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All He Ever Wanted(32)

By:Anita Shreve


“I shall accept your proposal,” she said in such a low voice that I was not at all certain I had heard her correctly. But I didn’t dare ask her to repeat her words. I held myself rigidly, terrified lest I had heard wrong and that I should soon discover that that was not what she had meant at all; I knew that I would not be able to bear a second disappointment.

(Of course, an honorable man — an honorable man — would not have let a woman sacrifice herself in such a manner.)

Etna leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “We shall speak no more of love,” she said, “either of its presence or its absence.”

I found my voice then, though it was cracked with an emotion that was beyond all that I had ever known. “I promise to make you content, if not actually happy,” I said. “And my own happiness shall be so great as to be more than enough for both of us.” (Were ever more foolish words uttered than those by a man who assumes he has love enough for two people?) I fumbled in my vest pocket for the ring I had nearly bestowed upon her eleven days earlier. I slipped it on her finger. And once that ring was in place — signifying what? a deposit of my love? a token of possession? — I dared to breathe again and allowed myself to feel some of the joy to which I was now entitled. The ring sparkled on her finger, and I took her hand in mine. But as I was in danger of again embarrassing myself with tears, I dared not embrace her. Nor did I want to dispel with further words the lovely magic that now lay all about that room with its drop cloths and ladders and paint buckets.

“I shall not ask my brother-in-law for permission,” Etna said, “for I am of sufficient age to make such a decision for myself.” She looked away. Did she already regret her momentous decision? Was she trembling inside from the audaciousness of her pronouncement?

“You will not be sorry,” I said boldly. (But how could a man promise such a thing? He could not, he could not.) “I will always love you,” I said.

She glanced down at our commingled hands and then up at me.

“I know,” was all she answered.


Keep was shocked, I could see, and he blathered on a bit, a harmless tirade to which I was blissfully (have I not earned the right to use the word here?) immune. Miriam pretended happiness but did not, I think, feel it, doubtless thinking, as did her husband, of the inconvenience of Etna’s departure. I hardly remember the rest of that afternoon now. I had come on a desperate mission and had been successful, a fact I could scarcely comprehend. I held Etna’s hand at intervals, and when she walked me to the vestibule later that afternoon to say good-bye, I kissed her on the mouth, my desire now knife-edged and whetted by good fortune. I must reveal here, however, that she did not respond passionately. Indeed, she hardly responded at all. But my imminent departure emboldened me, and it was some moments before I let her go. Then the door was opened, and I was standing on the front steps: battered, wrung out, and radiant with happiness.


Did I have, either that day or the next, misgivings? Did I sense that my greed to possess had overwhelmed my judgment? Might not another man, in better control of his faculties than I, have been deterred at the declaration that his love could not be returned? No, I do not think I did. Not then. For such a thought is one that comes of experience and in retrospect, and not in the moments of greatest joy. I told myself I would teach Etna Bliss to love me, a tutorial I anticipated with the greatest pleasure.


The porter has just come by to turn down my bed and refill my water pitcher, and so I think I shall retire now. Sometimes when I am writing, I feel as though I were not reliving the events I describe here, but rather living them. That there is no distance, either in time or in space, no distance at all, and that I do not know how my story will end. It is an extraordinary sensation, since, of course, I know only too well how it will all end.

My compartment (have I written this already?) contains the most intriguing devices for the traveler. The table on which I scribble can, with a turn of a lever, drop down to the level of the upholstered seats. A cushion hidden behind a backrest fits like a puzzle piece between the two benches and makes up into a rather good-sized bed, one that can certainly accommodate a man as large as myself. Above the washstand is a mirror that snaps down to cover the sink, transforming it into a nightstand, complete with water pitcher, glass, and a small lamp by which to read. Behind the opposite backrest is a clothes locker in which one can hang a suit jacket and pack away one’s socks and underthings. It is all rather ingenious. Apart from the toilet, which is just down the corridor, I do not want for anything. I have brought with me a copy of Emerson’s American Scholar, which I am looking forward to reading before the rhythmic clacking of the train wheels along the rails sends me off to sleep.