The snow and ice and frozen slush glistened in the dim light, and the barbed wire barriers were like grim versions of a fairy tales, but this was reality. No-man's land was now a frozen hell, full of craters and holes. Soliders worked in shifts, as they watched the terrain, and sometimes repaired frost-damaged structures with pickaxes. Tired, and utterly worn out Capitan Ford shook snow from his buttoned great coat, and nodded to his men, in his efficent, magnetic way. In the dug-out, there were rum portions waiting, and also this time hot water to mix with, a rarity, it was.
Ken stretched, and sat down, and checked his socks, as he did every single day after his rounds, as all the men did, there were standing orders. The snow had come early this autumn and since November conditions on the front had been harsh, in all around. After Battle of Ancre on the Somme, the final battle of the Autum, had been a total slaughter. It had been a hair's breadth that a black-edged telegram would have been sent to Toronto, had not that one green-eyed, pale soldier, stained with mud and blood, who had rushed in front of him, doing so, saved him, and went down, in his stead. And for weeks, when he closed his eyes, Ken saw, again and again, how the pale soldier, dropped to the ground gracefully, lightly, like a leaf, and silently, as if contented. And afterwards, Ken had tried to find out who the soldier had been, but it was difficult to get information, like pulling hens teeth, but finally Ken had succeeded. Apparently he had been last man in his own division, but his name, it had been a french- sounding one, C Desjardin. Ken glanced at the small shelf where there was a package from Toronto. And while tasting his rum, he remembered Ingelside's inviting drawing-room, and the view of Rainbow Valley's leafy, violet embroidered secret groves, where sometimes he and Walter would sit, and talk, or just be silent, watching the swallows fly in the summer, clear sky. Ken pondered about the letter he had written a couple of weeks ago in a burst of inspiration, to Rilla. In it he had partially revealed his soul, of the hopes he carried in his heart. Smiling, he opened Rilla's latest letter, and the sight of that clear cursive writing soothed his heart.
Sun cast dark shadows on the glistening snow. At Lowbridge, Dr. Parker's house, Mrs. Parker, took clean pillowcases to Alice's room. Beam of light glimmered on an objects that were half displayed on her desk, under some papers. They were a dark blue box that seemed expensive, and small teardrop-shaped crystal-bottle, it was parfume, and it had most hauntingly lovely scent. So perhaps all was not lost, but gifts were ephemeral. They were not ring. Although it was worrying that Irene Howard seemed to have a rich suitor somewhere, or maybe two if rumours circling Lowbridge and Glen were correct.
This fall, Alice's letters had been very sparse on details, though they always had been so. Alice had been never a very warm child, but so pretty, with her fair roseleaf-coloring as a child. So socially their standing had rocketed after Alice was five or so,after Dick had gotten his practice in better shape. Alice had been secretive, full of peculiar fancies, of fairies that lived inside roses, that Mrs. Parker had never truly understood. And as the years went by, the rift in their relationship had only grown, and Mrs. Parker focused more and more on social relations, and Alice's possibilities in wider world. Barely holding on to her self-discipline and dignity, Mrs. Parker walked downstairs and made tea.
Alice was again either at their church, choir practice, or at Ingelside, as she so often was in summertimes also. The door opened, and Mrs. Parker recognized her husband's heavy footsteps. Dick Parker, balding, looking like a big fluffy ginger cat, came into the kitchen, and he announced in his pompous way, which twenty years ago had been flighty, and witty, and not tiresome. "Well, the patients are taken care of for the day. I've earned my tea, and my pipe. Where's our nightingale?" Mrs. Parker handed over the teacup, and nervously began to embroider another pillowcase for the next meeting of the Lowbridge Ladies' Sewing Club.
