"Blows the swan wind,
The blue sky's smeared
With blood; the anniversary
Of your love's first days draws near.
Your tender voice even more ringing...
Only your serene brow
Has taken from time's wing
A scattering of snow" .
Akhmatova, 1922.
Katherine Brooke would never have believed that life could be anything more than teaching, endless teaching, accuracy, and bitterness mixed with toxic loneliness and self-loathing. Sarcasm for her, was as much a means of protection as a way of looking at the world a little further away. It was easier to stay away from life, because it had nothing to give, to her at least or so it seemed.
Then Anne came and the world suddenly had colors and opportunities as well as exciting new paths and challenges as well as interesting new people and encounters of every kind, from veiled women in Morocco, to glittering Japanese water lilac gardens reminiscent of terrestrial Eden, spicy food and hot tea in the shadow of Istanbul's Hagia Sophia. Now a decade or so, later with secretarial training behind her, she had seen most of the known world, globetrotting. Katherine never forgot what the Taj Mahal looked like in a shining moonlight, mainly because it had been her first trip alone, a reward for the all previous years, and that too was because of Anne, the silm and a captivating redhead who treated all of English literature as her own kingdom and had defeated the inward-turning Pringle clan, with style and wim.
Anne and her had exchanged letters over the years, about her growing children, of books, and poems, Walt Whitman's strong, flowing lyricism, to Charlotte Bronte´s Jane Eyre's frenzy and power, little Jane´s desire to be independent and decide her own destiny. To more mundane lifes joys and sorrows, that sad passing of Capitan Jim and the of the sudden marriage of Ms Cornelia Bryant to Marshall Elliot, to the divine allure and chilling mystery of the utterly beautiful Leslie Moore as then, now Ford..
Time together in the heart of Poitou, was magical. Katherine was pleased to be able to finally repay the mental debt, which echoed from that visit years ago in the annals of Green Gables. The memories of sleigh rides, frost, warmth and camaraderie, and Marilla's famous plum puffs. The steaming debates, and arguments of merits and demerits of education, of under privliged girls and alsylum-reforms that had to be made. Anne, then had been frank in her smoldering temper to the different boards of trustees that held sway of funds, in those kind of places. She had confded her own childood expericences as a homechild. It is amazing that for such a woman whose whole essence is full of spirit, light and joy, her beginnings were gray and gloomy. Against this background, her eternal, continuing optimism in life is miraculous, still.
Gilbert challenges Anne.
Together they seem to have a balanced combination of intelligence and sparkle, and mutual trust. Admittedly, no one knows what's really going on in a marriage, but from what I have observed Anne seems happy with her lot in life at Glen St Mary.
There's something remarkable about that girl, Elizabeth, some kind of quality, it seems like she's not quite fully on the same plane of existence as rest of us.
Standing on that the train pier today, with daffodils in hand, Elizabeth seemed to have dropped straight from the court of Titania. I had previously imagined that Anne's fairy designation for that girl, would have been Anne's usual lyricism, and hyperbole, but I was wrong and I am pleased that, for once, my prejudices turned out to be untrue. People are never properly known until you meet them, and she may well prove to be a kindred soul. Maybe we can play sonnets together, I haven't had a recital for a long time, and if that girl is applying for a postgraduate musical education, it is interesting to know her level.
Deep in thought, Katherine climbed a steep hill toward Momarte, that famous artists quarter, the shimmering white Sacre Cour shone in the gentle moonlight, like the palace of dreams. There was a queue in front of the certain cabaret, people pushed each other, cheap red wine and fresh baguette smelled everywhere. Can-can dancers were cooling off at the back stairs, smoking, chatting and making eyes. In a corner café few expressionist painters argued about the importance of art, and the subconscious.
In a streetcorner a young, slim, blond woman in a violet-colored dress was reciting Baudelaire´s famous poem ` Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne`, from Fleurs du mal with a bright, soft, creamy voice that glowed so impressively that the crowd gathered around in her corner had stopped to listen her in intoxication and ecstasy. That girl seems really talented, and a sound like that is really rare, Katherine mused, hopefully she will do well on the hectic path of life.
It was so wonderful to be here again, after the calmness and harmony of Poitou, Katherine pondered.
In Momartre the whole spectrum of life is visible, the shadows of life are not obscured rather, they are accentuated and refined, into art, human suffering that can sometimes produce pure gold literally and figuratively. One example of this is Puccini's classic sweeping and tragic opera, La Boheme, whose central and bearing theme is not, in fact, romantic love but deep platonic friendship.
Love, of course, has it place in life, but even the most passionate love disappears in its own time, and only ashes remain.
Katherine turned a corner from a cobbled street, walking with confident, fast, and supple steps and soon she arrived to her destination, at Rue Ramey, Passage Cottin.
The stunning vista from the front spread Sarce Cour and all of Paris in front of her. Katherine turned around and knocked on the narrow gray green door nearby. Katherine slowly corrected her posture, and stepped inside.
Apartment smelled of perfume, L´origan de Coty, that secent of intoxicating, powdery subtle, spicy amber, shades of bergamot, violet, jasmine, orange, coriander, woody flavour which belonged only to a one particular person.
The candel flickered.
Light played its shadowy dance around the formless form on the other side of sloping room...
AN:
My Deepest Most Heartfelt thanks for the comments, as ever to all who are
reading, lurking and enjoying this story. Thank you for so much! Peaceful Advent time for everyone!
The translation of that line of the C. Baudelaire poem is "More than Night´s Vault, It´s You That I Adore, naturally from Les Fleurs du mal, The Flowers of evil, (1857), that symbolist, decadent and erotic lyrical poetry collection.