#the secret history is NOT a novel about the picturesque - the safe and pleasurable experience of beauty

[guiltyonsundays]

you know in The Secret History when Donna Tartt said "a morbid longing for the picturesque"? i think she meant the sublime. the SUBLIME not the picturesque. i think she got it wrong and nobody is roasting her for that and i'm here to rectify that.

[volume-indigo]

A Karmic Affliction New Orleans, 1867

REBECCA: October 6, 1863 Letter from: September 10, 1863: Naples, Italy My dearest friend Rebecca, I am saddened to hear of the boredom you are experiencing at home without me. I must say it delights me to hear that after all these years, my presence is of such importance to you, as is your presence is equally important to my sanity. I hope this letter reaches you in time to tell you that my attempts to leave Mother’s family in Italy in time to make it to your birthday festivities are currently at a standstill. We are experiencing a very unlikely, tropic-like rainfall that Father says will make it impossible to travel back to New Orleans in time for your celebration if we do not set sail within the next few days. The ship’s captain is the ficklest drunkard, as he refuses to ride out the warmest of storms. Although, you must know it would be my most bitter disappointment to not be there. I am praying for our safe arrival and to be in your lively presence once again. In response to your many questions of my time here in Italy, I must say that it is spectacular. The heart of the city sits on this ethereal bay lined with houses and architecture like you have never seen. I have heard historical fact that Naples is nearby an active volcano entitled Mount Vesuvius that destroyed the lost Roman city of Pompeii. I am inspired to be in the center of all this history. I must admit find myself at many points wishing that I could hear your opinions of all I am experiencing and that you could experience it with me. You have a tendency of maximizing my inspiration and the height of my mood. I feel lucky to know that I will be in your presence again soon. With my deepest admiration, William J. Grant I read over the letter that arrived from Italy from Mr. Grant about three or four times with a smile on my face which would have one believe I had slept with a clothes hanger in my mouth. Word from him was the most pleasing of birthday gifts for a girl of now seventeen years. In a surge of embarrassment from my foolish rush of red complexion, I slipped his letter into the velvet box on my vanity and threw my face into my palms. I then laid my dead down on my vanity and laced a spare button through my fingers, spinning it on the mahogany surface while I entertained myself with fantasies of what was possible after Mr. Grant’s arrival back to New Orleans. “Miss Rebecca,” an apparition of DeeDee appears within the frame of the mirror above my head on the vanity. I turn my head to meet her eye. “We must start dressing you for the evening.” MR. GRANT: October 6, 1863 Letter from: July 29, 1863 My dearest Willy, My summer days are filled with boredom each day that you are gone. I stroll down to the swamp with DeeDee on peaceful afternoons to read novels and sunbathe on most days. Although, I must say that it is not the same here without your comforting presence. I have made several attempts to entertain myself by exploring the Murphy family estate with Caroline, as their property is that of a picturesque dream. Their land like the paintings I have seen of the gardens of Versailles in Paris. I am obliged to say that while I very much enjoy my time spent with Caroline, my time with you is far more enjoyable.  Speaking of Paris, my mother has ordered me a custom powder pink gown lined with cream and fuchsia for my birthday festivities on the sixth of October. I do sincerely hope that you are back in New Orleans in the fall to see it, as your presence is of most importance to me. Mark me, your absence is bitterly suffered through. Setting my selfishness aside, I am desperate to know of your time in Italy. I have heard that your mother’s family is from Naples, is that where you have resided this summer? I wish dearly to visit somewhere besides London and Paris for dress fittings, as Italy seems like it would be the most exotic and exciting of adventures. I must ask, what is it like? Is it as enchanting as it is rumored to be? Have you been so lucky to see any ancient ruins? Please inform me on any and all questions that you are willing to answer. To respond to your question from before, I have come ahold of Jane Austen’s novel, “Emma”, and I am enjoying it greatly. I will lend it to you if you wish upon your return. My best wishes and prayers, Rebecca Jane Moore

