Shall We Call it ''Study on Selective Omniscience''----please be sincere in comments

[downing]

Shall We Call It ``Study on Selective Omniscience``?

The day the Stone family had come to visit their estate, they had tea in the old Turner mansion, after which they moved in the kiosk, to enjoy the view and talk about the inevitable subject: the actual European political status. Amalia pretended that she was having a headache and she was ushered into Mrs. Turner’s bedroom. Peter invited Lucy to a walk around the estate. On their wandering, they encountered a lilac bush:
‘Lilac is my favourite flower…’ Lucy had confessed ecstatically.
He went to the bush and broke two twigs from it. The tiny violet flowers in her curly brown hair made her look like Flora, the Roman goddess… When he put the inflorescences in her hair, he let his hand slide along her cheek. Was he dreaming or did she press her hand on his and threw him a significant look? He couldn’t remember…His heart, where the bullet had entered, was bleeding and Bernard was making desperate attempts to stop the haemorrhage; he said something about the doctor coming. But why did his friend worry so much? He was for the first time in his life…happy…no pains, nothing…just utter happiness…
‘``Sound and perfume swell in the evening air.``’ She had smiled and breathed in deeply the smell of lilacs.
He had watched her lips as they had arched into a large smile.
‘Lucy…’
‘Yes…?’
‘Sound and perfume…’
‘Swell in the evening air…’
‘You smell like spring’
‘How does spring smell?’ she had burst into laughter.
‘Spring smells…heavenly.’
Her laughter had ceased instantly. She had become serious. Their heads had approached….
Everything turned into sheer whiteness…


Knowing nothing about this, a few hours later, the Stone family were following their normal evening habit, which involved staying in the living room, filling their time with empty talk, nervous embroidering, superficial reading, all eventually revealing the necessity of music which almost always relaxed the atmosphere. This was a common procedure in all English upper middle class families during the war – pretending that everything was normal, hiding fears and white nights behind a mask made up of insincere smiles and unimportant discussion subjects. That evening, Lucy was playing ``Clair de lune`` at the piano, while the other members of the family found themselves some different occupations: George Stone was apparently reading the newspaper, his wife was embroidering and Amalia was reading some ``en vogue`` French novel. Out of the blue, Mrs. Stone exclaimed:
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you that I received a letter from Bernard this morning.’
‘And you told us nothing, Mom!’ Amalia whined.
‘I forgot to. Anyway, it was a very brief one. It said nothing of very great importance…only that captain Turner died yesterday.’
Lucy suddenly stopped playing the piano and stood breathless, laying her hands on the cold piano keys. She was pale and said nothing, waiting to hear more.
‘A bullet entered his heart’s sacred room.’ Mrs. Stone uttered on a low, affected tone.
‘Shut up with poetry, mother!’ Lucy cried out hysterically.
‘How dare you….’
‘Mrs Stone, please tell us more.’ Her husband calmly uttered, trying as usual to extinguish the frequent conflicts between his wife and their daughter.
‘As I was saying…a bullet entered his heart’s sacred room…’ Mrs Stone continued, as Lucy was turning her eyes up.
‘Bernard was the last person who stood by him in his last minutes of life…he died peacefully…Our son also wrote a letter to the Turner family who will certainly be shocked as Peter was their second and last son who disappeared because of the war.’
No one could say anything, as Lucy intruded into the silence, resuming playing the piano. She played the same piece over and over again, holding her breath before attacking the same score for the second, third or fourth time, endlessly gazing out of the window, towards the purple sky. In the middle of the piece which was being played for the fourth time, her mother burst out:
‘Stop playing the same stupid piece! I can’t stand it! You played it four times, do you think we’re deaf?’
Lucy stopped at once.
‘It’s not stupid, it’s Chopin.’ she responded sternly, not looking at her mother, but at the piano keys, on which she could notice her fingers’ wet traces.
‘I hate Chopin!’ Amalia screamed out.
Lucy savagely raised from her seat. ‘And I hate you! I wish I were a man and fight in the war! It would be surely nicer to die than to stay in this horrible house among these…vases from China!’
She saw her father’s shocked figure turn into a mournful one.
‘I am sorry, Pa…I didn’t mean it…excuse me’ she muttered as tears ran down her pale cheeks. She hurried outside the room and slammed the door behind her.
‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!’ Amalia said in a dumbly, sarcastically and not at all inspired way.
‘Shut up and go to your room!’ her mother screamed.
Amalia rose and silently directed herself to the door, after which she slowly closed it, wanting to emphasize the difference between her and her sister. They were two totally different characters and hated one another till death.


The next day George decided that they should go to the Turner family to offer their condolences. Mrs. Stone went to Lucy’s bedroom and found her lying in bed.
‘Come on, we’re waiting for you.’
‘I won’t come.’
‘Why, shall I ask?’
‘You shan’t. You have no right to.’ Lucy answered simply, throwing a defiant glance to her mother.
‘You little…how dare you? Inhuman creature, I’ll hit you someday!’ her mother cried out furiously.
‘You can do it now…I doubt you’ll have the opportunity again.’ the indifferent response came from the girl.
‘What is going on here?’ Mr. Stone appeared on the threshold.
‘Rebellion…rebellion…and again rebellion. I can stand no more!’ his wife desperately uttered.
‘I can stand no more, no more…’ Lucy cried out and buried her head in the pillow, crying hysterically, hitting her legs against the bed panel.
Her father went towards her and caressed her.
‘Lucy…Lucita…please…stop. Don’t cry. You won’t come if you don’t want to. Mrs. Stone, stop it! I can’t stand these quarrels!’
‘What do you care? You only want no one to overhear these discussions! You wouldn’t care at all what I and the damned girl talked, were we not to shout!’
‘Mrs. Stone, I repeat it: Shut up!’
‘Get out of my room! Get out! Get out! I hate you! Get out at once!!!’ the girl cried out, hitting her legs more powerfully than before, crying desperately.

