Preternaturalisms [First Draft]
by
Brad Ramsey
(Ignatius Star)
Dedication
To Linda,
Too late, I ruined it.
Prologue
On the northern shore of Sicily are still to be seen the magnificent remains of a castle, which formerly belonged to the noble house of Treveni. It stands in the prominence of a coastal region, and upon a sandy shore. Forwardly, it wades out to small islands; backwards rises into an eminence engrossed with dark woods. The situation is truly formidable and frightening. The ruins have an air of profound loss and impress the interloper with sadness and consequence.
During my travels abroad I visited this place. As I stepped over the forgotten heaps of stone, which lay fallen in the immense area of the debris – and surveyed the forlornness and hopelessness of the land – I recurred, prognostically, to the times when these walls stood replete in their intended splendor. Resounding with the voices of those whom a decadence had long left cursed in their rest, the halls must have been a work of friendship and romantic courtesy.
“Hence,” said I. “Shall the latest generation – they who now run rampant – and they who still find delight – alike fall and be buried.”
As I turned from the scene with pity, I fixed my eyes upon a nun. Her chaste figure gently bent towards the ground and formed substance in my scope.
She sensed my emotion, as my gaze found hers. She sunk her head and pointed to the stones. “These old ruins,” she said. “Beget falseness and treachery. They are the judgment of the requital of Heaven; that God forsook them to perish.”
Her words stung my heart. I enquired for more substance.
“A solemn history belongs to this castle -” she continued. “Too frail and delicate for me to repeat. It is contained in a book in our library, of which I invite you to read. A sister in our convent – a descendant of the noble house of de Treveni – collected and recorded the preternaturalisms in connection with her family. Her manuscript was left as a proof of the fact that de Treveni was not heaven made, but rather of something else beyond nature.”
I went with her to the abbey. She introduced me to her mother superior, a woman of an obedient mind and open heart, with whom I passed a week in spiritual conversation. I was endowed with a copy of the history. The following is my best tracery of it.
Chapter 1
Towards the middle of the eighteenth century, this castle was in the possession of His Lord Cavour the Count of Treveni and was for generations the principal residence of his family. He was a man of ambitious and discreditable character. He married Sophia Solferino – second daughter of the Count de Castelle – a lady more distinguished by the serenity of her manners and calm of disposition, than by her sex appeal.
She gave the Count one son and two daughters and died in her son’s early childhood.
The impetuous and daring character of the Count ran powerfully upon the harmless and docile nature of his wife. People believed that his arrogance and neglect put a stop to her life.
His second wife was a woman of infinite enterprise of an indomitable spirit, devoted to hedonism. His son was bereft of paternal caress. His present wife was too important to tend to domestic concerns. Completely encumbered with the undertaking, he committed the education of his son to the care of a servant who had served a distant relation of the children’s natural mother.
Soon after the second marriage, the Count quitted Treveni. He left for the allure and excitement of Naples. His wife and daughters went with him. Although he decisively had a proud and fiery disposition, he was nevertheless controlled by his wife. Although his passions were thrust, she had powers to bend them for her own purpose, hiding her false intentions.
Staying only to give such general orders concerning the upbringing of his son, he paid no visit to the castle of Treveni afterwards, and the countess seldom showed her face either.
His son, Gibbon, inherited much of his mother’s traits. He had a mild and sweet temper, united with a clear and reasoning mind. His early years were of a livelier cast. An extreme sensitivity subjected him to frequent uneasiness. His temper was warm, but generous, quickly upset, and quickly appeased. To a reproof, however gentle, he would remain silent, but never angry.
His imagination was abundant, and his mind early exhibited signs of genius.
It was the duty of M. Pollino to counteract those traits in the disposition of his young ward, which appeared harmful to future success. For this task he had abilities which entitled him to hope for that outcome. A series of early misfortunes had softened his heart, without impairing the soundness of his mind. He had accepted and had almost lost the consciousness of those sorrows which yet threw a prominent and high place in his character. He loved his young charge paternally, whose gradual improvement repaid all his doubt.
M. Pollino excelled in science and discovery. He had often forgot his sorrows in his experiments when his mind was too much occupied to derive consolation from painting. He was persistent to impart to Gibbon a power as that of preserving a sense of composure in the face of loss.
Gibbon’s tastes led him to drawing, and he soon took strides forward in that art. He was also uncommonly susceptible to the science of harmony. He had sensibility for its various and unlimited powers. The tutorials of M. Pollino he grasped with quick eagerness. In a brief time, he was proficient in his favorite study. It was not in the complicated combination of parts that he excelled so much as in that melodious sound, and in those haunting notes of counterpoint, which guided a spirit through music.
The guitar was his favorite instrument. Its enchanting notes accorded with the deep and steady tones of his voice.
The castle of Treveni was a large and irregular structure, favorable to welcome a numerable train of followers, who served the nobility either in the leisure of peace or the terror of war. Gibbon lived in only a small part of it. This part was empty and almost forlorn, despite the ampleness of the apartments. An imperturbable silence reigned through the halls. The stillness of the courts was for hours together uninterrupted by the tread of any footstep.
Gibbon, who discovered an early taste for books, loved to withdraw in an evening to a small closet in which he had collected his favorite authors. This room formed the western bend of the castle. One of its views turned out upon the sea. Lying in the distance were two small rocky islands, and further the eastern coast of Sardinia. The second view opened towards the southern part of the castle and encouraged the prospect of adventure in the encircling woods.
His room – at once graceful, quiet, and removed – was embellished with little sculptures of his own execution and with drawings which he had taken by hand. The closet adjoining his chamber was separated from the apartments of M. Pollino only by a short gallery.
This gallery opened to another – long and meandering – leading to a great staircase, which concluded in the north hall. The main apartments of the north side of the castle combined.
M. Pollino’s apartment opened into both galleries. It was in one of these rooms that he usually spent the mornings engaged in the instruction of his young charge. The room was bright and pleasing. It was their habit to dine in one of the lower apartments. At board they were always joined by a dependent of the Count, who had lived all his adult years in the castle. He instructed Gibbon in the Latin language, and in geometry.
During the balmy evenings of summer, the three men supped in a pavilion, which was built on a high place in the woods belonging to the castle. From this place was an almost boundless range of sea and land. It cast upon the Gulf de Castellammare, with the distant prospect of Palermo. There was a great extent of the dark and turbulent scenery of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The coastline of Rome and Naples – crowned with eminence and art – formed a dim and uneven outline in the horizon. The port of Cagliari was also visible.
Gibbon, as he fancied the fertile plains and rough mountains which enclosed it, in imagination depictured splendor. He secretly longed to embark to any place. For he was excluded by the cruel envy of the Count, upon whose passion the dread of rival grace prejudiced him against his own son.
The Count of Treveni invoked all his influence over M. Pollino to detain them in seclusion. Now twenty, Gibbon had never passed the confines of the Castle’s domains.
Jealousy often produces unreasonable concern. But the count had in this instance just cause for alarm. The handsomeness of his son has rarely been surpassed. Gibbon was just in proportions. His complexion was olive, his hair dark, and his dark blue eyes were full of sensitive expression. He was dignified and easy, and in his air was a good-natured strength. A tender kindness irresistibly attracted the heart of the beholder. His eyes were deep, and full of meaning, but tempered with modest deference. His features were well made – every heartfelt laugh played around his mouth – with the finely tuned emotions of his soul. Falling in a gentle wave about his neck, his deep brown hair gave a finishing look to his pleasing visage.
Thus gorgeous, and thus left in obscurity, was the heir of the noble Treveni. But he was happy, for he knew not enough of the world seriously to regret the want of its sights. Although he would sometimes sigh for the dreamy image which his fancy painted, his painful curiosity would ache for the splendid scenes from which he was excluded.
A return to his habitual pastimes would chase the idyllic vision from his mind, and restore his normal happy comforts. Books, music, and paints apportioned the hours of his leisure, and summer evenings were passed in the pavilion. Here the fine conversation of M. Pollino, the Count’s dependent, Gibbon’s guitar, the poetry of Virgil, and the discussion of poetry in its widest influence, combined to form a pursuit of true happiness, such as elevated and highly virtuous minds are alone capable of capture or attainment.
M. Pollino understood this and professed the art of happiness according to the lyrical ballad. His young ward perceived its value, and the inspired breadth of its character.
Lyrical poetry may be divided into two classes – the beautiful and the instructional. It is the province of the beautiful, to diffuse hopefulness and ease – to open the heart of the auditor, and to spread a gentle balm upon the thought.
Nature and words must combine to make us susceptible of enchantment, and to qualify us for the second province of lyrical poetry, here termed instructional – and, in which M. Pollino particularly excelled. Hopefulness, sensitivity of feeling, and the natural predisposition to experience must be united an expansion of thought and a refinement of the passions. The result is high civility.
This sort of poetry is irresistibly enchanting. A measure of suffering is requisite, for that character of ease, that elegance of speech is only to be attained by surmounting to higher circles of acquired self-acceptance. Subjects interesting to the heart and to the fancy are brought forward. They are discussed in a spiritual way – with humor and seriousness – never continued longer than others burdens can allow.
Such was the conversation of M. Pollino; and the pleasant comfort of the pavilion seemed particularly apt for the scene of happy colloquy.
