Wedding Hymn
Early in the mornings I come down into the parlor to embroider little frocks for Martine's girls. The east light filters through the tall windows of the long wall, making light bright enough to see tiny stitches more easily.
I sit near the window and gather a little fabric together in a pleat, then embroider flowers to hold the pleats together. Row after row of those little folds across the front make smocking, so pretty beneath a pert little chin. Martine always complains she doesn't have time to do it.
Last night I dreamt. I sat sewing in the parlor while silvery white winter sunlight fell over me like a flood. Never had the stitches been so clear or my fingers so nimble. A fire burned merrily, and the little figures on the blue-and-white Delft fireplace tiles danced along with it. In the dream came a deep sense of peace, of ease. The only thing missing was Raoul, missing like a tooth gone from the mouth. With the strange logic of dreams the children were still little instead of grown, but they were someplace else, I didn't know where.
Silk rustled across wood. Someone had lifted the scarf from the piano, and with a scrape pulled the bench out. I turned slowly, expecting to see the maid. Didn't she know better than to disturb my sewing? My gaze swept slowly across the room bright with morning. Something squeezed my heart like a small bird in the hunter's hand.
Erik sat at the piano bench motionless, long and impossibly lean, dark in his samite mask.
We looked at each other for a long time, the skewed time of dreams where you can play out a whole adventure in less than five minutes of sleep, or take hours to walk down a boulevard of shifting sand.
"You left the window closed," he said, faintly accusatory.
Then he broke away, put his hands to the keyboard, and played something I'd never heard before. Its long plangent chords collided with each other over intervals of seconds and sevenths and elevenths. Nothing fit, nothing came to any climax, nothing worked, yet the passages rolled on impossibly beautiful, irresolutely sad.
I stood in the middle of the room as he played, my sewing dangling useless in my hand. When he stopped, he turned to me and said petulantly, "In the time since you shut the window, they've been writing books about me, and I find it most irritating." He waited for me to say something. Instead, I stared at the long patches of black hair which swept down uncut over the back of his head like stray shadowy flowers knocked down by rain. One such lock had in it a long streak of silver. I wasn't afraid of him, only mildly irritated that he appeared in my parlor as bold as you please.
"What do they say in those books?" I asked.
"They deny me love. Everyone denies me love, when all I wanted was to found a household for myself, like any other man. They refuse me the simplest delights of the flesh, the most basic metrical elements of Hymen's song. They make me burn like fire with no relief, as if that blessed agony were reducible to lust, the lust that any brothel girl or one's own hand could satisfy. The incessant nattering of women twists me right and left, made worse when enlarged through the lens of the printing press. Had I truly been lashed with the passions they inflict upon me, I would have gone mad, and what's worse, I would have gotten no work done at all. That's one reason I loved you, Christine, you never blathered without ceasing. This monstrous regiment frustrates me endlessly, and then expresses astonishment when I act like a monster."
"How unfair," I smiled, because in the middle of this most lucid dream, I had not the faintest idea of which books he spoke. "You did go mad, you know."
"Will you lie with me?" he asked abruptly. He stood up from the piano bench and his shoulders filled the room. "I'm tired of dangling like a puppet at the end of their stories. I want my own."
I laughed and then he did too, laughter like light metal cymbals which make a bright sharp sound. "Back in our days together, I would have killed you for that laughter," he finally said in a cool conversational tone.
"True," I said, "but everything's different now."
He kicked his feet against the piano bench impatiently, twitching for an answer.
Finally I said, "I'm old, Erik. I'm ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago."
I waited, but he didn't recognize the passage. Apparently he was not familiar with the works of the Scottish writer James Barrie.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I'm old as well, ever so much more than you."
In dreams the utterly improbable is commonplace. "I will lie with you," I said. "But you have to wait here for a moment. I have to go look at the garden first."
Outside, the lush beds had all grown up with weeds and brambles, the hedges overgrew the paths, and the pond was full of algal sludge. I stared into this rioting green chaos. It's because Raoul's not here, I thought. He always kept the gardeners at their tasks. Then I regretted my glib agreement. If Raoul had been here, Erik wouldn't have come. I wouldn't have made such a stupid promise. Now Raoul is gone, and what is to keep Erik from coming back?
I could run away, I thought. But I told him I would lie with him, and when something uncanny appears out of nowhere in your house, you don't go back on your word. Besides, it might not be so bad now. Just go and see. Behind the walls of the house I could feel Erik waiting for me, his hunger drawing me back inside. When I put my hand on the brass doorknob to go to him, I awoke, aching with hunger of my own.
The bed next to me was empty, empty as it had been these past months. I cried for awhile. It didn't fill the bed with a large man with round warm limbs.
