Laurence Alma Tadema - The Wings of Icarus
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Laurence Alma Tadema >> The Wings of Icarus
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But just as we reached the shrubbery, I said:
"Gabriel, I have something to tell you."
"And so have I," said he, "something to tell you. But you first."
"No," I replied; "you first."
It was for one moment a great relief to think that he was about to
save me from the trial I dreaded.
We took a few more steps in silence; I was looking down, not at him.
I felt my heart beat more than ever, fear was still there, but of a
different kind; I awaited his words as one might await a death-blow.
But they did not come. Suddenly he halted, and I, too.
"Well?" said I, and I lifted my head.
There he stood, smiling at me.
"Do you remember 'Peer Gynt'?" asked he. "That was the bush."
I looked at the laurel, and then at him again.
"Why, yes," said I; "that was the bush."
His dear eyes were gazing into mine; I could not look away again.
There came a tremor over all my body; my love for him swept over me
in throbbing waves of pain; I fell towards him, stifling a cry
against his breast. And he, wrapping his arms about me, strained me
to him with great force.
"Emilia!" he cried, "I love you very much; I have never told you how
much I love you!"
I knew it to be the last cry of his conscience, but, as I lay there
listening to the beat of his heart, there fled from me what little
yet remained of my conquered spirit's strength and noble purpose.
Only the woman in me cried aloud, "I cannot!"
I tried to speak, but the words came almost as a sob. Quickly I
threw my arms about his neck and, bending his face towards me,
kissed him of my own accord as he smiled; then, breaking from him,
would have run homewards.
But he held me by the hand.
"When shall I come to-morrow?" asked he, hoarsely.
"Not at all," said I. "Go, Gabriel! God help me; I love you too
much!"
And so we did not meet next day, and the next we were married.
* * * * *
For many months I made believe that we were happy. Ah! it was not
all make-belief! I have had great joys.
Never was the game of happiness easier to play at than it was for
Gabriel and me in the first year of our marriage. He was very much
attached to me, and I loved him.
It was the first time he had been out of England; the sights he saw
filled him with rapture and insatiable curiosity, to appease which I
led him from place to place until I had shown him all I knew, and
still we went onwards, covering new ground together.
We never stayed very long in the same spot; a certain weariness
crept over me at times, but I saw that it was best for him to keep
continually on the wing; and indeed, having no desire on earth but
his happiness, I was ready, for his sake, to wander my whole life
away. Moreover, as he was not working at all the while, I looked
forward to a day when inspiration might set in, together with
satiety, when he too might yearn, as I did, to sit in peace beside a
hearth of his own.
Constance wrote to us occasionally, and I to her. Her letters to me
were the same as of old, full of love and sweetness; she nearly
always mentioned Gabriel, but not in such a way as to denote
preoccupation. My letters to her were not as they had been; I felt
this at the time. On rereading them just now I burned them
all,--there was no breath in them.
Mrs. Rayner had taken Fairview, the nearest house to Fletcher's
Hall, soon after my marriage, and set her cap at Uncle George with
so much persistence that he engaged himself to her the following
summer. So my sweet girl stayed on at Graysmill. Grandmamma's
letters, and Aunt Caroline's, were always full of her, of the
comfort her sunny presence brought them; my father-in-law and Jane
had the same tale to tell.
For many months I never even contemplated the possibility of
returning to England with my husband. There is no knowing how long
our wanderings might have been, but for my illness. Gabriel and I
were passing through Pisa at the end of June, on our way to Lerici,
whither we were bent on pilgrimage, when I fell ill.
That was the end of many dreams. The wheel could turn no more; the
swift and restless life of day to day, that fled the past and hung
back from the morrow, was checked abruptly, completely.
But, lying in that little bed of painted wood, staring at the net
curtains and green shutters, at the lozenge pattern on the wall, at
the cornucopiae on the ceiling, a clear and sober sight returned to
me. The body having failed, the spirit found its strength.
Our sudden halt had worked swiftly on Gabriel also. He set to work;
the restlessness died out of him, but, alas! the lightness, too. He
became very still, silent and self-absorbed. In the cool of evening,
the time of day when I was strongest, I used to turn my kind little
nun out of the room, and then Gabriel came and read to me.
