“No, no,” I said, somewhat flustered. “Not at all.”
She seemed amused.
“I’m promiscuous in my reading, Professor Van Tassel,” she said (and how quickly she seemed to have forgotten her promise to call me by my Christian name). “I read whatever I can obtain, by any means available to me — lending libraries, secondhand-book shops, books borrowed from relatives…”
“Then you are self-schooled.”
She laughed. “If I am, it is an education riddled with holes, though I hope one that will continue for a lifetime. My father, before he passed away, was a teacher of Mathematics at Phillips Exeter Academy.”
“An academic family.”
“But I myself know nothing of mathematics or of the sciences. I’m sure that my uncle William thinks me hopelessly dull.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” I said, somewhat recovering my composure and adjusting my portrait of Etna Bliss to include this new information. Such qualities were slightly unnerving in a woman but might prove valuable, I could see, in a wife.
We reached forward together for the silver sugar bowl, and our hands touched. She withdrew hers at once, and there was between us an uncomfortable silence. And that, I was soon to discover, was to be the pattern of our small outings. If we spoke of books or of ideas, Etna was animated, as though she had not had benefit of conversation in some time. But if I tried to speak to her of personal matters, or if I inadvertently touched her, she withdrew so quickly it was as though a cloud had covered the sun, the light going out of her face that swiftly, that absolutely. I had to learn, therefore, to speak so as to draw her out and not allow her to retreat into silence. I was, for the remainder of that first outing, moderately successful in this endeavor, successful enough to put a foot forward when she said, rather abruptly, that it was time for her to return to her uncle’s house.
She stood, and I stood with her. “I hope you will allow me to call upon you again,” I said.
Surely she hesitated too long for good manners, under the pretext of searching for her gloves. She turned to me.
“Yes, thank you,” she said simply. But did Etna Bliss understand that the freedom, both physical and spiritual, that she longed for might come only with a price?
My suit began in earnest. If the way to Etna Bliss’s heart was through books, then I should become, I determined, an extensive lending library of one. And I believe I saw, even on the first day I went calling with Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, that Etna understood the currency of my petition. Though she gave little away, it was difficult not to take her acquiescence as something more than acquiescence. In other words, I had hope.
I established a pattern of calling twice a week, and there cannot have been any doubt in that household as to my intentions. Indeed, I should have been regarded as entirely dishonorable had I occupied so much of Etna’s time with no future in mind at all. I could see that Bliss himself was baffled, though less baffled, I am bound to say when I began to reveal, in odd bits of conversation, the extent of my modest fortune. Perhaps, in the end, he regarded me as a solution to a mildly thorny problem.
As often as was feasible that winter, Etna and I left the Bliss house and went walking, returning at the end of these excursions to take tea with Bliss or with his wife. I would arrive punctually at three o’clock, nearly desperate to see Etna after an absence of three or four days. Following some brief pleasantries, Etna would don her cloak and hat and then take my arm, and I would feel a profound excitement. I craved the sensation as a man will his laudanum, and it seemed proof that Etna Bliss was someone with whom I had been destined to mate, someone whom I was fated to have loved. (I cannot help but wonder, however, if we do not invent our own destiny, design our own fate, to suit our circumstances. How much of love is a trick of the mind, a mere feat of verbal acrobatics, to accommodate persons who just happen to cross our path and who suit our needs at one particular moment in time? I 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, 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 was pressed hard against me. I would have lifted her skirts and run my hand along her thigh and tucked my fingers into her stocking. I would have done all those things, and perhaps she saw this, for she drew herself together in an instant, as if she had plunged her wrists into icy water. Of course, I did nothing, but I cannot help wondering what might have happened between us had I been bold enough to touch her then.
I looked at my outstretched hands. To give them occupation, I reached over toward the hat rack and took her cloak from it. I held it to her, and she stepped inside, wrapping herself in the wool. Perhaps I let my arms linger around her a moment longer than was proper. Her hair had been freshly washed and smelled of castile. She pulled away and put her hood over her hair.
“We should go,” she said quickly, “before my aunt detains us.”
There was no need to say anything more, since I was as eager as she to quit that house.
(What bargains — what bargains — did I force Etna Bliss to make?)
The storm had increased in its ferocity. Etna held her hood low over her face, and I had to lead her in what I hoped was the right direction. It was madness to be outside on such a day, and my thoughts were split between embarrassment for having allowed this foolish outing at all, and a kind of exultation that comes with adventure and risk.