Three hours later, in the same room, a terrifying scene: around Lucy’s bed, her parents, sister and two aunts who came immediately when they heard that tragedy had struck. Lucy was staying in bed, raving and throwing up blood.
‘She accidentally drank some deadly substance from her father’s laboratory…’ Mrs. Stone explained.
Lucy shook her finger and mumbled:
‘I poisoned myself.’ and her voice was interrupted by another bloody gust.

She had received a brief note from him which asked for a short meeting opposite her house, at 7 o’clock in that evening. When the time arrived, it had been raining for hours and she dreaded walking outdoors, being inquisitively asked by her mother where was she going. She assumed the inquiry: he must had had a serious matter, had he invited her in such a queer context. He was waiting for her under the weeping willow, on the other side of the street.
‘I received my recruiting order. I will be leaving in a few days. Will you wait for me?’
‘I’ll wait for you my whole life if I have to.’ She had answered with sincerity.
‘Just until the war is over. I’ll come back. There is only one thing which I fear.’ He had confessed apprehensively.
‘Which?’
‘Your parents.’
‘They have to agree.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘They will.’ She answered at length. ‘However, we don’t need any approval.’
‘I wish the war didn’t exist.’ He whispered with a sigh.
‘If the war didn’t exist, we would have never met in the rain, so hurriedly.’
‘But if I die…’
‘Hush up! Never say such a thing again! If you die, I die.’
‘No, no, Lucy, no!’ he exclaimed.
He grasped her waist; she clung to him and they leaned against the trunk, sheltered by the branches which almost touched the earth, revealing only their ankles to an eventual trespasser. He touched her face, wiping some tears from the corners of her eyes and bent his head to kiss her red lips. She held tightly his hair and caressed his neck. They have been staying so for a few minutes, kissing passionately sometimes, softly others... Eventually, she parted, fearing:
‘Someone can see us.’ she whispered
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ he muttered and kissed her again.
Then final separation was self understood. She slowly turned her back.
‘Will you wait?’ he asked once again.
‘My entire life.’ She uttered as she looked again at him. They both smiled. She crossed the street, leaving him pensively under the weeping willow.
‘I waited for him…I waited…my waiting has finished…we are to meet again, under the weeping willow…let me pass the street…he’s there…’ Lucy said, after which she breathed her last.

Bernard in the backyard, sheltered by summer-smelling verdant leaves of nut, was gazing at the old quinces in front of him which have been ruling the same place for 100 years or perhaps more. Behind the fence, the lively backdrop characteristic to torrid months: women dressed in transparent, summery dresses, hanging laundry on yellow plastic wires that shone golden in the solar beams. He hummed ``It’s a long way to Tipperary`` which still lingered in his mind after 20 years since the Germans had signed the armistice in a train car. Bernard didn’t know that the train car which he considered so insignificant was to become famous, as the Germans would sign another truce in it, 2 years hence.
The sun shone too bright and entered Bernard’s eyes…Was it so sunny the day Peter died? Did Peter feel the same? Too much sun…too much gold…He had never enjoyed the seaside…He was suffocated by sun and couldn’t breathe… It was too hot and he wanted to breathe…too much…and no air…He wished he could breath…live…


The gloomy corridor, opulently decorated with souvenirs brought by George from China was the place where four heavy acajou doors opened. On the right side - the parlour which had once communicated with Amalia’s bedroom. The Roman like archway still existed between the rooms, even though its everyday passer lived no more. On the left side of the hall there was Mrs. Stone’s bedroom and right after it the always locked door - a hindrance for anyone to pass through, except for the old lady, who never forgot to bolt herself in after having entered - the room where Lucy, her eldest daughter was born, lived sorrowfully for 18 years and agonized long hours before dying out.
Mrs. Stone entered the always locked room. Passing the certain doorway still sent chills down her spine, though many years had passed since her eldest daughter had died. The red velvet curtains were closed. The lady preferred to switch on the lights. Out of respect for Lucy, she had decided that the room should never see the sun, since its former owner had no more knowledge of it. She directed herself to the drawer which had never been opened by anyone else except her daughter. She slowly pulled it towards her and found a neat blue case. What a blasphemy she was committing! She sat on the bed and removed the case lid: some dusty yellow worn-out envelopes. The old lady read the first at the surface, presumably the last received by her daughter.


25 April 1914
My Dear Lucy,

At 7 o’clock in the evening I’ll be waiting for you under the weeping willow. Please come, I have to tell you something of great importance.