One evening of a very humid day, the coolness of the hour and loveliness of the night, tempted these happy men to remain there later than usual. Returning home, they were astonished by the appearance of a light through the torn fabric of the drapery of an apartment. It belonged to a section of the castle which had for all these years been uninhabited. They stopped to watch the light when it suddenly disappeared and was seen no more.
M. Pollino, disturbed by this sensation, hastened into the castle, with the intention of discovering the cause. He was met in the north hall by Russell. He feared that someone had breached that part of the castle with an intention of doing mischief. In contempt of a petty fear through which he was bound by duty, he summoned the servants of the castle and ordered an immediate search for the keys of that court.
Russell smiled at his apprehensions and suggested that what he had seen was a trick of the mind, which the lateness of the hour had impressed upon his imagination. M. Pollino, however, persisted. After a long and exhaustive search, a heavy key covered with rust was presented.
Accompanied by Gibbon and the count’s dependent and followed by Russell, they crossed the court.
The key was forced into an iron gate, which opened into a separated area from the rest of the castle. It was overgrown with bushes and brambles. They all ascended stone stairs that led to a great door, which they repeatedly tried to open. All the different keys of the castle were put to the lock, but they quitted the place without having ever appeased their alarm.
Everything was quiet, and the light did not shine again. M. Pollino concealed his concern, Russell and the rest of servants were dismissed, and the three remaining gentlemen bid each other goodnight.
This occurrence disquieted the mind of M. Pollino, and it was days before he ventured again to pass an evening in the pavilion.
Chapter Two
After two months went by, without further disruption or mystery, another occasion renewed the alarm. Gibbon had one night remained in his closet later than usual. A favorite book had attracted his attention beyond the hour of customary retirement, and every resident of the castle, except himself, had long been safe in bed. He was stirred into prescience, by the tolling of the castle clock, which struck twice. Surprised by the lateness of the hour, he rose with his conscience, and was moving to his chamber, when the tranquility of the night attracted him to the window. He opened it; and observing the silver glow of the moonlight upon the swelling sea, leaned outwards.
In that posture he had not long remained when he perceived a light shine through a casement in the barren part of the castle. A sudden panic gripped him, and he with difficulty steadied himself. A moment later, the light disappeared, and soon after a figure, bearing a lamp, walked from a hidden door belonging to the south tower; and keeping in close quarters along the outside of the castle walls, turned round the southern corner, by which the figure and the light was afterwards concealed from view.
Astonished and frightened at what he had seen, he hurried to the apartment of M. Pollino, and related the act. The servants were immediately awakened, and the alarm went throughout. M. Pollino arose and descended into the north hall, where the servants were already in line. No one could be found with strength sufficient to enter the southern court; and the orders of M. Pollino were neglected, while attending to the malady of their own panic. He noticed that Russell was absent, but as he was sending orders for him to be presented, he entered the hall. Surprised to find the house thus arrayed, he was told the full occasion of the assembly. He immediately ordered a group of the servants to follow him around the castle walls; and in apprehension, or more precisely in fear, they obeyed him.
They all returned to the hall, without having observed any suspicious appearance; but though their concerns were not appeased, they were by no means self-indulgent. The shining of a light in a part of the castle which had for all these years been quitted, and wherefore presented an atmosphere of singular decay, might be supposed to inspire a strong spirit of sudden panic. In the minds of the vulgar, any occurrence of the preternatural is received with eagerness; and the servants did not doubt to believe the southern section of the castle to be possessed by a supernatural power.
Much too excited to sleep, they determined to watch for the rest of the night. To this purpose they arraigned themselves in the east gallery, where they had in their sights the southern tower from which the light had shone. The rest of the night, however, passed without any further interruption; and the morning dawn, which they welcomed with inexpressible relief, eased for a while the grips of panic. But the return of evening renewed the prevalent fear, and for successive nights the servants watched the south tower. Although nothing remarkable was seen, a rumor was spread, and believed, that the south tower was haunted.
M. Pollino, whose mind was resilient to the effects of superstition, was yet disturbed and upset, and he determined to communicate the circumstance to the Count and request the keys of the galleries and apartments leading from the court by the southern part of the castle.
Chapter Seven
The count, immersed in the turbulence of Naples, seldom thought of the castle, or its inhabitants. His daughters, who had been brought up and trained under his immediate supervision, were the sole objects of his pride, as the countess was the sole object of his passion.
He loved his wife with romantic servitude, which she requited with seeming love, and secret treachery. For, she allowed herself a liberal indulgence of the most profligate kind; yet conducted herself with an art so cultivated as to elude discovery and even skepticism. In her amours she was equally licentious as composed, till the young Lady Persephone de Clanricarde attracted her attention. The natural changeability seemed then to stop, and upon this lady she fixed all her lecherous attention.
Lady de Clanricarde lost her mother in early childhood. Her father was now in his later years and had just entered upon the settlement of his entire estate. His person was mild, yet virtuous; his mind erudite, and his manners tasteful; his countenance expressed an old-fashioned union of independence, honesty, and forbearance, which formed the principal traits of his character. He had a refinement of thought, which taught him to frown upon the radical philosophies of the Neapolitans and led him to peaceful pursuits. He was the chosen and early friend of Count Francis de Plombières whom he felt was a suitable match for his only daughter.
He had also become acquainted with Count Cavour de Treveni and his family and had paid a visit with his daughter to their estate in Naples. When the Countess first met the Count de Clanricarde, she plied him with coquetry, and made bold advances, as neither the honor nor the virtue of his daughter nor himself permitted her to succeed in much. Persephone conducted herself towards the Countess with modest indifference, which served only to inflame the passion she felt for the young Lady that it was meant to cool.
The favors of the Countess had hitherto been sought with full license and accepted with gratification; and the repulsive virtue which she now experienced, roused her lecherous heart, and called into play every ploy that encouraged her to become at once a spoiled and incorrigible flirt.
Chapter Eight
It was about this time that Russell contracted a disease which progressed so rapidly, as in a brief time to assume the most grievous appearance. Despairing of life, he asked that a message might be sent forward to inform the Count de Treveni of his situation and entreat to him his earnest wish to visit the castle before he died. The progress of the disease defied every science of medicine, and his apparent distress of mind accelerated a fatal outcome. Perceiving his final hour was near at hand, he desired to have a confessor. The confessor was alone at his side for a considerable amount of time, and he had already delivered extreme unction, when M. Pollino was summoned to his bedside.
The grim reaper was then upon him. Cold chills hung about his body, and he, with difficulty, raised his heavy eyes to M. Pollino as he entered the chamber. He beckoned him towards himself and insisting that no person might be allowed to enter the room and remained for the next moments silent. His mind appeared to labor under the oppressive reflection of his lifetime; he made three attempts to speak, but his ability failed him.
At length, offering M. Pollino a look of unspeakable horror, “Alas, sir,” said he, “Heaven answers not the prayer of such a miscreant as I am. I must pass on before the Count can arrive. Since I shall speak to him no more, I would betray him with a secret which weighs heavy in my conscience, and which makes my last hour awful, as it is without hope.”
“Rest easy.” said M. Pollino, who was taken aback by the ferocity of his manner. “We are taught to believe that God entrusts no secret too painful, that we may not share among the brethren.”
“You, sir, are ignorant of the enormity of my crime, and of the secret – the terrible secret – is one which I would withhold from the Supreme Judge. My guilt is beyond remedy in this world, and I fear I shall receive no pardon in the next; I therefore assess little worth in my confession even to a priest. Yet in lesser evil it is still in my power to accomplish. Let me disclose to you that secret which is the cause of the superstition connected with the southern apartments of this castle.”
“What of it?” asked M. Pollino, with impatience. Russell gave no answer; exhausted by the endeavor of speaking, he had fallen into a faint. M. Pollino rung for assistance, and by smelling salts, his senses were recalled. He was, however, entirely dumb, and in this state, he remained until he died.
His time of death rounded off the hour that began when supreme unction was delivered.
Chapter Nine
The wonder and curiosity of M. Pollino, were by these recent events increased to a high degree of discomfort. He reflected upon the several particulars relative to the southern part of the castle, the many years it had stood empty – the silence which had been observed concerning it – the vision of the light and the figure – the profitless search for the keys, and the rumors so widespread and believed, and thus reflection presented him with an array of circumstances, which served only to increase an apprehension and heighten his uncertainty. A shade of mystery hung over the southern part of the castle, which now seemed unlikely to be resolved, since the only person who could have provided the solution, was dead.
Instead of the count’s immediate concern in this matter, it was the countess who arrived on the day after Russell had passed away, attended by one servant, and who alighted at the gates of the castle with an air of importance, and a countenance expressive of disdain. M. Pollino, with Gibbon, received her in the hall. She perfunctorily greeted them both, and passed on to the oak parlor, desiring that M. Pollino should follow her. He obeyed, and the countess enquired indirectly after Russell. When informed of his death, she looked about the room with quick glances, and was for ten minutes silent.
At length seating herself, and surveying M. Pollino with a scrutinizing eye, she asked for the particulars concerning Russell’s death. M. Pollino asserted his earnest desire to see the count and underlined his words. The countess insisted that he make all the information known to her, and M. Pollino began to relate those circumstances relevant to the southern part of the castle, which he thought it of such importance to discover.
