Turn Of The Century
adapted from a song by
Jon Anderson/Steve Howe/Alan White
(copyright)
The chips fell from the chisel, making a mound of marble bits at his feet. The sweat mixed with tears in his eyes, so as to make him blink hard and wipe away the pain.
"Now, Roan, no more tears. Set to work." He said aloud as he moved back to the stone figure he had labored long and hard on for the last weeks. His mallet swung again, striking the chisel just so, causing another rain of dust and bits to fall onto the pile beneath. He worked on a statue, a figure of great importance. This would be his most beautiful, for there could be no other more beautiful than his model, his late wife. She was his one true love, the only being so perfect in his eyes that even religion had become less important to him. If there were a God, why would he deem it necessary to take her from him so early in their lives? He stepped back once more to survey his latest changes. His gaze rested on her face, the features so exact, so perfect. Could She see him? He wondered. He looked into the marble eyes that seemed to look right into him. They were Her eyes. Able to see just what he needed to make him happy. Able to soothe his angers, calm his worries, ignite his passion. Could She see him? His gaze went lower, to her torso, to her arms, the left one already done, swept up, arcing over her head, as she so often did while dancing. This took him back...
...The New Year's Eve gala was in full swing. He was in great demand by most of the guests, as his work was becoming more well known. His latest had only just been placed in a prominent square off the Champs-Elysees. His commissions were growing by leaps and bounds. This made things easier financially. Still, he tried not to put on aires, as he knew himself better than that. From meager stock he had sprung, and it was only his talent that brought him to where he was now. Talent was superficial at times, as it was always in the eye of the beholder. Eyesight goes bad with the changing of the times. While he had been mingling among the other guests, he had noticed her dancing with several different partners at several differing places during the evening. There she was again. So beautiful! Her gown was a silken-lace in a shade that defied definition. The way the lights played on it, with each new twist of her body, the hue shifted in its intensity, causing it to either grow darker, lighter, or change a shade altogether. At this moment it was a lavenderish-blue. No, a light rose. No, there, it changed again. Reddish now.
Her hair was so blonde it was nearly white. Lips so red they perfectly framed her smile, which was so sincere he knew she was totally enjoying herself. He found he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. The way she pirouetted with her left arm over her head, her fingers in perfect plumb with her nose. The music stopped as he politely excused himself from the group of well wishers who had steadily grown and changed with each passing minute. He wanted to get closer to her. He lost her! Where had she gone! The crowd had shifted to allow him passage, and he suddenly lost sight of her. He circled about, scanning the room for her blonde hair. There! In the midst of a group of young men, she sat with a glass of champagne, looking up at each as he spoke to her. Charming was an understatement. She truly seemed to enjoy each encounter. He walked over to the little gathering, his eyes firmly fixed on her, so as not to lose her again. Just then, their host began to call for everyone's attention.
Roan noticed her stand to see what was happening, and followed her gaze to the bandstand in the corner of the room. There, the host held his pocket watch just below his face, a half-drunken smile affixed thereon. "One minute 'til the 20th Century!"
Roan turned to find her again. He moved closer, not knowing if he should eavesdrop or not, but wanting very much to learn what the conversation was about. He was within earshot as he slowly turned, not wanting to look too eager to overhear.
"...not alone. I'm here with someone." It had to be her voice. How much like an angel's it was. How it captivated him.
"I've seen you with several gentlemen, but not one in particular, my lady," one young man said.
"I'm sorry if you've been misled by my apparent lack of a constant escort, Messieurs. I assure you it was not intentional. My escort has been busy with business talk, and I dislike those conversations. I do, however, love to dance. If you'll excuse me." She turned away from them with a smile. He looked over at her as she made her way in his direction.
"Ten seconds!" The host was nearly beside himself as he watched the second hand on his chronometer tick down to the last seconds of the century. Suddenly he threw his hands in the air, "We have turned the century!"
Just then, the band struck up La Marseillaise, and she was next to him. Smiling, he turned to her, "Happy New Year, Soleil!"
"Happy New Year, Roan!" she said as she kissed him. It was a warm, soft kiss, only a second in duration, but a lifetime in his heart.
"Would you care to dance?"
