turning the plains of snow and the branches of the trees — even the firs — a deep but vivid rose, so
that all the world appeared to be glowing from within as if with a benevolent infusion. As this stirring color reached its
zenith, the horses, perhaps sensing this moment of perfection (or, more likely, wishing to return to a warm barn), sped around
a corner so fast that the sleigh tipped onto one runner. Etna squealed and grabbed my hand. She and I continued to hold on
to each other in a seeming transport of delight that closely mimicked, if not actually was, a kind of passion. Then, to my
surprise and bliss (there it is again, that word), she did not release my hand when the sleigh righted itself. Rather, she
laced her gloved fingers into my own, a gift so unexpected, I went rigid with happiness. The driver, a local farmer down on
his luck, muttered an apology on behalf of the reckless horses, when I, of course, wanted only to thank the man. Thus it was
that Etna and I reached that marvelous physical milestone — that of holding hands in affection — allowing me to make this
a habit on subsequent occasions.
Occasionally, our outings diverted from this familiar pattern. I remember one time in particular when Etna came to me — that
is, I went to fetch her, but she came to the college. On Sundays at Thrupp, faculty were permitted to invite guests to dine
with them after church. Sometimes these guests would be relatives from out of town, or colleagues one had business with the
next day, or a professor’s wife and children who for one reason or another had decided not to eat at home. Toward the end
of February, I invited Etna to join me for one of those Sunday dinners. I did this partly to repay her hospitality (I had
had several meals at her uncle’s house), and partly to announce her to my colleagues. Etna always provoked a little flurry
of attention in public, about which I sometimes felt ridiculously proprietary, as if I had fashioned her.
It was snowing the day I called for her, an icy snow that stung the skin, and, as I walked, the sleet blew horizontally, straight
into my nose and mouth. I had to hold on to my hat and fold my cloak around me. It was, in truth, a filthy day, and had my
desire to be with Etna not been so keen, I surely would have canceled our engagement.
When I arrived, she opened the door to me at once, as if she had been watching out for me, and I could not help but be pleased.
“Etna,” I said, shaking the weather from my coat and hat. Wisely, I did not say more at that time, for I did not want to overemphasize
the wretchedness of the day. I still had hope that the afternoon would develop as I had planned.
Etna had to turn and back into the door to shut it against the wind. “I wondered if you would be lost,” she said, and in her
voice there was an unmistakable note of relief. Her face was flushed, as if she had the fever. She brought her fingers to
her temple in the manner of someone who has a severe headache.
I had a new thought, a dispiriting one. “Are you ill?” I asked. If I was concerned for her health, I confess I was also worried
that I should have to return to the college without her.
“No,” she said, removing her fingers from her face. “It is just… Sometimes I find it hard….” She shook herself slightly. “Is
it so very bad outside?”
“It’s not impossible,” I said carefully. “Unpleasant, perhaps, but there will be a good fire in the dining hall, and the meal
today is goose.”
She raised her chin. I noticed that her hands were trembling. Though I very dearly wanted to believe that she trembled for
me, I knew otherwise. She was gasping for oxygen.
I took a step toward her, but she put a hand out as if to stop me. Had it been at all within the realm of possibility, I would
have crossed the distance between us and forced her face to mine. I would have dug my hand into the small of her back so that
she
that all the world appeared to be glowing from within as if with a benevolent infusion. As this stirring color reached its
zenith, the horses, perhaps sensing this moment of perfection (or, more likely, wishing to return to a warm barn), sped around
a corner so fast that the sleigh tipped onto one runner. Etna squealed and grabbed my hand. She and I continued to hold on
to each other in a seeming transport of delight that closely mimicked, if not actually was, a kind of passion. Then, to my
surprise and bliss (there it is again, that word), she did not release my hand when the sleigh righted itself. Rather, she
laced her gloved fingers into my own, a gift so unexpected, I went rigid with happiness. The driver, a local farmer down on
his luck, muttered an apology on behalf of the reckless horses, when I, of course, wanted only to thank the man. Thus it was
that Etna and I reached that marvelous physical milestone — that of holding hands in affection — allowing me to make this
a habit on subsequent occasions.
Occasionally, our outings diverted from this familiar pattern. I remember one time in particular when Etna came to me — that
is, I went to fetch her, but she came to the college. On Sundays at Thrupp, faculty were permitted to invite guests to dine
with them after church. Sometimes these guests would be relatives from out of town, or colleagues one had business with the
next day, or a professor’s wife and children who for one reason or another had decided not to eat at home. Toward the end
of February, I invited Etna to join me for one of those Sunday dinners. I did this partly to repay her hospitality (I had
had several meals at her uncle’s house), and partly to announce her to my colleagues. Etna always provoked a little flurry
of attention in public, about which I sometimes felt ridiculously proprietary, as if I had fashioned her.
It was snowing the day I called for her, an icy snow that stung the skin, and, as I walked, the sleet blew horizontally, straight
into my nose and mouth. I had to hold on to my hat and fold my cloak around me. It was, in truth, a filthy day, and had my
desire to be with Etna not been so keen, I surely would have canceled our engagement.
When I arrived, she opened the door to me at once, as if she had been watching out for me, and I could not help but be pleased.
“Etna,” I said, shaking the weather from my coat and hat. Wisely, I did not say more at that time, for I did not want to overemphasize
the wretchedness of the day. I still had hope that the afternoon would develop as I had planned.
Etna had to turn and back into the door to shut it against the wind. “I wondered if you would be lost,” she said, and in her
voice there was an unmistakable note of relief. Her face was flushed, as if she had the fever. She brought her fingers to
her temple in the manner of someone who has a severe headache.
I had a new thought, a dispiriting one. “Are you ill?” I asked. If I was concerned for her health, I confess I was also worried
that I should have to return to the college without her.
“No,” she said, removing her fingers from her face. “It is just… Sometimes I find it hard….” She shook herself slightly. “Is
it so very bad outside?”
“It’s not impossible,” I said carefully. “Unpleasant, perhaps, but there will be a good fire in the dining hall, and the meal
today is goose.”
She raised her chin. I noticed that her hands were trembling. Though I very dearly wanted to believe that she trembled for
me, I knew otherwise. She was gasping for oxygen.
I took a step toward her, but she put a hand out as if to stop me. Had it been at all within the realm of possibility, I would
have crossed the distance between us and forced her face to mine. I would have dug my hand into the small of her back so that
she
Similar Books