The countess treated the affair very lightly, smiled at his conjectures, represented the appearances he described as the tricks played on a weak and inventive mind, and ended the conversation, by going to visit the chamber of Russell, in which she remained a considerable time.
On the following day Gibbon dined with the countess. He was gloomy and silent; her efforts to amuse him seemed to touch on displeasure, rather than graciousness; and when the repast was concluded, he withdrew to his closet, leaving the countess in a state of wonder and surprise.
Russell was to be interred, according to his own wishes, in the church belonging to the convent of St. Nicholas. One of the servants, after taking the necessary orders concerning the funeral arrangements, undertook to inform the countess of the strange occurrences in the southern tower of the castle. He mentioned the rumors which were widespread amongst the household and complained that the servants were refusing to cross the courts after it was dark.
“And who has authorized you with this story?” said the countess, in an unfeeling tone. “Are the trivial and ridiculous fancies of the servants to be brought to my attention? Away – appear no more before me, till you have learned to speak what is proper for me to hear.”
Gladstone withdrew embarrassed, and it was hours before any person dared to approach the countess.
Chapter Ten
The retinue of the count’s daughters now drew near, and the countess determined to celebrate the circumstance with a festive occasion. She, therefore, summoned the Count and his daughters from Naples, and very opulent preparations were ordered. Gibbon dreaded the arrival of his father, whose influence he had forever avoided, and by whose arrival he had anticipated his very oppression.
Beneath the generous tutelage of M. Pollino, his years had passed in graceful tranquility, for he was ignorant alike of the sorrows and turbulences of the world. Those did not break his heart and those did not call him to arms. Engaged in the pursuits of learning, and in the attainment of peaceful arts, his moments passed lightly, and the passage of time was marked only by improvement. In M. Pollino was found the guidance of a father, and the comfort of a friend; and he loved him with a loyal and inviolable affection.
The announced visit of his sisters, whom he had not seen since he was a child, gave Gibbon more pleasure. Although his thought recollected no very distinct memory of them, he looked forward with warm and soft hope to their virtues and their talents; and hoped to find in their companionship, a protection from the uneasiness which the presence of his father would urge.
Yet Gibbon did not look forward without thoughtful consideration to the approaching festival. A new and unknown occasion was now approaching, which his imagination failed to describe in the contrasting colors upon his canvass. The near approach of the unknown frequently awakens in a young man’s heart misgivings, which would fail to be excited by a more indefinite or less fateful occurrence. Gibbon, who, in his solitude, had considered the splendid wonders of life with tranquility, now lingered in suspenseful foreboding through the moments which withheld him from his usual enjoyments. His painting was less relevant, and his music more meditative, as he beheld the approaching festival in absorbed thought, and almost regretted the interruption of his quiet life, which he knew to be more congenial with his comforts and composure.
When the count arrived at the castle, he was followed by attendants, and accompanied by his daughters, and the Italian noblesse, whom the invitation to festive pleasure had attracted to his retinue. His entrance was announced by a flourish of music, and those gates which had rusted from long disuse were thrown open to receive him. The courts and halls, whose aspect so recently expressed emptiness and proscription, now glowed with new splendor, and resounded with the sounds of merriment and activity.
Gibbon surveyed the scene from an obscure view; and as the exalted sounds filled the air, his heart throbbed; his stomach turned with nervous feelings; and his apprehensions concerning his father and sisters painted a wilderness before him which was hitherto unknown to him. The arrival of the Count seemed indeed the signal of universal and unlimited pleasure. When the Countess came out to receive him, the easy manner which had always guided Gibbon’s countenance, sank before the smiles of welcome, which the whole company appeared to consider as invitations to fun.
Chapter 11
The sensitive heart of Gibbon was not proof against a scene so opulent, and he sighed at the prospect, yet scarcely knew why. M. Pollino pointed out to him, the graceful figure of a young Lady who followed a noble person, and Gibbon expressed his wishes that she might be one of his sisters. From the contemplation of the scene before them, they were summoned to meet the count. Gibbon trembled with apprehension, and as he approached, he wished that the castle could return to its former state. As he advanced through the hall in which he was presented, Gibbon was covered in anxiety; but M. Pollino, though equally struck, preserved his quiet dignity.
The count received Gibbon with a mingled smile of appraisal and valuation, and immediately the whole company was attracted by the handsomeness of the count’s son. The expressive eyes of Gibbon sought in vain to discover his sisters, of whose features he had no recollection in those of any of the ladies then present. At length, his father presented them, and he perceived, with a sigh of regret, that neither one of them was the lady whom he had observed from the window.
They advanced with a charming air, and he met them with unfeigned warmth. Both Emilia and Julia had a very noble and spirited bearing; their figures were elegant and graceful; and each had a countenance which expressed at once the sweetness and dignity appropriate for such an occasion as the introduction of their long absent brother.
Supper was served in the east hall, and the tables were spread with an abundance of delicacies. A courtesy of music played during the ceremony, and the evening concluded with a concert in the great hall.
Chapter Twelve
The day of the festival, so apprehensively and doubtfully looked for by Gibbon, was now arrived. All the neighboring nobility were invited, and the gates of the castle were thrown open for a grand celebration. A triumphant splendor, consisting of the most luxurious and expensive delicacies, was served in the halls. Melodious music floated along the high-vaulted roofs, the walls were hung in tapestries, and it seemed as if the hands of fairies had magically transformed this once gloomy space into a palace of Oberon. The Countess notwithstanding the general admiration she received, frequently appeared abstracted from the entertainments, and despite all her efforts at enjoyment, the melancholy of her heart was visible in her countenance.
In the evening there was a grand ball: the count, who was still admired for his handsomeness, and for the noble bearing of his manners, appeared in the most splendid attire. His suit was designed to show his powerful stature but made him look rather overweight than muscular. Although conscious of his charms, he beheld Gibbon with a jealous eye, and was compelled secretly to acknowledge, that the modest attire in which he was dressed, was more alluring than all the fine silk of his splendid tailoring. He was dressed in a light Sicilian riding coat, coarse riding slacks, and buckled knee-high boots.
The ball was opened by Count d’Avellini and Lady Emilia. Lady Julia danced with the young Marquis Della Salerni and acquitted herself with the ease and dignity so endowed by that distinction afforded to her. Gibbon experienced a various emotion of excitement and fear when he led forth Persephone de Clanricarde, in whom he immediately recognized to be the Lady M. Pollino had pointed out, and whom he wished was one of his sisters. The lightness of her step, and the airy grace of her figure, provoked in the onlookers a small burst of applause, and the subtle blush which now passed over her cheek, gave an additional delight to her appearance. But when the music changed, and they danced to the slow Sicilian measure, the perfect symmetry of their movement, and the autonomy of their own self-governance, sunk attention into silence, which continued as other couples in the ballroom led forth.
The countess observed the approval that withstood all, with seeming approbation, and secret displeasure. She had experienced a very painful agitation, when Gibbon selected Lady Persephone for his partner in the dance, and she followed them through the evening with a watch of jealous surveillance. Her bosom, which was before brushed only with lust, was now bursting by the agitation of other vices more violent and destructive. Her thoughts were distracted, her mind withdrew from the scene before her, and it required all her strength to preserve an apparent composure in her estate.
She saw, or fancied she saw, a virtuous attraction in Lady Persephone, when Gibbon addressed himself to her, that lay waste to her own heart with wild fury.
Chapter Thirteen
At midnight, the gates of the castle were thrown open, and the celebrants poured out to the woods, which were festively decorated with fires. Strings of lamps lined the long avenues of trees, which were terminated by great bonfires that presented to the eye endless pillars of flame. At regular intervals pavilions were erected, hung with colorful lights, displayed in the brilliance, and in the most spectacular forms. Refreshments were spread under the trees; and percussions, performed by invisible hands, swept around. The musicians were placed in the most obscure and secret retreats, to elude the eye and deceive in the unlikelihood of sound. The sight was enchanting. Nothing met the eye but beauty and romantic splendor; the ear received no sensation of hearing, but constant merriment, accompanied by timpani and drums.
The younger part of the company formed themselves into parties, which at intervals flashed through the woods and were absorbed in the shadows. Gibbon seemed the magic king of the realm. His hope rose to joy and cast over his features an expression of bountiful and munificent delight. A generous, candid, and exalted sentiment sparkled in his eyes, and animated his manner. His chest expanded with benevolent aspirations; and he seemed anxious to impart to everyone around him, his feeling of contentment, which he perceived in the satisfying scene before him. Wherever he moved, approval followed his steps. Emilia was happy to have found a happy brother. Julia, of like mind, found in that brother, their old friend; and the Count seemed to have left the green-eyed monster of jealousy in the castle.
The countess alone was wretched. She supped with a closed party, in a pavilion on the seashore, which was arrayed according to her taste. It was hung with white linen, drawn into ruffles, and generously applied with azure taffetas. The sofas were of gold brocade, and alternate garlands of lamps and of roses entwined the columns. A row of small torches had been placed about the entablature of the pavilion, which formed an engulfment of light round the vault; and reflected light, as bright as daylight, for they were multiplied by the large mirrors that adorned the room.
The Count de Lucceri was of the party. He complimented the countess on the beauty of her daughters, and after lamenting with caprice the captives which their charms would enthrall, he mentioned Gibbon. “He is certainly of all the chevaliers here, the man most deserving of Lady Persephone. As they danced, I thought them fine exemplars of the virtues of either sex; or if I mistake not, they are alit with a mutual attraction.”