She looked at him again, causing his eyes to blink uncontrollably, as if he were staring into the sun. He gained control of them as she answered him. "I would gladly accompany you at the next dance."She smiled. "They've seen your sculpture, Roan," she said as she looked about the room. "The work is magnificent. I wish I had talent, to be able to make a thing of beauty for the world to marvel at."
He couldn't believe his ears. Here this woman of infinite beauty and grace wished she had talent. "I may shape stone, Soleil, but it's still stone. My wish is to someday create something as beautiful and alive as yourself. However, I'm afraid my talent is far too minuscule for that." She only smiled as they waltzed across the floor...
...He had to wipe his eyes again. The memories had flooded back into him, making his work seem distant.
He stepped back again, looking over his creation. He traced the line of the statue's garment with his finger. This part had already been polished. He wanted to make it as perfect as Soleil. After each section was finished, he polished it, leaving only the unfinished sections rough. Soon he would be polishing the right arm and hand. Just a few more touches here and there. He took the hand in his, how rough it felt, but how he longed to hold it. He remembered how they had held hands on the bank of the Seine, so long ago, so far away...
...They walked among the artists hawking their wares. Paintings; jewelry; pottery; sculpture. Several of the artists acknowledged him, acting glad to see him, but jealous of his fame. He had been there with them not so long before.
Her hair had a touch of yellow from the sun, and the parasol spun on her shoulder, not really shading her.
He walked beside her, and taking her hand in his, stopped. "Soleil, are you happy?"
She seemed a bit taken aback at this question, but smiled back. "Of course, Roan. I'm always happy when with you. Why do you ask?"
"I know that since meeting you, I, too, have been happier than I can ever remember. I want to ask for your hand, and will approach your father, but only with your permission." He was aware that she loved him, but wanted her to say it again and again. He loved her beyond words.
She blushed, but the smile never faded. "Oh, yes, Roan. I'm happy!" She kissed him sweetly. This was his defining moment in life. An angel was going to marry him! He squeezed her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing her fingers...
...The tears made steady streams down his face. Looking up into her eyes, he asked aloud, "Was the sign with a touch as I kissed your fingers?" Memories when we're young, he told himself, love lingers so. Could She hear him?
Just then, a clap of thunder sounded, startling him. He turned to the windows, tall and undraped. A flash of lightning shown through, and another clap of thunder shook him. Another autumn storm. The leaves blew about outside the windows. He turned back to the statue. Winter called. He had not left the studio in days, sleeping little, and with no appetite. He would starve all but to see the stone become life.
He felt the rough stone arm, all the way up to the shoulder, and then to the polished breasts. They showed their silkiness. The shape of his heart was there, in her bosoms. He could almost see them rising and falling, as if she were breathing. Oh, how they used to shake as she laughed. She laughed so easily. Life was her joy. But he could remember times when joy escaped her for the moment...
...He melted when she wept. "Soleil, what is the matter?" She had been to see the doctor. Their marriage was two years old, and no children. She had gone seeking advice. Her mother had passed away years before, and no other close female relatives were available to consult about such a topic. Her tears told him more than he wanted to know. "No children, Roan. I'm barren." She collapsed against him, crying uncontrollably.
They sat in the sitting room of the doctor's house. He was a kindly middle aged man with a heavy mustache. He too wiped a tear from his eye. "Here, Monsieur, give her two pills to calm her until this passes. If she is still despondent in the morning, give her two more. No more." He patted Roan on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Monsieur."
Roan helped Soleil to her feet. "Come, darling."
They returned to their apartment, where he put the little bottle of pills on the bedside table. "I don't need them, Roan. I'm just sad. I'm so sorry," she sobbed.
He bent to her, taking her chin in his hand, making her look into his eyes. "Soleil, I love you as much as I ever did."
"I'm afraid you won't look at me in the same light, now that I'm unable to provide you with children like other women could." She stifled another sobbing attack.
"My love, if children are what you want, we can always adopt. There are many waifs to choose from in Paris and beyond. I love you, barren or not. You will always shine in my eyes, Soleil." She wiped her eyes and nose with a kerchief.
"I love you, Roan."
