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| The Glass Phoenix I never imagined that the introduction of one individual into the life of another could so alter the life of the latter. How can I answer your inquiries when, despite his impact, I never let you know about him? How can I tell you that he's been haunting me every moment since long before you first took my hand, and that, although this is the first time I've seen it, his ghost has been here for as long as you've known me? You ask why I am stirring at this late hour. If I could tell you, I'd say that some weeks ago he had appeared in my chamber, tears upon his cheeks, and that I recognized him immediately, regardless of his twenty-four year absence. Oh, how long ago it all seems! I had never dared hope to see him again at all, nor had I ever dreamed that he would come to me, tear-streaked. I can not be certain how I knew him after so many years passed: I suspect it was his eyes. Not mahogany, not chocolate, but somewhere in between, they sparkled with amber flecks. Such eyes were not meant for tears. He wore a fine grey linen suit, a red vest, a white ruffled shirt, and a black and grey striped cravat, rather unlike the attire which I had known him to wear, yet well suited to him. I noticed that the gaslight was glowing right through his form: he cast no shadow, but the light fell upon the floor as if having passed through a stained glass window. My sight blurred, stinging with that strange nameless emotion in which one cries for sorrows passed and joys of the moment. He was here. After so long, he had remembered me, and was here. I had been but sixteen when my father rented out the carriage house to one Nathaniel Donally, a glassblower. Father allowed him to use the ground floor of the carriage house as his shop, reserving the remaining levels for living space. Due both to the proximity of his shop and my own inquisitive nature, I often found myself seeking to be entertained there. The shop was typical of such places, the shelves lined with practical items --- flasks, glasses, chimneys and bottles --- and not so practical items --- fruit bowls, beads, ornate lampshades and vases. Many of the less practical items were tinted pink, blue, green, and red. The fireplace was surrounded by a stone wall upon which the proprietor was resting the instruments of his craft. He wore a leather apron and one long leather glove which covered his left hand clear to his elbow. The space in the shop was quite limited, and I was nervous that, should I turn abruptly, myskirts would either send bottles crashing to the ground or end up in the fire. The shop was lit only by firelight, for there were no windows. It melled of burning wood, but close to the proprietor, I could smell the leather of his apron. "Hello," I said. "Would you mind if I watched?" "Not at all, Miss," he answered. "I'd be honored." He made a small bow, not lowering himself in any way, but treating me as a lady, not as the boisterous girl that I was. He silently continued his work, putting the final touches on a vase, rolling the rim of the neck down and sprinkling a powdered green pigment over the hot glass. "I'm Henry Doulton's daughter," I continued, "Ellen." "Nathaniel Donally," he said, briefly looking up, smiling and nodding. "Have a seat if you like. It's a bit dusty, but we're not really set up for company." "Thanks," I said, plopping down clumsily on the dusty stool. Putting the vase aside, he began a new project, pulling a flowing blob from the fire, blowing out a delicate vessel, and pressing out new shapes with instruments that looked like pliers. "I love glass," I said, foolishly. His taciturnity was near maddening, but his work made my discomfort forgiveable. I watched in awe as he made, seemingly effortlessly, a mythical bird with wings of pink, blue, and lavender, in varrying shades, outspread delicately. Although it's body was green and it's head pink, the two blended together in swirls of flowing color at the neck. It had blue and green feathers on top of its head and long, delicate tail feathers of pink, orange and yellow. Despite the brilliant colors, light shone through it easily, making it sparkle all about. I was certain that there was not a soul alive who could argue against it's beauty. "You may have it if you like," he said when he had finished. "It's a Phoenix." "I couldn't," I stammered, feeling my eyes grow wide. "Of course you can, Miss. There's a flaw in it's middle, but if you don't mind it ---" "What flaw? It's perfect!" "Then it's yours, my dear." "Are you quite sure?" "Quite." "Oh, thank you, Mr. Donally!" I said, stunned that the beautiful object was mine. I know you've always wondered why it was such a treasure. I could never tell you. "It's just so pretty," I'd say. Once you caught me running my finger along it's wing. I told you I was just thinking. "About what?" you asked. I don't remember my answer, but it wasn't the truth. Mister Donally turned promptly then to more profitable endeavors, telling me that he was glad I likd his creation so much, and that he, too, thought glass was intensely beautiful. I stayed watching for some time, hypnotized by the glowing orbs that danced magically with his gloved hand until they were transformed into bowls, bottles and even beads. It was nearly dark when I realized how long I had been mezmerized by the glass. "Oh!" I said, leaping up and grasping my Phoenix. "It's almost dark! I'll be late for supper!" I lifted my skirts and flew out the door, shouting a heartfelt "thank you" over my shoulder as I rushed down the path. Even in my haste, I was conscious of the wind and my blowing skirts against my legs. How I loved to run! "Please, Ellen," my mother said as she appeared in the back doorway, "be a lady." I stopped running. I wished I could be a lady. I always admired "ladies" --- like Mother and Aunt Edith --- but I didn't seem to be capable of being one. I always ended up acting more like my tomboyish best friend, Elisabeth Gentry. "Your left hand, Ellen," Mother said as I passed by her into the kitchen. "What if you should have to shake somebody's hand?" I let go of my skirts altogether. "I met Mister Donally today," I said. "And did you offer him your left hand, or did you fumble about with your skirts?" "Really, Mother," I said, leaning over the wash basin, "I don't see why it should matter, but if you really must know, I wasn't holding my skirts. Where did he come from?" "Who?" "Mister Donally." "Oh, I think it was called Liberty. Somewhere up north." Mother leaned over the heavy oak table cutting carrots. "They traveled for nearly two weeks, if I recall. Set the table, dear." |
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