The countess, endeavoring to conceal her uneasiness, said, “Yes, my lord, I allow my children all the merit you adjudge them, but from the little I have seen of Gibbon’s disposition, he is too immature for a serious attachment.”
At that instant Gibbon entered the pavilion. “Ah,” said de Lucceri, in jest. “You have been the subject of our conversation and seem to become in enjoyable time to receive the tribute thus paid to you. I was interceding with your mother for your interest in her favor, for the Lady Persephone; but she absolutely refuses it; and though she allows you merit, alleges, that you are yet too young for love. What say you – would not the beauty of Lady Persephone plight your unsteady heart?”
“I know not how I have deserved that character of my mother,” said Gibbon in an unfeigned manner. “But that heart must be uncommon or insensible at any age, which cannot feel so pure a virtue as love that is worthy of an obligation to another person who is as deserving of an engagement such as her Lady Persephone.”
The countess, mortified by the whole conversation, now felt the full force of Gibbon’s reply, which she imagined he pointed with particular emphasis.
Chapter Thirteen
The amusements concluded with a grand firework, which was displayed on the shore of the sea, and the merrymakers did not retire till the dawn of morning. Gibbon retired from the scene with reluctance. He was enchanted by the new world that was now displayed before him, and he was not composed enough to distinguish the enchantment of pleasure from the virtue of true happiness. The impressions he now made, he believed, would be lasting, and in a uniform degree, by the objects which first excited them.
The preternatural is never entirely perceived by young minds. It is confounding to know, that we are affected by objects whose impressions are as variable as appearances are abundant – and that what yesterday affected us strongly, is today but imperfectly felt, and tomorrow perhaps shall be disregarded. When, at length, this unwelcome truth is received into the mind, we at first reject, with remorse, any evidence of truth. We scorn to partake of a happiness which seems illusory, and we frequently sink into a temporary despair.
Wisdom or essence, at length, recall us from our error, and offers to us virtue, which can produce a pleasing, yet permanent effect, which effect, therefore, we call happiness. Happiness has this essential difference from what is commonly called pleasure, that virtue forms its nature, and virtue being the substance of reason, may be expected to share in permanence in the face of any preternaturalism.
Chapter Fourteen
Shall Pagan worship lead astray Persephone in the garden? Shall the Abbess save the day from a fall to specious reason?
“Grow Helianthus, pagan flower, follow Phoebus’ photo light. These matins of your follower, look east to learn the goddess night.”
Each day Phoebus Apollo rose, as Persephone said prayers. “Grow flower. Strive against your foes: the Lepidopteran betrayers.” While westward Phoebus made descent. “Grow, Helianthus, give your head, and as your awn-like scales are meant, my pappus falls into your bed. The polyphagous Larvae suck the juice of Erigeron’s pappus, but you Helianthus only f--- sterile rays to be caducous.”
Such mysteries the flower displayed Persephone did inquire. Yet the countess remained staid, “Hot plasma forms the sun, not fire.”
Near to here Hedera grows (creeping upon the priory) and to Persephone bestows
warnings against idolatry. “And does,” she asked, “Helianthus, who has no god except the sun, then make you so obsequious that your full devotion is won? A heliotropic debutante, who flattered but for greater growth – does he attract your earnest chant, of prayer and deprecating oath? Does he, Lady, in desert heats, deserve a pappus of your own? Wet are Lepidopterans’ seats, until caducous his seed blown. For me rather, your praise is due (in Phoebus I have seldom need), encircling and embracing you, while Aves spreads my fruit and seed.”
“How now?” the countess replied. “You have forgot the Dusty Wave and Shades and Underwings denied. By night Lepidopterans crave. You have missed the Willow Beauties with speckled wings of whitish grey, and I hate your Aves, and the fodder for the Jay. Yet I too deny the day, for your walls in gloomy shade. D--- Phoebus Apollo, I say, I am more what Diana made. What Diana does hunt at night, in such my eye does not avert – oh my, Diana, out of sight, from morn to eve, I shall convert. If you should share your night with me, my love, my heart, my life is due, and you, dear girl – you thee –the prayers you make shall all come true.”
Thus, spoke the countess, and drooped her head, and chanced to shed a pollen tear. Persephone in wonder led to evening mass – and then just here – confessed unto the Abbess next. “Behold!” cried out Mother Science. “The plants have you enthralled and vexed, you should take heed to due diligence. Our hearts once seized are full of fears, once harmed, have great harm to remove; our tears are shed as heartfelt tears, to make such inquiry of Jove. See here, Helianthus expels carrion for mobile Larvae. As for his pappus therefore dwells a common wood pigeon close by. Yet neither Larvae, nor the Thrush, nor a pappus, nor Apollo, God made us for the blood, not bush – do not forsake Him – science follow. Hot plasma forms our solar star, the moon has its crustal highland. Oh child, you have not travelled far, to make yourself a spoiled garland.”
As one so duteous, so fair, Persephone knew familiar preaching. So, she joined in silent prayer on scientific teaching. “Sunflower, you face east at morn, and turn westward to find your bed. Dear Helianthus, we are sworn, that hereby all of us are fed. Dear Hedera, in gloomy shade, your ivy vine gives ripe berries; a poison fruit for Aves made, and insects, still no worries.
Portentous was the evening now. In her cell, forebodings mild. It was dark save the glow of Leto’s preternatural child.
Chapter Fifteen
The city life, where every care still reigns o’er youthful peasants and declining swains. What labor yields, and what that labor past, age, in its hour of languor, finds at last. What remain the picture of the poor, recall a song the Muse shall sing once more.
Dead are those times, when in heroic verse, their Country’s honor or its joys rehearse. Few poets laud in captivating strains, the beauty of long industrial plains. Yet, chimera to all the pains we feel, the vibrancy the city lights reveal, and he who condemned the pastoral lay, might trace the city in postmodern way.
(In ancient Troy, in Priam’s bloody reign, around the city walls and twice again?)
But shall this poem the Classical prolong mechanical tribute to an old song? From fair market price do I not soon stray, where homage, not the evening, paves the way? Yes. The Muse sings in the Romantic Age, and all since then has fitted to a page. She sings of peasants’ pipes. but the throng, now, chase muff around, and like their pleasures low. The Muse, for all her masses, has no rhyme, as concord lacks in our discordant time. Save I, what son of verse would even share, in heroic, eighteenth century care? Or would the rarer flower of the field, increase the value of the garden’s yield?
(Would land enclosure suit my modern hand, with repercussions felt throughout the land?)
Still, a Romantic thought I need not ask – for Rip Van Winkle ‘twas no easy task. He fell asleep two hundred years ago, and dreamed the working class had caught their foe, woke up today supposing King George well, yet wondered if the vote was worth this hell.
I grant, indeed, Postmodernism fair (when money grows and there is no other care). But while amid this new romance I trace, a postmodernist might lose his place: as Fortune smiles on some with fervid ray, on some donned heads or some other array. While some with softer head and fainter heart, deplore their Fortune, yet still play their part.
(Then, shall I, this most caught out kidder abide in H.D., out of fain poetic pride?)
Chapter Sixteen
No; my lesson comes from a unique Bard, where groves and happy dales are duly marred, where the most endemic cares he relates, exemplify his pastoral’s finest traits. George Crabbe once wrought a picture of the cot as truth would paint it, and as Bards had not. Nor you, dear reader, a poor pastiche disdain, and say my latest song is sung in vain. Overcome with hunger and still losing time, allow me the example of his rhyme. Would George Crabbe deny me a little bread, if I – for village life – make the town instead? Let this passing song distaste overpower and make you more forgiving from this hour.
Lo! How this City with steel beams grown o’er, sprawls in its greyness for the rich and poor. Like a dark labyrinth the grid appears, where all shall walk their block despite their fears. Fortune, the real kidder (she does defy) looks o'er the land, with greyness in her eye. Supremely she stands, her arms spread afar, she rules this City, her subjects at war. With laughter, she mocks the hope of toil; success is hidden in her winding coil. Her song is but Childe’s in these busy streets, till the music stops all dash ‘round their seats. O'er brightest hopes, she casts out her dark shade, denying to good hearts that light must fade. As mingled rays her promises abound, and an uncertain splendor shines around. For, no certainty can dress or adorn, the threads come loose as she stitches with scorn; whose lips, in vain, are like the two-faced rose, as crimson flush and pointed thorns disclose; whose only reward is fool’s happiness, poverty her fine. So then, deep distress.
Here, beaten, roam the Neapolitan crass (and true, 'tis woe for every lad and lass), who without clear prospects from markets fly, and barter their exchange with gaudy eye. Here, too, the lawless merchant of the block, draws from his coat the mind-altering rock. To feed the street claims the labor of his day, and yes Vice steals my nightly rest away.
Where is the nymph, who, daily tidings done, with long kisses, played down the setting sun? Who, with wide eyes and in earnest love shall, with forthright feeling, not suffer to fall? As a large swain, exciting and strong, engaged much welcomed slipping of her thong, and fell beneath her – laid – while far around deep thunder rose, and they returned the sound. Where now is she? Their lovemaking a sin – a sprite, they each regret, has fairer skin. A complaint has been filed with the law, the swain was roundly beaten to the raw, exchanging what they shared, for what each lost, and charged the unfair fine, they pay the cost. No love is offered, only tawdriness, exchanging innocence for bawdiness.