He bent and kissed her mouth, the taste of her tears on her lips. The two embraced and fell together on the bed.
The next day, as he was getting ready to open his studio, the doctor appeared. "If I may have a moment of your time, Monsieur Trouffe`. I have news of your wife. I didn't want to tell her, for it would only make her more despondent."
"Doctor, she is aware of her barrenness. She has already recovered from her depression. We are thinking of adopting a child. Thank you for your attention."
"Monsieur, her barrenness is only a symptom of what is really wrong with her." The doctor was nervous.
"What are you talking about? She's in perfect health other than being barren." He was getting scared.
"Is there some place where we can sit down and talk, Monsieur?"
"Come in, Doctor," he said, opening the door, and leading the way into the studio strewn with clay and marble. It was a mess, but he knew where everything was. He led the doctor to a small chair he kept for his models. "Have a seat."
"I think you should be the one to sit, Monsieur," the doctor said gravely.
"I wish you'd get on with it, doctor. My wife is fine, I tell you!" He was getting angry with the little man. Soleil was the picture of health, and for this quack to come and say anything different was ridiculous.
"Fine, Monsieur. Your wife is barren because she has a consumptive disease. She is unable to sustain a pregnancy because of this, and I fear she has not long. Maybe a year, not more. I'm sorry."
Roan slumped down into the chair. "How...?"
"No one knows, Monsieur. But I do know that she suffers from it, and will die. I wanted to tell you privately to prepare you. I don't like to tell my patients they are going to die to their faces. I know it is a hard blow to take, so I merely told her she couldn't have babies. She will remain outwardly well for a while longer, but will deteriorate slowly until she dies of the disease. There is little else I can do for her except sedatives at this time. Come see me when her pain becomes apparent. I am sorry, Monsieur."
At that, the doctor let himself out, leaving Roan holding his head in his hands.
After sitting for hours in the studio, weeping, he walked home. He wiped his eyes before entering the apartment. There she was, his angel.
She rushed to him, "Roan, I talked to Father Jacob today about adoption, and he said..." Turning away, he took out his kerchief and wiped his eyes and nose.
"Have you caught cold, darling?" She asked, taking his shoulders. "You must have worked hard today. Your shoulders are so tight. Let me rub them."
Be brave for her, Roan, he told himself. Let her be happy...
...He shook the tears from his face, his hands busy with polishing the right arm. The dust fell from the arm, joining the rest at the bottom of the pedestal.
The work kept him warm. The fire in the stove was low, and the wind outside was whipping the leaves. He looked up at her face. "Like leaves, we touch. We learn." He once knew the story. He finished polishing and looked at his hands. Helpless hands, soul revealing...
...Soleil lay in the bed for weeks now. Her pain was great, but she tried to keep a smile handy for him. The doctor had left to get Father Jacob. The Last Rites would be needed soon. He sat beside her, stroking her hand and arm. She felt cold already. It was the dark of winter. He had a warm fire in the stove, but it didn't matter how much coal he piled in there, his Soleil was dying.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she half turned to him. "Roan, I love you. I'm so sorry for having to leave so soon. I know we'll meet again, Roan, in heaven."
He didn't want to speak of heaven or a God who could take her away from him. She was HIS angel. "I know you believe it." He didn't want her to know his feelings.
In the still light of dawn, she died...
...He lay on a cot he had put in so he wouldn't have to the leave his work to sleep. The room was as cold as it was outside, the fire long gone out of the stove.
He had finished the statue. It stood at the foot of the cot, polished and reflecting the slight glow from the street lights outside the windows. He was too weak to rise, having eaten not much more than a bit of bread and cheese in the last ten days. Realizing a form out of stone, his work, so absorbed him.
He looked up into Her eyes, pearl deep. Could She see him?
He kept drifting into a sleep, only to wake now and again, but now only infrequently. His eyes were as heavy as stones. Somehow, though, he could see through them now. A bright light shown through.
Was it the sun through the haze that made all her looks as warm as moonlight? All aglow was his room, dazed in this light.
In his room, his lady danced, she sang so completely. He would touch her. He would hold her. Laughing as they danced, highest colors touching others. Like leaves they touched, they see. They knew the story. As winter called, they both remembered all those many years ago.