In Upper Glen, Howards' house was decorated, like every house in the Glen, with fir boughs, and vines of ivy and holly were twined along, ornamental posts. Mrs. Howard was upstairs resting, as she had another headache attack. A silky pink lampshade cast shadows on the floral wallpapered walls. Howard's salon was full of sensuously decorated furniture, but everything seemed, somehow, cold. There wasn't much art on the walls, just a few prints in overly complicated frames. And the rug was a thick rose pattern with silken fringes, and near the piano was a pot of dyed grasses. Irene was leaning on the piano, in the perfect lighting, wearing a new dress that brought out the glowing goldeny tint of her hair, but that maddeningly handsome Doctor Blythe had only lifted his hat, and said calmly, while holding out a small package containing headache powder, at the hallway. "There must be something burning in the kitchen oven, Miss Howard. I suggest that you go check it out right away, as I understand correctly Christmas baking can sometimes be very serious, at least in Ingelside, that's the case."
After front door had closed after Doctor Blythe´s delicious broad-shouldered figure, and his nutbrown graying curls, and rougish, but serene hazel eyes, Irene had almost run to the kitchen, in very unelegant way, and she had managed, just in time to save Christmas cake made with great-aunt's cake recipe. It hadn't darkened badly on the surface, and fluffy frosting was able to salvage many flaws.
Sitting on the living room sofa was Irene's brother, he shared the honey-tinted Howard look. He was lazily peeling walnuts into a elaborate cystal blowl, that might have been some heiroom, or not. Carelessly, he swept a light curl from his forehead and ginned his sister.
Irene lifted her chin, and said proudly. " Dearest Clive, there's nothing wrong with my cooking skills, it was the oven. And besides, I might not have to cook at all soon, because you never know what will happen, when the year changes and 1917 arrives." Clive Howard glanced at his sister out of the corner of his eye. At last he said, "Think what you will, but a word of advice, don't reach for the stars, a couple of letters, are not the same as the engagement announcement in Glen Notes, I'm just saying."
Irene sniffed, as she flounced to the piano, and there was sparkling seasonal music, a hodgepodge of old victorian carols. For a little while Irene really enjoyed the music, until, as always, her mother's voice echoed from the mahogany staircase in her suffering, plaintive way, "My dear, your playing is making my migraine worse. And soon it will be time for you to go to Glen's choir practice, remember to wear your best hat."
Clive Howard sighed and looked at the familiar landscape spread out in front of him from the windows, that were covered with fussy lace trim. Glimmering glittering snow-drifts, and winding country-road that led to the Manse, and Carter Flaggs shop. He pondered once again of his sister, who had just vanished behind fir trees. Irene had cut fashionable figure in her red jacket, and deep green velvet hat. Few could see Irene's pettiness, and her boundless ambition, they saw, only what his sister let them see, a fair, polite and sweet girl who blended into various social situations without difficulty. Sometimes only Clive could only see shadows of his little sister, who years ago had wanted the highest apples from the apple trees at harvest time, in this almost overly calculating pale, smugly selfish figure. At times, Clive blamed their mother for her constant demands, but on the other hand, Irene had always wanted to conquer, to climb further than narrow vistas of Glen. Irene's few somewhat surprising visits to Kingsport and Charlottetown had only emphasized her dissatisfaction.
Clive went out, he found that he desperately needed relaxing smoke. The need for nicotine literally throbbed in his veins, but with a great burst of will he tried to overcome it, as unfortunately his stash of cigarettes had run out. It turned out that he was not accepted for military service, as he had not passed his medical. Army doctor had judged his slight heart murmur, to be too serious risk.
A figure in a brown coat walked down the road, and Clive politely waved. The figure stopped, and Clive found himself looking into the dark, eyes of Gertrude Olivier. Frost had brought a slight blush to Miss Olivier´s high cheekbones. Clive leaned against the railing of his home and smiled his best smile at Gertrude Olivier.
Gertrude Olivier was startled when a fair young man, not in uniform was loitering in the porch of the slightly too ornate Upper Glen House. Gertrude glanced at the well-kept yard, and raised an eyebrow.
Dark blue eyes, that seemed familiar smiled at her. The young man made a gesture that was like taking off his hat, although he didn't have one on, but there was something exaggerated in the gesture itself. At the same time a soulful voice said "Seasons Greetings, to you Miss Olivier." Shadow appeared for a moment in front of crocheted lace curtains. Only a turn and the self-conscious youth had disappeared, as if in a gust of wind.