Downstairs I came to the parlor, empty in the lavender dawn. Half in dream, I sat down at the piano for a long time, but couldn't bring myself to touch the keys. I can fade away like Mrs. Darling, I thought, and become "dead and forgotten." Or I can go back out into the garden, search among the brambles, and find what I was looking for last night, find what's grown since Raoul hasn't been here to prune the hedges.
I opened one of the parlor windows, so that its sheer white lawn curtain flowed back and forth with the breeze.
oooooooooooooooooooo
Raoul and I took our portfolio filled with proof of births and deaths to the office of the registrar. In a high-ceilinged room dusty with books, a pale bored clerk stamped each one. He sat at a high desk, in a precarious chair that makes even a tall man look undignified when he must clamber up and down. Raoul's pile was far larger than mine. I had merely my lonely article of birth written in both Swedish and French, signed by the embassy officials in Paris. On the other side of the desk, all Raoul's departed family had gathered that day to give solemn if disapproving witness.
The clerk meticulously arranged them by date of death. First came Raoul's father's parents, followed by his mother, who in middle age died bringing him into the world. Then his mother's parents blotted out their daughter as the clerk laid their articles on top of hers. Last came his father, dead of apoplexy when Raoul was twelve. So many people moved from this life into moldy earth, the traces of their passage recorded in embossed parchment. Only Philippe was exiled from the pile of death notices shuffled by the sallow man. Raoul had reached his majority more than a summer ago, and thus no longer needed the protection of a guardian. Philippe's article of death wasn't needed.
"All pending the court's review," the clerk answered when Raoul asked him about the posting of the banns.
Dust danced in the long slants of late afternoon light. I felt a little faint, and sat down on a hard wooden chair. Raoul stood alone, watching the clerk fill out applications. Though his back was straight and his form strong and full, some invisible weight made his face sag and his mustache droop. He slumped a little under the weight of all that solitude, the only surviving man in his family under the age of sixty.
Little one, I said to the possible child in my womb, or perhaps to no one at all, if you're there, hear me. Whether you like it or not all this history will come down on your shoulders. Two strains of history, actually, the history everyone can see, and the history no one will ever see. But I promise you this. When it comes time for you to marry, never will you stand alone in a cold office smelling of coal-dust, requiring the review of the court in lieu of a signature. If you want the one you love, even if she is poor, you shall have her.
Raoul said something to the clerk, who frowned and shook his head. Raoul insisted, and the clerk went over to consult a large black-bound leather book. Impatiently he shifted when the clerk was out of sight, but returned to perfect attention when the thin, pale man came back. I grew a little afraid, was something wrong? Then came the signing of the receipts, more stamps, and at a signal from Raoul, I rose unsteadily to my feet.
"How's the sickness?" he asked on the way down the wide granite stairs to the boulevard below.
"Worse," I admitted, "but it's not like you thought. The physician says I'm perfectly healthy," and he looked relieved.
We walked back to our block of flats in silence, my arm on Raoul's. I had visited a doctor that morning, a short, fat Dutchman who almost laughed when I asked him if I was ill. "Innocent angel, it's the way of women when they're with child," he had said. I argued with him, saying there was still time for my "friend in the red dress" to make her visit, or that perhaps some illness had caused both afflictions. Was there some medication he could give me to relieve me? Then he looked hard at the pearl ring, and his face lost its wide geniality. He said he was a simple man, a devout man, and under no circumstances could he countenance what my suggestion implied.
I had looked blankly at him, not knowing what he meant. Irritated, he stated flatly, "You're not married." The wedding would be soon, I answered, and then demanded, was I ill or not? If I wasn't, there was no need for medicine. His plump shoulders relaxed a bit. In came his nurse, a tall flat ironing-board of a woman, and under her impersonal glare he examined me, pressing hard into my stomach from all directions. Once I cried out, and he grunted, pressing on more. He even dug his fingers into the hollows all around my hips and lower back, as if measuring me, and his grunts grew more approving as his probes grew deeper and more painful.
"You're not ill," he said, finally. "But you're unmarried, and not a virgin, true?" I whispered yes, it was true, hating to reveal anything to that flat sphinx-like nurse. "No medicine needed, Mlle. Daae. Come back and see me again next month if your lady friend in red still avoids your company. For that matter, come back in a month anyway, friend or not.
"You say you're getting married soon, that's good. For such a slim little thing, you're surprisingly roomy. The ischial spines are perfectly splayed. There's no sign of any pelvic constriction, no rachitis, no triradiate pelvis or tubercular signs at all. I wouldn't fear any difficulties." He might as well have been speaking dog Latin. When I shook my head in confusion, he just said not to worry about my health, and for heaven's sake, get that young man of mine to marry me quickly. I didn't tell Raoul, however, thinking it would confuse him as much as it confused me. In any event, I wasn't ill, and had no horrible potions or pills to swallow.