Jon Anderson/Steve Howe/Alan White
(copyright)
The chips fell from the chisel, making a mound of marble bits at his feet. The sweat mixed with tears in his eyes, so as to make him blink hard and wipe away the pain.
"Now, Roan, no more tears. Set to work." He said aloud as he moved back to the stone figure he had labored long and hard on for the last weeks. His mallet swung again, striking the chisel just so, causing another rain of dust and bits to fall onto the pile beneath. He worked on a statue, a figure of great importance. This would be his most beautiful, for there could be no other more beautiful than his model, his late wife. She was his one true love, the only being so perfect in his eyes that even religion had become less important to him. If there were a God, why would he deem it necessary to take her from him so early in their lives? He stepped back once more to survey his latest changes. His gaze rested on her face, the features so exact, so perfect. Could She see him? He wondered. He looked into the marble eyes that seemed to look right into him. They were Her eyes. Able to see just what he needed to make him happy. Able to soothe his angers, calm his worries, ignite his passion. Could She see him? His gaze went lower, to her torso, to her arms, the left one already done, swept up, arcing over her head, as she so often did while dancing. This took him back...
...The New Year's Eve gala was in full swing. He was in great demand by most of the guests, as his work was becoming more well known. His latest had only just been placed in a prominent square off the Champs-Elysees. His commissions were growing by leaps and bounds. This made things easier financially. Still, he tried not to put on aires, as he knew himself better than that. From meager stock he had sprung, and it was only his talent that brought him to where he was now. Talent was superficial at times, as it was always in the eye of the beholder. Eyesight goes bad with the changing of the times. While he had been mingling among the other guests, he had noticed her dancing with several different partners at several differing places during the evening. There she was again. So beautiful! Her gown was a silken-lace in a shade that defied definition. The way the lights played on it, with each new twist of her body, the hue shifted in its intensity, causing it to either grow darker, lighter, or change a shade altogether. At this moment it was a lavenderish-blue. No, a light rose. No, there, it changed again. Reddish now.
Her hair was so blonde it was nearly white. Lips so red they perfectly framed her smile, which was so sincere he knew she was totally enjoying herself. He found he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. The way she pirouetted with her left arm over her head, her fingers in perfect plumb with her nose. The music stopped as he politely excused himself from the group of well wishers who had steadily grown and changed with each passing minute. He wanted to get closer to her. He lost her! Where had she gone! The crowd had shifted to allow him passage, and he suddenly lost sight of her. He circled about, scanning the room for her blonde hair. There! In the midst of a group of young men, she sat with a glass of champagne, looking up at each as he spoke to her. Charming was an understatement. She truly seemed to enjoy each encounter. He walked over to the little gathering, his eyes firmly fixed on her, so as not to lose her again. Just then, their host began to call for everyone's attention.
Roan noticed her stand to see what was happening, and followed her gaze to the bandstand in the corner of the room. There, the host held his pocket watch just below his face, a half-drunken smile affixed thereon. "One minute 'til the 20th Century!"
Roan turned to find her again. He moved closer, not knowing if he should eavesdrop or not, but wanting very much to learn what the conversation was about. He was within earshot as he slowly turned, not wanting to look too eager to overhear.
"...not alone. I'm here with someone." It had to be her voice. How much like an angel's it was. How it captivated him.
"I've seen you with several gentlemen, but not one in particular, my lady," one young man said.
"I'm sorry if you've been misled by my apparent lack of a constant escort, Messieurs. I assure you it was not intentional. My escort has been busy with business talk, and I dislike those conversations. I do, however, love to dance. If you'll excuse me." She turned away from them with a smile. He looked over at her as she made her way in his direction.
"Ten seconds!" The host was nearly beside himself as he watched the second hand on his chronometer tick down to the last seconds of the century. Suddenly he threw his hands in the air, "We have turned the century!"
Just then, the band struck up La Marseillaise, and she was next to him. Smiling, he turned to her, "Happy New Year, Soleil!"
"Happy New Year, Roan!" she said as she kissed him. It was a warm, soft kiss, only a second in duration, but a lifetime in his heart.
"Would you care to dance?"