The soft snow crunched under Gertrude's feet, and soon silhouette of Manse loomed in front of her. Light shone from large, lead-pined windows, as members of Glen's choir, Minnie Clow, Betty Meade, and few others, not members of Junior Red Cross, poured out in a steady stream from the great doors into bluish afternoon. Irene Howard was holding her court as usual, with Olive Kirk nearby. Gertrude could barely make out the gentle, slender figure of Una Meredith. She seemed to be looking in the direction of Rainbow Valley.
Ingelside smelled a hint of cloves, and Susan's delicious cooking. Gertrude noticed that Anne was sitting dreamily by the fireplace. The sufferings of the autumn were visible in both twins, and several times during the last few days, Gertrude had noticed that Anne was found to be talking to Nan, in inglenooks of Ingelside. Di had been humming in undertone, some familiar strand of music. She had been clearly dreaming, building castles in the air. There had been blue-backed book open on her knees, as she passed Di, Gertrude noticed that her hair smelled of honey, and some mysterious spice.
Rilla had sat in her room and re-read, one letter that had come few days before, it had been frontpost. She had answered evasively, when Gertrude had gently inquired who it was from. There had been a dreamy glint in Rilla's hazel eyes, and for a brief moment she again, seemed like young careless glowing slip of a girl, who, only a couple of years before, had laughed wildly, brightly and danced like a fairy. She had been so radiant in suave Ken Ford's arms on the dance floor of the Lighthouse. Gertrude had suppressed her smile, as she had said gently." Keep your secrets, then Rilla my Rilla."
And now once again, Nan was perusing the wide and full bookshelfs of Ingelside. She seemed to be flipping through Austen's Northanger Abbey, or perhaps Mansfield Park, or possibly one of Scott's Waverley novels. And wistfully Gertrude remembered how, last New Year, Nan and Walter had argued passionately, their eyes shining, precisely about influence of Scott's prose and poetry on the European romantic trend, so that Anne had had to come between siblings, because Di's intervention had not helped.
In the living room Rilla sat in green armchair with goldenhaired ruddy-cheeked Jims half in her lap. He was wearing knitted deep blue cardigan that Betty Meade had made for him, as well as black half-pants, and deep green socks that Susan had knitted for him, as an early Christmas gift.
Feeling restless Gertrude slipped upstairs. She could not tear herself away from Ingelside's cozy enchantment. And with determination, Gertrude took out a piece of writing paper and she began to outline letter to Rob. The act of writing helped, an opportunity to open shared dreams, to build a better future, even for a lingering moment, even if Gertrude felt like a liar, because optimism had always been Rob's thing, not hers. Sometimes Gertrude lay awake in her bed, too exhausted to walk, as she cursed her gift for it not having given warning of the 15th of September, the slaughter of Courcelette on the Somme. Her dreams always flickered in the background, even though new ones hadn't come in a long time. Gertrude glanced at a framed photo of a dark-haired, slightly laughing man with dark eyes, in civilian clothes. Under her pillow was another picture of Rob in uniform, and every night before falling asleep, she would kiss the picture, stealthily.
Susan busily brought in a full tea tray, from kitchen. The rosebud cups were out, and on the bonechina plate was a halved date cake that Di had baked a couple of hours ago. Satisfied, Anne nodded to Susan. Susan wiped her work-worn fingers on her striped cotton apron, she had another covered plate in her hand, which she took upstairs to Shirley's room, for a couple of days before, after returning from Queens to Ingelside, Shirley had wished in his modest way for some toffee. The scent of fresh toffee, "Susan brand" wafted up the stairwell after her. A fragrant malty tea scent, blended seamlessly with the cake. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth, and then a crisp fresh breeze floated into warm mugginess of Ingelside, as red-cheeked and starry-eyed, Di entered. She was shaking snow from her neckerchief, and curiously Anne saw that Di was by no means alone. Alice Parker in the blue coat handed Di a covered plate, which Di placed on the hall table, as Di said happily, "I happened to bump into Alice in front of Carter Flagg." Anne rose from her chair as she said warmly. " Welcome to Ingelside Alice. I always remember how wonderful it was to come home to Green Gables, during the holidays, although of course Patty's Place had its own advantages. There is steaming, fresh tea to be had, so have some if you want?"