Yours forever,
Peter

The weeping willow? Peter? Peter Turner waiting under the weeping willow…Waiting and passing the street…`I poisoned myself` Lucy had uttered before dying…had she said the truth? She always thought she was just raving then… she could have never accepted the truth…but now…this brief note! This explained everything! 1914…Peter Turner… Lucy’s reaction when informed about his death…Her refusal to go to his parents and her own death in the same cursed day! She couldn’t have thought that there had ever been anything between her daughter and Peter Turner. Her daughter killed herself…! Her daughter killed herself because….because of Peter Turner!
Falling in void…and having no one to catch you…her eldest daughter first, her husband the same day… Amalia 1937, at childbirth, Bernard in summer 1938 and now…who was the last? The pillar as hard as steel on whom everyone had laid back on…as she had always tried to believe? Or the pillar which was the most powerful and destroyed all the others, just to remain unstained and fall the last into the scariest nothingness? She could think no more... recollections had abandoned her, she couldn’t finger anymore the texture of the letter. She couldn’t see anything around her. A letter falling at the legs of an old lady… a downfall…nothingness…and blackness…

[Rover]

I just read your story, here are a few thoughts on it:
First of all, the title, 'Selective omniscience', I'm not sure I really get it. Does that mean the mother could have guessed why her daughter died, but she didn't want to, or couldn't at that time? it doesn't make much sense to me...
I don't really like the first scene, it's sort of schmaltzy IMHO, but maybe that's the way you wanted it, I don't know :)
That's all for the negative things, I enjoyed reading your story:
Lucy's reaction when she learnt that Peter had died was very well written, especially the thing with the piano, this was brilliant.
The scene of her death was good too, there was nothing unecesary.
And the atmosphere in the family was well rendered, regarding the length of the story...congratulations!

[downing]

Hello Rover!

Thank you so much for reading and commenting this :) It means a lot too me, sincerely!
Now answering to your questions:


First of all, the title, 'Selective omniscience', I'm not sure I really get it. Does that mean the mother could have guessed why her daughter died, but she didn't want to, or couldn't at that time? it doesn't make much sense to me...

Selective omniscience is a pure theoretical thing. It's actually a point of view used by modern writers and I called this ''study on selective omniscience'' because I used this view point throughout my story. Please read this to understand more;) and please note that selective omniscience is exactly the same thing with third-person limited point of view.

Third person limited became the most popular narrative perspective during the twentieth century. Third person limited is sometimes called the "over the shoulder" perspective; it shows the story as though the narrator could only describe events that could be perceived by a viewpoint character. It can be used very objectively, showing what is actually happening without the filter of the protagonist's personality, thus allowing the author to reveal information that the protagonist doesn't know or realize. However, some authors use an even narrower and more subjective perspective, as though the viewpoint character were narrating the story; this is dramatically very similar to the first person, allowing in-depth revelation of the protagonist's personality, but uses third-person grammar. Some writers will shift perspective from one viewpoint character to another.

In third person limited the narrator is outside of the story and tells the story from only one character's view. The character's thoughts are revealed through the narrator. The reader learns the events of the narrative through the perceptions of the chosen character. Third person limited uses pronouns such as, he, she, they, their, herself, himself, themselves, etc.


I don't really like the first scene, it's sort of schmaltzy IMHO, but maybe that's the way you wanted it, I don't know Please explain what is actually schlmazy in the first part...?
Thank you again enormosuly for your comments...everything helped ;)

[Rover]

You are welcome :)
I got what selective omniscience was, thank you...I can see the title fits the story now, I was wrong to criticize this part. I should have searched what it meant before my first post...
About the first scene in your story: the whole setting (with the flowers...) and the dialog seems schmalzy to me. But then it can be a way to show how this young girl saw this romance...I don't really like this part because it's in the beginning of the story and it made it hard for me to think of the characters as the serious psychological characters that they were indeed. I feel like this light ton in the beginning is too different from what happens next...But that's just my personal feeling, maybe you wanted to have this big contrast?

[downing]

wait...i hope you understood that the first part of the story is described from Peter's point of view, before dying. I hope you understood that ''everything turned into whiteness'' means that he died. these were the last things he imagined before passing away, so they are someway unreliable(see the hand episode ;) ) because Peter had been shot and he might be inventing...you don't have to take seriously everything he recalls.

[Rover]

Oooh...I thought it was from Lucy's point of view. I definitively have a problem with the 'selective omniscience' thing :D
Ok, I prefer to imagine this part as something in Peter's imagination, and not as a real encounter. That's good to have the choice...

[Nighteyes5678]

I enjoyed the story, though I found it a little... cluttered. It's narrative voice was clear and you have a distinctive style. I offer you some thoughts:

- There are a few times in which you might want to rethink your word choice. Do you really want to have the sister "ejaculate" while talking? I know what context you're using it in, but you still might want to rethink it.

- Your dialogue needs a little more tweaking. I'd like you to work a little more on having each speaker have their own way of speaking. You have a distinctive flair you like to throw in, but each speaker used the same pattern. Also, there were a few times in which they didn't sound like real people.

- I understand the viewpoint style, but you added in a few details that I found distracting, such as the railroad car.

- It took me forever to figure out which time period this was set in.

That's all I have now. Keep writing!

[AuntShecky]

I hate to be the one to break this to you, but the composer of "Claire de Lune" was not Chopin but Debussy.

[downing]

Hey!!! AuntShecky,you're offending me :lol: I know THAT! But read the text attentively,I wrote nowhere that she played the same piece!!! She had played Debussy before finding out Peter's death and Chopin after ... maybe i wasn't too clear, but I certainly know this!
Nighteyes, i hope you know that ejaculate also means ''cried out loudly''..this is an approximative explanation...Thank you so much for reading and commenting :) That means a lot, and except the ''ejaculate'' thing, I assume everything;) Just look up the dictionary if you're not convinced...if you are, I'm glad of it :) I understand your diaproval and you might be right;) I'll reflect on everything you said.

[Nighteyes5678]

As I said in my comments, I knew the other meaning to the word. I was just letting you know that it might detract from your story. Sometimes, it doesn't matter if a word works - it has to be the right word.

But it's your story.