She looked at him again, causing his eyes to blink uncontrollably, as if he were staring into the sun. He gained control of them as she answered him. "I would gladly accompany you at the next dance."She smiled. "They've seen your sculpture, Roan," she said as she looked about the room. "The work is magnificent. I wish I had talent, to be able to make a thing of beauty for the world to marvel at."
He couldn't believe his ears. Here this woman of infinite beauty and grace wished she had talent. "I may shape stone, Soleil, but it's still stone. My wish is to someday create something as beautiful and alive as yourself. However, I'm afraid my talent is far too minuscule for that." She only smiled as they waltzed across the floor...
...He had to wipe his eyes again. The memories had flooded back into him, making his work seem distant.
He stepped back again, looking over his creation. He traced the line of the statue's garment with his finger. This part had already been polished. He wanted to make it as perfect as Soleil. After each section was finished, he polished it, leaving only the unfinished sections rough. Soon he would be polishing the right arm and hand. Just a few more touches here and there. He took the hand in his, how rough it felt, but how he longed to hold it. He remembered how they had held hands on the bank of the Seine, so long ago, so far away...
...They walked among the artists hawking their wares. Paintings; jewelry; pottery; sculpture. Several of the artists acknowledged him, acting glad to see him, but jealous of his fame. He had been there with them not so long before.
Her hair had a touch of yellow from the sun, and the parasol spun on her shoulder, not really shading her.
He walked beside her, and taking her hand in his, stopped. "Soleil, are you happy?"
She seemed a bit taken aback at this question, but smiled back. "Of course, Roan. I'm always happy when with you. Why do you ask?"
"I know that since meeting you, I, too, have been happier than I can ever remember. I want to ask for your hand, and will approach your father, but only with your permission." He was aware that she loved him, but wanted her to say it again and again. He loved her beyond words.
She blushed, but the smile never faded. "Oh, yes, Roan. I'm happy!" She kissed him sweetly. This was his defining moment in life. An angel was going to marry him! He squeezed her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing her fingers...
...The tears made steady streams down his face. Looking up into her eyes, he asked aloud, "Was the sign with a touch as I kissed your fingers?" Memories when we're young, he told himself, love lingers so. Could She hear him?
Just then, a clap of thunder sounded, startling him. He turned to the windows, tall and undraped. A flash of lightning shown through, and another clap of thunder shook him. Another autumn storm. The leaves blew about outside the windows. He turned back to the statue. Winter called. He had not left the studio in days, sleeping little, and with no appetite. He would starve all but to see the stone become life.
He felt the rough stone arm, all the way up to the shoulder, and then to the polished breasts. They showed their silkiness. The shape of his heart was there, in her bosoms. He could almost see them rising and falling, as if she were breathing. Oh, how they used to shake as she laughed. She laughed so easily. Life was her joy. But he could remember times when joy escaped her for the moment...
...He melted when she wept. "Soleil, what is the matter?" She had been to see the doctor. Their marriage was two years old, and no children. She had gone seeking advice. Her mother had passed away years before, and no other close female relatives were available to consult about such a topic. Her tears told him more than he wanted to know. "No children, Roan. I'm barren." She collapsed against him, crying uncontrollably.
They sat in the sitting room of the doctor's house. He was a kindly middle aged man with a heavy mustache. He too wiped a tear from his eye. "Here, Monsieur, give her two pills to calm her until this passes. If she is still despondent in the morning, give her two more. No more." He patted Roan on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Monsieur."
Roan helped Soleil to her feet. "Come, darling."
They returned to their apartment, where he put the little bottle of pills on the bedside table. "I don't need them, Roan. I'm just sad. I'm so sorry," she sobbed.
He bent to her, taking her chin in his hand, making her look into his eyes. "Soleil, I love you as much as I ever did."
"I'm afraid you won't look at me in the same light, now that I'm unable to provide you with children like other women could." She stifled another sobbing attack.
"My love, if children are what you want, we can always adopt. There are many waifs to choose from in Paris and beyond. I love you, barren or not. You will always shine in my eyes, Soleil." She wiped her eyes and nose with a kerchief.
"I love you, Roan."
He bent and kissed her mouth, the taste of her tears on her lips. The two embraced and fell together on the bed.