Anne, glanced curiously at the fair-haired girl, who with a faint smile said " Thank you, hot tea would be wonderful. Sometimes I do think that nothing changes in Lowbridge. During holiday-season, we choristers are quite busy. I had a few moments to spare, this morning, so I baked cookies, to honor this season of brightness. Besides, I think that Nan, Di and Faith have already received their share of my baking efforts in Primrose Hollow." Anne noted that Alice was dressed in dark lilac. The shade was only possible to get if there were too few ingredients in the dye pot, her hems had lighter spots. The end result was uneven, and Alice for once didn't seem nearly as put together and polished, as before. Her hair was twisted into a thick careless loose braid, there were sloppy ink stains on her handknitted lace cuffs. Anne chuckled brightly and said "Those cookies look like molasses biscuits. Years ago in Avonlea Rachel Lynde taught me to make them but I never really learned them. It's a pleasure to taste these."
Soon teacups were clattering, and a soft chatter filled the living room, as Di told few Redmond and Perennial anecdotes hilariously. Anne found herself listening attentively, for one particular surname seemed to be repeated quite often, small shrad of restlessness fell into Anne's soul, and took root, as Di queried with saucy cadence in her voice." Golden Alice, did you notice that the very morning we left here Thompson brought a beautiful and expensive wreath to Primrose Hollow and parcels for us all with Dorian's handwriting on them. The last time I met him, he seemed a little down and he didn't seem to be looking forward to the Christmas break very do you think?"
Alice sighed, and said calmly "If I understand correctly Christmas time is not easy at the Hall. More pomp and glitz, place cards, and champagne, and imported French and German candies, than homely togetherness, but it's hard to say without experiencing it myself, which I probably won't do." Alice's words were conventional, and a bit staid, but the sudden sharp, glimmeringly happy look Di gave Alice was not. And with a fear in her heart, Anne drank more tea, and watched the girls' expressions, they were controlled, but still, there was hint of something that she should know.
Vaguely Anne remembered early summer at Orchard Slope, blooming shadowy garden and the tiger lilies in the wind, and Diana Barry's laughing eyes, dark braids, and the heartbreaking vow of friendship that had been sworn, in the best romantic tradition, and meant by Anne with all the fervor of an orphaned eleven-year-old who had walked the world all alone, with no other company than Katie Maurice and Violetta. And then she remembered whispers that had been buzzing through Avonlea when Miss Josephine Barry had come for a visit, bringing a touch of the glamour of the wide world and the blue evenings of Paris to sleepy, homely Avonlea. And the way, after initial scrape, Auntie Jo had looked at her and Diana, wistfully as they had ran carefree as swallows all over Haunted Wood, Violet Vale, and Lovers Lane. Once Jo had pointed out, emphatically "Anne-girl, remember that world is wide. Don't let prejudice or society's norms stop you from looking for new kindred spirits, all over. Anne had warmly kissed pale, wrinkled cheek, and she had cheerfully but solemnly promised. And then Anne had gone on reading Jane Eyre aloud, and some emotion had glowed in Jo's sunken, tired eyes.
That had been the last time Anne had seen Jo alive. The next communication had come from the executor of her will. In addition to the surprising cash check, she had received a copy of Jane Eyre. Marilla had once wondered why that particular novel, Anne had laughed heartily and said warmly "Miss Barry once said that my voice when reading this reminded me of a person dear to her, so it is only natural that I should get her book, and though Brontë is not my dear Tennyson. I confess that I have a soft spot in my heart for Jane Eyre's trials and tribulations, as they mirror my own in places, though thankfully Hopetown was no Lowood." And with a little start Anne returned from her memories of decades ago, to the reality of Ingelside, as she lightly wiped the corners of her eyes, and cautiously glanced around.
