Chapter 1 (Victor)

Tweet. Chirp. Swooo!

Ah. One of the glorious sounds of the city, if not the most. If the sight of this bird were not beautiful enough, I'd be drawing how wonderful the sound it makes when it stands on the sill.

Admittedly, in all that is taking place, the sound of the quill running across the parchment and the chirping song of the bird, is enough to make me forget that I'm sitting in a colorless room, in an even more colorless city, in the presence of nature's beauty. It makes me feel as though I'm the only person in the city that is capable of appreciating such things. Although, I can give some credit to the fellows at the museum just a couple of blocks from here. I hear from some on the streets that the work displayed inside the massive building is actually very extraordinary.

Unfortunately, with the strict upbringing that my parents put upon me when I was at least seven years old, seeking the dreams inside the museum is something that only a foolish old coot with no decent name would do. Or, at least, so that's what my mother claims. It seems to me that while my mother is a good person who brought me up into the van Dort family name with good care, she has no true idea what lies within such a place. And given that I never have been too keen on socializing with the aristocracy and other such people, it's not as though I can call upon someone to bring their carriage for an outing there.

I've never understood it. There is something about the aristocracy and their ways of life and going about doing it that terrifies me. It's plain to see that they have their fortunes and high names, but then below that, they are all the same. Everything to them is all money, stature, and seeing to it that nothing beyond embarrassment comes to them. And what's worse- they are like the kings of the city, claiming every corner they can take, clearing away all traces of loose freedom and care-free thinking. I suppose that's why I've never been a hairbreadth of an inch into a safe relationship with one. They would see my ways are not like theirs and then boot me out the door like an old shoe.

Besides, my gift for art has been disapproved of so that the only time I can do something I enjoy is when the fishmongers grow tired and my parents have to run outside to get them back in line. That is why my work is so scarce, since I would have to create something worth keeping in a half hour. And it is very rare that a lovely little bird stays on the windowsill at just the right time for me to observe and visually capture it. It's very sad, really. At least a week ago, I was going down the stairs to see my father at work with the fishmongers, when I heard the awful sound of paper being pulled down from a wall, like a musket gunshot in my ears. I kept tripping over my feet trying to get back up to my bedroom, and found my mother viciously removing my drawings from the wall. Luckily, I was able to get them out of her hands, and safe from the corner wastebasket, but only barely. I tried my best to convince my parents that my artwork was not worth the effort of getting rid of, but they always find some way to prove me wrong.

"If the talent flourishes, then your respectability in society shall plummet like a silly goose to the floor!"

"It is not the sort of thing that'll attract a pretty woman."

"Woman like to marry rich, handsome, men who are educated in finances, not in the imagination. Really, how many times must we go through this, Victor? Dreamers never get anywhere."

The way they talk about art and a free, imaginative way of thinking is as though it is an insect in their teacup. And it only makes me realize even more how lonely I am, that I can easily make mistakes when I am in the midst of high society…

"Victor, dear!"

The proud voice of my mother shocks me so that I jump, rocking my stool, and tearing the tip of my quill through the paper. Now a long tear is running through the bird's belly and the little creature was gone from the sill. I woefully close my sketchbook and put the quill inside its inkwell. I take a book from my shelf, and pretend to be reading about the history of the British Empire.

My mother comes through the door, bouncing in on top of her robust figure. She waddles towards my desk, peeking over my shoulder at the book I'm pretending to read. She opens a fan and waves it at herself.

"Victor, dear, it pains me to see you being so lonesome," she says. "Do suppose you would come down and join the fishmongers? Your father and I are tired of telling them to get off their sorry bottoms and keep up the business." She keeps fanning herself, and I feel her gaze move onto me.

"Must I, Mother?" I ask, looking at her over my shoulder.

"What else can you say, Victor?" she says. "The fishmongers are getting lazy and Mayhew just will not silence that blasted coughing of his. You know how it bothers me to listen to him spread his disease over our business."

