Letters to Henry

Dorsoduro
February 4th, 1885

My dearest Henry,

I know you must think me mad to have entirely uprooted my comfortable life in London; I might say that I have gone to immerse myself in the Venetian atmosphere, that the city may somehow bestow its artistic grace on me so as to at last inspire the continuation of my novel, and while this has been the reason I have told myself, I am afraid that something else yet looms large. Worry not. I shall not speak of it. Only that, those boyhood summers at Rosewood Cottage were the happiest days of my life, resting on the porch swing underneath the warmth of a blissful sun as Tennyson’s lines colored the morning. I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown…Forgive me, I shall avoid over sentimentality. Though, it is near impossible for a writer to avoid sentiment, even for an idle one such as myself.

You must imagine me in my palazzo slumped over my desk lit only by the exhausted candlelight, which seems to not only reflect my inward state, but to incessantly remind me of my own dying flame. I foolishly presumed that a change of scenery would push me towards productivity, even if not done entirely in earnest. Perhaps tomorrow I might see the Salute. I can see you sitting inside and sketching away, trying to capture the outlines of a holy visage. I do hope you are still drawing, Henry. It would be a great shame if you gave that up in favor of your father’s supposed presentiments. I still have the sketch you made of me, from that night underneath the temple. Your lines have always been so featherlight, somehow capturing the essence I have since dreamed of truly possessing. And perhaps, at one time, I did…

But that is all in the past now, is it not, my friend?

I shall end this letter now, for I must at least make another attempt at writing, however futile it may be. When it reaches your hand, I hope you will not think me indecent.

Your affectionate friend,
Alfred

Dorsoduro
February 6th, 1885

My dear Henry,

You will be glad to know that my trip to the Salute has not been entirely unsuccessful. I have yet to write another word of my novel, but it has reignited a flicker of my intellectual capacities. I nearly did not go out, thinking that I might prefer to sit at home and peruse Pater’s Marius. That, however, yielded no serious contemplations as my mind drifted off to thoughts I had better not dwell. So, I went off into the damp, foggy morning and traversed towards its humble domes. I thought that I would not want to go outside on account of the winter’s cold, but in truth, I found the chill to be rather refreshing. There is a subtle beauty in the canals being so obscured by the mist, watching as the gondolier rows past with his passengers across the canal like Charon transporting the dead. I can hear you now, laughing and saying, “How grotesque!” to such a comparison.

Though, I know that in secret, you rather enjoy the melancholy as I do. Venice lends itself to such a mood, and I would rather be pensive than idle.

As I approached the domes, I could not help but to think of how it had first been erected, when Venice pleaded to the Virgin Mother for mercy. It must have been utterly dreadful, the multitudinous creatures dying in such horrific fashion. To have black boils forming underneath one’s skin, threatening to burst throughout the entire body, retching in dreadful agony, rotting as a corpse yet living, and adorned with varicose veins pulsating in a fren…I shall forgo relaying my vile imaginings. But I assure you, it was only done in placid reflection.

My eyes rising upward, I was transferred into the body of a mourning peasant, searching for the eight sided star of Stella Maris crowned beside her babe. As her apostles stood guard beside her, I began to understand the comfort such a display might bring. Though I may not readily perceive that same grace they worshipped, it would be remiss of me to deny the artistic genius it inspired.
Stepping foot inside the Salute, my button boots echoed underneath her high ceilings. I was still the peasant with my head lifted high, looking towards a God I admit to have indicted as cruel in my most morose dispositions. Must one be deemed such a sinner for feelings that are beyond their control? Was not love, in whatever vulgar form it might take, what we had been made for in his image? Could not that spiritual affection, which is felt so deeply in the soul, be a life spring of beauty?

There was once a time I would daresay it is. But it does not signify now, I suppose…

Santa Maria’s ceilings made me feel rather small. As if I was nothing but a crone hobbled over in supplication, praying for my loved ones who had been taken by the Plague. Perhaps she was spared from the Black Death in a miraculous turn of events. Though how miraculous one could not say, if this same woman had succumbed to pneumonia by that year’s end. She would have passed with a smile of serenity on her face I presume, believing that God would save her.

In many ways I envy such faith.

At last, I returned my gaze to the ground where the earth lay, staring down at the ornate pavement. Around me were the clicking of heels walking past and the whispers of Venetians bowing their heads in reverence. For a moment I was lost in its pattern, envisioning that I had been walking along its rustic wheels of flowering diamonds and taken by its centering vortex. What might happen to me if I allowed myself to fall under its spell, I wondered. Would the Holy Mother take me into her arms and love me as I am? I think not.

I felt myself drawn towards the high altar nonetheless, looking to her for guidance even knowing that I had been led astray a long time ago. As I stared at the marble figures before me, the noble Venice seemed to be pleading for my expulsion right alongside the decrepit hag. I am afraid the angels have chased me off with their burning torches from the very first evil hallucination to enter my mind. At the time, however, it did not appear to me as evil. Nevertheless, salvation shuns me.

Forgive me. Were you here with me now, I am sure you would dissuade me from such thoughts. In any event, I am glad to be yet again capable of such meditation, no matter how dismal.
Please do write back, Henry. I would very much like to hear from you. Though we may not be able to talk as we once did in our Oxford days, I believe that your words would do much to soothe my troubled spirits. You always had a way of bringing me out of my melancholy.

But now, I must be off, so that I may pick up my pen again for yet another purpose. I am hopeful that my words shall return to me in due time.

Your most affectionate friend,
Alfred

Dorsoduro
February 19th, 1885

Dear Henry,

I was so worried at not hearing from you, until I received word of the engagement from my most overjoyed sister. Though it came to me as a shock, I cannot say that I am very much surprised. Do you remember the garden party at the Hastings estate during the summer of ‘70? Isabel had positively begged me to introduce you to her. It seems as though she was instantly charmed by that exuberant smile of yours which possesses just a hint of wickedness. I know this very smile quite well, for it lives on in my memory. “Oh, isn’t Henry just delightful?” she would say to me after every chance meeting. For years afterwards, it was nothing but talk of your golden locks and seaside gaze. I thought it perhaps to be a girlhood infatuation she would leave behind. It appears that I was mistaken.

Isabel truly is the sweetest of creatures, so I suppose that I may feel comforted in knowing that she will be in good hands. I wish you nothing but the most splendid of happiness, my friend.
Before I write this letter to a close, however, I would like to show you how I have managed to resurrect my novel: “Out of the decay there was an eternal beauty residing in its glass dome, which, even in the darkest of hours, he dared to give remembrance to. For it was better to have lived through it, than to never have experienced it at all.”

Always yours,
Alfred