Di and Alice slowly worked through some notes that were on the pianodeck in haphazard pile. For a moment it seemed as if they were holding a conference, the soft voices fell and rose, excitedly. Anne observed avidly as Di who was dressed in blue hue so dark, it was almost black, conjured flowing notes out of thin air, or so it seemed to her. Shimmering fragments of joyful, slight, ephemeral music glided through livingroom. It slowly, almost imperceptibly, changed. Anne recognized same piece that Gertrude had played in one grey fall afternoon to Rilla and her, the song had allowed her to grieve. That caressing lullaby-like tune was glowing, once again in Ingelside, but this time, there were words twined in, in a language that Anne did not know.
Když mne stará matka zpívat, zpívat učívala,
podivno, že často, často slzívala.
A teď také pláčem snědé líce mučím,
když cigánské děti hrát a zpívat, hrát a zpívat učím!
Alice's voice cast a delicate web of enchantment, it had soft melting sweetness, and surprising fervor, that was slighty disconcerting. Anne felt like she was hearing dark, fiery, syrupy chocolate, in vocal form, dissolving instant. Suddenly Di's silvery voice flickered into a momentary ringing silence." I imagined you didn't know this song series of Dvorak´s you could have said something." Alice replied in carefully lingering arch tone. "Di, you happened to pick that one song that I know by heart, in all versions, as it is so short. If you had played any other of those seven, I would have been in trouble. "
Anne noticed how the ticking of the wall clock seemed to break the slightly solemn atmosphere in the piano corner. And slowly Alice and Di rose, stretching and whispering for a while. Both of them walked briskly into yard. Their coats and scarves were fluttering softly. From a window Anne noticed that they were heading towards Rainbow Valley.
Nan, tapped her novel shut and remarked in her clever way. " Mumsy, imagine this sitting-room is full of craft baskets, and stacks of books, and you'd get an experience of life in Primrose Hollow, these last few months, for this is what it has been. Di and Alice huddling over pianocorner, endless pieces of music, some seasonal some not."
Anne Blythe glanced at her darkhaired child. Nan, seemed so earnest, and anxious. So with a light voice Anne said."Darling, growing up is never easy, for anyone, and especially not in the times we live in. You have already had to endure unspeakable losses. The time that Jerry was knoced out by shell-blast, the collarcoaster of fear, and casualty lists. That bloody dance is still going on. So give space and above all time, and trust that Di will tell the secrets of her heart, sooner or later. Pushing doesn't help, it just makes Di more stubborn, unfortunately she inherited that from me." Nan laughed softly as she said "How do you always find the right words for almost every situation?"
With a stack of books under her arm Nan climbed into her and Di´s room. In a couple of days it would be Christmas, and Ingelside would be full of quiet commotion, for Merediths would be coming, and probably also Alice, too. To Nan's astonishment, she found that her weeks-old irritation with Alice was still there, like a stinging, frozen thorn. But conversations with Mumsy had given her a little more perspective. Maybe it was jealousy, and loneliness, but Nan was honest enough with herself. There was a proper order in the world, and then there was everything else, shady, forbidden, and illegal, and Nan was afraid that Di had been balancing on an invisible fence for some time. How to prevent her twin, from falling, like Icarus who burned his wings, as he had been flying too near in the Sun?
As the thought was an unspoken invitation, she looked at the small framed photograph of Jerry. He was standing in his uniform, looking serious, not at all like Nan remembered him, as he had been then, dark eyes flashing, dressed in dark suit, sand had been embroidered by moon, as they danced a silent, soft waltz, that night when everything changed.
