know me well and care for me, find them
sympathetic. That's the whole of the tale."
"If I cared for you ten times more than I do," said I then, "I
should not be quite so blind as you suppose. But, if you doubt my
judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems yourself with
other verse."
"Never!" he said. "How can you even suggest such a thing? Look here,
Emilia. A man has an ideal, a glimpse of something glittering up
there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape his vision into words.
When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, critically, how shall
he judge? He must take measure by the height of the ideal, not by
the achievement of another, even if that other be nearer Heaven than
himself."
I found this very fine and true, yet selfish. Had he ever climbed
less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, and showing
where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.
"No," he replied again, "no, I am too weak myself to help others.
Dear girl, don't you see that those things were written with the
blood of my heart? Cold men would read them, tear them to pieces.
Emilia! they would review me!"
He said this with a sort of yell of despair. I saw that he was in a
perfectly impossible mood, so I left him in peace. We talked of you
afterwards, and he sent you his love. Was that bold or not? If you
don't care for the gift, send it back to me. I am very hungry for
that same food.
EMILIA.
LETTER XX.
December 6th.
The snow is on the ground; 'tis a beautiful white world. Yet to-day
has been a dull day. I had my lesson yesterday. I spent the whole of
this afternoon preparing a list of Christmas charities, in which
Aunt Caroline and Ida Seymour helped me, good souls. I can think of
nothing but flannel this evening. That is a lie, by the way; I
almost wish it were not. Yesterday Gabriel and I had an adventure. I
was walking part of the way back with him and Jane Norton, who had
been taking tea with my old ladies, and as we went past a cottage,
just off the lane, we heard fearful screams. Gabriel sprang in, I
following, and there we found a woman beating a little girl with a
broom. Gabriel's eyes were like fire; he caught the child in one
hand, the broom in the other; I thought he meant to bring it down on
the woman's back. We stayed there some time, he lecturing the
mother, I consoling the poor mite. She was wretchedly clad; I shall
bring her some clothes to-morrow.
I am dull. I meant to write you a long letter, but somehow I can't.
Farewell until to-morrow.
December 13th.
What will you be thinking of me? Your silence is almost more
unbearable than a letter of reproach would be; I had not realised
until I found the above fragment in my desk just now, how miserably
long it is since last I wrote to you. Write to me, my dearest; I
need to feel your love. I think I am not very well just now; you
must forgive me, yet don't be anxious on my account. I don't feel
very well, that's all; there is nothing the matter with me. Neither
is there anything to tell you; all goes on as usual. Gabriel is
well.
Oh, my pretty Constance, I cannot write! I shall send off this
miserable scrap, and write again very soon.
Your poor fool,
EMILIA.
LETTER XXI.
December 18th.
Thank Heaven that you are here, in the world; I should die if you
were not. Let me think, where shall I begin? At the end; that is
nearest. I have only just come upstairs; I have been shaking in the
dark. They are beasts; I hate them all. I was sitting playing
cribbage with grandmamma after supper, when Uncle George was
announced. He wanted to speak to me, he said. I took him into the
breakfast room, and there he told me in a fat pompous voice that
I--O Dio, my blood still burns to think of it, and the way in which
he said it--that I was getting myself talked about in the
neighbourhood; that probably I didn't know, owing to my foreign
education, that it wasn't the thing here in England to let oneself
be seen constantly alone in the company of a young man; that he
thought it his duty, etc., etc.
"Thank you," said I,--my very skin felt tight,--"I see that I must
be more underhand in my actions, and contrive to see my friends
entirely on the sly."
"Excuse me, my dear niece," interrupted Uncle George, "but I feel it
my duty to fill a father's place by you. It isn't as if you could
possibly marry this young Norton; he hasn't a penny; and as it is
now some time since first the rumour of your very careless behaviour
reached my ears, I have been able to make full inquiries into the
matter. His antecedents, to say no more--"
Constance, did you ever hear of such infamy. I believe I grew
perfectly green; Heaven knows what I said, but you have seen me lose
my temper once! When I mastered myself, Uncle George was standing by
the door, looking considerably startled; I was on a chair, shaking
from head to foot. After a moment's silence I said:
"I beg your pardon for losing my self-control as I did just now; I
am very sorry, but you have done me a great wrong. I know you meant
it for the best; so we will say no more about it. I only hope that
you will leave me and my friends alone in future. I am twenty-six
and my own mistress, and I care for my good name every whit as much
as you do."
Then he left me, and I came upstairs.
So now they have done it! They have touched my paradise with their
dirty fingers. O Constance! how is it to be borne? My one comfort is
that Gabriel knows nobody, hears nothing; if such talk were to reach
his ears, I should kill myself.