[downing]

yes, I assume totally :) thank you:)
edit: I altered it with ''screamed out'':D

I'd be very interested to find out the parts where they do not sound like real people? and what do you think about the beginning of the story?
Nighteyes, your ideas helped me a lot...i agree totally with you about the things you wrote above...about the story being cluttered and the way the characters talk...you're quite sincere, thank you for that :)

[Pensive]

It's a really interesting story, downing. Loved it how you have portrayed the emotions. Thanks for sharing it with us. :)

[downing]

I completed my short story:

Nothing thrilled her more than a cherry-tree in bloom. To her, it constituted the most ideal state of beauty and contemplating the view offered her the sense of primordial bliss. It was inconceivable that any other earthly form could convey such a connection with the eerie existence. It was as if she were listening to Mahler: an indefinite force caught her and the very next moment she was lifting, flying between clouds of glee… A cherry orchard was Paradise for her and a fresh tree was a most wanted escape from reality. Her sight was caught by the silver bracelet she had been given by Bernard, her brother, at her eighteenth anniversary. She couldn’t hamper a shudder to shake her body. Bernard was at war.
As she resumed her stroll down the street, recollections overwhelmed her: She and Bernard in a cherry orchard:
‘Why are you upset, Lucy?’ he had asked her, delicately smiling to her.
‘I’m sick and tired of Amalia telling only lies to mother. Bernard, how can you stand her? I know that she’s our sister and all that, but frankly, she’s getting on my nerves. For God’s sake, why is she always so stupid?’
‘She’s not stupid, actually she’s quite clever.’
‘I guess you’re right. Only an intelligent creature could do something like that. Yes, that’s true.’
‘For instance, you couldn’t do that.’
She raised her look to him. He was laughing.
‘Oh you!’ she pretended to be angry with him but then she burst into laughter.
‘Amalia’s mom’s darling, Lucy, don’t you know that?’ Bernard uttered on a very comical, pampered like style.
‘Can’t you be serious?’ she laughed and gave him a peck.
‘Why do you need mom and Amalia, after all? You have me. Am I not your stupid brother?’
‘Of course you are!’ she laughed and sat on his knees.
‘And you are so mean that you’d deserve to be told that you’re an ugly wicked witch. But I will be a gentleman and I’ll tell you that you are the naughtiest girl from England and that Peter Turner has fallen head over heels for you.’
‘Is that a bad joke?’ she asked confused.
‘My dear little sister, it’s for the first time that I’m saying a serious thing and you’re suspecting me of lying… I couldn’t have expected that from you, Lucy!’
‘However…’

She hadn’t been taught how and what to say, but in childhood her mother’s enraged looks and her not rare snaps gave her a general idea of the behaviour which would assure her warmly welcome in the adoptive and artificial house that is society. She hated dissimulating but as it was necessary, the only alternative, she reckoned, was to become shy. Had she been both dissimulative and sociable, she would have been a cynic, but she had always considered that this particular role was fit for her sister, Amalia.

Lucy had gone to buy presents on Christmas Eve; it was gently snowing and everywhere she looked there were carriages filled with Christmas trees; she beamed at the sight of the joy around her. When she heard herself called, she turned and saw no one else than Peter Turner:
‘Good day, Miss Stone!’ he exclaimed brightly.
‘Good day, Mr. Turner!’
‘Glorious day, isn’t it?’
Lucy smiled a little ironically.
‘Had I said anything disturbing?’
‘Oh, no, not at all… Only that…’
‘Only that…?’
‘Some piece of literature has crossed my mind. Please don’t bother, Mr. Turner with my instant literary flashbacks.’ She grinned
‘On the contrary, I will bother. I am interested in the process of human thinking myself. And it seems quite curious to me, that, notwithstanding these specialists nowadays, little progress is being made.’
‘Perhaps it is a dilemma which will never be solved.’ Lucy answered and turned a little, showing that she’d rather had left.
‘I wouldn’t be that pessimistic, Miss Stone! Er…May I walk you home?’
‘Oh, no, Mr. Turner, that would be utterly wrong. You surely have things to do now…’
‘Nonsense, Miss Stone! If I had any business, I wouldn’t have invited myself to this stroll.’ He answered and started walking.
‘Miss Stone, may I reveal my thoughts to you?’
‘Only if they are decent, Mr. Turner.’
‘I assure you, Miss Stone, they are fairly decent… I presume you’ve been reading Oscar Wilde.’
She flushed. ‘He is certainly well-read’, she reckoned and giggled without wanting.
‘I see I’ve been right.’
‘He was a moralist’ she responded with dignity, raising her brazen-faced chin.
‘Just in his art, Miss Stone.’
‘Oh!’ she murmured and buried her chin in her chest. Never had a man made any allusion to this subject in her presence before. She was amused, though. Peter Turner was a benefic presence for her; he removed her from her ill humour. She always listened amiably to everyone who spoke to her – at the beginning she tried to pay attention to their words, but soon she got bored and her thoughts flew far away; her eyes continued watching the speaker, whilst her mind travelled in the distance, where only imagination can carry one to. With Peter, it was different. He interposed himself between her and her Universe and wouldn’t leave his place. He was the single person who begged her ‘Stay’ when she wanted to escape… and she always came back, obediently… and listened to him.

