have never known the answer to this conundrum, and indeed I do not think it possible to determine such an
answer, since the physical effects of either are equally profound, so much so as to blur any distinction between merely convenient
and truly decreed.)
(A train of thought is an out-of-control vehicle, is it not, careering wildly from place to place, more dangerous than my
own derailed one?)
Etna would take my arm, and together we would stroll out into the elements; and was there ever a man who wished more for spring
to come early, not only so that there might be more fine days for our outings, but also so that there might be fewer layers
of clothing between Etna’s hand and my arm? Our discourse tended toward the books I had brought the previous visit. She read
voraciously and, I must say, rather attentively. Truth to tell, I had read nearly all of the volumes at an earlier point in
my life, either for my classes or for my own studies, and some of them, such as the Haggard, bored me utterly. But I feigned
interest when necessary, which was not hard to do, since Etna’s own enthusiasm was so infectious. I did think at times how
marvelous a teacher she might herself have become (quite possibly a better teacher than I, I am compelled to write here),
and what a waste it was that this woman had no one upon whom to bestow her considerable gifts. I began to see that she would
be an excellent mother, for she had great tenderness, which I had occasion to observe in her relations with her young cousin
Aurelia, as well as a true love of learning, which can be no bad thing in a mother, particularly if she is able to impart
such a desire to her sons.
(I daresay I sound opportunistic here, but these are thoughts formed more in retrospect than at the time, when I was in a
state of such helpless physical thrall that I could not have made sound or even calculated decisions. And though much came
later — and though I have found some ease in a life devoid of passion — I cannot say other than that I miss it.
Oh, how I miss it!)
(But was I
fond
of Etna Bliss? Did I actually
like
her? Certainly, she had many charming qualities, such as a talent for patience and a helpless laugh, and she had a lovely
way of swooping down to a child’s level to speak with him or her that was enchanting to witness; but, truth to tell, I was
always a little afraid of her, in awe of Etna, in the way of a supplicant before a benefactor. Though I do not think she ever
used that power against me, I believe she was always aware of it and understood this great imbalance between us.)
The weeks passed in this manner. I cannot say
pleasantly,
for the word is, I think, too tame. Rather, I remember those days as fraught with a certain kind of peril lest I do or say
something that might cause Etna to regard me with alarm. They were as well days of great turbulence of the heart, of unparalled
joy of the spirit, and of a thrill within the blood such as I had never known before. And, if I may say so, there was, upon
occasion, a glimmer of joy upon Etna’s face as well. I remember vividly, for example, one afternoon in January — the sky so
clear it seemed artificial, its blue and the snow’s white nearly garish in their audacity and adamantine sparkle — when I
had arranged for a long sleigh ride through the nearby countryside that so delighted Etna that she lost her reserve altogether.
It had been some time since I had traveled by sleigh myself, and so I had forgotten the speed, the sheer rush of air, that
such a conveyance can produce. Etna and I had soapstones in our laps that had been set near to a fire and still retained considerable
heat. The rugs that were wrapped over us thus made a kind of cocoon. Only our faces stung with the bitter cold, but we could
not mind, as the air was exhilarating. As we rode, the sleigh bells keeping time with the rhythmic movement of the horses,
the sun began to set,
answer, since the physical effects of either are equally profound, so much so as to blur any distinction between merely convenient
and truly decreed.)
(A train of thought is an out-of-control vehicle, is it not, careering wildly from place to place, more dangerous than my
own derailed one?)
Etna would take my arm, and together we would stroll out into the elements; and was there ever a man who wished more for spring
to come early, not only so that there might be more fine days for our outings, but also so that there might be fewer layers
of clothing between Etna’s hand and my arm? Our discourse tended toward the books I had brought the previous visit. She read
voraciously and, I must say, rather attentively. Truth to tell, I had read nearly all of the volumes at an earlier point in
my life, either for my classes or for my own studies, and some of them, such as the Haggard, bored me utterly. But I feigned
interest when necessary, which was not hard to do, since Etna’s own enthusiasm was so infectious. I did think at times how
marvelous a teacher she might herself have become (quite possibly a better teacher than I, I am compelled to write here),
and what a waste it was that this woman had no one upon whom to bestow her considerable gifts. I began to see that she would
be an excellent mother, for she had great tenderness, which I had occasion to observe in her relations with her young cousin
Aurelia, as well as a true love of learning, which can be no bad thing in a mother, particularly if she is able to impart
such a desire to her sons.
(I daresay I sound opportunistic here, but these are thoughts formed more in retrospect than at the time, when I was in a
state of such helpless physical thrall that I could not have made sound or even calculated decisions. And though much came
later — and though I have found some ease in a life devoid of passion — I cannot say other than that I miss it.
Oh, how I miss it!)
(But was I
fond
of Etna Bliss? Did I actually
like
her? Certainly, she had many charming qualities, such as a talent for patience and a helpless laugh, and she had a lovely
way of swooping down to a child’s level to speak with him or her that was enchanting to witness; but, truth to tell, I was
always a little afraid of her, in awe of Etna, in the way of a supplicant before a benefactor. Though I do not think she ever
used that power against me, I believe she was always aware of it and understood this great imbalance between us.)
The weeks passed in this manner. I cannot say
pleasantly,
for the word is, I think, too tame. Rather, I remember those days as fraught with a certain kind of peril lest I do or say
something that might cause Etna to regard me with alarm. They were as well days of great turbulence of the heart, of unparalled
joy of the spirit, and of a thrill within the blood such as I had never known before. And, if I may say so, there was, upon
occasion, a glimmer of joy upon Etna’s face as well. I remember vividly, for example, one afternoon in January — the sky so
clear it seemed artificial, its blue and the snow’s white nearly garish in their audacity and adamantine sparkle — when I
had arranged for a long sleigh ride through the nearby countryside that so delighted Etna that she lost her reserve altogether.
It had been some time since I had traveled by sleigh myself, and so I had forgotten the speed, the sheer rush of air, that
such a conveyance can produce. Etna and I had soapstones in our laps that had been set near to a fire and still retained considerable
heat. The rugs that were wrapped over us thus made a kind of cocoon. Only our faces stung with the bitter cold, but we could
not mind, as the air was exhilarating. As we rode, the sleigh bells keeping time with the rhythmic movement of the horses,
the sun began to set,
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