Yet perhaps it is just as well that this blow has come to me. It has
given me the shock I needed. I have made up my mind to keep away
from Gabriel as long as I can; it is best so. Christmas charities,
etc., will serve as a sufficient excuse.
Constance, I am going to tell you all; I trust so to your
understanding and your love. It seems strange, perhaps, to speak as
I am about to speak; I shall burst if I don't. It is this: I love
him, I love him horribly, horribly; I cannot bear it. Why must one
do this? Why couldn't it last, our white friendship? On his side it
might; he loves me, I know, but only as I loved him at first. He
loves me very much. I am grown in a way indispensable to him, but
his love makes him content; it will not kill him. Mine is grown
unbearable.
Perhaps I should have told you this before, yet I have not known it
very long. I knew some time ago that all my joy is in him; he has
been for many weeks the goal of my eyes, the centre of my thought;
the time I spent away from him was dead time; when I was with him I
was flooded in peace. But all this was joy, not pain. That came
later; the time I spent away from him was no longer dead, it was
living longing.
One day, about a week ago, I had forgotten him (I forget how I
managed that!), but suddenly the thought of him returned to me. I
felt a sudden sharp pain at my heart, a sort of aching that tingled
through me to my very finger-tips. I knew then how it was with me.
Next day I did not go to meet him in the wood as I had promised; I
went straight to the cottage; I feared myself. When he returned at
tea-time, he came up to me and took my hand with more friendship
than of wont.
"Oh, Emilia!" he cried, "why have you failed me? I have been so
anxious; I feared you were ill."
He said this as a brother might have said it; he looked me full in
the face as serenely as the stars at night. I looked back at him;
his calm fell upon me, and I laughed at myself for my fears. I got
better after that, yet not well; I was never at ease. To-day we were
together very long; I was perfectly happy; we had spoken of
beautiful things, calmly, in great peace. But at parting he forgot
to let my hand go; he held it so long that I had time to feel his,
and my blood bounded through me in great waves. I still think he
must have felt it; if he did, I can never look at him again.
I hate myself for loving him so; I hate myself that I suffer through
him; the fault seems his, being entirely mine.
And now I wish that I had never seen him, that all these days of joy
were wiped out of my life; for the joy is turned to misery and pain,
and for this there can be no cure. If he grew to love me as I do
him, it would be unearthly; such happiness is not for this world. I
think that if he loved me, one of us would surely die. This is the
world, O Constance! Bursts of beauty, bursts of bliss, but none to
live untouched, none to endure.
I have been happy; I should not groan.
Write to me, dear.
Your EMILIA.
LETTER XXII.
GRAYSMILL, December 29th.
You must hear from me once again this year, my Constance. Oh,
dearest, dearest, it has only come to me of late, when my love for
you has shone dimly compared to another, what it is worth to me,
your love. I cannot express myself; I am all entangled, hopeless.
But what I mean is this: you have been one long joy to me, a sun
that has had no setting. I would I were as I used to be, untouched
by the knowledge that love can be hard pain. My sweet dear, you were
enough; why have I learned this bitter knowledge? Oh, how I laugh of
a night, thinking of myself six months ago, thinking of what I then
mistook for love!
Eleven days since I saw him. I have been conscious of every hour. We
were busy here; there is much to do at Christmas time. I wrote to
him that I could take no more lessons nor even walk with him for the
present, as I must devote myself entirely to the Christmas work, and
he has written to me twice. He would have me think that he sits
there forlorn, cursing Yule-tide and charity; he says in the letter
I received this morning, that it is time my charity were turned in
his direction. I think I shall go to the cottage this afternoon;
there is an end to all endurance. Or shall I wait until New Year's
day? Perhaps that were best. I like to try my strength, to see how
much can be borne.
I can write no more now; I must try to get through a few other
letters. I have sent no cards to Florence. What a worm I am!
Your words of love have helped me through these days; I carry the
three dear letters, along with his, in my pocket.
Good-bye, dearest; blessings upon you. I think I shall set forth in
search of you very soon. May the New Year be kind to us all!
Yours in deepest love,
EMILIA.
LETTER XXIII.
GRAYSMILL, January 1st.
My pretty sweet, I have had much happiness to-day. First of all, a
letter from you at breakfast, and one from Gabriel, then, sunshine
all the morning, and all the morning a song in my heart; to-day I
shall see him!
I set off immediately after early dinner, and walked across the
Common to the Thatched Cottage. I cannot tell you what it was to me
to catch sight of the chimney and the purling smoke again; I had to
stand still and wait a while, my heart thumped so. (A fool, eh?) I
crept noiselessly into the house, and through the hall, then
stealthily opened the study door. There he sat on the ground by the
fire, with his back to me, reading, of course.
"What a careless person!" said I, softly; "he'll blind himself one
of these days."