At first he had tried to finish the long poem begun in the days of
our betrothal, but he soon laid that aside, and another sprang
forward with extraordinary rapidity. Perhaps he himself was hardly
aware of the sorrow of that poem; perhaps he thought I would judge
it so entirely as a work of art that I should not take note of its
deep gloom, of its hopeless melancholy. But nothing was lost upon me
now. I read it in every line,--he suffered; something failed
him,--perhaps he knew not what, perhaps he knew. A terrible
loneliness was in his heart,--and I had given him all I had to give.
On the fifteenth of July, I awoke with a sense of something fresh
and sweet; a bunch of roses lay upon my pillow, and Gabriel stood
beside my bed. The shutters were still closed.
"What?" said I, "have you been out already? How dear of you this is!
Is the sun shining?"
And he answered:
"Of course, what should it do but shine on our wedding-day?"
Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, and took both my hands in
his.
"Emilia," said he, "you have made me very happy."
But I, sitting up, bent my head low over his hands and kissed them;
my loose hair fell forward, he did not see the tears that stood in
my eyes. I knew that he had lied.
From that day I began to think with a purpose. I had already gained
sufficient mastery over myself, sufficient calm and strength of
spirit to be able to do so.
I can hardly call it a struggle that followed. I copied out and laid
under my pillow the words of the covenant we had made the day after
our betrothal; daily I read it through, and recognised how we had
failed towards each other, and towards our best beliefs.
We had both failed; but, whereas he had erred merely, I knew that I
had sinned; in the fulness of my remorse, my only thought was now to
offer reparation. Nor was it only for Gabriel's sake that I was now
possessed by the desire of atonement. In the blindness of human
passion, I had sinned against my better self, my noblest purposes,
my most firm and high beliefs; that passion conquered, I determined
to make amends for my great transgression by following, regardless
of pain and danger, the highest path that lay within the range of my
vision, regardless of pain to myself, regardless of that fear of the
world which so often leads us to accept its canons, even in sight of
a nobler righteousness.
Therefore I resolved to set him free; I believed this to be
possible, although my sight was clear, my spirit calm. But he who
beholds only the aerial pathway of an ideal right may stumble and
fall on the stones of the world. It was only given me later to
realise, through grief too terrible for words, that, given the world
as the world is, there are wrongs that are irrevocable, lies that,
once lied, no truth can ever wipe away.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, health returned to me. We stayed at Pisa until I was
convalescent, then moved to the sea. His poem and my thoughts
occupied us severally; they were good and peaceful days. Now and
again the heart rebelled against the severity of the spirit, but,
take it all in all, a great calm was upon me.
One evening in September, Gabriel and I were leaning out of my
window; it was almost dark; the occasional footfall of a passenger
fell on the stones of our quiet street; some men were singing in the
trattoria round the corner; we two leant there in silence, counting
the stars as they came.
"Gabriel," said I, "I have had a letter from Constance. I am afraid
she is not very happy at Graysmill; her mother worries her; she
sounds lonely and not over well. Shall we go home a while?"
Gabriel shifted his feet, and turned the latch of the shutter round
and round.
"No," he replied; "I think not;" I mean, if you feel you want to see
Constance, go, Emilia, only don't leave me too long. I had rather
stay here. I have been thinking it over of late, and I see no reason
why I should ever return to England."
"But, dearest one," said I, "your father!"
"I have thought of that. I long to see him, and Jane, too. You go
home, Emilia, and bring them back with you. We four can live out
here in Italy forever, live and die here."
"But Constance?" said I, then.
There was a long silence. The latch of the shutter whirled round and
round.
"Oh, Constance," said he; "yes, it's hard on Constance. She will
have to live with her mother and your step-uncle, I suppose."
"No," I replied; "I should never allow that. But we can arrange
about Constance when we see her; we can talk it over together. I
cannot go without you, Gabriel. There is no reason why we should
stay there long,--only come with me you must."
He held out for some days, but in the end I conquered. We passed
through Florence on the way, and there beside my mother's grave I
put forth the first, the only prayer I ever made,--a wordless
yearning towards the Inconceivable, a prayer for strength and the
Light of Truth.
* * * * *
We reached Graysmill on the nineteenth of September. My impatience
was so great that, in spite of Gabriel's displeasure at what he
called my rashness, I would not stay in London on the way, but we
travelled straight down, reaching Fletcher's Hall at midnight.
Aunt Caroline was down to receive us, for I had sent a telegram from
Dover; upstairs, my dear old woman was sitting up in bed with sweet,
wrinkled smiles beneath her frilled night-cap. I was very glad to be
home again; my heart felt warm.
