The Art of Melancholia

King of Wands

After the wedding, my father forced me to place my hands in his when he told me that he would let me live at Varlemont- my current home. A sort of ceremony which was series to him but I found both archaic and quite embarrassing for his sake. He agreed to give me the income from its environs, much larger than my allowance before, to support me and Catherine until I found a proper proper rôle for myself. The position that was supposed to be my brother's was taken by a son of another family. My father was angry and I was pleased until I realized I was once again alone in that regard. My father would expect me to do something else with my life other than just staying alive.

In the meantime, I was at peace. I can't say I was happy per se but at least content. Varlemont lays not far from Arras, surrounded by woods with bright lawns, made of white Artesian stone. I've always thought it a great misstep on his part of let me leave Calais, as this period of my life allowed me to see the situation clearer than when I was embroiled in it. The light illuminated the dark. I suppose he only did it because it was expected, or because he didn't like me, or a likely combination of the two.

The first week or so I didn't know what to do with myself. In Varlemont, there was strong sensation that everything was a only a soft mirage- some waking dream I conjured up to be pulled away from me at any moment. I was so used to my life before that I didn't know how to live in my new one. Calm and quiet surrounded me. There was nothing to worry about - but worry I still did.

I had to find something to pass the time. In the mornings I would ride in the woods, read in my study, and work in the gardens. Under the hot sun, with my shirt sleeves rolled up my arms, I would plant trees, flowers, and other plants in the dirt. I imagined in my mind's eye what a good thing it would be to grow everything needed on the land. I imagined an ice house, repairs to the château itself, and a lime avenue that lead to the courtyard. The lime trees were small then but I would smile to myself at the thought of seeing them grown. At times I would sit in the garden, twirl the little flowers between my thumb and finger, and try to see the animals in the clouds. I saw then that I would grow old and die here. A place where there's nothing to worry about. I could keep my routine forever and into eternity - what a peaceful life.

It was all a pleasant distraction for me. I was afraid to spend too much, as my father required that I send him a complete account of my expenses but more staff appeared around me. I hired a gardener who I would speak to in the afternoons about my plans and more men for the stables. I bought my first horse - a white horse I named Clement. I ordered more clothes - heavily embroidered silk suits and crisp linen shirts. More furnishings for the previously bare rooms - blue silks and dark wood furniture. Books filled the empty shelves of my study. Some I had brought from my room in Calais but others were from Paris, bound in blue Moroccan leather, on the sciences and nature. I would stay there going through my expenses and reading until the afternoon sun turned into the midnight moon.

As long as I worked on the estate I didn't need to think of my old life and my old self. That was all only a night-mare and I lived in the real world. No longer a child - married, living on my own estate, with my own money. Of course nothing was actually mine - it was all my father's. His estate, his money, and his marriage that he had forced me in. But I could forget that because he was far away - and how calm I felt outside of his gaze. I received a few letters from him during that time, but what about do not know because I promptly threw them into the fire.

I would think back on my previous life as if through a looking glass. I could physically remember my past but it had no effect on me, as if I was looking upon a painting or remembering a far off dream. I couldn't connect to that previous life of mine. While a minor part of my mind constantly thought about the things I had seen, the larger ignored. When I did reminisce on my memories I would wonder what was wrong with me - I had no cause to think or act that way. I only had to wait. I though all my previous antics and emotions so dramatic and so nauseatingly immature that it made me sick to think about. In a way, I looked down at my small self and thought myself better, older, and mature. My memories and that old self of mine all lived apart from me.