Chapter Seventeen
Here, wandering long amid the downtown core, I sought the glamour of the city roar.
Assault and Wrong and Fear usurped her sass, for the sick, conning, unemployed class, who might be skilled to trap and skin a hide, but in the hunt, would let the prey abide. Out until late, and after getting high, on the homeless man fix your eagle eye, who wants money – he will not be forgotten – spare him a coin, because life is rotten.
How lucky is the goose who leaves the land, who aims his wing o'er gentle sun and sand.
(At the least sign of frost his wings are spread.) Like him I longed to be but never fled; could not fly from the brutal gales that reign, but cried – ah, hapless we who yet remain, who yet remain to trod on slush and snow, and curse the floorboard heaters, row by row. Till the Lamb's month the thaw ensues, and kindly thoughts the tired mind pursues: (a charity by which this ilk is fed) the foodbank. Now, a warmer walk ahead.
But these are scenes where Fortune's slight-of-hand only deals rubbish in the urban land. Hers is the fault when the City concedes to poor public funding for those with needs. But look at other scenes fairer in view, where Plenty smiles – alas, she smiles for few. And those who have not, who see those with more, are outsiders who do not fit at the store: the wealth around them makes them twice as poor. Or will you deem the welfare cheque enough, your tax dollars pay out when life gets tough? Go then. Spend time in any rooming house. Live with the lazy and be a good souse. See the unemployed, disabled, and cons, the addicts, the artists, the wayward sons. Behold them each day aloof in the street, in dead cold winter, in the summer’s heat. See them thank the Lord for their daily bread, and more than just bread, let us pray they are fed. Just down the road their sluggish steps pursue, as their poor clothes imbibe the evening dew. Then no further – their time was yesterday. Without hope, way does not lead onto way.
Chapter Eighteen
Amid this class, often poetic zeal, takes less pay for the less common ideal. Here may you see a youth of solid frame contend with canonized poets of fame; while, making slight progress, yet loth to yield, he refuses a more lucrative field. As Time’s arrow speeds to the very last, less future holds and more shall hold his past. His poetry that once was current dress
reveals his better days and shabbiness.
Yet grant him dreams –’tis not for you to tell – though the clothes are poor the heart is not well. Or will you say that dreams take second place, hard work and goals and steady wins the race? But trifle not with Man’s true soul’s desire, nor criticize his visions by the fire. Pleasure, not pain, hope, not despair, are such as any human being has right to touch.
And you, who would love a life without work, who think your hardest task would be the cork – go, if unemployed your good comforts make, go look within, and see who’s on the take – if he works not – that drooping weary sire; or they – if the children’s looks be not dire; or she, who only wants what’s best for all, and can’t bear to see her family fall.
Nor yet can Labor herself make for these, life’s latest comforts, peace of mind, and ease. For you would still see that hoary swain, whose age can with no cares except his own engage, who sits on a ledge and begs to receive, alms from a young girl – and here is no reprieve – for as a young man a girl fair as she, might have given her hand, not her pity.
He once played footsy on Varsity field, having the talent to strike and not yield.
Full fondly good friends he had and looks out for acknowledgment from people about. He greets one or two with hope in his eyes, but gains swift rebuke – walks away – no, flies. Living alone in constant pain, he asks for alms earning mostly disdain. As a young man he was mentally ill, but there was no real cure, only a pill. Now expressing his regret is in vain: no one really wants to hear him complain.
Often you see him down by the old lake, in midwinter, when most that place forsake. Often, he murmurs to the winds that blow, who demand no reason for his sad, sullen woe; while roused by his passion, to the depths speaks, to every wave that rises, crests, and breaks.
“Ancient lake if you were the boundless sea, you would be unfathomable to me. You would be ocean in all his measure, from China to Peru at your pleasure. Yet only a lake and landlocked you are, for all your cares you have not travelled far. Much as I am, you are tied to the shore. So, I fathom – you must at times want more. Haven’t you wished you were more than a lake, who would for Ocean this City forsake? These shallow waves, all this water I see,
are no one’s gain and a sad care for me. These puny waves hardly rise, crest, and break,
but like this City, I rush for your sake. For your sake, I rush to the city shore – a wave that has a moment, then no more. Only Ocean has more powerful waves. Ocean decides who he destroys or saves. Would these be not the waves of you, old Lake, but Tsunami, who would this City shake.”
Thus, the hoary old swain thinks out aloud as he is fed-up and tired of the crowd.
Chapter Eighteen
Theirs is the house which holds the city poor with a lamp lit beside the golden door. Herein dwell huddled, yearning to breathe free, the masses, the tired, in their Liberty. Wretched refuse, and tempest-tossed have come, from teeming, ancient lands to make a home. They are offered shelter, in allowance, medication, counselling, for a chance. Say you, there is no such house in our land? ‘Tis world-wide welcomed by a beacon-hand. With eyes that are mild and with silent lips, The Mother of Exiles takes all hardships.
Here may the sick approach their final doom; here reside, amid scenes of grief and gloom, where low groans from my sad apartment flow, drowned in the loud noise of the streets below. Here men sorrow, who have no next of kin – no family – but a system looks in; whose laws, indeed, for ruined age provide care, in the event life must subside. (And this service is by tax dollars paid, by Charity, the balance owing made).
Say ye - the bank has bought your newest home and credit paid the furniture to come? Who press the downy couch, while bills advance, in glaring print, to catch your sidelong glance?
Who run from cheque to cheque to make ends meet, for without that carriage, life’s incomplete?
Who, in relief, that final notice, pay, with pennies saved for such a rainy day? How would you bear verily poor to be – a true debtor within society? How do you bear the price of Charity –
in humiliating humility?
Beyond each golden door four walls divide the City’s refuse from the streets outside.
Here every man must learn to cook a meal, and clean his clothes, and bathe, and fairly deal,
and tidy up, and learn frugality, become productive in society. Here on a dingy mattress, reclining; in self-regard, and in life, declining; to melancholy, then to more disease; for him, no friend his final days shall ease. Nothing to get – he cannot live by stealth. So, gets nothing – sans happiness, sans health.
But soon as social workers look within, intake ensues with perfunctory din. (Anon) one enters, her stoic eye replete, to turn life unfulfilled to life complete. With sight unaltered by this scene of woe, stopping bad ways, she bids the system go; then bids the whole system around him fly, projecting only qualm within her eye. A true stoic in perfect self-control, who claims for wrong passions a bell shall toll. Paid by government this message to perfect, whose mandate, by this truth, shall not neglect.
Assessment of her client here assigned, proves whether to his fate he is resigned. Unless, by good social intervention, his life remaining might prove worth mention. Confidential questions are hurried o’er, lest the obvious need prove something more. This drooping client, long inured to pain, and long unheeded, makes a social gain: he now begins the company to crave of her before he sinks into the grave.
Chapter Nineteen
But ere his death the moral doubts arise, and simple fears: support worker’s excise.
Fain, would they ask the hoary swain to prove, his life is more this world’s than that above. For this, he is sent to live in long-term care, where he may for prolonged life best prepare. And does not he, his doctor, standing near, know, by long life, there is no more death to fear? Ah, yes – a liquor of a different stock, and unlike his fermented by a block: a jovial youth, who thinks his tireless task as much as God or Man has right to ask. No rest he takes and weighs no labor light,
to rounds each morning and on call at night. None better skilled the hoary swain to guide,
to urge his health, to cheer him or to chide. A scholar keen, a cut above the grade, takes all complaints, knows how each pain is made. Then, while such honors bloom around his head, shall he sit sadly by the sick man’s bed – to bear sad news he knows not, or with zeal, to combat fears he does not really feel?
Thus, fickle Fortune deems he wants no more; her coil has snapped, his bitter hour is o’er. Naked he was born and leaves this world as poor. For each man’s hopes her answer stays the same: with this world, we depart as we once came. Born in tears, we yet die with the same pain. Dust to dust, or only ashes remain. No more.
O! Fortune your fools start to hear, by your cruel hand this City made us fear. No more shall peasants make a humble bow, ‘Tis heaven’s riches that you have squandered now!
Here, to the church, behold no mourners come; sedately prays the priest his prayer dumb. No City children shall their games suspend, to see the lonely hearse, its journey, wend. Yet he was like in all their idle sport: a pilgrim honored in their little court, who jousted like they for each maiden’s hand, and followed on the quest across the land. Him, none shall follow to his grave and mourn; the chapel is bare, the churchyard forlorn. No memorial, no farewell, no wreath, no widow, no son, nothing to bequeath. No bells toll here, and only birds sing, in welcome of worms his gravesite shall bring.
The good priest has discharged his weighty care and quits the reverence of his silent prayer. In the hoary old swain, shall Fortune atone? For a sinner dies poor and alone.
