Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Lucy remembered how she’d leaned out her bedroom window. Had George seen her, she wondered?

  “You will never go up,” said his father. “You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work survives.”

  “Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all.”

  “Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”

  The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini — Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.

  “Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”

  The procession disappeared without a word.

  Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.

  “George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.”

  George went into the next chapel and returned, saying “Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.”

  “Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn’t I better? Then perhaps he will come back.”

  “He will not come back,” said George.

  But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.

  “My father has that effect on nearly every one,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”

  “I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.

  “Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or frightened.”

  “How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action done tactfully — ”

  “Tact!”

  He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer and her heart sank at his response. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and — until the shadows fell upon it — hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. Dear George, my love, you were so gentle last night, she thought. What bothers you this beautiful day? But dared not question his mood aloud. The feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could reenter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her. How different George seemed. Lucy felt the strings of her heart begin to twist into a knot …

  Little did she realize that George was frustrated over being interrupted last night. Miss Bartlett had ruined everything. She had shattered their perfect first union, robbed them of their moment.

  Was it any wonder he brooded over the disappointment in not bedding Lucy? In not being able to satisfy her more fully, in not being able to ravage her as she so desperately needed.

  He had meant to lie upon her and please her with his loving strokes. He had meant to fill her with all he had to give; he had meant to make love to her as no other man dared.

  And now to stand next to her again, desire was once again peaking with a raging passion. All he wanted to do was to touch her, to disrobe her, and to kiss every inch of her, while watching her body unfold to him.

  If only he could say, “Lucy, my dearest love, come with me. Let us slip into the shadows so that I might finish what we started. So that I might give to you what you desire most. So that I as a man will not have failed you.”

  “Then let’s,” she would say. He knew she would not protest. How could she, not after last night.

  If only they were alone. If only he had the courage to act presently.

  Indeed, he would whisk her away to a private corner outside in a quiet park where they might find themselves completely alone. Not asking, he would lead her to the softness of the grass nestled in a private grove.

  This time he would not wait to act; this time he would not wait for them to be discovered. Nor would she.

  With Godspeed, he would hastily, but with care, raise her skirts. Then he would watch as she slowly opened her legs, letting him revel in the delicious sight of her feminine curls falling from the edges of her lace undergarment. Not sparing a moment, he would slip his fingers inside the scant undergarment and begin sliding his fingers through her intimate folds. He would mix and play freely in her swelling passion until she began thrusting her hips to him, her body urging him on.

  “Make love to me, Dear George,” she would finally say through her moans.

  Compelled by his duty to obey, by his own unbridled lust, he would slip the undergarment from her legs, pocket it, and unfasten his trousers.

  “Oh, Dear George,” she would say as he revealed himself to her. “How I need you, Dear George, my love. But … ” Her voice would fade to barely a whisper. She would be unable to say the obvious, that this would be her first time.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he’d whisper, knowing that all that she needed was a little reassurance to permit the forthcoming pleasure.

  “Yes, do. Be gentle my love.”

  And he would lie upon her, pressing his lips to hers, gently kissing her, while slowly sliding his manhood over her pearl and through her passion, but not yet entering. He would wait until she begged for it.

  “Now, Dear George. Now, please … ” She would move freely and naturally to his rhythm.

  Fully aroused, he would slide his manhood through her cream until he came to rest at the entrance to her sheath.

  “Oh, George. Take me, let me know the secrets that only a man can reveal to a woman.” She would hold her breath, anticipating.

  At first, he would press gently against her sheath, listening to her sigh and looking forward to the moment he would be inside of her, feeling all of her loveliness, savouring the ultimate gift of their union …

  But it was not to be. George stood alongside Lucy and his father in the church, his frustration leaving him in agony. If only they were alone, away from the company of the others, he would act bravely as he had done last night, instead of standing next to the very woman he desired most, behaving badly.

  Where was his courage? Why could he not speak forthright and simply steal Lucy away before the others dared to notice? His father would not trouble them. He would merely turn his gaze the other direction and say nothing more.

  George only needed to act. Here and now. And yet, he found himself paralyzed.

  Why had he allowed his frustrations over the spoils of last night to override his courage now? And where was his sense of civility?

  Lucy delicately cleared her throat.

  In response to which George obligingly returned his thoughts to his kind father and their present conversation. He would find his opportunity with Lucy again. Soon. Very soon …

  “Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly, not hinting in the slightest at his innermost thoughts.

  “But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t know how many people. They won’t come back.”

  “ … full of innate sympathy … quickness to perceive good in others … vision of the brotherhood of man … ” Scraps of the lecture on St. Francis came floating round the partition wall.

  “Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”

&
nbsp; “Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”

  He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it. George, rather to her relief and now troubled heart, refused to move, and she and the old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son.

  “Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in it.”

  “I like Giotto,” she replied. “It is so wonderful what they say about his tactile values,” Lucy said, remembering the tender touch of a finger. That one gentle touch was enough; it had led to a heightened pleasure that she had never known, had never realized existed. Not wanting to reveal her inner thoughts, she dutifully said, “Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better.”

  “So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby’s worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell.”

  Lucy again felt that this did not do. Not her beloved George, she couldn’t stand the thought of him living in Hell, and though she had only just met him, her heart had wrapped around his soul. It wasn’t Hell; it was Heaven.

  “In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Lucy. How the elder was mistaken. George lived in Heaven with her, not Hell. How could he believe that?

  “How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up — free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy.”

  She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. Though this was George’s father and because of that, the older man did endear himself to her. Still, his beliefs must be mistaken.

  “What are we to do with him?” he asked. “He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves — like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?”

  Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:

  “Now don’t be stupid over this. I don’t require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you.”

  To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. She was astounded how much truth there was in his words. Had George unveiled their confidence? Had he spoken to the elder of their tryst in the night? How could he? Of course he hadn’t. Her fears dissolved when Mr. Emerson spoke again.

  “I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”

  “And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.

  “The old trouble; things won’t fit.”

  “What things?”

  “The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”

  “Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?” Lucy feared the worst.

  In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:

  “‘From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky. The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I.’

  George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don’t believe in this world sorrow.”

  Miss Honeychurch assented, still unsure what Mr. Emerson knew.

  “Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes — a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes.”

  Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh; and at hearing this she knew their secret was safe. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn’t fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!

  “I’m very sorry,” she cried. “You’ll think me unfeeling, but — but — “ Then she became matronly. “Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes,” she said, knowing better.

  The old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The Dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said:

  “Miss Bartlett.”

  “Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”

  “In the nave.”

  “I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have — ” She checked herself.

  “Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”

  She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.

  “Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I’m thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don’t waste time mourning over me. There’s enough sorrow in the world, isn’t there, without trying to invent it. Goodbye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”

  She joined her cousin, glad that the secret was safe.

  Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”

  It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marveling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.

  She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer’s evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labeled; it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what — that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gai
nsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph. Passion, a victory, a triumph — only steps leading up the stairs of her heart. Dear George had captured her body and soul.

  A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing she really liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire. Lucy played as though she were making love to her sweet amore.

  Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork. Among the promised items was “Miss Honeychurch. Piano. Beethoven,” and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure was disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in suspense all through the introduction, for not until the pace quickens does one know what the performer intends. With the roar of the opening theme he knew that things were going extraordinarily; in the chords that herald the conclusion he heard the hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that she only played the first movement, for he could have paid no attention to the winding intricacies of the measures of nine-sixteen. The audience clapped, no less respectful. It was Mr. Beebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do.

  “Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards.

  “Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not consider her choice of a piece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appeal that it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which, if anything, disturbs.”