The Manor House
Story
by Stephanie Lim Uy
In my life, I have had two great loves. The first was marked with the ecstatic raptures of youthful passion, dizzying and intense. The other, with quiet satisfaction and soul-deep interaction, fatuous and real. Fate had gifted me with opportunities to love and be loved, although truth be told, I am not overly concerned with receiving, only with giving.
I am now seventy-five, and my life has reached its zenith. You may
expect sadness and regret to mark my face; for the harshness of my life
experiences to reflect in my bearing. But they do not. My soul has
retained the lessons life, and fate, has decided to teach me. Yet I do not
allow its bitter intent to pierce the barrier of joy and contentment I
gain from life's numerous blessings. My family and friends, the people
who care for me have all thought me naively optimistic. Time and again
they have berated me for the quick trust and easy forgiveness I dole
out to people who have caused me pain.
As I sit here, in my room at home watching the world outside, I do not
see the dark grey sky, nor the fury of the falling rain. I do not see
the drab white of my room, nor the cracks in the walls. I do not see the
peeling paint nor the occasional cockroach skittering across the
thinning carpet. I do not see stained bathroom tiles nor dusty windows. I see
the beauty of the storm as it rages outside. I wonder at its power. I
behold the way my paintings stand out in stark contrast against the
plainness of the walls, and I see the peeling paint as an indulgent witness
to my ancestors attempts at setting the manor to rights, establishing
an indelible impression and an intimate link with those of us who have
striven to fight for its preservation.
I was born before the war, the second one not the first, in this
very place. The Manor House had been in my family for generations. All
that remained of a French king's reward to one of my ancestors for her
unforgettable and incomparable prowess in the bedroom. I am not ashamed
to admit that my family had amassed its initial fortune by taking
advantage of a monarch's fleshly desires, for I am certain that only a few in
my family had ever been able to match that particular ancestor's
natural charm and earthy creativity.
The summer I was eighteen, our country had already witnessed the
effects of corporal hatred. We were only beginning to recover from the
destruction war had wrought. Everyone suffered tremendous losses. We, less
so than some of the other families we knew. Our family still lived at
the Manor; but we had grown so used to going without for periodic
instances at a time that the war and the sacrifices it effected did not affect
us as much.
It was because of the war that I suffered the first heartbreak of my
life, Prescott's family lost everything financially and as the youngest
son, his older brothers only left him scraps after they took their own
shares from the family's remaining assets. Where once his face was filled with the carefree nonchalance of youth, it became gloomy with worries. His trademark became a frown and a
guarded expression his uniform. Before the war, we had an unspoken agreement
to wed. But after, those heated promises could no longer be kept.
Before the war, their vast fortune would have ensured us a comfortable life
even without a dowry from me, but after the war, it became impossible.
Assaulted by pressures from all fronts to marry a girl with a large
dowry, Prescott buckled and took off for America in search of American
heiresses.
When he chose comfort and luxury over the love I offered him, when he
left to woo and bed other girls. Wealthy and sophisticated Americans-
he took a piece of my heart with him. At the time, I had thought he'd
taken my soul as well, leaving me with nothing. Not dignity. Not honor.
And certainly not love. My world crashed all around me. I felt as though
the earth had shifted under my feet leaving behind a void which
threatened to engulf me. I became morose and filled with self-pity. I
bitterly regretted giving my all, my love and my body.
In between bouts of depression and hopeless despair, I became occupied with doubts. Was I
not pretty enough or smart enough? Was I not giving or generous enough?
Could I have done more to make him stay? If I were kinder, warmer,
richer, would he have chosen me instead? I felt like he had ripped my heart
from my chest and flung it away as though it was garbage, a piece of
filth unworthy of his notice or attention. A rag doll to
be tossed aside- beneath contempt.
But what enraged me most was my own
reaction. Though my intellect informed me of my innocence, my heart
struggled to find justification for my continued yearning and adoration.
Time passed and I matured; keeping the remaining fragments of my
tattered heart, nursing my bitterness close to my chest. After all, Life had
chosen me as its pupil and Fate had decreed my state today. At 28, I
was considered an old maid. Men no longer proposed to me. I was a dried
up old prune and resigned to staying that way. It was hopeless. I felt
hopeless. A spinster with no more love in her to give no more dreams
to let soar, no more wishes to hold dear.