Chapter Twenty
Far from my father ‘tis all mine to rove, through the laneways of his castaway’s cove. The crisscross grid, the GTA makes, through starts and stops the downtown takes; staying the multitude to hear the roar of the privileged rich and the busking poor; where crowded streets, no further aspects cheer, than more traffic, which makes no prospects clear; where noise to invaded Ward’s Island bleeds, to every doorway as the green grass leads; leads to the Ville, airport, past cottage grounds, and florae ache to join the city sounds; where dark and deep, Lake Ontario sweeps around captive isles your champion keeps; where skyscrapers oppress the city’s shore; yet, memories of departed pleasures more. Great View! With older eyes, than once, I gaze. (My overwhelming tears your face displays). Then when, erewhile, I was a happy child, next to this dull rough shore, was climate mild. Then did not wave of loneliness demand the outpouring of melancholy’s hand. In youth’s wide eye my horizon was bright: the bustle of morning and the peace of night. Unlike, for each new day with climbing filled: by night, our pleasure to be fed and filled. Return pleasure! Each day a mount begun, as life leads upwards with the morning sun; when courage wiped away the heartfelt tear, “For soon shall come an end of this long year.”
In mind of those days, I course the city plain: when growth was all, I really knew no pain. For then, save then, a broken heart could beat off times when every joy forsook her seat; for then, my father, looking onward showed, dark was the valley, though the steppes even glowed. Alas! The paradise of youth was found when sadness would apply your moral sound. Impatient age sought out social rays, now solitude harkens early days. Yet still the sport of death’s malignant power, separates us both this present hour.
While memory, at my side, I wander here, starts, at visions, the unwanted fear. A man discovered in his well-known seat, his wanton guesses at the Great Lake’s feet; the sun, the balm of summer, travelling nigh, with sails that glide like pleasures now gone by. But why, in misery, accept this pain? To ask if there are joys that yet remain. Say, will you dad, with sympathetic ear, the history of your daughter’s evening cheer?
Chapter Twenty-One
When, at the docks, the wan noon beckoned still, brewed a rising storm up to Summerhill. When gathered rows of war clad clouds were seen, threatening all communiqué between. Gazing the quick turnstile, to all denied, then stood the picnickers against the side. Wherefrom the concrete port’s unsheltered end, long wakes into the opaque lake extend. While schoolkids gathered strength upon the green, and around fairy docks, a shimmering scene! In the grey park, in droves, like troubled deer – avoided the herd, finished in my year. When people in the sheltered spaces stood, uneasy, eyeing everywhere the flood. Crowded in the main, in their distress, with forward sight, a welcome break to press. When long, in wistful gaze, their walk surveyed, till tripped the pathway in the dripping shade.
Then quiet led me peddling up the hill, brightening with sunny breaks, the peaceful gill. Whereto, while dense the rushes rose from the basin, wherein dry stalks repose. Whining insects, within the water green, cling to the stems, with dark marsh reeds between. Save that, throughout, the scorching sunbeams shine on leafy boughs, that by the moss recline – poor light shines here – a manmade, lone cascade illumes a small reservoir in its shade. Beyond, along my vista, more trail I brook, the crying gulls in Kew Beach overlook. My eyes turned back to watch the narrow bridge, and men shirtless, fishing from the ridge.
Sweet day, farewell! Tomorrow’s noon again shall bring me wooing long your sandy strain, but now the hour has passed this empty road, and eve’s slow breeze invites my steps abroad.
When, at the beach’s rocks, the flying kites, streaming tails in daunting circles wheel their flights. Long, sunny rays from clearing clouds apace, dart out, and dance along the stony base. Waving their smoke among the broken stone, in fallen debris, and white foam, outgrown. When lichen is the hoary water’s beard, and whitecap breakers, all day long are heard.
How pleasant as the golden sun declines, into the clouds its lotion pours and shines. I mark the revelers in the evening light, who never fade, but welcome in the night. Youth’s paradise is not for this old whore, following with my eyes crowds making shore. By shaking out sandy towels, they fold away daytime fun, last of summer’s gold. For now, their sumptuous menus are laid, a candlelight beneath umbrella shade; the entrées arrive promptly for the folk, but as for me espresso and a smoke.
For chicken wings the diner’s fingers goad, dipping in sour cream, morsels by the load. A couple next to the patio’s edge, over supper, are working out their pledge. The early evening rays, the pair illume, and amid sips of beer is youth in bloom. A remark he makes, no less propounds; joyful are her eyes and her heart resounds. Beneath the evening sky their fingers lock. Tussled by her hand, his dark matted shock. In lower tones he makes a plaintive song, with her approbation they move along; past a small chapel at the city’s feet, while wedding bells the urban twain entreat. Vows in a restaurant that couple wrote, so life two spend as one, is not remote.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Even here, away from the dense laid woods, the deep lakes, and river’s annual floods, not undelightful are the urban charms found distant from far outlying farms. But teenagers along the mean streets walk; checked out by older men, the skaters talk. Spur-clad their running shoes, with heavy treads, their crest of purple tops their warrior heads. Rude upbraiding, a sneering mouth off hurls; his old bandanna, rolling out unfurls in abstract print. “Not long ago, allow!” Drunk, and wiping down his regal brow, he stepped out for ale to quench his parched throat – a quiet night, in that likelihood, remote.
Brightening between the hills, where sombrous pine and buildings by Don Valley resign, I love to ride on rushing subway trains high up above the Parkway’s curvy lanes. How restless the enormous hive within. The views diversion makes a noisy din. I hardly knew a train track lumbering sound would span the Bloor Viaduct, Westbound. Yet more aware, the Don River espied, I overlooked the city side to side. Then darker tunnels electric tracks bring to Sherbourne by the overhead passing.
Hung over the cars, above the hill that rears, engulfed in flame the setting sun appears. A crimson haze, its ancient orb divides, spreading the bounty of its golden sides. How now it touches on the tree-lined steep, which casts its shadows on the traffic deep. On the Don Parkway, the drivers aspire in their exhaust, to Putting out the Fire. The viaduct and Don River in array; from behind my sunglasses, I foray to riverbed arrayed in velvet green, to wisps of reeds, and broken stone between. Gentle current, the red hued beams illume, far in the recessed Valley’s central gloom. Wiping my brow, your cyclist in the vale, presses her bike for more trails to bail. Here, casting shadows amid the slimy rocks – off road, where I go, to try the shocks. Here the bridge overhangs the vale, the needle shoots, on concrete slopes, fast times, and fading roots. The dealers with their lighted fane unfold and all sit shooting-up the liquid gold. A sinking stone, the daystar lessens still, as I blaze up, and sink behind the hill.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nay, street urchin! Rest – the dirty wall that stands not distant from crack alley. What if here the graffiti marks your safest spot? What if these poor hovels collapse about? Yet, if no footfalls come, this sheltered place could be a night’s respite; the amber lamp beyond this city might be your night light, whose gentle glow could your slumbers diffuse.
Whom he was who first tagged here, and with the canister first covered over, and taught the lonely wall – now safe – to be a haven anchorage, I well remember. He was one who had no common soul. In youth he was told off and told he wants too much. He with the hand was faced. Then lawless because was law of foul magistracy. Pleading arrogance and pomp, pleading corruption prevailed, as does the scythe. Why then, his spirit fell at once, in bitterness he turned away, and in his inner world, harkened his soul to solitude. Urchin! These bright colours worked charms on him, and here he loved to paint; his only enemies – the drug pushers, the quick fix, and all those nosey neighbors. And on this barren wall, with a spray can, and chalk, and a cloth, he vandalized over. Fixing his inner eye, he rightly one day acquired a full prospective, humoring the enmity of the cosmic temper. When throwing down his brush, he then gazed upon the more distant view – how lonely was he saw it – and he then gazed till it became less heartbreaking, so his heart could then endure the cruelty of the cruel. Nor, in his time would he forget those beings, in their chase fraught with the fear of being caught and killed, king and country appeared a scene of sheer oblivion. Then he would cry remorsefully, to think that others felt what he never wanted. And so, poor man! On hallucinogenic drugs would feed, till his eye was visionary. And here he died. This wall was all that he bequeathed.
If you are one whose heart by the decay of lawlessness is not defiled or scathed, Urchin, henceforth be warned and know by birth and riches lorded over true justice are unrighteous; that he who then defends for his peers shall find reason. For justice shall be remorseless, denying defense to all your faculties. The man who craves is deemed insatiable of appetite but let not pleasures encourage the wise to scorn mere sensations of this man. That wisdom wants acceptance. Oh, canst thou? Instructed that the righteous persevere, true faith and law abides in people, who in the whole proportion of this wall, shall still accept, and still instruct themselves, to better honour.
Chapter Twenty-Four
To Lady Persephone, Naples
Unless a remedy of urban song cannot hope, Lady, reach your waking ear; by your own blighted Spring, your bulbs bitten by the glens. O! Nymph invoked. By now the stirring sun creeps in yon eastern tent, whose dirty skirts with last night’s vapors wove overhang your bed. Save there is calm, unless the mean old bat with short, sharp, shriek fits come to break a wing; or if your hairpin winds on a hurt back of horn, as she has come unto your earthly path midst my early shave with morning hum.
Now ask me, Maid provoked, to play a gentle strain, whose theme that seeks to earn a quiet vale, have melody – kindness is not mute. In musings light, I hail your bleary eyes return. For when yon shrouded evening star won’t show her compass magnet for your guiding lamp; in darkest hours, where elves have gathered acorns the day, and honored nymphs for wearing lace of sedge that dries out like brand new, and readier still, Persephone neat drives out her private car – votaress, do not drive to some frigid lake, nor take the lone pier, nor the old rocky pile, nor downtown docks of grey – leave out the steel’s cold gleam. Without domestic Zephyrs, but North’s rain, proscribe your steps sure toward the old grove, which, on the other side, prospects your newborn child, and the empty vault, and church spires, concedes the mission bell, witnesses all, my happy fingers lift your midnight bridal veil.