I don't say anything, turning my head back into the book. It's as bothersome to me listening to my mother complain as it is to her listening to our coachman, Mayhew, cough incessantly. He has some kind of condition that we can't place exactly, and at many unexpected times, he begins to heave and open his eyes wide when his coughing fits come through. I always feel sorry for the fellow, but everyone else takes it as a nuisance.

"Nell, come along dear, business is getting slow and I will need you…" My father's voice and his footsteps become louder as he comes up the stairs. He steps through the doorway and stops when he sees Mother standing over me.

"Victor, what are you doing?" he asks, leaning on his wooden cane.

"Reading, Father," I answer, turning to glance his way.

"Very good, son," he says, joining Mother at her side. He then begins to walk around, pacing crookedly on his cane. "Now, I'm not going to beat about the bush, son, but you realize that the time is growing short and business is blooming in the van Dort fish merchant enterprise and, well…" He mumbles something to himself, fiddling with his spectacles.

"We believe that it is time you take over with the fishmongers," Mother finishes for him.

"The time…is it that short?" I ask nervously, putting the book on the desk with a loud thud.

"I would say that it is," Mother says.

"And you are not a day over twenty years old," Father adds, "as I am not a day over sixty. Our family needs a successor, and you are the likely winner for that title."

I know that I should accept this news like a gentleman. But I don't think of myself as one, nor as a winner, as my father said. I'm not a spoiled child, but I can think of better things than taking over from my parents.

"But…what if that is…not what I want to do?" I ask them. "The both of you are of able body. Suppose you could continue further?"

Mother looks at me like I have quills sprouting from my eyes. "Victor, you know what obligations you have," she says. "It is in your own duty to assume this role. If you refuse this, our family will go down in shame and poverty. The van Dort name is vital to our success, and you don't care?"

"It's not that I don't care, Mother," I say, standing up from my stool to face them. "I just think that, well, there are other things that I'd rather do. All my life I've been forced to succumb to what you want for me to do. Don't you suppose that perhaps I could make my own choice?"

I wait for a reply from them, but my mother simply states, "Victor, we want what is best for you, but we also must do what is best for us. And now, you taking over is the best that you can do."

"You must also take a bride too," Father cuts in.

"What?" I ask, my skin going cold.

"When you take over from us, Victor, you have to have married," Father continues. "With the success we've been having, women will come flocking to you like bees to honey."

"About time they did, too," Mother says. "The way you lock yourself in here saddens me to the bone."

"I do not lock myself in here," I object.

"If you do any more, you'll never find yourself a bride," Father says. "Many beautiful women are out there waiting for you to ask for their hand."

"But I don't know any women," I say.

"Then, we suggest that you get out of this stingy dungeon, and see the city," Mother says sharply. "Clearly your sketching business has transformed you into a poor, lonely boy. It's no wonder you do not know any women."

I sigh deeply, sitting back on my stool. I will not go out, and even if I do, what could I do other than stand in the street like a living statue? No one quite knows me, and sadly, I don't know anyone. And why would I? Their ways of going about life, and the way they would put me down the moment that I mention art, frightens me. And the women, they could be worse. It's possible for one to catch me, but then, what would I say to them, or anyone else?

My parents walk out the door without saying anything, leaving me at my desk. I wonder, why must this happen? Why do young men like me have to succumb to the orders of our parents, who did not realize what their children want to make of themselves? I feel very deeply that I could do all right without being a wed fish merchant. The fellows at the museum would be kind wouldn't they? I could be perfectly happy without a wife, and being an artist…without making all the amounts of money my parents have…living happily…together…

I sigh again, wishing that the world would melt away and all these troubled thoughts would dissolve into thin air. Life is confusing and quite unfair, with its unnecessary protocols. It pains me to think that soon I'll have to go through with marriage and follow the path that my parents have paved, already beginning to live it for me. Marriage would be worse, having to meet and impress a beautiful young woman and be a good husband to her in the middle of such a money-chasing society.

A knot forms inside my stomach, and I lean my head on the desk, hoping to push away these troubled thoughts. But, like all my attempts of telling my parents that I did not want to give in to high obligations in society, it's all for nothing.