Chapter 34: Into the Ragged Meadow

if i have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind — if i have failed to snare
the glance too shy — if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

— let the world say, "his most wise music stole
nothing from death" —
you only will create
(who are so perfectly alive) my shame:
lady through whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.

"if i have made, my lady, intricate" by E. E. Cummings © (1894-1962)

"Mon Dieu! I am not ready to tell him, but I refuse to lie to him. Angel, give me strength!"

She chewed on her lower lip and met his concerned eyes with her appraising gaze.

"Mon amour, I must tell you about a dream that was not a dream."

She sighed and looked down at her hands that lay folded on her lap. Erik walked to the bed and sat down on the edge next to her. He placed one of his hands atop hers. And with the other one, he lifted her chin so he could look her in the eyes.

"Have you been reading Poe again, ma chère?"

He chuckled, but Christine saw that his eyes were shadowed with worry over whatever she planned to tell him. She met his gaze warily and fervently hoped he could see the love she felt for him in her eyes. The man's smile faltered and grew wan as he continued.

"You promised, Christine, only the truth between us, non?"

"Oui, Erik, only the truth. I have not forgotten. After all, we promised one another. And, I am tired of secrets. Since I came to the opera house, my life seems too full of secrets and lies."

A single tear ran down her cheek unnoticed by both of them and left a crystalline trail of salt in its wake as she relayed to her husband all that happened during their visit to the abode of the Angel of Music.

Erik raced from his bedroom with the words of his wife echoing in his head and drowning out her cries of anguish as he attempted to flee from the confusion that threatened to overwhelm his mind.

"Angel? Music? Sins? But, I have nothing to confess! I committed no such sins. That dream must have seemed very real to her, but I have done nothing! I feel so betrayed by her easy acceptance of my state of supposed sin. Yet, if an angel visited me, would I believe anything other than what the angel told me? Oh, Christine, what am I to think of all this? Angel or father? Wife or phantom? Who is the woman upstairs waiting?"

As he always did in times of great emotional distress, he felt a burning need to speak with his mother, the one person, until he met Christine, from whom he ever felt unconditional love and trust. His feet led him to his music room as tears blinded his eyes too thoroughly to see the way. He entered the darkened room and quickly moved about turning up the flames on the gas lamps until the room was bright as day. When he was satisfied with his banishment of the darkness, he allowed himself to collapse on the piano bench. Leaning forward, he placed his crossed arms atop the keyboard and heedless of the cacophony, rested his troubled head on his arms. He closed his eyes and imagined his mother sitting next to him. Her lovely face with its pale aristocratic features turned towards him. The love she felt for her son plainly etched upon her face. Emerald eyes framed with golden brown hair met eyes of a matching hue and hair of the deepest ebony. Age had only left the faintest of marks upon her flesh near the corners of her eyes and mouth. The corners of her mouth turned up with the slightest of smiles, which held only a wistful kindness.

"What is wrong, my son?"

He could imagine he heard the concern in her voice and a choked sob escaped his lips.

"Mother, she believes that I have tarnished my soul with sins of a mortal nature. I know that when I was younger I gave into the rage in my soul, but Mon Dieu! I thought that battle won years ago. Why must my life be so hard? Was not being born with this face enough punishment? Must I now confess to dark deeds that my heart and soul never committed? Surely, if there truly is an Angel of Music, he would not require that I lay claim to sins I did not commit. Would that I had sinned as then I would not feel so hurt by these accusations."