Four days after the fire, and three days after our brief tea together, I sent a note to Etna Bliss, asking if I might call three days hence to take her for a walk. It seemed a benign request, one she might reasonably grant, as it would allow her to escape the stultifying and airless atmosphere of the Bliss household while simultaneously permitting her to hover near to home, as a walk necessarily must. Indeed, I had a reply by return mail. (For months afterward, this brief missive, being the first such in Etna’s hand and therefore of great significance to me, was attached to the mirror over my dresser in my rooms.)
December 9
Dear Professor Van Tassel,
I should be pleased to accompany you on a short walk on the twelfth of December at three o’clock in the afternoon.
Most sincerely,
Etna Bliss
As chance would have it, we had another snowstorm in the interim and then, on the day of the intended walk, a rather spectacular thaw, so that the streets were awash with that dreadful mix of melting snow and soot and mud we New Englanders call slush. I was in a bit of a quandary, having purchased my first new suit of clothing, a frock coat of English worsted, and a new pair of leather shoes from Brockton, both of which would be ruined if I ventured forth in them. I compromised by donning the new suit — thinking to sacrifice the cuffs of my trousers — but wearing my old boots, a concession to the weather. I was dressed near an hour too soon and so remained in my rooms, walking from window to window, sitting upon my bed, glancing at myself in the mirror (how vain we become when infatuated with another), and all the while ignoring the neat sets of copybooks on my desk, examinations which I was required to read and correct — testimonials all, I was already certain, to my somewhat pedantic and desiccated lectures of the fall. The copybooks reproached me in my perambulations, yet I, in turn, mocked them — for what single sentence amongst those hundreds of sentences could attest to even a fraction of the truth that held me in its grip? I had a fleeting moment of concern lest I never be able to return to my former demeanor and routine, a worry I dismissed in the next instant when I glanced at the clock and saw that the day had reached that longed-for hour of forty minutes past two o’clock, which meant that I could now reasonably set out to fetch Etna Bliss at her uncle’s house.
She was alone when I called, which was fortunate, since I was not required to converse with William Bliss, who might have wondered at my intentions and who would almost certainly have regarded me anew were he to have ascertained them. Etna had on a blue-and-gold dress of no coarse material, the gold calling to her eyes as if singing arias to them. Her hair was done up with some care, fashioned in intricate coils that seemed to disappear like roads vanishing on a map. The dress fetched in rather tightly at the waist, and I could not help but be gratified by the sight of the severe taper of her torso flaring generously, both above and below, into modestly veiled bounty. But did I not say it is the face I notice first in a woman? And this, of course, I did on that day, though the expression there, I am bound to report, was somewhat less than generous, even wary, as well it might have been. I was, after all, a stranger.
We exchanged some pleasantries, most having to do with the uncooperative weather, and of course I made inquiries as to the health of her aunt and niece (both wholly recovered). Then I watched for a moment (privileged witness) as Miss Bliss set upon her hair a gold velvet toque that perched just so at the crown of her head, affording me a captivating view of the back of her neck as she adjusted the hat in the hall mirror. I was so mesmerized by that sight that it was some moments before I realized she was waiting for me to hold out her cloak for her and help her into it.
For the first time, Etna put her arm in mine (so many memorable firsts that winter), and we set out along the walkway to Wheelock Street, whereupon we directed ourselves eastward, so as to walk farther out of town. Her boots were wet before we had even turned the corner. I wanted to lay down my cloak so that her feet might not be sullied by the dirty snow, but of course I could not — not only for the seeming excess of the gesture, which might have frightened away any sane woman, but also for the sheer impracticality of doing so at continuous intervals. In the strong sunlight, I could see Etna’s face more clearly than I ever had before, and perhaps I did detect some slight relaxation of her features as we left the house and she took her first deep breath of fresh air.
“Professor Van Tassel, it’s a lovely day,” she said suddenly and disarmingly.
“More lovely above than below, I fear.”
“No matter,” she said. “Far better that boots should have to dry of the wet than one’s body and spirit dry up for want of fresh air and exercise.”
“Just so,” I said. “You have been feeling confined?” I asked disingenuously (I who would liberate her only to possess her).
“My aunt and uncle have been exceedingly kind, and I couldn’t wish for better company, but as I am new here and have not yet had opportunity to make acquaintances of my own, I have had few occasions to venture out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I, who was not, said in reply.
There were not many persons on the street, and the going was messy and awkward. I felt then the slight embarrassment that attends a foolish decision, as we had sometimes to part and then come together again. Occasionally, the path had been cleared of snow by an industrious Yankee, and we were able to walk normally for a time.
“It’s awful,” she said, “to contemplate the ordeal of the victims of the fire.”
“One cannot imagine,” I replied.
“I was surprised by the fire’s speed. It’s a wonder more did not die,” she said.
“A wonder.”