Up he jumped.
"Emilia!" he cried, "dear Emilia!" and, catching me by both wrists,
swung my arms up and down and to and fro.
"You faithless thing," said he, "you false friend, I hate you!"
Here Richard Norton ran in from the kitchen, with the teapot in his
hand, followed by Jane; they both covered me with welcomes and
reproaches. I was very happy, I assure you. We went into the kitchen
and had early tea, talking all the while and all together. Gabriel
was in one of his impish moods, and made me laugh till I cried. The
first thing I thought, when I had time to think, was that I had been
a fool to keep away so long and allow myself to grow sentimental;
that it was altogether much more healthful for me to be in his dear
company.
I came home in a much better frame of mind, although Gabriel
insisted on walking nearly as far as Graysmill with me, and said as
we parted:
"You must never again leave me for so long, Emilia; I am lost
without you, I am, indeed."
I turned from him, half wishing he had not said this, feeling a
little giddy, a little less strong; but, as I ran along, something
hit me on the shoulder. I looked behind me, and there he stood, like
an imp of mischief, pelting me with pine-cones, which it seems he
had collected in his pocket for that purpose. So I had to laugh, and
was cured again.
The year has at least begun well.
Adieu, my sweetest. Things are often not so bad as we imagine. With
this truism I take my leave of you.
Your EMILIA.
I think I forgot to send a New Year's wish to Mrs. Rayner. For you,
my love, again all the good that this world holds. May it rain upon
you in ceaseless showers!
LETTER XXIV.
GRAYSMILL, January 15th.
I have grown unutterably selfish. I only remembered this morning
that you had asked me to send you those books. To think that a day
should have come when I could forget to do something you had asked
me! I have seen to it, with much penitence. Forgive me!
Your Emilia is a miserable specimen; she despises herself very much.
I go up and down all day like something that has lost its balance,
neither have I any. One hour I am absolutely happy; the next I am
biting the dust. One day I say to myself, I will never walk or talk
or read or sit alone with him again,--and perhaps for that one day I
keep my word. But then, the next, I do all I meant not to do, I pine
for it till I bring it about. And when I have sat beside him a
little while, doing my lessons, the Greek loses its hold of my poor
brain, my head swims, I make a blunder; then he laughs and says he
cannot understand how such an apparently clever woman can have such
a sieve for a brain. I laugh, and tell him he's unmannerly. Then we
both laugh, and I am well until I am ill again.
It is only since I knew Gabriel that I know how to laugh. I don't
mean to say that I never laughed before. Do you remember how we
sometimes screamed up in my room at Florence? I remember, too, as a
child, going into wild fits of laughter, and mamma and I having to
wipe each other's eyes. But these days were few and far between. I
have learned to laugh with my years. Very fine wit is lost upon me,
and I have certainly no native humour of my own; but I do know how
to laugh about nothing at all, how to make merry over the thorns of
life! Laughter was not meant for the joyful; it was made for us, the
sombre of soul, to save our heart-strings here and there; like the
song of a lark in the sky, to bid us lift our eyes from the dust of
the road.
Sometimes, when I have been laughing very much, and then remember my
pain, I see the vision of a child that dances on a grave-mound in
the sun.
Sweet, I'll go on to-morrow.
January 20th.
I distinguished myself to-day! It came on to pour while I was at the
Cottage, and, in spite of a certain caution that has crept into my
actions of late, I stayed there the whole afternoon.
Jane was actually making herself a new dress, so I offered to help
her, and we sewed by lamplight at the kitchen table, it being a very
dark afternoon. Gabriel joined us after a while; he thought we
looked so cosy that he brought his books and sat at the table too,
just opposite me.
You have never really loved any man, you, so perhaps you don't know
what it is to be afraid of your own eyes, because you feel that
every time they rest on that thing you love, your poor heart runs
and looks out of window.
I seldom look at Gabriel now,--I dare not. But there he sat opposite
me, poring over his book. Jane was bent over her sewing. I forgot
her, and I forgot my work too; it slipped from my fingers and fell
into my lap. Suddenly he raised his head,--it seemed as if all the
blood in my body rushed to my face; he had caught me all unguarded;
what he might not know was laid bare before him. With a dull, wide
gaze he stared at me, then bent over his book again; he had not seen
me; he had merely looked up to get a better view, as it were, of
something he had in mind.
Then I, too, bent my head low, for hot tears stood in my silly eyes,
and, to my surprise, I felt a soft hand tuck my hair behind my ears,
caressingly. I looked up and saw a world of pity in Jane Norton's
face. When presently Gabriel left the room to fetch another volume,
I said:
"Jane, he must never know it."
"My child," she answered, speaking as softly as I had done, "there
is no fear that he should learn it from _me_."
"From me, then?" asked I; "is it so plain?"