I sent Aunt Caroline to bed, much against her will, and then Gabriel
and I sat down to drink the tea he had wished for, beside the fire
in the breakfast-room. Gabriel was very white, his eyes shone all
too brightly; again and again I saw him put his hand to his brow, a
trick he had when he was nervous.
"Dear," said I, "don't drink so much tea; it's very bad for you, you
will never sleep tonight."
"No," said he; "I am sure I couldn't sleep anyway. I think I shan't
stay here, Emilia, if you don't mind. I feel very impatient to see
my father; the night is fine, I shall walk over to the Cottage, and
take him by surprise."
I was just looking at him, wondering how to meet this mood, when
there came a light tap at the window, a French window that opened on
to the lawn.
"Hark!" said I.
We listened; again it came, again; and then a little voice calling,
"Emilia! Emilia!"
"It is Constance!" I cried, and, springing to my feet, I flung open
curtain and shutter and window.
There she stood in the dark, with the light of the room upon her.
She was in black, with a dark shawl wrapped round her head; I could
see nothing clearly save the white, outstretched hands, the pale
sweet face, with its halo of burnished curls.
She sprang towards me with a little sob, and we laughed and cried
together as I clasped her to me, covering her beloved face with
kisses. I was still holding her fast when she perceived Gabriel;
from the stronghold of my arms, with her head still resting on my
bosom, she turned towards him and held out her hand. I looked
neither at him nor at her, but, bending away, laid my cheek upon her
curls.
And it was thus they met again.
Of the days that immediately followed, there is not much to tell.
Any doubt I might have entertained as to the continuance of their
mutual passion vanished swiftly and entirely. The path of duty lay
very clear before me.
I saw more of Constance than of Gabriel in those days; we were
almost always together, and he avoided us. Richard Norton, who had
greatly aged in the year of our absence, was so happy in his son
that Gabriel had every excuse for spending the greater part of his
time at the Cottage. Indeed, he usually left me directly after
breakfast, and did not return until supper-time.
He wrote a great deal, out in the woods and in his old room. The
poem was approaching completion, and this, in fact, was the reason
why for fifteen days I deferred the execution of my purpose.
The sufferings we all three experienced daily at this time, when it
was impossible to entirely avoid each other's presence, were
endurable to me, and I sought to help Constance to bear them. To him
they were, so to speak, a source of inspiration; and I therefore
determined to let things run their course until the last line should
be written.
On the fourth of October,--it was Saturday,--I, having a headache,
did not get up to breakfast, and Gabriel left before nine o'clock
for the Thatched Cottage. My sweet Constance spent the entire
morning with me. She had brought a hat to trim, but the work did not
proceed. It was a black felt hat, I remember, and I trimmed it for
her. She herself was in one of her childlike moods, winsome and gay
atop of the sorrow that had made her pale cheek paler, and set blue
rings about her dear eyes.
I was alone all the afternoon, and copied out for the last time a
letter to my husband, on which I had lately expended many hours. I
felt strong and sure of myself; it was not cowardice that led me to
write to him instead of saying to his face all that I had to say.
But there was no telling in what mood I should find him, were I to
speak. He might refuse to listen; he might move me to momentary
indecision by manner, look, or words; I preferred to write it all
down clearly, to make sure that what I had to say would not run the
risk of being left unsaid through the interposition of unforeseen
and incalculable emotions.
At the approach of supper-time, I dressed and went into the
drawing-room. We were expecting Constance and Mrs. Rayner, the
vicar, and Uncle George. My old dears and I had half an hour to
ourselves before any of them came. Gabriel was very late; our last
guest had already arrived when I heard him come in and rush up to
our room.
When he came down, he was pale in the extreme, and his eyes danced
in his head. I went up to him and drew him aside, towards the
window.
"Well?" said I, softly, "what's the matter with him?"
He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.
"Finished!" he whispered. "I have done, Emilia,--the last line is
written."
I looked up at him with gladness in my face.
"You must read it me this evening," said I.
There came a flash of light before my inward eye,--the joy of his
achievement,--then it fell in broken showers, all fell. I had a
sense as of sinking into space, and all was dark within me.
"Go and give your arm to Aunt Caroline," said I, pressing his hand
as I let it go.
