Laurence Alma Tadema - The Wings of Icarus
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Laurence Alma Tadema >> The Wings of Icarus
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Oh, I am very weak, yet, believe me, it is all against my will. I
have fought this folly, I despise myself utterly, and yet now I am
swept away by the flood, I can struggle no more. I shall die of
this, or run mad.
I met him out to-day. We had not arranged to meet; but, as I went
out at the blue door, there he stood. We went a little way together;
then I left him; it was unbearable. It was so beautiful once to be
with him, when we could talk freely of all that is best and noblest
in life. I cannot talk to him now, sometimes I cannot even hear what
he says to me. I cannot see the sky, the broad white earth; I see
him only. I cannot hear the life-sounds about me; I only hear his
footfall in the snow. It is all pain, all dreadful pain, dreadful,
unbearable longing.
Why can't I put an end to all this? Why can't I go to him and say, I
love you, tell me the truth? I know it,--the truth,--he does not
love me; and yet, until I hear his lips say it, a false hope that
reason cannot kill will linger on in my heart,--linger on, I know
it, even when I have placed time and space between him and me.
Only one life, and there we stand, two spirits under the sky, two
that believe in Truth and Freedom, parted by insincerity. The vile
weed has crept up around us; we are parted by falsehood, even we.
Goodnight. Perhaps I shall not write again. I shall send you a
telegram before I start, on Monday.
Come to me, dear, as soon as you can.
EMILIA.
LETTER XXVIII.
February 13th.
Dearest, I have had a strange, wonderful dream. To-morrow morning,
when I awake, I shall find it was not true. Shall I tell it you?
I handle it as some frail treasure that I fear to touch. I keep
wondering on which side to turn it, so that, when I hold it up, you
may see it shine. The earth is very beautiful to-night; from my
window I see the moon and a mighty host of glittering worlds,--even
Emilia is beautiful to-night! I went to the glass just now, to look
upon the face of happiness, and, instead of myself I saw--Oh, but
why say all this? Why not tell you? I cannot; words are weak, but I
think you can feel it, Constance. Oh, sweetest, I think you can, I
think you know. I am half mad to-night; that is why I write so
queerly. But now I will set it down. I wonder what it looks like,
written down. I shall write it very neatly; it will look pretty.
Gabriel loves me. Do you see? Gabriel loves me. I think I shall
write it again,--Gabriel loves me. I never wrote anything that
pleased me so well, and my heart sings it within me unceasingly. Oh,
of course it is not true; it is just a dream. I think this is how
the dream went.
I sat in the study at the Thatched Cottage; we were all four there;
I had not spoken for a while; the thing I had to say weighed me
down. I said it suddenly, "I am going back to Florence; I shall
leave Graysmill on Monday."
Richard Norton cried, "What?" and Jane cried, "Emilia!" It was only
Gabriel that said nothing.
He sprang up, and looked at me in silence. Thank Heaven, my back was
to the window, for I could not take my eyes away from his. I thought
he grew a little pale; I even thought his lips moved a little. Then
he spoke.
"No, no; who said that? We cannot spare you. Emilia, Emilia, you
must never leave us!"
That is how the dream goes. I put my head down on the table.
"God knows," I said, "I do not want to leave you."
There was a long silence; I sat there bowed, struggling with my
tears; I think I heard footsteps and a closing door. Then a hand was
laid upon my shoulder,--I knew whose hand it was, and I shook
beneath it.
I only know one thing more that I can tell you. I heard a voice. It
was not a loud voice, but it rang through the darkness; it swept the
world away.
"Emilia!" it said, "Emilia, you must not leave us! Stay with me,--I
love you!"
And then some cloud fell upon us.
Good night, dear, good night.
LETTER XXIX.
THE THATCHED COTTAGE, February 19th.
Gabriel and I are sitting in the study; we have your letter before
us. These few lines are to thank you, if we can, for your most
precious words. Now nothing fails us.
Your most loving, grateful,
EMILIA FLETCHER.
Your servant,
GABRIEL NORTON.
P.S. The blot is Gabriel's.