By the time we had arrived at the college and stepped into the hallway of Worms, the fronts of our cloaks were sheeted with ice. My mouth had frozen into a grimace, and it was hard to speak properly for those first few seconds. A college servant helped us off with our outer garments and even encouraged us to remove our wet boots, which Etna would not do. We went immediately into the dining room and stood by the fire, warming ourselves. Etna’s cheeks and nose were crimson from the stinging snow — but, my God, how lovely her face was! She could not suppress a smile: we had survived an ordeal. As the warmth rushed back into her face and her limbs, so also did the words pour from her lips. I had hardly ever seen her so animated.
“Once I went ice-skating with my sisters,” she said. “I was very young, no more than six or seven, I think, and while we were there, a sudden storm came on, very like this one, actually, and I don’t remember exactly why now, but whoever had been sent to watch us was not there; perhaps it was thought that my sister Pippa could look after us. The storm came on so suddenly, we could not find our way back, and we were forced to take shelter in a kind of cave, and oh, the thrill of that, of being on our own! I remember that Pippa had brought a jug of cocoa wrapped in flannels in a sack. Miriam was too anxious and couldn’t drink much, but I did, all at once, and, my dear, I was so sick later! But it remains, it remains…It is a wonderful memory.”
She was rubbing her hands by the fire. She had large hands, nearly as large as mine.
“And how were you found?” I asked.
“There was a search party. It was feared we had slipped through the ice. I don’t know how long we were lost; it can’t have been more than an hour or two, which can be a lifetime in a child’s imagination, no? I suppose also in a mother’s. I remember that I was so disappointed to be found.”
She laughed. The hair at the top and the sides of her face was damp and curled against her forehead and cheeks. I glanced around the dining room, which was only partially full. There were no other women. Some men who had been watching Etna turned reluctantly away when I looked at them; others nodded and smiled knowingly.
“Oh, it is so wonderful to be warm,” she said. “One hardly appreciates these comforts when they are too easily come by.”
“We should sit down,” I said, “and have our meal. You must be hungry.”
“I am,” she said, looking around for the first time. “I’m starved, actually.” (That was another thing about Etna; she had a marvelous appetite for a woman.)
We spoke, we spoke of… what? I cannot remember now. How I wish I could recall every word of that afternoon, that afternoon of childlike conspiracy and warmth and good food and wine. Perhaps we talked of books, but I don’t think so. That day felt different from all of the others.
We lingered long after one might reasonably have left the table. I was light-headed with possibilities. I, who could invent a lifetime in an instant, had visions of Etna having to spend the night in college rooms, of an embrace she would allow me before she entered those rooms, perhaps even a kiss snatched in a dark corridor. I imagined sleeping in the same building as she and fetching her for breakfast, a meal we had never taken together. (Delicious intimacies, erotic in their content, and how strange, for we were to take nearly five thousand breakfasts together, none of which ever produced comparable sensations.)
As the meal drew to a close and the staff was compelled to remove the linens and silver from the other tables and I saw the lovely afternoon slipping away (and pe
rhaps because of my bold fantasies, which I later had to remind myself Etna could not have known about and certainly did not share), I reached across the table and seized her hand. She stopped her sentence before she had finished it. I could see that she was holding her breath. I laced my fingers into hers.
“Etna,” I said. “You are so very beautiful.” It was a joy simply to say the words aloud. I had not done so yet.
“Professor,” she said.
“You have promised to call me Nicholas.”
“There are others in the room.”
“Who envy me,” I said.
Her fingers were frozen in my own. I don’t know if she tried to withdraw them; perhaps she saw that for the moment she could not. The stillness I had observed before in her crept over her body and her features like an incoming tide saturating the sand beneath it. She began to breathe slowly, and her face lost its flush. I had the distinct impression (God forgive me) of an animal in a woods standing absolutely still to make itself invisible. She would not look at me.
But on that day, I chose, in my besotted state, to take her demeanor to be only feminine modesty and physical shyness, both of which were, I thought then, endearing and charming qualities in a woman. I wondered as well if this fear in physical matters was testament that she had not had other lovers before me, a question that had vexed me no end since the day I had first visited her uncle’s house.
I released her hand, which she immediately tucked into her lap. “This has been the most wonderful afternoon of my life,” I said truthfully.
She raised her eyes to mine. “Thank you for the dinner.”
“It will be a dreadful walk back,” I said. “The storm does not appear to have abated much.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said, looking out the massive windows of the college dining hall.