[ He discovers her letter late, and responds even later, copying into the empty space beneath hers—with painstakingly respectable penmanship—a clean replica of a third draft. The first draft was full of lies, and the second full of honesty. Both were full of spelling errors. This one, in its relative brevity, has only a little of each. ]
I have traveled to Deauville since you left. I borrowed a horse named Robert, which is the worst name I have ever heard for a horse. He doesn’t seem to know it, though. He’s very friendly. So are the people here. Most of them have lost someone, or something, or everyone and everything. They gossip and tease anyway. Sometimes someone gets a distant look or has to leave in a hurry to collect themselves; then they come back. Coming back from a livelihood burning or a son hanging—can you imagine? But people manage it. And things go on. I would say they would scoff at my life’s little problems, if I spoke of them, but really I think they would be kind.
I hope your journey was interesting only in ways that make for good stories, and I hope Antiva rewards you handsomely for what I must assume was a great deal of self-control, for you to have boarded that ship. And I am happy for you both.
I would still like my two songs! But make both of them for joy.
[ Spelling errors not (intentionally) depicted, because I am lazy. ]
Edited (don’t look at meeee) 2020-09-04 11:56 (UTC)
[ It is not said, directly, but here and there. That even mention comes up little and late, despite it being the whole of her letter to him. That it began with other thoughts. That he writes of loss but good spirits despite it, his small problems alongside. "I am happy for you both" without the 'only' of her example.
And so she thinks it is true. And then she thinks for another day, and drapes a veil over her reply as well. ]
B—
Despite the pain there, which I am sure your ready smile is helping to alleviate, I might be envious that you are travelling in Orlais save that I am having a lovely time on this ship.
I once kept company with another landscape artist who loved to paint the sea. Not even where it touches the land, only water upon water. 'How can you paint so?' I would exclaim. 'There is nothing!' It has taken me until now, watching it as I do each day, to find I was wrong— there is everything; it was simply that I did not know how to see it beyond my thoughts of what was missing.
Whilst I was learning, it made me cross to see other ships on the horizon. Even only their sails in the distance got in the way of my contemplation! Of course I knew we could not be the only ship on the sea, that would be terribly silly. After all there is trade that must be done, pleasure jaunts to be had, but even so, I was not sure yet, of the sea. What were they seeing, from those other ships? Things I could not? Unbearable.
But time passed; and one night, when I could barely see the horizon, and I felt I was alone with it, we came to a sort of accord. Now, even in the light I find I can love the sea with a sort of breathless freedom, and I think, perhaps, it has loved me back all the while. I find I can be glad of other ships, others who might be standing at the rail loving it too.
Perhaps one of them is my old friend! It pleases me greatly to think so. There is enough sea for us both, and I need not worry about which of us is painting it better. My paintings shall never be the same as his, for I think the sea is different for each of us, and it should be silly to compare our work. Perhaps together, with enough care and dedication, he and I might manage to paint a more complete picture; as it deserves.
And it is nice to think someone will always be painting it. After all, as you know, the land is a great love of mine and I shall never abandon it. I cannot give all my brushstrokes to the sea, and when I am elsewhere it would grieve me to think there is no-one looking at it with love. I should never wish it lonely.
Per your request, I will bring you two songs of joy; one they sing alone, and one together.
[ Just beneath her post script, with handwriting slightly less respectable and slightly more scrawled: ]
I’m sure the sea thinks itself vast, limitless, eternal, and entirely deserving of adoration from the tiny people skimming around on top of it. Or perhaps it thinks: rudders tickle, and someone make the fish stop squirming, and everyone please stop pissing in me.
[ The limitations of metaphor.
The rest is on the next page, and back to being neatly written. Her meaning didn’t escape him; it’s tucked into a pocket, also metaphorically, for if/when he reaches a juncture in his arguments with himself where her good grace matters. ]
You have a generous heart, Alexandrie. Of course it can multitask well. But I would not have you devote even a sliver of it to worrying about me right now. You can worry about me later; I will signal you when it is time.
You must also not worry about Byerly being cross with you. He told me before I saw you had written.
If you must worry about something, I recommend pirates, storms, and Antivan Crows. I have heard recently, too, of an Antivan opera singer who caused someone’s ears to bleed. Almost certainly nonsense, but you might carry beeswax in case.
Perhaps I shall worry about my parasol, which was snatched up by the wind to-day and is even now being conveyed to parts unknown.
[ Next to the words, a small drawing of a very small parasol among a few fluffy clouds. ]
Although there is little I can do about a playfully pilfered parasol and I try to only worry about things I might have the power to affect, and whether or not affecting them should be good to do. When I see a storm, or a pirate ship, or a Crow, or my parasol again, or hear the first notes of "Ah! Le frecce volano" [ a famed and perniciously shrill aria from the end of L'Elfo e la Fanciulla, written back when it was popular to stretch out other country's folk ballads interminably. (Since he'd 'sung' her Girl From Red Crossing.) ] I shall commence fretting.
(Of course, if the Crow is come to kill me and I see them with enough time to worry before they make attempt, I will fret a little less as they are not a very good Crow.)