Then miracle of all miracles, a man approached my father to ask for my
hand a few months before my twenty-ninth birthday. He was about to
refuse him as my father had known my unwillingness to emotionally invest
myself again. But Lorenz was very persistent, he courted me relentlessly
and slowly. He studied my habits, finding out what I liked and didn't
like, he read my favourite books, and he visited everyday. He made me
feel cherished. And he brought love back into my life.
What won me over
wasn't the gifts or the flowers, but the way he talked to me about his
world. He treated me as an equal, asking my opinion on world events,
and for my advice on possible investments. No topic was prohibited, no
discussion censored by societal proprieties. I did not have to guard my
tongue around him for he made no judgments. I did not have to give
anything in kind for he exerted neither force nor pressure. I felt the ice
surrounding my heart thaw away and blood rushed stirring to the
surface.
Being brought back to life was a painful experience tiny pinpricks
of feeling hit me, and the sensation was disturbing, to say the least.
The first time I loved, it was intemperate and volatile, done and
forged by pure naivete and given with perfect trust, perfect passion.
The second time, I was wiser. My love may have seemed flawed, after
all, I did not emerge from my first experience unscathed. Yet, it
contained so many more depths and facets than the love of my childhood. My
innocent heart may have been battered, bruised, and cracked in some
places, but it was infinitely more precious because of its experience. If I
hadn't bled from the first, I wouldn't have been capable of loving the
second.
The first time molded me into the woman who loved albeit the fear of
being hurt again. And that may be why my second love was stronger,
richer, and more powerful. It overcame all obstacles, and calmed every tear.
Lorenz and I arranged to marry in three months time. The deep abiding
love we shared could not wait for longer than that amount of time. And
though my mother seemed inclined to disagree at first, she rose to meet
the challenge with grace and proceeded to make all arrangements in
haste.
I had found my destiny in his embrace. And with him, I knew I had come
home. We spent our betrothal deepening our relationship; the air
continually hummed with the vibrations of our emotions. In him, I had found a
more restive, more dependable kind of love. With him, I felt more
myself- more complete. As if the lost parts of my soul are one. By him, I
found tranquillity both within and without.
But one day, I lost him. The details are still things I prefer not to talk about. Sorrow
overwhelmed me once again. My loss filled every corner of my being and my
grief almost compelled me to join him.
Unlike the first, when I took comfort in morose silence and stored
bitterness; in the second, my entire body shook with feeling, every pore,
every nerve, every vein throbbed with intense pain until I could no
longer hold back the tears, I cried. I cried until I shook. I cried until
I had no more tears left to shed.
Even now, I can not tell you how I managed, for I do not know myself. I
survived well enough. Partly because my tears cleansed me of the
terrible blackness threatening to rip my soul apart; partly because I had
already survived one experience, what's one more? But mainly, I survived
because of Lorenz. His memory. Because of the strength his love gifted
me. Because of his limitless faith in who I was. Knowing I had that,
sustained and restored me.
The love we shared was too valuable, too priceless and unencompassable.
I knew that if he had been left behind, I would want him to find
happiness. By embracing our love and acknowledging its existence, I
immortalize and preserve it. By turning my back and denying it happened, I would
have made it seem small demeaning its value and rejecting the changes
it wrought.
For Lorenz, I have searched for another kind of happiness, and a new
kind of meaning in my life. For Lorenz, I lived and I survived. Now that
I can feel my time coming, my breath hitching in my chest, I find I am
not afraid to die because I know he will be there waiting to welcome me
home in his arms again.
As I close my eyes during my last moments on earth, I wonder what
others will think when they see this house. A cold, unwelcoming structure
rundown, abandoned, fit only mice and other rodents? Or will they
wonder about its history? About the lives of the people who had lived here.
Their joys, their wishes, their hopes, and their dreams, their sorrows
and their pain.
In cold winter nights, when the wind is strong enough
to rattle windows, and the dark envelopes, will they hear the whispers
of this old house travelling from one room to another? Will they hear
the moans of sorrow as two lovers were parted on earth? Or will they hear
the soft murmur of lovers who have found each other again?
The Manor House© COPYRIGHT 2006 Stephanie Lim Uy. Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author. 03/04/06