"You are as pale as the table," she said. "Take care of yourself,
Em,--don't be unhappy, all's well."
Just then Gabriel came in, and I left soon after. You see what an
enemy I am to myself.
Good night, dearest; I am your
EMILIA.
LETTER XXV.
GRAYSMILL, January 29th.
It is so easy to imagine the bright side of things when one is too
far away to see the truth. Silly Constance, cruel Constance, what is
the use of sending me such words of false hope? It does not follow,
because you love me best of all the world, that another should do
likewise. No, no; you know nothing at all about it, and yet in spite
of all reason, I catch at every straw you send drifting towards me.
Once and for all, of course he loves me, but it stands just so. He
loves me too well in one way to love me in another. If he loved me
less, he might love me more. I have said all this to Jane. She
declares that the only reason why he is not in love with me is that
an obstacle stands in the way which has stood in the way all along,
and which he has never dreamed of surmounting. She means my accursed
money. I told her she was completely mistaken; that love, inevitable
love, knows nothing of obstacles; besides, this could not be an
obstacle between him and me,--he is too unworldly to be the slave of
such prejudice. If I thought she was right, who knows but what I
should send my money spinning into the lap of Charity, and let that
lady dispense it as indiscriminately and wastefully as she pleases.
No, no; the fault lies in another direction. There has been a little
mistake somewhere; I am not the lost half of his soul, for all that
he is mine.
Little Constance, I think now that perhaps you were right when you
said that I was not altogether a woman. I am certainly not made as a
woman should be. A woman may return love, but she must never dare to
give it. I have been guilty of this folly, and now, what is to
become of me?
We are such fools, we women. When a man loves, he is all that he
was, plus love; when we love, we throw ourselves headlong into the
flood, and are nothing that we were.
So now you know all about it, and can prepare yourself for a gay
companion. I have made up my mind to leave England, and join you in
Vienna. No, it must be Italy; you must leave Vienna and come towards
me.
You cannot see that between the last sentence and this there is a
pause of ten minutes. It is all very well for me to talk of leaving
Graysmill; I do talk of it, the words are words, but I don't
understand them. I cannot leave; I ought to,--yet, Constance, I
cannot leave him!
Write, you, and tell me where we shall meet; not in Florence, I
could not bear that. And yet, perhaps, yes, in Florence. It will
have to be, and I shall not realise that I have left him until I am
with you again. There is comfort in that thought. One can do
anything, after all, with a little determination, can't one,
Constantia? Not that you can judge, you who never had any. Perhaps I
have none myself, who knows? I have so deceived myself in loving
Gabriel, and laid bare such great and unknown weakness in my own
bosom, that all the world is upside down for me, and I can find my
way no longer.
Write and tell me soon where we shall meet.
Your EMILIA.
LETTER XXVI.
GRAYSMILL, February 7th.
So it's all settled. You are very good to me, my pretty Constance.
Now I say to myself hourly, "In sixteen days I shall see her," and
oh, believe me, I am glad! I think I am beginning to lose my head,
that I am fit for all folly. We walked together yesterday; we were
not very talkative. In the lane, when we were coming home, a man on
a bicycle turned sharply round the corner, and I was lost in
thought, so that I was caught unawares, and in fact knew nothing of
the matter until I felt myself pulled aside by Gabriel. I thought he
would let go my arm, but he did not, and for the few yards of road
that remained I could not see out of my eyes. I said to myself, "He
is holding my arm,--perhaps he loves me." I was a fool; of course,
it meant nothing; and I am certain, too, that it was imagination on
my part led me to believe he looked differently at me when he said
good-bye.
That is what frightens me. Of course, it was pure self-delusion;
but, if I am going to begin that sort of folly, it is high time to
come away. Indeed, the folly of it. Besides, I suppose I ought to
feel ashamed. I am sure he knows now quite well that I love him, and
perhaps that is why he looked strangely at me when he said good-bye.
But I don't want his pity; O God forbid! Nor his, nor anybody's. Do
you hear? Never pity me, Constance.
Your little
EMILIA.
LETTER XXVII.
February 12th.
Could you meet me a little sooner, perhaps, and not wait until the
twenty-third? I must leave Graysmill at once. I shall go to the
Cottage to-morrow afternoon, and tell them. I shall tell the others
tonight, and on Monday I shall leave Graysmill forever. If you think
you cannot reach Florence by Wednesday or Thursday, never mind, you
will join me as soon as you can; only send me a telegram. I can go
and stay with Marianna until you come.
I can bear it no longer! The world holds but one thought; the day
and the night are lost in the constant reiteration of every word he
ever said to me, in the resuscitation of every glance, every touch.
And, poring over these in my memory, I try to read between the lines
the words that are not there, to read "I love you."
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