“Shock is a strange reaction in the body and in the soul, don’t you think?” she asked. “I was calmer the night of the fire than I was when I woke the next morning. My hands were trembling then, and I had to lie down again in my bed.”
“It is common,” I said, distracted by the thought of Etna Bliss in bed. Was she wearing a silk nightgown? Were her sheets rumpled with sleep? Was her hair in disarray?
She stopped walking. “Professor Van Tassel,” she said suddenly, pausing in her journey. “I should like to see the hotel.”
“It is a disastrous ruin,” I said.
“Nevertheless.”
She stood her ground, and I had the distinct impression she would not be moved. I gently turned her in the opposite direction, and we walked on in an uncomfortable silence. While I thudded corporeally over the muddy ruts and snow, Etna seemed to glide just above the surface, a feminine trick of walking that no man can master. Significantly, as we passed the Bliss household, neither of us glanced in its direction.
“What classes do you teach at the college?”
“A bit of everything. English literature from Chaucer forward.”
“Then you must spend your days in the company of Spenser, Milton, and Jonathan Swift,” she said, and from that comment, I deduced that Etna Bliss had some education (an academy? self-schooled?).
“I fear I spend my days in the company of too many dull and restless students,” I said.
“Oh, surely not, Professor Van Tassel. Surely the students of Thrupp are well above average.”
“Perhaps so, Miss Bliss. Perhaps it is only the professors who have grown dull and restless.”
“I’m certain you would never be considered dull,” she said politely; and how my heart leapt at this first compliment to my person, however much manners may have dictated her reply.
“Do you anticipate swift settlement of your mother’s estate?” I asked as we walked up Wheelock toward the village center and the college quadrangle, myself scarcely able to think for the pressure of her gloved hand upon my arm, an exquisite sensation even through layers of clothing.
“No, I don’t think so. I have two married sisters whose husbands are — how shall I put this? — perhaps excessively protective of their wives’ financial interests in the matter.” I heard in this forthright reply the suggestion of herse
lf as the sole unmarried sister.
“Are you close to these sisters?” I asked.
“I was close to my mother,” she said in half reply.
“Couldn’t you have remained at your house until the estate was settled?” I asked.
“The estate is being settled for debts. The largest creditor, my sister’s husband, Josip Keep, has taken the house for himself.”
“I see,” I said, beginning now truly to see. I steered her out of the way of a passing carriage.
“I envy you your freedom to live alone, in a room of your own, to study in your chosen field and thus be of service to your community by teaching,” she said suddenly.
How did she know I had rooms of my own? I wondered. Had she asked her uncle for details of me? And might I take this as a sign of some interest on her part?
“Freedom, Miss Bliss, is entirely relative. Some religious believe, for example, that true freedom lies in perfect obedience.”
“I should like, for once, to be obedient to myself!” she said quickly in the way of someone who has spoken a thought before it can be edited. I must admit I was taken aback by this remarkably forthright statement.
“Then why haven’t you?” I asked.
“I have remained too long under the loving protection of my mother and sisters, and now, like many of my sex, I have forfeited certain necessary skills to go forward on my own.”
“Where exactly should you go?”
She looked up at me in keen appraisal. “That is precisely the question, Professor Van Tassel. Where should I go indeed?”
She disengaged her arm from mine and was quiet for a time, and I had, once again, to accustom myself to her silence. But not before I had detected, beneath the blue-and-gold silk of her dress, an underskirt of desperation. Or perhaps I only hoped it so.
“Might I ask you to call me Nicholas?” I asked, emboldened by her frankness.
I was at once furious with myself for reaching forward too greedily, for she stepped away from me and studied the dismal ruin of the hotel. It was a dispiriting sight, the blackened maw now soaked through and rotting. A terrible smell I had not noticed before was in the air, and I shuddered to imagine its origin.
“To think we might have died that night,” she said with some awe.
I withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket, shook it out, and reached across the space that separated me from Etna Bliss. Boldly, I put that square of Belgian linen up against her nose and mouth, covering her, smothering her, so to speak, so that the stench from the fire might not enter her nose and soil her senses. I was actually trembling with the audacity of the gesture.
She was startled but did not flinch. After a moment, her hand replaced my own. And after another moment, she removed the cloth.
“Of course I shall call you Nicholas,” she said, turning toward me. And I could hardly speak for the proffered boon of this hoped-for intimacy.
“Miss Bliss,” I said, “would you like a cup of cocoa?”
“If I’m to call you Nicholas, it is only fitting that you should call me Etna,” she said easily. “And yes, I should like something hot to drink. This walk has done me good.”
“Well then,” I said, unable to speak further.