This to say that since I have done, now, what I may, I shall not worry after you until such time as I receive your signal...
Which I humbly request not be the first notes of "Ah! Le frecce volano".
[ There’s no answer forthcoming. He’s busy, he’s lonely, he’s thinking. But he does come back after several days to add to her parasol drawing: a little misshapen fleck of ink, with spread wings, so a tiny little bird has caught it in the sky. ]
[ It is eminently missable, but if Bastien should happen to look the next morning—or any time thereafter—he will find that the bird has gained an equally tiny companion in the sky nearby. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I have traveled to Deauville since you left. I borrowed a horse named Robert, which is the worst name I have ever heard for a horse. He doesn’t seem to know it, though. He’s very friendly. So are the people here. Most of them have lost someone, or something, or everyone and everything. They gossip and tease anyway. Sometimes someone gets a distant look or has to leave in a hurry to collect themselves; then they come back. Coming back from a livelihood burning or a son hanging—can you imagine? But people manage it. And things go on. I would say they would scoff at my life’s little problems, if I spoke of them, but really I think they would be kind.
I hope your journey was interesting only in ways that make for good stories, and I hope Antiva rewards you handsomely for what I must assume was a great deal of self-control, for you to have boarded that ship. And I am happy for you both.
I would still like my two songs! But make both of them for joy.
[ Spelling errors not (intentionally) depicted, because I am lazy. ]
no subject
And so she thinks it is true. And then she thinks for another day, and drapes a veil over her reply as well. ]
B—
Despite the pain there, which I am sure your ready smile is helping to alleviate, I might be envious that you are travelling in Orlais save that I am having a lovely time on this ship.
I once kept company with another landscape artist who loved to paint the sea. Not even where it touches the land, only water upon water. 'How can you paint so?' I would exclaim. 'There is nothing!' It has taken me until now, watching it as I do each day, to find I was wrong— there is everything; it was simply that I did not know how to see it beyond my thoughts of what was missing.
Whilst I was learning, it made me cross to see other ships on the horizon. Even only their sails in the distance got in the way of my contemplation! Of course I knew we could not be the only ship on the sea, that would be terribly silly. After all there is trade that must be done, pleasure jaunts to be had, but even so, I was not sure yet, of the sea. What were they seeing, from those other ships? Things I could not? Unbearable.
But time passed; and one night, when I could barely see the horizon, and I felt I was alone with it, we came to a sort of accord. Now, even in the light I find I can love the sea with a sort of breathless freedom, and I think, perhaps, it has loved me back all the while. I find I can be glad of other ships, others who might be standing at the rail loving it too.
Perhaps one of them is my old friend! It pleases me greatly to think so. There is enough sea for us both, and I need not worry about which of us is painting it better. My paintings shall never be the same as his, for I think the sea is different for each of us, and it should be silly to compare our work. Perhaps together, with enough care and dedication, he and I might manage to paint a more complete picture; as it deserves.
And it is nice to think someone will always be painting it. After all, as you know, the land is a great love of mine and I shall never abandon it. I cannot give all my brushstrokes to the sea, and when I am elsewhere it would grieve me to think there is no-one looking at it with love. I should never wish it lonely.
Per your request, I will bring you two songs of joy; one they sing alone, and one together.
—A
added a moment later
no subject
I’m sure the sea thinks itself vast, limitless, eternal, and entirely deserving of adoration from the tiny people skimming around on top of it. Or perhaps it thinks: rudders tickle, and someone make the fish stop squirming, and everyone please stop pissing in me.
[ The limitations of metaphor.
The rest is on the next page, and back to being neatly written. Her meaning didn’t escape him; it’s tucked into a pocket, also metaphorically, for if/when he reaches a juncture in his arguments with himself where her good grace matters. ]
You have a generous heart, Alexandrie. Of course it can multitask well. But I would not have you devote even a sliver of it to worrying about me right now. You can worry about me later; I will signal you when it is time.
You must also not worry about Byerly being cross with you. He told me before I saw you had written.
If you must worry about something, I recommend pirates, storms, and Antivan Crows. I have heard recently, too, of an Antivan opera singer who caused someone’s ears to bleed. Almost certainly nonsense, but you might carry beeswax in case.
B.
no subject
[ Next to the words, a small drawing of a very small parasol among a few fluffy clouds. ]
Although there is little I can do about a playfully pilfered parasol and I try to only worry about things I might have the power to affect, and whether or not affecting them should be good to do. When I see a storm, or a pirate ship, or a Crow, or my parasol again, or hear the first notes of "Ah! Le frecce volano" [ a famed and perniciously shrill aria from the end of L'Elfo e la Fanciulla, written back when it was popular to stretch out other country's folk ballads interminably. (Since he'd 'sung' her Girl From Red Crossing.) ] I shall commence fretting.
(Of course, if the Crow is come to kill me and I see them with enough time to worry before they make attempt, I will fret a little less as they are not a very good Crow.)
This to say that since I have done, now, what I may, I shall not worry after you until such time as I receive your signal...
Which I humbly request not be the first notes of "Ah! Le frecce volano".
—A
no subject
no subject