While Spring has forced an ice bath, as she was wont, to drown your tresses – O Lady of the Eve – as Summer, ranting sports turns red night to red dawn, while stormy Autumn moves depending leaves, and Winter freezing bulbs bit back again – suspend your weekend plans, which barely mends your dress. Call me through the small keyhole of my door, while Industry, Land, and hard Labor, take no postponement – I quest your maiden’s name.
Gibbon, esq.
To M. Pollino, Naples
Yes, there are even spirits fair and genii in the city street, and daemons, guardians of care, who bring missives from Jove’s great seat. Such welcome councilors to see, who have entered and brought comfort to me. Behind closed doors, below the stair, in silent places where they live– I come alone to seek out there the quiet counsels they would give, as they have beckoned me. But how light vanishes, no more shall light allow.
For when I see in other’s eyes beams that were never meant for mine – the luminous too hard a prize to even attain. I must resign as one who has no more to give, than ways I cannot now but choose to live.
Yes, the luminous leads astray, goes and leaves one introverted. Alone in life, alone each day, until day to nighttime has converted. The changeless spirit brings me here, in solitude, to watch the changing year. All the faithless smiles are fled, and you remind me of that falsehood. I say, the very moon is dead, night’s ghosts and haunts never brought good. By the dark of night hope has flown to misery; as for my soul my own.
Elements I have discovered, which may account for my own loss – never mind what I uncovered; my alchemy has brought me dross. I do not welcome change of state. Dark as it is, more light would aggravate.
Gibbon, esq.
Chapter Twenty-Five
From the porch of my rooming house, I hear the slow steady tolling of a bell, calling worshippers to the Sunday church service, and I am not far from that church – could join the congregation if I wanted. As I hear the church bell today it almost seems like those older times, a quiet day that has a distinctly different feeling from the rest of the week because it is quiet. But suddenly the screen door of the porch is noisily swung wide open and outside Pat steps onto the landing with a bottle of beer, and looks at me and says sarcastically “Good Morning Gibbon.” With that the feeling of a quiet Sunday passes, and it is the end of any good morning I was having. So, I say, “Hello,” and go back upstairs to my room.
I do not know why Pat is drinking beer on a Sunday morning. He usually goes through a six pack on a Friday night, and I guess this weekend he had extra. But I leave him to it, because I was thinking how Sundays were always special, and I was having thoughts that were of the purer kind than a beer on a Sunday morning, and as I get into my room and lie flat out on my bed I say to myself “D***!” Because I almost forgo it was Christmas Day, and I was spending it with Persephone.
A while later while I was getting ready, Pat was banging on my door asking me to have some homemade wine with him. But I wanted none of it.
“It’s pure alcohol.” I call out. “I can’t drink that stuff.” But Joe went on banging on my door. “Come on, it’s Christmas.” I call back that I have plans.
But Pat is drunk, and not taking no for an answer.
“I have time for a beer.” I yell at him.
“What beer?” Pat yells. “I just have this wine.”
I try to ignore him, but he keeps banging on my door, and hollering. “Come on Gibbon. It’s Christmas. Have a glass of wine.”
So, with Pat banging on my door and getting mad, I cannot think of how to get out of my room to have a shower or even brush my teeth and get on my way. I think of the hour long commute it takes to see Persephone. I think of how there would never be someone like Pat to have to bother about, if things had not turned out the way they are, and I think how I want to get up and punch him for all the noise he is making and for delaying me, from spending Christmas Day with Persephone. Something snaps, and I get up and open my door and there he is grinning. What a bum. I push him, and he goes flying across the hall, and lands on his back in his own room.
That was my mistake. He right away gets to his feet and charges at me. So I push my door closed and lock it. But that doesn’t stop it. In a minute Pat is working on my door with something, and it doesn’t take long until he busts in with a knife in his hand. “Put down the knife, Pat.” I spoke.
“I don’t need a knife to take you.” The knife went down, but instantly we’re rolling around on the wooden floor of my room. Then, he reaches his hand out and I feel like he’s going to gouge out my eye. Dirty fighter. Pat was always dirty, and wore dirty clothes, and I hate that I’m lying on top of him trying to hold him down, because he reeks.
He’s swearing and telling me he’s going to kill me, and it occurs to me that this guy would fight to the death with someone because he there’ nothing to lose.
I tell him I’m calling the police and I find a way to use my phone and make the call.
I tell the police my roommate is really drunk and angry, and he wants to kill me, and they tell me it sounds like I am fighting and that things are slow because it’s a holiday.
We are in our own rooms after a while, but I can not get to the bathroom to clean up, because he’s still mad and swearing his head off. He wants to fight some more. That’s when half an hour went by, and his tone starts to change. He is pouting. “Come on Gibbon. Why do you have to be like that?” So, I think he’s sobering up and there’s a way to settle things. I say sorry, but I tell him I don’t like that wine he brings home and that I really have plans today. Then before I know it, he’s got his arm around me telling me he loves me as if we’re best friends or something. The police have not shown up, but damn the police. It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon and I have a big scratch around my eye and I’m in no condition to see Persephone. I call her but there’s no answer. She doesn’t have voicemail, and I do not want to text her the bad news
I decide to go to that pub a few blocks away with the Christmas dinner deal. That way I can get fed, clean up, and apologize to Persephone in better condition.
There’s hardly anyone at the pub, so I ask the waitress politely if it’s too early for the Christmas special. She looks at me kindly and says that the time is just right and asks if I’d like to sit in the booth by the window. I realize I haven’t even looked at myself since the fight or all day, so after she seats me I get up and go to the washroom to wash up. I look in the mirror and not only does it look like I’ve been in a fight, it looks like I’ve lost. I call Persephone again. No answer. So I text: Sorry, see you Asap.
Before long I am eating roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and gravy and drinking spiced eggnog, and I am thinking that it’s Sunday and Christmas Day, and that in times not long ago when everything was closed on Sunday and everything was closed on Christmas Day, a place like this might not have had a Christmas special or have even been open.
I’m in a little pain because of the fight, but they are playing Christmas carols in the pub, and I’m eating my dinner and kind of sobbing as I swallow, because I’m thinking of how I had to ditch Persephone for a fight I started of all things.
Then an hour or so went by.
“I wonder where she is.” I thought as I gazed out the window at the snow. “I thought we had special plans.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Among the scents of lilacs of an April afternoon – and so the scene arranged itself, and tea shall seem brand new. With, “I have sacrificed an hour for you”; and four good posts within the red-lit room. Four minutes past the clock that struck and moved ahead – the meeting in the Paris catacombs that was left for things unsaid which should be said. We have felt, let us say, that Charles Baudelaire wrote his Nevermore and lost his fingertips. “So, tale-told, his heart, that I think the dismal soul should be holed-up and cemented in. His friend, a casualty, should not therefore presume to draw in guests while in the drawing-room.”
And so, the conversation slips among talismans, preternaturalisms, and leaves the paternoster (Howsoever it ends) and begins – “You do not know how much it means to me, this dog, and how, how rare and strange it is to find in life proposed to be as such, as such of odds and ends, (for indeed he still does love it…he knows…he is not right. (How good you are!) To find a dog who has a quality, who has, and takes that quality upon which his master gives. How much it means to him that I say this to you. Without a puppy – life, what cauchemar!”
Among the interlude of poetry, of octaves and sestets of more than sonnets, inside my brain an iamb next begins a trochaic inversion of its own – spondee justly postponed – that is at least one definite footnote. Let us walk the dog in this circumstance among the habiliments, discuss how life cements; check to the heal if he begins to bark; then let him run off-leash around the park.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Now that lilacs do not bloom, she has air freshener for her room, and sprays mist with her fingers while she talks. “Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know what love is; you who let it slip from your hands”; (spraying freshener while she talks) “You let it go from you, you let it go, and love is gone and gives so much remorse, and leaves situations which before you could not see.” I excuse myself and ask if she would pee. “Yet in this cold December, here I can recall my only love, and so much a fling. I feel less hope and ill at ease, and find the world, although in Advent, less splendid after all.”
The scent returns from the white porcelain bathroom, of liquid hand soap dispensed in a perfume. “I want to be sure that you understand my feelings, please be sure that you feel sure; the hour only gives this much sand. You are indefatigable, you fly mercurial wings – you will leave me, and when you have parted you can say, ‘at this point my ship unfurled its sail.’ But what have I, but what have I, my friend, to advise? What advice should you receive from me? Only love is cruel and have sympathy for one who finds her voyage end at land’s end. I shall sit here reading what you’ve penned…”
I take my coat: how can I make my sacrifice for how she took me in? You will see me in the habiliments trudging snow, praising less her sentiments. Particularly I find stark: the little dog has gone and run away. A dear old friend has returned to her a stray: a German Shepherd.; might have guessed. I keep my thought composed, I return yet unconfessed. Except in feelings overcome, I write derisive platitudes in age-old perfect rhyme, in meter of dithyrambic poetry, recalling things that men before me have required. Have I a right to feel inspired?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Winter night comes down, returning as before, except for a nice sensation of being more at ease. I mount the steps and turn the handle of the door, and feel as if I’d have her on her hands and knees. “And so, you are being published; and when will it come out? But there’s no certain answer. You hardly know what your reader will glean, you will have so much to leave.”