The next day, as he was getting ready to open his studio, the doctor appeared. "If I may have a moment of your time, Monsieur Trouffe`. I have news of your wife. I didn't want to tell her, for it would only make her more despondent."
"Doctor, she is aware of her barrenness. She has already recovered from her depression. We are thinking of adopting a child. Thank you for your attention."
"Monsieur, her barrenness is only a symptom of what is really wrong with her." The doctor was nervous.
"What are you talking about? She's in perfect health other than being barren." He was getting scared.
"Is there some place where we can sit down and talk, Monsieur?"
"Come in, Doctor," he said, opening the door, and leading the way into the studio strewn with clay and marble. It was a mess, but he knew where everything was. He led the doctor to a small chair he kept for his models. "Have a seat."
"I think you should be the one to sit, Monsieur," the doctor said gravely.
"I wish you'd get on with it, doctor. My wife is fine, I tell you!" He was getting angry with the little man. Soleil was the picture of health, and for this quack to come and say anything different was ridiculous.
"Fine, Monsieur. Your wife is barren because she has a consumptive disease. She is unable to sustain a pregnancy because of this, and I fear she has not long. Maybe a year, not more. I'm sorry."
Roan slumped down into the chair. "How...?"
"No one knows, Monsieur. But I do know that she suffers from it, and will die. I wanted to tell you privately to prepare you. I don't like to tell my patients they are going to die to their faces. I know it is a hard blow to take, so I merely told her she couldn't have babies. She will remain outwardly well for a while longer, but will deteriorate slowly until she dies of the disease. There is little else I can do for her except sedatives at this time. Come see me when her pain becomes apparent. I am sorry, Monsieur."
At that, the doctor let himself out, leaving Roan holding his head in his hands.
After sitting for hours in the studio, weeping, he walked home. He wiped his eyes before entering the apartment. There she was, his angel.
She rushed to him, "Roan, I talked to Father Jacob today about adoption, and he said..." Turning away, he took out his kerchief and wiped his eyes and nose.
"Have you caught cold, darling?" She asked, taking his shoulders. "You must have worked hard today. Your shoulders are so tight. Let me rub them."
Be brave for her, Roan, he told himself. Let her be happy...
...He shook the tears from his face, his hands busy with polishing the right arm. The dust fell from the arm, joining the rest at the bottom of the pedestal.
The work kept him warm. The fire in the stove was low, and the wind outside was whipping the leaves. He looked up at her face. "Like leaves, we touch. We learn." He once knew the story. He finished polishing and looked at his hands. Helpless hands, soul revealing...
...Soleil lay in the bed for weeks now. Her pain was great, but she tried to keep a smile handy for him. The doctor had left to get Father Jacob. The Last Rites would be needed soon. He sat beside her, stroking her hand and arm. She felt cold already. It was the dark of winter. He had a warm fire in the stove, but it didn't matter how much coal he piled in there, his Soleil was dying.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she half turned to him. "Roan, I love you. I'm so sorry for having to leave so soon. I know we'll meet again, Roan, in heaven."
He didn't want to speak of heaven or a God who could take her away from him. She was HIS angel. "I know you believe it." He didn't want her to know his feelings.
In the still light of dawn, she died...
...He lay on a cot he had put in so he wouldn't have to the leave his work to sleep. The room was as cold as it was outside, the fire long gone out of the stove.
He had finished the statue. It stood at the foot of the cot, polished and reflecting the slight glow from the street lights outside the windows. He was too weak to rise, having eaten not much more than a bit of bread and cheese in the last ten days. Realizing a form out of stone, his work, so absorbed him.
He looked up into Her eyes, pearl deep. Could She see him?
He kept drifting into a sleep, only to wake now and again, but now only infrequently. His eyes were as heavy as stones. Somehow, though, he could see through them now. A bright light shown through.
Was it the sun through the haze that made all her looks as warm as moonlight? All aglow was his room, dazed in this light.
In his room, his lady danced, she sang so completely. He would touch her. He would hold her. Laughing as they danced, highest colors touching others. Like leaves they touched, they see. They knew the story. As winter called, they both remembered all those many years ago.
posted by Bob at 2:06 PM
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