I myself went into supper with the vicar. We did not sit long at
table. Uncle George, Mrs. Rayner, and Mr. Dobb sat down immediately
after to a rubber of whist with Aunt Caroline; grandmamma fell
asleep. I turned the lamp-shade towards her face, and my pretty
Constance covered her well with a shawl; then, taking my dear one by
the waist, I walked with her to where Gabriel stood at the chimney.
"I have had an inspiration," said I. "Come, we will slip away to
Fairview and spend the evening alone, we three; then Gabriel can
read us the last canto,--will you?"
I had already read the first part of the poem to Constance, with his
permission.
Neither of them uttered a word.
"Come," said I; "Constance and I will set off at once, our things
are in the hall. Run up and fetch your manuscript, Gabriel."
I put my foot through the flounce of my petticoat on the way, so
Constance took me up to her room for a needle and cotton. When we
came down again, Gabriel was in the morning-room; he had drawn up
the blind and was watching the moon.
"I call this very nice," said I. "Our party is the better of the
two."
Constance lighted the lamp, and we sat down, all three, at the
table,--Gabriel with his back to the window, Constance opposite him,
and I between them, to the right of the table.
Then he began to read.
How it went with them I know not, but I was soon entirely lost in
what I heard. With my head upon my arm I listened, the visions that
he conjured filled my eyes, the music of his words engrossed my
ears; more beautiful in form and purpose than anything he yet had
written, this last canto filled me with joy and pride.
When the last words fell, I did not raise my head from the table.
Heaven knows why, but I did not want to let them see, not even them,
that the tears were gushing from my eyes.
I heard Gabriel collect his papers and put them into his pocket;
still none of us spoke. It seemed time to break the silence. I
lifted my head and looked up at my poet.
There he sat with head thrown back and quivering lips; his eyes,
wide with mingled fear and yearning, were fixed upon Constance,
whose white, uplifted face was as the mirror of his own. It was for
an instant only; the next, they turned to me.
And so the tale was told; we sat there, we three, blenched and
panic-stricken, gazing into each other's eyes.
The time had come. I rose, took their hands, and laid them together
on the table. I would have said something, but no words came; so,
smiling simply into the face of each, I bent and kissed the
intertwining fingers, then left the room. I groped my way into the
garden, and, standing on a flower-bed beneath the window, looked in
upon them. They sat as I had left them, with clasped hands and
mingled gaze. I think it was Constance that moved first, I am not
sure, but they rose suddenly and fell into each other's arms. For an
instant I looked upon them with a strange sense of exultation, as
if, perhaps, I were the Spirit of Love, and not a jealous woman. But
when he turned back her white face with his hand and bent over her,
all the woman in me returned. I saw her little hands clutch him
convulsively, she gave a low cry,--and then I slipped from the
window on to the ground.
How long I crouched there I cannot tell; I felt as one must feel
that has been buried for dead and awakes in the grave. There was
mignonette beside me, and a clump of southern wood. It was the sound
of some one bounding down the steps that roused me. Gabriel had left
her. I got up and shook my clothes, walking to and fro on the lawn.
When at length I thought of going home, I remembered that I had left
my things in Constance's room, and that it might seem strange in me
to arrive at the house bareheaded. So I went upstairs. The passage
was not quite dark; I could just see that Constance lay outside her
bedroom door. I stooped and tried to raise her, but she flung
herself to my knees, crying:
"Emilia!--O my God!"
"Hush!" said I; "come into the room. Hush! the servants might hear
you."
So I drew her in and would have laid her on her bed; but again she
fell down and clasped my knees.
"Dear!" she cried; "dear, you loved me so, and this is what I have
done. Oh, Emilia, forgive me!--Emilia, forgive me, oh, forgive me!"
I told her that she was forgiven. I cooled her forehead with water,
and at length laid her upon the bed. She clung to me piteously as I
was leaving.
"Kiss me good night," she murmured.
I had not felt that I could kiss her, but I stooped and touched her
slightly on the brow, at the root of the curls. Then I left her,
feeling all the way the clutch of her little fingers on my arm.
* * * * *
As I slipped up to my room, I had to pass the drawing-room door; it
was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of them all as they sat at the
card-table under the green-shaded lamp.
"Honours divided, Miss Seymour, honours divided," said the vicar;
and as I slowly made my way upstairs I heard the clatter of teacups
and Mrs. Rayner's thin laugh.