P.S. 2. In answer to yours. Gabriel is not so inconsistent as you
suppose, nor is Emilia. We have made a provision to which you,
Constance Norris, shall bear witness. Namely this: that, in
accordance with the absolute Sincerity and Truthfulness which we
believe to be not only possible, but necessary to the Conduct of a
Noble Life, we have solemnly promised each other to confess the
truth, should we at any future period--through altered Love or other
causes--consider Mutual Life inconsistent with perfect Honesty.
There! We have worded that beautifully, I think, although Gabriel
insists that "Mutual Life" is an incorrect expression. I don't care;
it says what I mean. Needless to add that, in our case, such a
prevision is as good as superfluous, but we feel bound to act up to
our principles!
LETTER XXX.
GRAYSMILL, February 19th.
Beloved, we wrote you a few lines together this afternoon, but I
must write again, I alone, to thank you for your letter and tell you
all you ask to know. Yet, indeed, I know not what to tell you. I am
happy; the sun is in my heart. I tried to write to you before, but
the words failed me; besides--my own self is a stranger to me. This
marvel of marvels, a perfectly happy woman, has nothing in common
with Emilia Fletcher, as you and I have known her.
I believe that Lethe was Joy's well. The past has floated from me
like a bank of mist, I stand flooded in light. And if I look behind
me I see nothing. Two phantoms merely,--my love for my mother, my
love for you,--all else is gone. Where are they now, the clouds that
pressed so close upon me? Three words, and lo! the sky is clear. I
have even forgotten what it felt like to stand there in the gloom
with breaking heart.
We have made no plans yet; that is to say, we have made so many that
choice between them is impossible. Still, although we build fresh
castles in the air each time we meet, they all float towards Italy,
in the springtime, halting a while where Constance is. If, indeed,
there be a cloud remaining in my heaven, it is that you two, my
soul's monarchs, know each other only through the medium of my love.
My eyes long to hold you both; I want to walk in the body, as I do
in the spirit, clasping a hand of each.
And to think that she is dead! Shall I tell you something very
strange, almost inconceivable? I cannot help feeling as if she knew.
Surely, Death cannot wholly part a mother from her child.
Good night, my dear little one.
EMILIA.
LETTER XXXI.
GRAYSMILL, February 24th.
I showed some parts of your letter to Gabriel, and we laughed very
much. What a bird she is, my Constance! He is ever so much taller
than I. We compared our height with the utmost care, this morning,
for your especial benefit. Do you remember--what should I do to you,
by the way, if you didn't?--that when your head is on my shoulder,
my chin just makes a little roof for your curls, so that you always
used to say, "How nicely we _fit_!" Well, there is just about the
same difference between Gabriel and me, as between me and you. I
call that very nice.
Now, as to the rest of the world. My two old dears are very sweet to
me, and to Gabriel also. Indeed, every one is pleasant to us, and if
it does come to my ears that I am looked upon by Graysmill generally
in the light of a harmless lunatic, why, what of that? I take joy in
the thought that none but myself knows the value of the treasure
that is mine. One good soul said to me yesterday: "We think it very
nice of you, very nice and modest. Such a rich young lady as you
are, you might have had any one you pleased!"
We went on Sunday to pay a formal visit to Uncle George. That was a
terrible ordeal, but we got some fun out of it.
I went to fetch Gabriel, for Uncle George lives just beyond
Miltonhoe. I found him in the study, sitting with his head in his
hands, a picture of misery.
"Emilia," said he, "you dare not be so cruel as to expect this of
me. I cannot go and see your uncle, indeed, I cannot."
"You must," said I; "I am very good to you on the whole; this is the
only call I expect you to pay, but this one must be. Up with you,
and make yourself look respectable."
So off he went, with despair in his eye, and Jane and I waited for
him in the kitchen. At the end of half an hour he reappeared. He had
merely put on a horrible black coat; for the rest, I could see no
improvement.
There he stood, without hat or gloves.
"I am ready," said he.
"You imp!" I cried; "you've been playing about! What have you been
at all this time? Do you suppose I can present such a scarecrow to
my relations?"
"Emilia," answered the poor dear, very solemnly, "I have washed!"