We entered a small tearoom on Kimball Street, assaulted at once by its overheated bustle, the smell of wet boots, and the steam that clouded the etched glass. There was a fire in the stove, and on the muddy boards of the floor were various mufflers and mittens and gloves and knitted hats and even children’s cloaks that had been abandoned under tables and chairs and occasionally lost mid-aisle, as if the entire population of the café had shed their outer garments en masse. We were shown to a table by a serving girl in black taffeta and white lace, a matching cap on her head, her hair frizzing in the heat. Etna and I sat down. She ordered tea and apple cake, and I ordered hot cocoa. There were patches of red upon her cheeks that spoke of outdoor exercise and of considerable vivacity. She looked a woman now bursting with health and even a sort of lust for life, as if a restless spirit that had lain dormant all these weeks in Bliss’s fetid parlor could now breathe and move.
“Are all of these people from the college?” she asked.
“Most will be,” I said, turning to examine the crowd. There were the usual pockets of students by the window and some ladies who had been shopping in anticipation of the coming holiday, wives or daughters of faculty, I guessed. Then, as I strained to see into the corner, I spotted Moxon, sitting alone with a book. And, bad luck, he glanced up at the very moment my head swiveled in his direction. Our eyes met, and he waved a smart hello, which meant that he was bound to get up and introduce himself to my companion, and, if I could not somehow signal in the negative, accept Etna’s almost certain invitation to join us.
Moxon was a lanky man of biscuit hair and pale complexion who, though our tastes were, as I have said, nearly opposite (Moxon being the fellow with the ornate marble clocks and the fire screens), was my closest colleague at the college. We often joined each other in the dining hall and spoke easily together of thorny lines of verse or of the unyielding prose of certain essayists (and occasionally of wayward students one hoped to rein in). Moxon liked the horses and was continually fetching down to his bookmaker to place a bet, and he was a keen follower of college athletics, which I was not, but apart from these dissimilarities, we got on well enough that we had dined together on more occasions than I could number.
“Your name is interesting,” Etna said. “Is it…?”
“Dutch,” I said stiffly. “The Van Tassel, that is. Nicholas, of course, is old English.”
(It occurs to me now that there may have been an entirely other meaning to my old nickname. Could the student responsible for its coinage have meant wild Boer?)
“How many students are at the college?” she asked.
“Nearly four hundred,” I said.
“And do you like it there?”
“Well enough. I hope one day…Well, I shouldn’t say. And I shouldn’t like this repeated, of course.”
“Of course not.”
“Only that I should like one day to improve my position within the college. Noah Fitch, the Hitchcock Professor of English Literature and Rhetoric, may be moving up to an administrative position in a few years, and I have reason to hope for his post. I have many ideas I should like to implement.”
“I suppose a few years is not a very long time to wait for something one is not certain of receiving?” she said.
“Don’t most things worth waiting for require patience?” I asked. “You seem to have remarkable patience yourself.”
“Do I?” As she pondered my comment, there was, beside us, an awkward flutter of limbs. I looked up to see Moxon putting on his coat.
“Van Tassel, have you parsed your Newman?”
“Miss Bliss, let me introduce my colleague Gerard Moxon. Gerard, this is Miss Etna Bliss, niece of William Bliss, the Physics Professor.”
Moxon raised his eyebrows. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance,” Moxon said.
“And I yours,” Etna said.
Moxon had meant, with his question, had I read the volume by John Henry Newman entitled Essays and Discourses that had been sitting on the table in my sitting room only the day before?
“I trust I know the Newman well enough to require it of twentyfive students next term,” I said.
“You think ‘On Saints and Saintliness’ worth their time?”
“‘The Illiative Sense,’ surely,” I answered with some impatience, wishing only that the man would leave us.
“Miss Bliss, are you from Thrupp, or are you visiting?”
“I am visiting, Professor Moxon.”
“Well, I hope you are enjoying yourself and that Nicholas here is not too thoroughly a bore.”
Though the comment had been meant to be a joke, Moxon had failed to deliver the line with any humor; thus the moment was merely pained. Etna looked down at her hands, and I beseeched Moxon with my eyes to leave us. Undoubtedl
y, he read this wish on my face, for he began to put on his gloves.
“I hope we’ll meet again,” Moxon said warmly to Etna, and I do believe he meant it. As I watched him walk away, I reflected that Moxon was not a bad man, really; indeed, I do not think he had ever had a malicious thought. Still, I knew that he would not be able to refrain from mentioning our encounter to any number of our colleagues. I was seldom seen in the company of striking women.
“Might not ‘The Illiative Sense’ be too difficult for your students?” Etna asked when Moxon had gone.
I flinched in surprise, a reflexive insult I sought to hide in the next instant by fussing with my cocoa, which had just arrived.
“So you’ve read Newman?” I asked, attempting a casual tone.
“Yes, I have.”
“Do you…? Are you fond of Newman?”
“You’re shocked, I can see that. It’s perfectly understandable. How, indeed, should I come by such a book, and why should a woman of my position, which is to say no position at all, bother her head with such masculine discourse?”