The day the Stone family had come to visit their estate, they had tea in the old Turner mansion, after which they moved in the kiosk, to enjoy the view and talk about the inevitable subject: the actual European political status. Amalia pretended that she was having a headache and she was ushered into Mrs. Turner’s bedroom. Peter invited Lucy to a walk around the estate. On their wandering, they encountered a lilac bush:
‘Lilac is one of my favourite flowers…’ Lucy confessed ecstatically.
He went to the bush and broke two twigs from it. The tiny violet flowers in her curly brown hair made her look like Flora, the Roman goddess… When he put the inflorescences in her hair, he let his hand slide along her cheek. Was he dreaming or did she press her hand on his and threw him a significant look? He couldn’t remember…His heart, where the bullet had entered, was bleeding and Bernard was making desperate attempts to stop the haemorrhage; he said something about the doctor coming. But why did his friend worry so much? He was for the first time in his life…happy…no pains, nothing…just utter happiness…
‘``Les sons et les parfumes tournent dans l’air du soir.``’ She had smiled and breathed in deeply the smell of lilacs.
He had watched her lips as they had arched into a large smile.
‘Lucy…’
‘Yes…?’
‘Les sons et les parfumes…’
‘Tournent dans l’air du soir…’
‘You smell like spring’
‘How does spring smell?’ she had burst into laughter.
‘Spring smells…heavenly.’
Her laughter had ceased instantly. She had become serious. Their heads had approached….
Everything turned into sheer whiteness…
Knowing nothing about this, a few hours later, the Stone family were following their normal evening habit, which involved staying in the living room, filling their time with empty talk, nervous embroidering, superficial reading, all eventually revealing the necessity of music which almost always relaxed the atmosphere. This was a common procedure in all English upper middle class families during the war – pretending that everything was normal, hiding fears and white nights behind a mask made up of insincere smiles and unimportant discussion subjects.
‘Lucy, would you like to delight us with some music of yours?’ Mr. Stone uttered.
‘Of course, Papa.’ She said and took a seat in front of the piano. She remained motionless, trying to think of a suitable piece. Then, from the throng of shadows which fill one’s mind, one of them lit and started to wind rapidly in front of Lucy’s inner eyes: it was her and Peter, staying on the porch of her house, in one of his frequent visits. He was talking about their marriage which he desired so much, speaking on a calm, rare tone which made her dream – everything he said came from remote spaces, populated by seraphs… words embodied in white helmets erecting marvellous unrealistic plans. She couldn’t remember now what exactly he was saying; the only things which remained were the glow which had been enfolding her throughout his visit… and… Peter’s face lit by the gleaming moon lying majestically on the cobalt sky.
So did Lucy decide to play “Clair de lune”, while the other members of the family found themselves some different occupations: George Stone was apparently reading the newspaper, his wife was embroidering and Amalia was reading some ``en vogue`` French novel. Out of the blue, Mrs. Stone exclaimed:
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you that I received a letter from Bernard this morning.’
‘And you told us nothing, Mom!’ Amalia whined.
‘I forgot to. Anyway, it was a very brief one. It said nothing of very great importance…oh, yes, there was something… captain Turner died yesterday.’
Lucy suddenly stopped playing the piano and stood breathless, laying her hands on the cold piano keys. She said nothing, waiting to hear more.
‘A bullet entered his heart’s sacred room.’ Mrs. Stone uttered on a low, affected tone.
‘Shut up with poetry, mother!’ Lucy cried out hysterically.
‘How dare you….’
‘Mrs Stone, please tell us more.’ Her husband calmly uttered, trying as usual to extinguish the frequent conflicts between his wife and their daughter.
‘As I was saying…he died... Bernard was the last person who stood by him in his last minutes of life…he died peacefully…Our son also wrote a letter to the Turner family who will certainly be shocked.’
No one could say anything, as Lucy intruded into the silence, resuming playing the piano. She played the same piece over and over again, holding her breath before attacking the same score for the second, third or fourth time, endlessly gazing out of the window, towards the purple sky. In the middle of the piece which was being played for the fourth time, her mother burst out:
‘Stop playing the same stupid piece! I can’t stand it! You played it four times, do you think we’re deaf?’
Lucy stopped at once.
‘It’s not stupid, it’s Debussy.’ she responded sternly, avoiding her mother’s looks, noticing instead her fingers’ wet traces on the piano keys.
‘I hate this Debussy!’ Amalia screamed out.
Lucy savagely rose from her seat. ‘And I hate you! I wish I were a man and fight in the war! It would be surely nicer to die than to stay in this horrible house among these…vases from China!’
She saw her father’s shocked figure turn into a mournful one.
‘I am sorry, Pa…I didn’t mean it…excuse me’ she muttered as tears ran down her face. She hurried outside the room and slammed the door behind her.
‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!’ Amalia said in a dumbly, sarcastically and not at all inspired way.
‘Shut up and go to your room!’
Amalia rose and silently directed herself to the door, after which she slowly closed it, wanting to emphasise the difference between her and her sister.

Lucy thought there was nothing lyrical about her as she was gazing at the artisan well from the park. Actually, she assumed that she was quite dull, staying on the bench, looking insistently at the same object which represented virtually nothing to the others. She had been staying in front of the artesian well for a good deal of time – at the beginning, contemplating the lions designed on the green support of the well, from which’s mouths water was being dropped in the pool. Later she didn’t think of them anymore, even though her almond shaped eyes were fixed upon them. Her thoughts travelled to realms which were apparently hugely-distanced, yet which she could reach in less than the thousandth part of a second. Thoughts intermingled in her mind, came back and forth and never ceased their perpetual overwhelming motion; her eyeballs had the same position; looking into their almond irises revealed the miniature of the artesian well. Going beyond her eyes would have proved itself a terrifying experience, notwithstanding. “Il pleut dans mon coeur”… for minutes thereafter she couldn’t realise whether the sounds which she heard were produced by the water which hit the white cast iron plates of the well or the tears which fell within her; reaching the top, then plunging, attracted by the whirpool, where struggling was essential; to defeat or to be defeated; falling at the bottom, in the most terrifying loneliness – the principle of an artisan well.