There was nothing for it but to make him fetch the clothes-brush,
and other implements of torture. Jane and I marched him out into the
hall, and there we prepared the victim. We brushed his clothes, and
straightened his necktie. Even Richard Norton was so excited by the
scene that he fetched the blacking-bottle and polished Gabriel's
boots, whilst Jane acted hairdresser and I held him down by both
hands. This in the midst of so much laughter that the tears stood in
our eyes.
When at last we turned him round for inspection, smooth-haired and
stiff with the consciousness of his respectability, I could have
wept at my own handiwork.
"You poor dear!" I cried. "Oh, Jane, doesn't he look horrible!"
But Gabriel went into the parlour to look at himself in the mirror,
and declared that he pleased himself mightily.
The visit itself was comparatively uneventful. They have asked us to
dine next Friday, but I doubt whether we shall go. Gabriel suggests
that we should get married at once and fly from such terrors.
Good-bye now, my sweet one.
Yours more than ever, in spite of all,
EMILIA.
LETTER XXXII.
GRAYSMILL, March 3d.
I don't know how it comes, but it is a positive effort to me to
write a letter, even to you. If I had not been reminded by the
calendar that a new month is already on the growth, I should not
perhaps have written to-day.
There is nothing to tell you, I am too happy; and how it comes I
know not, but joy is difficult to express. Perhaps because it is so
rare that we have hardly learned its language.
And yet, how soon one gets accustomed to the greatest marvels! At
first, I was filled with doubt and wonder at the miracle that had
transformed me; now, I take it all as a matter of course. That's the
worst of it; a clay-fed mortal is lifted to Elysium and forgets at
the end of a week that he ever tasted coarser food than ambrosia! I
am spoilt for life; if ever any grief falls upon me in the future, I
shall be beaten to earth.
The other night, as I lay in bed, there came to me, for the first
time in my remembrance, that horror of death of which you sometimes
spoke to me. I thought to myself: I shall lie thus in the dark, only
this heart will be still, this blood will be cold, and there will be
no dawn for me,--yet the world will spin on as before, and those who
loved me will smile again. I feared death for the first time,
because, for the first time, life is dear to me. It is the outcome
of my great content; I cling to my happiness, and Death is my only
enemy, the only power that could knock this cup of bliss out of my
hands. Oh, Constance, to die before one has drunk that full measure,
how horrible!
Another shadow there is that flits from time to time across my eyes.
Why, if such content can be, is it not universal? Why is not every
face I meet stamped with a similar joy? I lay awake long last night,
thinking of you. I do not look upon you as actually unhappy, that is
not in your nature, you sunbeam, yet you lack in your dear life the
best light, that of another's shedding. Now that I know what it is
to be loved, I look upon the blankness of your existence with
dismay.
No more to-day, but I shall write again soon, I promise.
Yours ever and always,
EMILIA.
LETTER XXXIII.
GRAYSMILL, March 5th.
Thank you, sweet one, for the eight dear pages. I feel ashamed of
the scrap I sent you the day before yesterday. I never felt so lazy
in my life as I feel now. One thing is certain, happiness is not
altogether good. Blake says somewhere, "Damn braces, bless relaxes."
Perhaps he was right.
I am losing myself completely. Every time I part from him I feel
that he has taken yet a little more of me away. He absorbs me, heart
and soul. I do not complain. I feel a little ashamed of myself from
time to time, when I realise how callous I have become to everything
else, when, no matter what book I take down from the shelf, I find I
cannot read half a page connectedly; otherwise I am perfectly
content that it should be so. Impersonal things--Nature, Music--have
perhaps strengthened their hold on me; because they flatter my
selfishness, so to speak, they are always in tune with my heart.
Gabriel more than makes up for my degeneracy; of course that should
be, seeing that he has taken unto himself all my intellectual
faculties!
He is writing a simply astounding poem; he reads it to me as it
grows. I tell him he is much more in love with it than with me! When
we are out, he falls into deep dreams; sometimes, when they are of
the kind that words can fetter, he brings them within my reach, and
then we float together into the realms of air.
But, although we are hand in hand, I know that he has sight of
things I cannot see, hears voices I cannot hear; I only clearly see
one vision, him; hear but one voice, my own, that says, I love you.