While I was most excited to return for Rebecca’s birthday as her biggest surprise, I knew what was coming; I knew she was in love with me. As hard as I have tried, I have learned throughout my seventeen years on Earth that I do not possess any romance in my soul. I have loved her dearly as my closest friend since childhood and have admired her beauty as any man with sight should. It is with sheer and agonizing disappointment that I could not return another soul’s romantic affections, not even the one I hold the dearest. What I could admit to myself is that I wanted to see her more than anything for her birthday and to make her evening as special as it could be, even if I could not give her exactly what she wanted. Her mother, Mrs. Moore, summoned me to surprise Rebecca for her birthday by awaiting her presence on a tiled bench outside the living room doors. I was to wait for her to find me and promptly propose marriage. I felt a pit of dread in my stomach at the thought of lying to friend whose happiness relied on the impending marriage she would be in for eternity in God’s eyes. I wished her not a loveless marriage, but for a romance that consumed her soul. As I am a shell of the man I was raised to be, I had to conclude that the man who would make her happy would never be me. REBECCA: October 6, 1863 I glided down the vast staircase from my bed chamber to the grand foyer to greet my awaiting guests. As a crowd of heads came into view, I soon realized that all eyes were on me. It was in this moment I knew that I craved the spotlight, thrived in recognition, and reveled in admiration. The social scene of the elite of New Orleans were guests at my home for my celebration of becoming a woman, as Mother would say. Mother had promised that this night would be full of delightful surprise and fulfillment as I have never had before, as a child of ages previous to seventeen were not capable of appreciating such pleasures as that of a woman coming of age. I was enchanted by the possibilities that the evening could bring, although I was thoroughly disappointed by Mr. Grant’s absence. I knew that wherever he was in the world, he was wishing me the happiest of birthdays and most sublime happiness for my special day. “Oh, Rebecca!” Caroline rushed to me from the other side of the room where she was stuck chatting with the town’s most notorious flirt, Mr. Ellis Dudley, a very promising young man in all other areas but personality. “How stunning you look on your birthday! That pink is stunning against your chocolate locks. How envious all the young women must be of your beauty this evening!” her compliment may have stirred discomfort within me if it were from another woman, as I would have questioned her motives. Although, Caroline’s gentility always shined through her playful ignorance. “I must say Caroline that you have not a thing to envy, you are a most unmatched beauty,” I embraced her with the love and comfort I would a child, a kindness I never often shared with anyone but Mr. Grant and my siblings. Besides my recognized kin, Caroline was the only person in the room I did not find completely insufferable and I planned to spend it at her complete disposal. As soon as my pledge to Caroline solidified in my mind, Mother approached us while we giggled in the corner of the room and pointed secret fun at Ellis Dudley’s many attempts to seduce any and every woman in the room. “My darling Rebecca, I do have a surprise for you outside. Do you mind, Miss Caroline?”  Mother inquires of Caroline, her sharp eye giving her no room to refuse. “Of course not, Mrs. Moore, I would never stand in the way of Rebecca’s happiness!” Caroline quickly grabs my hand and winks, as if she knows what is to happen next. As Mother is gliding me through the many little crowds which have manifested throughout the room, I stop to ask, “where are you taking me?” “To the rest of your life, darling girl,” she leads me through the French doors which accent our patio. It is at this moment when I see where my surprise awaits. Mother kisses me on the cheek and closes the door behind her, vaporizing into the background noise created by the party.