A few weeks passed. Raoul put away his fine tailored garments and wore his black frock coat everywhere. When I teased him, saying that he looked like a Lutheran minister from my the country of my childhood, he only smiled.
Without rehearsals or performances for myself, or the theater, supper-clubs, or cabaret for Raoul, evenings were long. Mama Valerius was gone, so he would not stay with me in the evening in my flat. I only saw his small room when I passed by. He never invited me into it.
But our balconies were above one another. I stood on mine, he on his, and when the evenings were warm enough for a coat or shawl, we quietly talked. Our windows faced the courtyard rather than the street, and one night I asked him, "Shall we plant sweetpeas and rose bushes in the spring?"
"It won't take that long, Gerda," he answered.
"I hope not, Kay," I said in return, and all these years later, I hold that evening close to my breast out of so many others.
During the days, we walked, and I learned the strength and curve of his arm as well as my own as I leaned on it. Boots were cheaper than carriage rides, and leather soles were cheaper than new boots. On Sundays we treated ourselves to a short train ride outside the city, and spent the day roaming the green-budded countryside. We ate our sweet rolls in the chilly weather, glad for the absence of bees. Raoul rested his head in my lap and I kissed the flakes of sugar off his mustache. We had traded the wild red rocks and pounding surf of Bretagne for rolling fields and orchards only faintly dusted with green. I could almost imagine us children again, when we explored hand in hand, breathless with exhilaration.
The banns were posted and remained unchallenged. With the certificate of marriage in hand, we went to see the young priest who had ushered Mama Valerius out of this world. He heard our confessions, and in a little side chapel of the great Gothic edifice heard our vows.
On a dim green street we found clean furnished rooms with worn but sturdy furniture. The concierge looked at the new ring on my finger and smiled, but as I climbed the stairs, my heart pounded with fear for the night that was to come.
Raoul carried our carpet bags upstairs and hung up our coats. In an old copper kettle I made tea, and as evening fell blue over Brussels we ate our simple wedding supper, topped off with a little seedcake presented to us by the concierge.
I closed the dark green velvet curtains and looked apprehensively at the high mattress in its four-poster frame. Someone had embroidered crewelwork paisley patterns over the pale muslin bed curtains.
A long-ago labor of love, their once-bright reds and blues had faded into palest pastel. In the velveteen chair next to the bed I sank, not knowing what to do next. Raoul knelt down next to me and gently stroked my shoulders, my neck, my arms, as I shook with tension.
"Perhaps we should have gone away somewhere," he said, a tremble in his voice.
"We are away already, when you think about it."
"There are worse places to honeymoon than Brussels," he said with a hesitant glance at my middle. "Should we? If there is a child, will it be dangerous?"
"I don't think so," I replied. "Most women don't even know until they're well along. If it did hurt, I don't know how any babies would get born at all."
He nuzzled my neck in reply, torn apart as I was between two opposing armies. One pulled me toward my husband, my living husband, and the other pulled me mockingly toward the grave, saying, you know the depravity of which you are capable. You know the depths to which you can sink. How can you hide that from your live husband?
"It will be all right," I said, finally, and he blew out the lamp. Blue light from a full moon suffused the room. Its glimmer was punctuated by shadows from the pointed roofs outside.
He sat next to me on the bed, neither of us knowing where to put our hands. Shyly we kissed, and he undid his vest, then took my hand and slid it around the curve of his side. I looked at his face with a little anxiety. This probably wasn't what he expected for his wedding night, this trampled flowerbed of virginity. Yet he looked happy, and when my hand rested on his thigh, he sighed deeply.
I didn't want him to know how deep my excitement went. Opening my mouth softly with his, he kissed at first tenderly, then a little harder, playing with his lips over my mouth and tickling my upper lift with his soft mustache. My dress felt like a suit of armor. He fumbled with the tiny nubbins that held it together, brows ridged with concentration. It took a long time to get the dress off.
"I should hang it up," I said, and he let me go. I tied the bed curtains back, pursued by little eye caresses as he watched. My dress drooped like a coat of mail discarded when the awaited battle was never fought. An unfamiliar feeling of happiness played over me. He wants me, I thought. He doesn't think I'm spoiled, or disgusting. He tried hard not to look at my body, but when I unlaced my corset, look he did.
"I thought you would need a lady's maid," he said.
"It's clever, I can undo it on the side."
Then, standing shivering in my cotton shift and the long black stockings I'd forgotten to roll down, I whispered, "'Take me to bed."
It was only later that I thought, perhaps I might have shocked him. Perhaps he thought my behavior more worthy of a whore than a decent wife. But when you come back from the dead, you don't care if you're thought a whore or not.
Flushed and heavy with desire, he picked me up in his arms and laid me gently on the bed. Then he closed the bed curtains and left to undo flaps and buttons. With flaming face he came through the veil of curtain naked save for the long undergarment hanging off his hips. The curtains shone faintly blue with the moon, and it was dim in the bed's cave.