Shall I tell you something? I would not tell him for the world; he
would deny it; he would not understand; but you I will tell. It is
this: I love him more than he loves me, and in that thought I find
content. When two love, one must love more than the other, and
blessed is he who loves best. I think that if I felt his love
o'ershadowed mine, I should be miserable, I should have some
sensation of unpayable debt. As it stands, he does not know he is my
debtor; only I know it, and I delight in the knowledge. Let him love
me and love me, he will never love me enough; on the other hand, I
yearn so for his love that all he gives me I cherish and am grateful
for; by this means, whether he love me much or little, I shall
always be satisfied.
You must not suppose, because of what I say, that he does not love
me intensely; my love is unmatchable, that is all. He tells me every
day that he could not live without me, and, indeed, it is true. He
relies upon me entirely, calls upon my care incessantly; and very
sweet it is to feel that the supreme God of my Heaven is as a child
in my arms. Ah, I am happy, the world is good, and now the spring is
coming. We rejoice in the growth of the year; Gabriel longs for the
first primrose. He is so hard at work that I think it unlikely we
shall get married before the end of April; the poem is writing
itself at present; it would be a sin to interfere with its progress.
I think, too, that if he can possibly finish it, he will be able to
go away with a greater content upon him, with the satisfaction that
only achievement brings. It is, in fact, very long since he last
completed anything.
And then I shall take him away, I, in his full content, to the
sunshine, to the land of dreams.
There are still some things I can hardly realise.
Good-bye, dearest.
EMILIA.
LETTER XXXIV.
GRAYSMILL, March 20th.
My beloved Constance, I am glad your letter of this morning has made
me a little unhappy; I have been a selfish brute, thinking of none
but myself, and him. I little thought, whilst I lay basking in the
sun, that you stood there shrouded in densest fog. I wish I had
written every day, you poor sweet!
But now I have evolved a plan, and Gabriel thinks with me that it is
a good one. You will find me rather prosaic, yet indeed, sweetheart,
I think you cannot be well; these doleful dumps have nothing in
common with your nature. You are not well, you have no friend to
cheer you, and this melancholy is the result.
Come to us! Gabriel and I are the most undecided beings in creation;
ten days ago he threw up his poem in disgust; there was nothing for
it but to get married at once and start for Italy. A few days later,
inspiration set in, and now he is again so deep in his verse that we
shall stay here until the poem is finished. Come to us! You will
find us excellent company. Yes, dearest, you must do this; who knows
when we may be together again? Besides, there would be a blank in
your knowledge of my life, had you never seen me in this home, grown
dear to me beyond all expectation, through my great happiness.
Besides, I want you and Gabriel to know each other.
Mrs. Rayner--if you _must_ bring her--will find enough society at
Graysmill to keep her busy for a month or two; I think she would get
on splendidly with Uncle George and his people.
You and I, my darling, will be happy together as of old. I have told
grandmamma and Aunt Caroline that I have invited the pretty friend
whose photographs they admire so much, to come and stay with me;
they ask me to add their importunities to mine.
Come, dearest, and without delay, for your own sake and mine. Come,
and let us be happy together whilst I am still your lover of old
years.
EMILIA.
Answer immediately, will you, Mrs. Norris?
LETTER XXXV.
GRAYSMILL, March 26th.
You are the best friend that ever lived! I am quite restless with
impatience, so is Gabriel, so are my old ones. And who most of all?
Oh! little white face, how I long to hold you in my hands again, and
what warmth of love and happiness I long to pour into your heart!
I shall not scold you, because you are not well, but what do you
mean by saying that you will come, "although of course we shall
never see each other"? Dear silly, do you imagine that I spend the
whole day with that creature you pretend to be so jealous of?
Not a bit of it! Sometimes, just by way of a little salutary
training in renunciation, we don't even meet every day. No, the bulk
of my time will be yours and mine; we will sit up here in my room,
beneath my mother's portrait; we will make the old days live again,
weld the old and the new into one. Then, Gabriel and I will take you
with us for walks fitting a fairy, in the woods; how you will love
them! The trees are misty already with the promise of leaves, and
all manner of sweet things are beginning to pierce the ground. How
we shall spoil you, we two!
So you are coming,--I can hardly believe it. Never say again that I
shall forget you. Let me remind you, Madam, if all else fail to
convince you, that we two are women, and that there is one tender
love, one yearning, which can only be betwixt woman and woman.
