William Lashner - Bitter Truth

He asked me to dance and suddenly the music turned dreamy and gay. He had strong hands and a light step and never before had I waltzed so magnificently. We swept around the room as one and I could see the eyes of what was left of the party upon us, even those of the wretched Pooles, and once again the room glittered. Soon another couple joined us on the floor and then another and then another and before long the party was alive again and filled with laughter. In the middle of a sweeping turn I happened to glance at the Pooles’ corner and noticed, with a surge of joy, that they were gone, banished by the light that was Christian Shaw .

When we could we slipped out together onto the rear patio and then to the lawn, to the statue of Aphrodite which my father had just purchased for the rear grounds of the house, where we were finally, for the first time, alone. We leaned on the statue facing one another and spoke softly. “I had been to the Scotts, but the whole time there I was thinking of you,” he said. “In the middle of a dance I saw your sweet face before me and I knew I had to come. You’re not cross at me for imposing after sending my regrets, are you?” No, I told him, no no no. He spoke of the night and the fragrance of the air but as at our prior meeting I lost the thread of his words in the music of his voice. His breath was rich with the smoky sweet scent of brandy. The moon was casting its silvery glow on the statue and the two of us standing before it and then he leaned down and kissed me. Yes, like the sweetest angel sent for my own redemption he kissed me and an emotion as I had never known burst from deep within my chest and I swore then to myself, as I swear now and will swear every day for the rest of my life, that I love this man and will love him forever and I will never ever so long as I can draw sweet breath let him go .

June 30, 1911

A grand bouquet of flowers came for me at noon today, full of irises and violets and baby’s breath, a fabulous explosion of color. When it came I ran to it and ripped open the card with shaking fingers. It was from Mr. Wister, telling me how wonderful a time he had had at our ball and seeking again to call on me. My heart fell when I read his words. I wonder if Sheila Harbaugh received the same bouquet, the same note. I gave the flowers to Hope and sat sullenly inside through the afternoon, though the weather outside was perfectly lovely .

Another delivery came before evening fell, a dozen red roses and one white. It looked shy, that bouquet, next to Mr. Wister’s grand arrangement, but the card was from Christian, my dear Christian. “For a lovely evening,” the card said. “Devotedly, C. Shaw.” Those roses are beside me as I write this. I am drunk on their scent, delirious .

August 12, 1911

Christian visited again this afternoon and his goodness shines through ever more clearly. He was looking, as always, elegant in his black suit and homburg when he visited and as quickly as possible we absented ourselves from the rest of the household. On my instructions, two chairs and a table had been set upon the lawn for a private tea and I poured for him as he spoke. Like a naughty boy he took a flask from his pocket and added a rich flavor to our cups. His naughtiness served only to increase the intimacy of our moment. Our conversation, while we were sitting on the lawn, looking down upon the blue of the pond, turned to the ecstasies of nature, of which I admitted I was unaware, preferring the parlor to the wild, and he recited for me the words of a Mr. Emerson about the proud beauty of a flower. Oh, to listen to his voice is to listen to the finest, firmest of music. The afternoon was perfect until that little dark girl with her rodent eyes appeared at the pond’s edge and stared up at us .

Christian kept speaking, as if it mattered not, but having her stare at us was too intolerable and I couldn’t keep my silence. “Why does she bother you so?” he asked me. I couldn’t answer truthfully. I must assume he has heard the malicious stones of gossip thrown against us. They are lies, all lies, I know it, but they are lies that haunt our family as surely as if they were holy truths. I feel the press of those evil rumors upon me as others must feel the press of history, and pray each day that the falsehoods will someday be finally buried among the ruins of time, along with that girl’s drunkard of a father. But how could I explain all that to my pure darling Christian? “She’s a little spy,” I said simply. “Look at the way she insists on watching us.” “But she’s just a poor girl,” said Christian and then he spoke of graciousness, of generosity, of giving oneself over to the disadvantaged. He said he felt compassion for that girl, living fatherless in that house at the foot of Veritas. He had a small book about some pond in New England in his pocket and he insisted upon stepping down the hill and giving the book to her. I fear I must admit I was embarrassed at the sight and turned to see if his transgression was spotted from the house. Charity stood at the wall of the rear patio, a breeze catching her loose hair, watching as Christian loped with his long strides down the slope .

I felt a brutal anger rise as I watched him with that girl, talking to her softly, offering the book. That my Christian should be spending his attention on so tawdry an object was humiliating and I told myself that when he returned I would have to make it clear exactly what would and would not be tolerated with regard to those people. But as I watched his posture, erect and proud, and saw the girl’s shyness dissolving before him, allowing her to reach out for the book and take it to her breast, I could see in that portrait all the sweet generosity in his soul and I realized that he indeed could be our redemption. The falsehoods that have been used against us might die, as we have so fervently prayed, precisely because his goodness will transcend the evil of those lies. His goodness, I can see now, will be the instrument of our salvation and take our family to a finer place than ever we had dared to hope before .

September 3, 1911

Today we took a long and glorious walk along the stream that surrounds our property, Christian and I, our hands clasped tightly as we face our separation. I don’t know how I will survive while Christian finishes out his final year in New Haven. We have become unbearably close, our souls are united as two trees whose trunks are trained to twist around each other. He confided in me for the first time about the acute dilemmas facing his family and his future and I couldn’t help but feel joy at his sharing of the whole of his life with me .

It is not just I who have become transfixed by my love’s goodness. He listens with exquisite patience to Hope’s performances on the piano. She is generally shy in public but delights in playing her most difficult pieces for Christian and he applauds heartily whenever she concludes, even though the length of her recitals tries the most for-bearing souls. And he has taken to tutoring Charity on his favorite poets, taking long walks as he recites for her. Even Mother seems to take a special joy at his compliments on her teas. He has added a grace to this family for which we all are painfully grateful .

In two days my love will be back in Connecticut. I can’t believe he’ll be away from me for such length, but his strength and our commitment will surely see me through the loneliness of winter’s despoliation. Together, I know, we can deal with whatever the fates hurl our way and after he left I thought hard about how his family problems could affect our possible future together. Perhaps I see a way, tentative though it may be, to ensure the future happiness I believe we both deserve. I pray only that I can somewhere find the strength I need to take us there .