My joy overcomes me in redlit room.
“Perhaps you will see me less.” My conscience flares up for a moment. This is not as I expect. “I have been wondering frequently of late (but final say is yours or mine, decide!) why you and I developed into friends.” I feel us share a smile, in parting disembark slowly, and look upon the glass. My conscience flutters; and hour on the mark.
“For everybody hates that – everyone. They are not sure two postures can relate so closely. I myself readily understand. We are victims of our fate. You will write at any rate. Perhaps it is not too late. I shall sit here, reading what you penned.”
And I know well from her, this style that finds expression. Felt…felt…In the first octave. Not modernity, but postmodernity. Let us take up our pens in a certain stance –
Well! And what if she should call some afternoon; afternoon grey and snowy, evening icy and cold; should call and find me sitting book a hand, with the ice hanging down from off the rooftops? Doubtful, for it would not be the best weather at lands’ end. Such an hour would be a preternaturalism…
Could I yet have the advantage, after all? The spondee still postponed by the broken glass. Now that we call that glass broken – and all the sand that used to gather?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Where had I met such a poor, noblewoman before? Her hair was chestnut brown; her teeth straight and large; her forehead tall; and her nose aquiline. But her eyes were the wine dark sea, which had seen drowned men and precious cargo sunk; for they had such a hue of darkness that, as she looked into my own eyes as mine met hers, I felt there must be a more important stake in the till for us both.
Her eyes were great sails, ample and full; but, ample and full in the shape of two pigskin balls. I do not usually notice people’s eyes, for I do not usually look into them. But she did, and she still does. It was plain to see, even the first time I noticed her, for she offered every patron in line before me the same full-blown expression.
‘Tall Bold, please,’ I ordered.
She rang in my order, and the total was displayed by the register.
She must have fallen back several generations ago. Fallen fathoms deep, undulating with the swelling of the dark drink. Her eyes may once have been her forbearers own hazel, until they fell off and drowned, depths into depths, deep and dark as the sea, the wine dark sea.
She turned her back on me to fill my order – dark roasted coffee in a paper cup – and, as she came about from a yard’s distance, she asked without politeness, ‘You want anything else?’
She asked this as she poured coffee from a faucet, which she did not bother to look at. Nor did she look at my cup. But she was looking into my eyes, as her right hip relaxed against the cupboard and her left leg bent slightly at the knee.
My heart sunk at that very moment because she did not say, would you like? But only, do you want?
Her expression was vulgar, while accepting that expression from her made me vulgar. Yet it was how she did express herself to me in front of a long lineup of customers.
I immediately felt sorry.
In that transaction I too lost my politeness, dropped the normal expression of gratitude, feared the force of what a one-word answer would make, so only shook my head.
She returned to the register and announced the total. I forget how she phrased it. But the total was one-dollar-eighty-nine cents.
I handed her a twenty-dollar bill, (I felt lucky to have one of those on me). She counted back the change.
‘That’s eighteen-dollars-and-eleven-cents.’ She counted.
The four different sized coins balanced on the two bills she handed back to me.
Of course, one coin dropped but she did not notice it fall. The dime dropped, but the rest we secured. I tossed the dime in the very full tip jar, and it made the sound of an important coin being placed in a piggy bank. She darted around to see what I had left, and her eyes fell upon the top layer of the jar. But there was only silver in that deposit, and no gold. The rest of the coins were for my front pocket; and, the two bills, my billfold.
I walked to the concession stand at the rear of the store. I whitened my coffee, placed a lid on my cup. Then I walked gingerly, eyes straight ahead, and passed a group of well-dressed women coming in as I made my way out.
I was outside and anonymous once more, as I fled the street for a sit down in the park across the street.
This was my fortune, and I knew it. Alone, a little cold; sitting down, smoking, and drinking my coffee. Not doing anything wrong or illegal – but, feeling uncomfortable. For it is unsavory for an esquire who makes his living in letters to be seated in such a place in the middle of the day, once more for a man who has any care for his health, as I coughed while inhaling my cigarette.
And I thought of her Lady serving coffee; or so, it was how I must remember her. Not worth polite English, but only the jingle-jangle of what each day must wrangle, serving the likes of me.
Where had I met her before? In which century, in recent memory, had our paths crossed? Certainly, not in the wars of the last century, because our countries were not allies; while, being of the opposite sex our paths we would have never crossed. Nor could we have met in the Old Curiosity Shop where I had been brought up in the nineteenth century. Then it dawned on me. I had fallen for none other than some eighteenth-century related to the house of Treveni.
Chapter Thirty
On the northern side of Queen Street, are still to be seen the magnificent remains of a work of literary merit, which formerly described the noble name, Treveni. It stands in the back of a book shop, upon a shelf’s highest eminence, and on one side slopes from the side of the case, and on the other rises to a gentle acclivity stopped by a bookend. The situation is admirably beautiful and picturesque, the books have an air of ancient grandeur. Contrasted with the contemporary hardbacks, impress the reader with awe and curiosity.
Leafing through a volume, I visited a verse or two. As I turned over the loose fragments of pages, which were in tatters of torn fabric, and surveyed the sublimity and subtlety of the words, I was reminded of the ruins I visited, and experienced the age when this book stood proudly in its original splendor, when its volumes were the scenes of awe and terror, and when they resounded with the advertisements of those whom death had long swept from the earth. ‘Thus’ said I, ‘shall the present generation – he who now sinks in misery – and he who now swims in pleasure – alike decay and be forgotten.’
My heart swelled with this reflection, and as I turned from the case with a sigh, I fixed my eyes upon the same noblewoman, gently bending toward the opposite shelf, who formed no uninteresting object in this milieu. She observed my emotion; and as my eye met hers, shook her head and pointed to the volume I was holding.
43 of ‘Those books,’ said she, ‘were once the seat of luxury and virtue. They exhibited a singular instance of the requital of the sublime, and were from that period forsaken, and abandoned to ruin.’
Her words excited my curiosity, and I enquired further concerning her meaning.
‘Solemn verses belong to that book, which is too long and intricate for me to relate. It is, however, contained in a manuscript in our library, of which I could procure you a copy. A descendant of the noble house of Treveni collected and recorded the most striking incidents relating to that family, and the history thus formed, he left as legacy to Lady Persephone de Clanricarde. If you please, we will walk thither.
I accompanied her to the public library, and her lady introduced me to the librarian, a woman of intelligent mind and benevolent heart, with whom I passed an hour in interesting conversation. I believe I pleased her, for in her indulgence, I was permitted to trace over two verses of a reference volume that is before me, which I have arraigned on these pages.
Chapter Thirty-two
In Northern Sicily on a small bay,
The ruins of Treveni slime away,
And awful, picturesque, and grand
Was fabric in an antique hand.
The sea aloft it faces on one side,
Beyond dark forests where Banditti hide.
While a vacationer who fell upon this spot,
Walked upon loose fragments in deep thought,
Spoke, ‘Both happy and sad who live today,’
‘Alike into oblivion must pass away,’
‘As noble halls which brought festivity’
‘Have fallen to complete obscurity –‘
‘Treveni has sunk into cold death,’
‘Reposed, inert; retired; without breath.’
A friar also walked upon this rock,
Saw the lone sojourner, and stopped to talk:
‘Happy and sad ‘tis true must pass away,’
‘But God forbids the just prolonged decay;’
‘Ruins which are the moral of this lore’
‘Which impugned ignominy by all the gore,’
‘Have been the burden of this noble name’
‘That lives as one forsaken without blame;’
‘And none perished, (yet did the castle fall)’
‘ burying a dark secret, once for all,’
‘You must then tarry, for tales I will tell,’
‘And have a manuscript in my cell –’
‘A tracery left in our friary,’
‘Shall more acquaint you in Treveni.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
I returned to the coffee shop the following day with the verses I had traced from the reference volume. Her lady was there with a long line-up of customers. When it was my turn at the front of the line, instead of ordering, I just stared into her eyes and remained silent. Again, I saw the wine dark sea, and dreamed my eyes were as dark and deep as hers. After looking at each other for a moment, her lady asked, ‘You want anything?’ I said nothing but flashed back eyes as swollen and dark as I imagined I could cause them to become. Then I placed the poetry in front of her and left.
Immediately afterwards I visited the bookshop and walked straight up to the case where the decayed book was displayed. I removed the volume which contained the verses I had traced in the library, turned over the cover to see how much the shop was asking for it, and found that I had just enough money from the twenty dollars I had started out with the day before for the purchase. So, I bought the book.
I then walked directly home, for I did not need to visit the library that day. Into the late evening I read each page in that volume, tracing every page of the book.
Weeks later I returned to the coffee shop with a full ream of covered tracing papers to leave for her lady. She looked straight into my eyes, even before I was at the front of the line, walked right up to me, stuck out her hand, which I immediately took in friendly greeting. She then informed me I was hired for a job serving coffee if I could only stand it.
Much her lady and I have found in common with each other then, and lately we have been speaking about visiting Italy together, as neither of us have ever been there before.