There is something infinitely pathetic in this truth; a man may be
the dearest, the nearest he can never be.
But I must bless and leave thee. I have promised to meet Gabriel at
the Post-office.
My last letter. No need to write again. Oh, Constantia, can it be
true? Yours in all truth,
EMILIA.
THE JOURNAL.
_June 3d, at evening._--I am weak, very weak. I never could carry
either joy or trouble pent up in my heart.
It has seemed sometimes of late that I must be stifled by the thing
that troubles me. Yet it is a trifling thing; nothing, I am sure,
but a foolish, wicked fear, a little disease within myself. If mamma
were here, I should just go and lay my head on her knees, and tell
her everything. Then she would stroke my eyes and bid me see reason,
and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and dear one, why
did you leave your child?
I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write things
down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; perhaps,
too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall laugh at it
instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on the pillow.
And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of saying it. My
love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I have been too
happy, that is the whole truth--far too happy. Poor things, we carry
grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy cracks the frail vessel.
I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance
sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some
worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near.
Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of
me to write "were"; they are still there, the summer days are long,
I love them so well, they hold me so dear.
I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin to
laugh at myself.
_June 4th._--Their eyes met once at supper, only once, and they did
not look at each other when they said good night. Which means most,
to look or not to look? I cannot read clearly yet. And one can
certainly twice ask the same person to pass the salt without its
meaning anything. This is very ugly in me; my better self is filled
with sorrow. Surely it must be in every one's power to quell the
visions of the inmost eye when they rise sinfully, to close their
ears against such whisperings as now I listen to.
I must fight this. Doubt is Love's murderer.
_June 6th._--Constance should not have said that; there was no need.
Why have I come upstairs and left them together? I am raving mad.
And now to cry like a baby! I have cried every day for five days;
this is monstrous! I think that if some one came and whipped me, I
might feel better. This is some sickness, surely; relaxed nerves,
quick blood. I shall write it all down carefully, calling on what
sense I have left to be judge. Of course the judge will laugh. But
first I will wash my face.
In the beginning, Constance said she was not sure she liked him. Let
me remember his first words about her, the day after her arrival. I
brought him into the drawing-room, and put his hand into hers,
saying, "Here is your friend."
He was very shy, and hardly looked at her. "We are meeting under
inauspicious circumstances, Mrs. Norris," said he. "We have heard so
much about each other that I, at least, cannot reconcile the
strangeness of your person with the intimate affection I have so
long had for you in my thoughts."
Constance laughed.
"It _is_ funny, isn't it?" said she. "I know what you mean. I
thought I knew you quite well, and you're not at all the sort of
person I thought you were."
Gabriel did not stay long; I went with him to the door when he left,
and he said:
"She is prettier than her photograph. I like her, Emilia." I was so
glad.
Constance soon began to take an interest in him; he amused her.
"He is the queerest creature I ever saw," she said; "I can't set
eyes on him without laughing; he is too comic."
Then she fell ill, poor love! They did not meet for a long time. And
every day, when Gabriel came to fetch me for my walk, he only asked
after her as he should have asked after my dearest friend. Of
course, when she got better and he sat with us daily to help me to
amuse her, they were thrown more together. It was a great joy to me
to see how well they got on.
Then she began to tease him. They never talked very much, for all
that. When I come to think of it, it was early last month that
Constance began to say, "How is your friend this morning?" or "I
haven't seen Gabriel for two days; I miss him; he makes me laugh."
But I did not notice it then.
What? Is this all I have to say? It is too ridiculous! Of course she
likes him; one cannot come near him without some love. Besides, she
would like him for my sake. It is all so natural. He, too, did not
often speak of her, does not often speak of her. It is natural,
knowing how I love her, that he should feel at ease with my
Constance. Nor could I have wished it to be otherwise.
Now let me think when I was first taken with this mad fit. It was
last Thursday week; we were all three in the wood; it was one of my
bad days, when I love him unto pain; it hurt me that he lagged
behind, I wanted him near. And I twice saw Constance turn to look
after him; I turned, too,--they smiled at each other. When he drew
up, the path was wider; it was the first time, I think, that instead
of coming to my side, or placing himself between us, he went round
to Constance.
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