forced to open her own considerable abode to the public. In my
distraction and haste, I had neglected to pack a suitable kit and was forced to borrow from my landlady a razor and clean
shirt and so on, which I promised to return as soon as my mission was accomplished. After an odd dinner of chutney and potatoes
and brussels sprouts, I retired to my room and sat in a chair and thought about my plight and my mission. It was clear to
me, as indeed it had been clear all along, that Etna did not care for me in the same way that I cared for her. (Would I have
left Etna behind in Thrupp? Never.) At that time I attributed this imbalance to the physical and temperamental differences
between men and women. Certainly men were capable of greater passion than women, were they not? And so, perforce, must always
be the predators? And was there not a certain sport in the chase? Was I not expected to pursue Etna, no matter where she had
gone? By then, of course, I had persuaded myself that she had left Thrupp against her will, whatever she had written in her
letter. Though I had never met Josip Keep, I imagined him to be an intimidating presence, a man accustomed to having his wishes
obeyed. And would Etna not have felt dutybound to help her sister with her children? Yes, surely she would. I had seen the
way she was with her young cousin and had already admired the humor and patience she had displayed. But all of this was merely
idle speculation on my part. I could no more have given Etna up than I could have taken my life. Indeed, she was my life now.
I could not envision a future that did not include her.
And there was something else that I must admit to here: I could not cease from my pursuit until I had known Etna Bliss. I
mean this in the sense it will be understood. It was not a desire I would freely have confessed to at that time, but there
was in me the keenest need to touch and to experience Etna Bliss, a need I had recognized from the first time I saw her the
night of the fire, a need that had grown only sharper as the days and weeks had progressed. Do all men feel this way when
they meet their beloved? I do not know, for it is not a discussion I have ever had with any man or woman. I know only that
the alternative was for me intolerable. If I did not pursue Etna, I was convinced, I would be tormented all my life by longing
— a longing that no other woman would be able to slake. (And I must say that even today I am not certain that I was not correct
in this assumption.)
That night, as I slept in the boardinghouse, I was haunted in my dreams by images of Etna: her skirts tangled in tree branches
as she sought to fly, sheltering under a shelf of rock that quite suddenly fell upon her, and then soaring up and out from
Noah Fitch’s office like a gull caught on an updraft. The next morning, I inquired as to the whereabouts of Keep’s home, and
it gratified me to be told by my widow-landlady that the house was still known as the Bliss house and would be for years to
come, the townsfolk preferring to pay homage to the ancestral owners and not its usurpers. I walked the not-very-great distance
of a mile to the house I sought, the day clear and cold, but it was not the glory of the morning that increased my pace. No,
it was the thought of seeing Etna again that gave me vigor: the knowledge that if I failed today, I was likely to fail for
a lifetime.
One could see at once that the Keep residence (the
Bliss
residence) had been newly painted and the windows freshly glazed. I passed through a gate and approached a large paneled
door. A manservant opened it. I stated my business. He asked me to wait in a parlor.
Despite my nerves, I could not help but notice that the parlor was in considerable disarray. All about the room were ladders
and drop cloths and putty knives and paintbrushes laid out upon newspaper; the smell of turpentine was much in evidence. It
seemed obvious that
distraction and haste, I had neglected to pack a suitable kit and was forced to borrow from my landlady a razor and clean
shirt and so on, which I promised to return as soon as my mission was accomplished. After an odd dinner of chutney and potatoes
and brussels sprouts, I retired to my room and sat in a chair and thought about my plight and my mission. It was clear to
me, as indeed it had been clear all along, that Etna did not care for me in the same way that I cared for her. (Would I have
left Etna behind in Thrupp? Never.) At that time I attributed this imbalance to the physical and temperamental differences
between men and women. Certainly men were capable of greater passion than women, were they not? And so, perforce, must always
be the predators? And was there not a certain sport in the chase? Was I not expected to pursue Etna, no matter where she had
gone? By then, of course, I had persuaded myself that she had left Thrupp against her will, whatever she had written in her
letter. Though I had never met Josip Keep, I imagined him to be an intimidating presence, a man accustomed to having his wishes
obeyed. And would Etna not have felt dutybound to help her sister with her children? Yes, surely she would. I had seen the
way she was with her young cousin and had already admired the humor and patience she had displayed. But all of this was merely
idle speculation on my part. I could no more have given Etna up than I could have taken my life. Indeed, she was my life now.
I could not envision a future that did not include her.
And there was something else that I must admit to here: I could not cease from my pursuit until I had known Etna Bliss. I
mean this in the sense it will be understood. It was not a desire I would freely have confessed to at that time, but there
was in me the keenest need to touch and to experience Etna Bliss, a need I had recognized from the first time I saw her the
night of the fire, a need that had grown only sharper as the days and weeks had progressed. Do all men feel this way when
they meet their beloved? I do not know, for it is not a discussion I have ever had with any man or woman. I know only that
the alternative was for me intolerable. If I did not pursue Etna, I was convinced, I would be tormented all my life by longing
— a longing that no other woman would be able to slake. (And I must say that even today I am not certain that I was not correct
in this assumption.)
That night, as I slept in the boardinghouse, I was haunted in my dreams by images of Etna: her skirts tangled in tree branches
as she sought to fly, sheltering under a shelf of rock that quite suddenly fell upon her, and then soaring up and out from
Noah Fitch’s office like a gull caught on an updraft. The next morning, I inquired as to the whereabouts of Keep’s home, and
it gratified me to be told by my widow-landlady that the house was still known as the Bliss house and would be for years to
come, the townsfolk preferring to pay homage to the ancestral owners and not its usurpers. I walked the not-very-great distance
of a mile to the house I sought, the day clear and cold, but it was not the glory of the morning that increased my pace. No,
it was the thought of seeing Etna again that gave me vigor: the knowledge that if I failed today, I was likely to fail for
a lifetime.
One could see at once that the Keep residence (the
Bliss
residence) had been newly painted and the windows freshly glazed. I passed through a gate and approached a large paneled
door. A manservant opened it. I stated my business. He asked me to wait in a parlor.
Despite my nerves, I could not help but notice that the parlor was in considerable disarray. All about the room were ladders
and drop cloths and putty knives and paintbrushes laid out upon newspaper; the smell of turpentine was much in evidence. It
seemed obvious that
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