The next day George Stone decided that they should go to the Turner family to offer their condolences. Mrs. Stone went to Lucy’s bedroom and found her lying in bed.
‘Come on, we’re waiting for you.’
‘I won’t come.’
‘Why, shall I ask?’
‘You shan’t. You have no right to.’ Lucy answered simply, throwing a defiant glance to her mother.
‘You little…how dare you? Inhuman creature, I’ll hit you someday!’ her mother cried out furiously.
‘You can do it now…I doubt you’ll have the opportunity again.’ the indifferent response came from the girl.
‘What is going on here?’ Mr. Stone appeared on the threshold.
‘Rebellion…rebellion…and again rebellion. I can stand no more!’ his wife desperately uttered.
‘I can stand no more, no more…’ Lucy cried out and buried her head in the pillow, crying hysterically, hitting her legs against the bed panel.
Her father went towards her and caressed her.
‘Lucy…Lucita…please…stop. Don’t cry. You won’t come if you don’t want to. Mrs. Stone, stop it! I can’t stand these quarrels!’
‘What do you care? You only want no one to overhear these discussions! You wouldn’t care at all what I and the damned girl talked, were we not to shout!’
‘Mrs. Stone, I repeat it: Shut up!’
‘Get out of my room! Get out! Get out! I hate you! Get out at once!!!’ the girl cried out, hitting her legs more powerfully than before, crying desperately.

When she didn’t have anymore energy to invest in tears she got out of her bed and went downstairs. The house was silent and everything was still. Why? Oh yes! Her family was at the Turners’ and because it was Sunday, the servants were free. She entered the drawing room and caught a glimpse of the piano. The large black piano, presumably the oldest object from the house. Fearful without knowing why, she went towards it. She sat on the piano stool and tried to play something, but she didn’t hear the notes she played as if she had lost her hearing capacities. She didn’t panic – she felt she couldn’t do anything at all. She noticed the lilies on the surface of the piano. They were withering. She could have sworn that flowers withered during weeks, little by little. It wasn’t true! These lilies were withering right now, in front of her helpless eyes. The lilies had caught a pale colour and they emanated a death-like scent. Lucy thought at first to do something – to open the windows, to bathe the flowers in fresh water… Then she ceased. Indifference had caught her in its trap and as a result, one lily’s corolla fell on the piano. The crash was horrible. The sound was unbearable. Lucy covered her ears, fearing she would be deafened. She couldn’t stand the sight of the fallen petals and dreading another’s plunge, she hurried outside the room and closed the door discreetly. Her steps followed the path to her father’s veterinary laboratory which was settled in the front side of the house. Once she was in it, she turned her head all around, wanting to re-discover all the things she knew for years. She went towards the green cupboard which she had been exploring with childish curiosity years ago, when her father had come to her and had spoken on his meek tone:
‘Lucita, there are bottles with poison. You should never drink anything from there.’
‘When do you use those bottles, daddy?’ she had asked him after she had moved away from the dangerous cupboard.
‘When a poor puppy is very ill and the customer demands it, I have to give it a mouthful of the substance.’
‘And does the puppy die?’ she asked whilst sniffing between tears.
‘Yes, Lucita, unfortunately it does.’
‘And why does the customer want the puppy to be given poison?’
‘Because… sometimes living hurts more than helps…’
Lucy trod closer to the green cupboard. There were dozens of bottles neatly arranged on the shelves by her father. She carefully read the yellow labeled bottles and when she reached the one she was unconsciously seeking, she paused for a deep breath. She remained motionless for some time, but when she heard a carriage on the street she thought she had to be quick. Nonetheless, she slid the cupboard glass with rather unsure movements. Then she seized the little bottle: a mouthful, just a mouthful… Again: the well, water plunging in the whirpool, the corolla of the lilies falling on the piano, “What I and the damned girl talked”, Bernard in the orchard… she looked again at the bracelet she had from him… the war, the Germans, Peter! Peter! Peter! Peter in the dark, shot in the heart – “Un soldat jeune, buche ouverte, tete nue…” – that was Peter! Sometimes, living hurts more than helps… a mouthful… just a mouthful…. Rain… rain… Il pleut dans mon coeur… the well and the lilies withering.
With incredible quick movements, she unscrewed the bottle lid… the lilies and the piano, clair de lune and Peter on the porch… the bottle to her lips. Living hurts more than helps… She took a mouthful. It had no taste. She kept it in her mouth a little. ‘I could…I could…no, I couldn’t!’. She swallowed the tasteless substance. She put the lid again, the bottle at its place and slid back the cupboard glass. She went out of the room but – ah! – everything became too sharp… the steps which she climbed had very clear edges. Reality had become acute. It was – yes, it was like when she put her father’s glasses and everything had become so sharp that it looked unreal. The carpet on which she trod now – it had yellow sprinkles upon its crimson colour. But each yellow sprinkle had such a clear edge that it was impossible to be real. Suddenly, things became bigger and then smaller – a perpetual dilatation and compression. She looked at her hand. It was huge! Then? It was so small that she could scarcely see it! She tried to climb the next step. But when she thought she had stepped on it, it had become so small that she lost her balance and fell…
A few minutes later, a terrifying scene: around Lucy’s bed, her parents, sister and two aunts who came immediately when they heard that tragedy had struck. Lucy was staying in bed, raving and throwing up blood.
‘She accidentally drank some deadly substance from her father’s laboratory…’ Mrs. Stone explained.
Lucy shook her forefinger and mumbled:
‘I poisoned myself.’ and her voice was interrupted by another bloody gust.