Hiding his arousal with his hands, he slid into bed under the sheet and lay quietly next to me. I didn't know whether he was too considerate or too frightened to touch me. I waited for him to leap up, to pounce, but he only held out his arms. Over to him I slid, braced against the inevitable rough pressure of his will. Fear made me shiver like a cat out in the rain. No pounce came. Softly he opened his mouth, inviting me into a kiss.
"Is it all right?" I asked softly, when we broke for breath. His skin was a warm bath I could drown in.
"Unbelievable," he murmured.
"You love me? You want me?"
"Oh, yes," he breathed. "How I love you."
He rolled my stockings down, first one, then the other. When he reached for my chemise I hesitated, and so he let it go, then kissed me again. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that I'm frightened."
"Of what?"
"Of being hurt."
"Oh, Christine," he said, the faint gleam of a sword in his voice, "did he hurt you? I will not, I promise. I will be the soul of gentleness."
"I don't know what to do, what's right, what's wrong." What I didn't say was how I feared he would discover that ugly thing in me, that blot which made me wonder how I could ever be a good wife to him.
"Just love me," he said. "That's what's right. Look, here's my heart," and he put my hand on his warm breast.
"My love," I said, over and over. In answer he pulled my hand against the sparse fur of his chest, to stroke over the rest of him all yielding.
"Go ahead, it's all right," he said, as quietly he lay like putty underneath my roving palms. He unbuttoned his undergarment and pulled it down over his hips and straining sex. There he lay with moonlight gleaming on his round and silky limbs, trembling and roused for me.
I waited for him to grab and take me. Surprisingly, he rolled over onto his back and lightly touched my hips, guiding me over towards him with a suggestion rather than a tug. I followed him still a little fearful, but more trusting now, and curious.
"Ride me," he whispered. "Ride me like a horse." I didn't understand what he meant at first. He stroked and pulled my hips reassuringly, and then I knew. Over his hips I threw my leg, and rested atop that part which all sons of Adam share, he and Erik alike. I waited for him to shove inside me, to yank me down, but he remained entirely still.
The tiniest movements sometimes have the greatest effects. At the outer grasping softness he throbbed. Up and down my legs he stroked without force. I had all the time in world to make my descent. A long lick of delight went up through me as I slowly lowered myself down. Clasping him, I worked muscles I had never used on a man. He groaned and arched his back a little, and that was all.
"Are you all right?" he said drowsily, afterwards. "There was no pain?"
"None," I said, looking at his sleep-dusted face. I never understood what instinct led him to know exactly what to do on that night, and on so many after. Never could I ask. Somehow he knew. He took my hand, drew it to his face to plant a few kisses, then slept. Sometime later, I did too.
Night after night the moon waned to black, then waxed fat again over the rooftops. Night after night I flowed down onto the full expanse of him, the skin of his stomach soft under mine, the large muscles beneath tensed with anticipation. I pressed up close with the tiniest of movements and mewling cries, while underneath me he shook with desire until he could hold off no longer.
I knew what I sought, and after some time even had some idea how to obtain it. One night I drew him into me with greater strength and urgency than ever before, and he gently placed his hands on my hips to slow me down. Every tremble, every shiver lifted me to a new layer of fluttering, gathering expectation. When finally he did move, he lunged into me in spite of himself. Then my cup full of desire spilled, and I gripped him, flung myself on him, cried out to him over and again. Over and around him I closed and opened, opened and closed without control.
The wave of his own desire broke against me. He swelled up hot, moving rhythmically without thought. Deep he sank, caressed by that invisible hand beyond reach of mind or will, face slack with pleasure. Onto his breast he drew me, gleaming with well-being, breathing hard as the quivers faded. "I've heard of that," he whispered. "I had no idea."
At first I didn't know what he was talking about.
"Men speak about it only with regard to their mistresses," he said, "not with good women. Not with their wives."
"I'm not a good woman," I said. "Are you sorry that you made me so happy?"
He pressed my head deeper into his breast. "How can I be sorry? I never knew a man could give a woman such pleasure."
"I didn't know, either," I said, and he sighed as he rocked me on his yielding chest.
"Thank you," he said after a long moment. "Thank you for telling me that."
"Let me look at you," I whispered. A full moon, waxed fat again a month after our wedding, cast its broken shadows around our bed. He nodded, half asleep, so I studied him intently. His sword slept all lax and sheathed in its long scabbard of flesh, slick with moisture. I glowed like a coal-fire, and could still feel the tender echo of his body inside mine.
He was a man, and so was Erik, sons of Adam both. I passed my hand like a blessing over those parts they shared in common. And thus from moon to moon Raoul and I became one flesh, because Erik was dead.
(continued...)