I went past the room I had shared with Gabriel, and made my way to
the topmost floor, to the room that was formerly mine. It was in
disorder, and nearly bare. I lighted a candle, but the sight of the
dreariness oppressed me; I therefore blew it out again, and leant
out of the open window.
It was a cool night, and dark, for clouds had hidden the moon; the
chimes rang the quarters; they seemed to follow close upon each
other, and still I stood at the window. I heard Mrs. Rayner go, and
her escort, Uncle George, return. "B-rrr," he went, as he stamped up
the steps. "How his keys jingle," thought I; "and is it so cold?"
I cannot remember that I thought much of what had happened; my
senses were very keen, but emotion was torpid. I took note of every
barking dog, every distant wheel; sometimes I sang a little to
myself, and, all the while, I worked my foot to and fro along the
skirting.
Presently Uncle George left for good, taking the vicar with him. The
servants came to bed, giggling under their breath; then all was
still.
I did not leave the window, but in the silence--there being now no
sound to arrest my attention, save the chimes which I forgot to
hear--a change came over me. I fell into a sort of dream; scene
after scene the past rose before me in bright visions; then came the
present, chaos. I stood, as it were, in the centre of nothingness,
alone and lost, not a sound, not a light, not a finger to touch.
"What matter," thought I,--"what matter if I live or die? Surely it
is in this state that people kill themselves."
I heard the chimes again, and a duck quacked in the pond; it was as
the laugh of a devil.
I turned from the window and stumbled over something; I lighted a
candle, and sat shivering on the shrouded bed.
"Two o'clock," thought I; "it is very cold. What shall I do? Shall I
sleep or die?"
And, as it were with a flash, there came to me the thought that
perhaps I was not the only one who sat at this moment coldly
contemplating death. An awful fear seized me that perhaps he,
Gabriel, might be driven to the haven of despairers.
I threw on my cloak, and, carrying my shoes, slowly and breathlessly
crept down the stairs to the back door, which had a light fastening.
And I ran across garden and park, across Graysmill Heath in the
night, strengthened by one fear against all others, nor did I stop
until I stood on the little hillock within sight of the Thatched
Cottage.
I saw at once that a light was burning in the window of Gabriel's
old room. I sprang on and halted once more on the grass-patch before
the Cottage door. The blind was down, a shadow passed to and fro. I
could see very well by the way he moved that he was not calm. I
wanted to get to him. I tried the house door, but it was firmly
fastened. I sat down on the ground and kept my eyes fixed on the
window. He stooped repeatedly; once, as he swept the hair back from
his eyes, I thought I saw that he held something in his hand. I
picked up a stone, ready to throw it at the window, but my courage
failed me; then I noticed that the light flickered strangely, as
from fire; it faded, and all was dark.
I strained my ears in vain for a sound; a horrible fear seized me. I
flung my little stone, but it was very dark; I heard it strike the
bricks. Groping for more, I flung another, and yet another. One of
them struck the panes; I stood and held my breath,--no sound.
I made my way to the door again, tried it again; I laid my ear to
the key-hole, and then I distinctly heard the creaking of the
stairs; some one was coming down. The hall was crossed, the bolt of
the door was gently drawn. I fell back a little; some one came out
with a firm step, and sprang on to the path.
It was a mere shadow that I could see; I caught him by the arm.
"Gabriel," I said, "where are you going?"
He started violently, and something fell from his hand.
"You?" he cried. "Why are you here? Emilia! you have come too soon!"
I remember that I clutched his wrists, as if in fear that he might
even then lift his hand against himself.
"You coward!" was all I said; "oh, you coward!" He did not answer
me, and we stood so a while. Then he said gently:
"Your hands are cold, my girl; let us go in."
We made our way into the study. After some groping, we found the
matches and lighted a candle. Gabriel sat down by the table and
buried his face in his hands. I went to him and stroked his hair.
"Poor boy," I said; "I guessed how it would be; that's why I came."
He stood up hastily.
"Don't touch me!" he cried; "I have done you a fearful wrong; there
was only one atonement I could make, and that you have prevented.
Emilia, leave me. You should not have come."
I forget how I told him; but I told him then how, in joining their
hands together, I had meant them to understand that I resigned him
to her. I told him how long I had known of their most natural love,
confessed my struggles, my defeat, and acknowledged to the full the
sin I had committed in marrying him in spite of what I knew. I
reminded him, too, of our covenant, of the beliefs and aspirations
we had shared, and implored him to accept his liberty.
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