She had received a brief note from him which asked for a short meeting opposite her house, at 7 o’clock in that evening. When the time arrived, it had been raining for hours and she dreaded walking outdoors, being inquisitively asked by her mother where she was going. She assumed the inquiry: he must had had a serious matter, had he invited her in such a queer context. He was waiting for her under the weeping willow, on the other side of the street.
‘I received my recruiting order. I will be leaving in a few days. Will you wait for me?’
‘I’ll wait for you my whole life if I have to.’ She answered with sincerity.
‘Just until the war is over. I’ll come back. There is only one thing which I fear.’ He confessed apprehensively.
‘Which?’
‘Your parents.’
‘They have to agree.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘They will.’ She answered at length. ‘However, we don’t need any approval.’
‘I wish the war didn’t exist.’ He whispered with a sigh.
‘If the war didn’t exist, we would have never met in the rain, so hurriedly.’
‘But if I die…’
‘Hush up! Never say such a thing again! If you die, I die.’
‘No, no, Lucy, no!’ he exclaimed.
He grasped her waist; she clung to him and they leaned against the trunk, sheltered by the branches which almost touched the earth, revealing only their ankles to an eventual trespasser. He touched her face, wiping some tears from the corners of her eyes and bent his head to kiss her red lips. She held tightly his hair and caressed his neck. They have been staying so for a few minutes, kissing passionately sometimes, softly others... Eventually, she parted, fearing:
‘Someone can see us.’ she whispered
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ he muttered and kissed her again.
Then final separation was self understood. She slowly turned her back.
‘Will you wait?’ he asked once again.
‘My entire life.’ She uttered as she looked again at him. They both smiled. She crossed the street, leaving him pensively under the weeping willow.
‘I waited for him…I waited…my waiting has finished…we are to meet again, under the weeping willow…let me pass the street…he’s there…’ Lucy said, after which she breathed her last.

George Stone sat in his armchair in the drawing room, staring at the withered lilies from the surface of the piano. ‘Strange…’ he thought… ‘They were fine this morning.’ He tried to think of anything else instead of Lucy, who was agonizing in her room. That couldn’t have been true… It must have been a horrible nightmare…horrible nightmare. ‘I have to wake up quickly… I can’t stand this dream.’ He said to himself. ‘Thank God this is only a dream.’ His child, his favourite child was…no, that was a dream, it had to be! Undesired demonic thoughts came to his mind: Why Lucy? Why can’t Amalia… no, no, he wasn’t a father… he was a monster! He crossed himself: ‘Forgive me God, I don’t know what I am saying!’. He stood in a deadly stillness before he heard the door creaking open. Silence.
‘She died.’ A dried voice announced. Afterwards the door closed.
It took him forever to understand if what he heard was real; if it was, who said it. And what did the particular person mean by what he said. It struck him painfully when he realised that that was his wife’s voice. But who died? Who on Earth could have died? Fire, fire, fire burning his soul! Lucita died! His mind was blocked and when he removed his fingers from the stillness in which he had laid in the last minutes, he felt his hands very sticky; when he tried to get up, he felt as if he were fettered. ‘Lucy!!!!!!!!!’ he cried out. Sweat fell on his forehead and on his cheeks.
And what if all this life is nothing more than a dream?

Bernard in the backyard, sheltered by summer-smelling verdant leaves of nut, was gazing at the old quinces in front of him which have been ruling the same place for 100 years or perhaps more. Behind the fence, the lively backdrop characteristic to torrid months: women dressed in transparent, summery dresses, hanging laundry on yellow plastic wires that shone golden in the solar beams. He hummed ``It’s a long way to Tipperary`` which still lingered in his mind after 20 years since the Germans had signed the armistice in a train car. Bernard didn’t know that the train car which he considered so insignificant was to become famous, as the Germans would sign another truce in it, 2 years hence.
The sun shone too bright and entered Bernard’s eyes…Was it so sunny the day Peter died? Did Peter feel the same? Too much sun…too much gold…He had never enjoyed the seaside…He was suffocated by sun and couldn’t breathe… It was too hot and he wanted to breathe…too much…and no air…He wished he could breath…live…

Mrs Stone in the living-room’s dusk-like solitude stretched out her wrinkled arm and gripped the cigarette packet from the surface of the gleaming walnut table. After having chosen a cigarette and a match, she lit the former and started smoking, without forgetting to install the brown cigarette holder first. All unobserved, memories slowly engulfed her: recurring sounds and odours which had been haunting her since Lucy’s death – there were towels smelling of fresh blood, ravings which seemed to have neither sender, nor recipient and the most overflowing: the red sunset which tasted, smelt and looked like blood.
The old lady pressed the unfinished cigarette against the crystal ashtray and stood up at once, as if in this way she could dismiss the unwanted thoughts. She directed herself to the corridor whilst she tried to imagine something pleasant and even let her boarding school deliberately-learnt lines unfold in her mind: Es war ein Traum… She ordered her mind to cease thinking. “I am becoming a hypocrite” a voice uttered in her mind. At the end of the ramble around the corridor, she found herself in front of the room which she was most afraid of. Almost masochistically, Mrs. Stone entered it. Passing the certain doorway still sent chills down her spine, even though 13 years had passed since her daughter had died. The red velvet curtains were closed. The lady switched on the lights. Out of respect for Lucy, she had decided that the room should never see the sun, since its former owner had no more knowledge of it. She went towards the drawer which had never been opened by anyone else except her daughter. She slowly pulled it towards her and found a neat blue case. What a blasphemy she was committing! She sat on the bed and removed the case lid: some dusty yellow worn-out envelopes. The old lady read the first at the surface:

23d of November 1917
Cambrai

My beloved,

The moon has just risen on the darkish sky and Debussy’s Clair du lune is haunting my poor tired mind. Actually, you are haunting me – I wouldn’t care one bit for Debussy at this moment, hadn’t you played it at our piano that evening when you and your family visited us. You were so delightful, so majestic, so exquisite as you moved your long white arms along the keyboard and pressed your delicate fingers on the keys that I could hardly resist the temptation to leave my place, embrace you, kiss you in front of everyone, take you far away, where no one could ever find us. To be with you at the other side of the world… somewhere on a deserted island: the ocean’s waves peacefully singing at the end of the day, the high trees reaching the sky and just us on the hot beach, caressed by the water, by the sun, by the moon…

My most precious memory is that under the weeping willow… you needn’t flush, Lucy, I have that and no one can take it from me… If I die, at least I lived to feel your lips slide on mine… and I can die happy. But I hope God will help me come back to you, marry you… No, Lucy, I dread I’ll die and never feel the texture of your skin! I can only imagine how we would live in our house, learn what you like, what you dislike, talk about the books you love, dance until we get dizzy, listen to the music you play… kiss you until I feel numb, love you until my heart stops beating… My dream is to know everything about you, to think with your mind and feel with your body.

Cursed be the day when this war started! I’m tearing apart when I realise that we could have been married by now… Lucy, we should have run, run the first day we met. We should have hidden somewhere in Madagascar… I would live in a house made of straw, were you mine! At least, you have the weeping willow… you told me you can see it from the window of your bedroom… I – I have nothing but a torn tent and… yes, I have the moon but it is so cold!

Tell me what you are doing – how many times a day do you think of me? Describe me your bedroom… are there large bookcases with French authors? Can I hope that any of my letters is hidden in some Verlaine book or am I naïve? Do you feel me, Lucy? When I think of you, do you feel me in your heart? I’ve been kissing this letter since I started writing it. I’m kissing you in my dreams, I’m kissing your eyes, your cheeks, your lips… I’m combing your hair and kissing your neck. Will you let me comb your hair when we are married?

This letter is becoming painful and hopeless… and the last thing I’d ever want is you to be saddened! Lucy… I promise… I promise… I’ll come back. I’ll fight to come back… to you. I never told you this before but you surely know it… I love you, Lucy!

Your forever,
Peter

Exasperated, Mrs Stone couldn’t afford thinking. Fearing the subsequent discovery, she read who was addressed to the next letter: it was her daughter’s handwrite and it was addressed to Peter Turner. She opened the envelop, unfolded the old paper and her eyes started running through the lines:


26th of November 1917
London
My Peter,

When our eyes met, I dreaded this was what was going to happen – this pain, this everlasting awaiting. I knew you were the man whom I had been waiting for – no one needed to tell me; the feeling is indomitable… I hoped there was a way through which we could have prevented falling in love, thus preventing this struggle. But we cannot deny fate.

Does love die, Peter? Because if it does, I’d rather die before it. I see sometimes my parents – no flush of ecstasy, no tremble, no sparkle, just a bitter dullness spent in two. I could never live this degradation. There are men who feel contempt for their wives because they had loved them once. Will you ever despise me, Peter, for loving you? Do you think there have ever been a man and a woman who loved each other as we do? I doubt it. This is the thing that gives me hope that you won’t despise me. I cannot name love what I feel for you – it is a most strange feeling, which makes you present in my mind every second, it strangles me with its claws and makes me addicted to it. I thought love was something delicate, light, fragrant and red coloured like a sunset. No! It’s heavy, brutal but it tastes moist.

My bedroom – a large canopy bed, a book case – I could never put you near that devilish Verlaine, for God’s sake, Peter!... red velvet curtains which reach the floor and ogival windows… does appearance mean anything?

I live only with the hope that someday I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine… everything you desire is what I also desire. Of course you can comb my hair when we’re married, foolish infatuated boy! I promise I’ll asleep with my eyes fixed on the weeping willow…

I think I needn’t say I love you. I’ll say something else: I cannot live without you!

Yours till doom,
Lucy

The weeping willow? Peter? Peter Turner waiting under the weeping willow…Waiting and passing the street…`I poisoned myself` Lucy had uttered before dying…had she said the truth? She always thought she was just raving then… she could have never accepted the truth…but now…this brief note! This explained everything! 1914…Peter Turner… 1917...Lucy’s reaction when informed about his death…Her refusal to go to his parents and her own death in the same cursed day! She couldn’t have thought that there had ever been anything between her daughter and Peter Turner. Her daughter killed herself…! Her daughter killed herself because….because of Peter Turner!
Falling in void…and having no one to catch you…her eldest daughter first, her husband the same day… Amalia in 1921, at childbirth, Bernard in summer 1928 and now…who was the last? The pillar as hard as steel on whom everyone had laid back on…as she had always tried to believe? Or the pillar which was the most powerful and destroyed all the others, just to remain unstained and fall the last into the scariest nothingness? She could think no more... recollections had abandoned her, she couldn’t finger anymore the texture of the letter. She couldn’t see anything around her. A letter falling at the legs of an old lady… a downfall…nothingness…and blackness…