It was December 23, 1916. Sparkling Mozart echoed through the rooms of Glen's Presbyterian Manse. There was soft knock on the front door. And wiping her floury hands on her apron, Rosemary Meredith opened the door. Alice Parker stood in the doorway, with a few carefully wrapped packages under her arm. Rosemary glanced at Alice and said, "Una is in the living room, as you can tell from Mozart." Bruce had grown a little taller, but he seemed more serious than before. His dark blue eyes shone with genuine joy as he peered through the kitchen door as Alice passed, he whispered audibly "Fairy, will you sing with my sister, something to bring joy to her eyes again?" And Alice had whispered back, "I can always try, but no promises." Soon after that ecounter Alice was standing in the living room, scrutinizing Una Meredith, as the light strains of Ridente la calma shimmered.
Ridente la calma nell'alma si desti;
Né resti più segno di sdegno e timor.
Tu vieni, frattanto, a stringer mio bene,
Le dolce catene sí grate al mio cor.
Ridente la calma nell'alma si desti;
Né resti un segno di sdegno e timor.
When the last notes of the elaborate music, and Una's effortless, bright voice had ceased into flowing stillness, Alice laughed, and said softly "I do think that Mozart's message is insightful in these times." Una turned and a quiet smile lit up her pale face and she said gently "Alice, thank you for your letters." Alice sat down on a small chair, and held out her hand to Una. And the cool graceful hands clasped each other tightly. For a short moment, a quivering silence pulsated in the room, an echo of shared loss.
Alice held out a narrow package. Una's dark blue almond-shaped eyes widened. She asked in a whisper, "Is that it?" Alice nodded. Carefully, Una opened crumbling paper, and the slowly worn music folder was revealed. Una gently touched the old-fashioned writing on the cover of the folder, as if it were braille. And finally Una looked up, and met Alice's compassionate eyes. Alice whispered, "I thought you'd rather have it, now than tomorrow." Una nodded, barely perceptibly, as she gracefully got up and went to the piano. With careful hand she moved Mozart notes, and put Walter's Mahler in its place.
And then.
Slowly, quietly, and softly growing, music shimmered. It cast its dim web of sorrow and grace. Una played with her eyes fixed on the notes, again and again, and again, until the whole set of songs was played through. The room throbbed, with long-pent up sadness, cutting pain of loss, and the memory of the mortality of life's transience. Alice's darkly sweet voice and Rükert's haunting poetry underlined the power of Mahler's composition.
Nun will die Sonn' so hell aufgehn,
Als sei kein Unglück die Nacht geschehn!
Das Unglück geschah nur mir allein!
Die Sonne, sie scheinet allgemein!
Du mußt nicht die Nacht in dir verschränken,
Mußt sie ins ew'ge Licht versenken!
Ein Lämplein verlosch in meinem Zelt!
Heil sei dem Freudenlicht der Welt!
Rosemary listened to Una's frenzied Mahler playing with her arms folded across her chest. Silent tears fell from her eyes, and suddenly she thought that perhaps, years from now, Anne Blythe might be comforted by this set of songs.
Ingelside, Anne and Gilbert's bedroom was painted with shadows. Anne combed her hair, and she remarked in passing, with a slight quiver in her voice. "Gil. Do you know that our children are apparently spending time in Redmond with Royal Gardiner's son. He was a close friend of Walter's, if I understood Nan and Di's letters correctly." And in the mirror, Anne met Gilbert's strained features, which paled as she added, "And besides, apparently the twins were at the ball, where they met Christine Stuart, of all people."
In Kingsport, Gardiner Hall, Dorothy Gardiner suffered from insomnia. Fragrant Christmas hyacinth bouquets were arranged in elaborate vases, and place cards written in Adeline's precise handwriting were ready. In the corner of the library was a handsome fir tree decorated with ribbons and candles, which was like straight out of Tsaikovsky's Nutcracker, but Dorothy was not Clara. Her troubles, no sleep could wipe them away. Earlier at late dinner Dorian had looked at her very gravely. Small subtle, quering looks.
Slowly, a blood-red dawn colored sky. The grounds of Gardiner Hall were covered with pristine, virgin snow, for a few more hours before the social dance began, it would last until Boxing Day.
A/N. The pieces of classical music mentioned in this chapter are Dvorak's op 55. Mozart's K 152, and Mahler's Kindertotenlieder (1901)