“Then, thought she, looking out to sea through eyes grown misty, better cling to her religion. It was better – she hardly noticed the reprehensibleness of her thought – than nothing. But oh, she wanted to cling to something tangible, to love something living, something that one could hold against one’s heart, that one could see and touch and do things for. If her poor baby hadn’t died… babies didn’t get bored with one, it took them a long while to grow up and find one out. And perhaps one’s baby never did find one out; perhaps one would always be to it, however old and bearded it grew, somebody special, somebody different from everyone else, and, if for no other reason, precious in that one could never be repeated.
Sitting with dim eyes looking out to sea she felt an extraordinary yearning to hold something of her very own tight to her bosom. Rose was slender, and as reserved in figure as in character, yet she felt a queer sensation of – how could she describe it? – bosom. There was something about San Salvatore that made her feel all bosom. She wanted to gather to her bosom, to comfort and protect, soothing the dear head that should lie on it with softest strokings and murmurs of love. Frederick, Frederick’s child – come to her, pillowed on her, because they were unhappy, because they had been hurt… They would need her then, if they had been hurt; they would let themselves be loved then, if they were unhappy.
Well the child was gone, would never come now; but perhaps Frederick – some day – when he was old and tired…”
From The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim. The book is short and delightful. If you haven't seen the latest film version (1992), I recommend it. I haven't seen the earlier one from 1935, but from what I've read, I'm not missing much.
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