“Happy Birthday, Miss Rebecca,” the apparition of my dearest Willy Grant accessorized with a yellow rose stood at the center of my private garden. His presence was of such delight to me, it was as if I forgot how I melted in his presence. He pushed back a lock of his now grown out chestnut hair and spoke again, “I hope that you are happy to see me.” “Oh, Willy! You do not know the happiness it brings me to see you here!” I threw myself into his arms in excitement and wrapped my hands around his neck, he followed with his arms gently around my waist. “How did you make it back so quickly?” He sat back down on the bench and ran his hands through his hair, which had grown longer than it had ever been before his voyage to Italy. He kept his eyeshot from me as if his view was glued to the gravel below his feet. “Father informed Mr. Moore of our safe arrival back to New Orleans just two days ago,” he finally picked his gaze up. “I was then vastly invited to the party and sent to the jeweler.” A tone in his voice seemed to drift into a melancholic tune I had never once heard part from his lips, “do you mean to say you are disappointed to celebrate with me?” Insulted by his clear irritability, anxiety raged inside of me. I wondered what I had done to dismay him. “No, Rebecca, as I have said on many occasions, I enjoy your presence more than any other woman in New Orleans,” he continued, “of course I am thrilled to celebrate with you.” “Excuse me if I struggle to comprehend why you seem in such discomfort,” a pulsating sense of irritation flushed out my joy and overflowed me with confusion. He raised a tiny, red-colored velvet box from his pocket and raised it up. “I am supposed to propose marriage to you this evening,” he placed his head in his palms and heavily sighed before he continued. “I have dreaded this moment from the minute we met those so many years ago, because in the deepest parts of me I know that I could truly be married to you. Although, I desperately wish that I could.” “And why is that?” was all I could manage to say without falling over and crumbling into myself. He stood up and pranced around the garden while he gathered his thoughts, he threw his hands in the air and began to speak again, “I cannot marry you because I cannot betray you,” his voice, an almost scream, alarmed me beyond my senses and caused the hairs on the back of my neck to become erect.   “How would you be betraying me by granting my most desired of all wishes?” A struggling tear escaped its duct and I bit my trembling lip to stop from crying. Willy darted over to me and cupped my face into his palms, “oh, no, Rebecca, you do not understand.” The pain was undeniable on his face as he wiped the tears from mine in a frenzy. “It is not you, there is no one for me. I have come to the most unsatisfactory conclusion that there is no romance in my soul. I could never take a wife.” I backed away from him in pure disgust and anguish, the betrayal he so desperately wished to conceal me from had already surfaced. “You have been revealed to me as the phoniest of all men who is so cowardly to not face what has been there since our very first encounter. Forgive me if I say that I wish for you to leave so I can enjoy the rest of my celebration and keep any shred of respect for you that I have left intact.” “Don’t you see that I am trying to not do wrong by you despite the many pressures of our families?” he pleaded to me, tightly grabbing my hand so I could not walk away. “I would never wish for you to be subjected to a loveless marriage. I care too much for your happiness.” I looked down to the floor and shook the blanketing tears off of my face, “please just let me go, I must not see you again so I can learn to love someone else,” I snatched my wrist from his tight grasp and wiped the tears from my face. I reentered my home with the brightest of all smiles decorating my face. I did not wish to speak of such humiliation on my birthday.

REBECCA: February 22, 1867

Caroline and I decided to take a stroll through the public gardens in the height of the afternoon. On a cold February day, the afternoon was the warmest peak of the day’s heat. I wanted to speak with her of her pending engagement to my dearest friend, Mr. Willy Grant. The romance had shocked me, as Grant had never been one for more than a fleeting romance; as I was victim of his charms many of times. “Have you set the wedding’s date?” An opening casualty to start a conversation which would inevitably be weighed down by dramatics. My best friend was to be married to my dearest, longtime crush. I felt owed an explanation if not an apology. Caroline remained silent for many moments; I observed her manner as she put together in her mind what she wanted to say. “Rebecca, Mr. Grant and I are not in love,” her beige blonde locks blew in the wind with the poise of a graceful stallion, her lips-stained fuchsia like a porcelain doll. She was the true cliché of a beauty in the peak of her life, like myself, Caroline was chained to the affliction of loving a man who would never love her in return. “He never loved me either,” was all I could manage to say, ashamed to melt in the shame and discomfort from the sight of what felt like her superior beauty. “If he ever loved, Rebecca,” she paused, choking back her grief, “I am quite certain that while he is incapable of romance, that he loved you the most.”

MR. GRANT: February 2, 1867 The suffocating pressure to find a wife from the desires of my father had cracked and crumbled my impenetrable ego. I had realized my foolish mistake of chasing the pursuit of freedom as soon as Rebecca stood upon the altar with Mr. Moreau, a man far beneath her in grace and position, to become his wife. I could have learned to love her the way a man is supposed to love his wife, as I had loved her as my dearest friend with the same lustful desire of every other man who has been in her presence. It was just weeks ago that Father gave me an ultimatum-marry by summers end or forfeit my inheritance. I could never handle the struggles the peasantry of humanity faced after living the most privileged life. As the reality of the consequences that came at the denial of his request, the idea of having a wife did not seem as insufferable as poverty. It was at the beginning of the month of February that I had begun courting who was second best, the beautiful socialite and best friend of Rebecca, Miss Caroline Murphy. I suffered through long strolls with her in gardens, seemed captivated by her deepest desires, and shared with her stories of childhood. With all of her radiance and striking beauty, there was a plainness and mediocrity to her that bored me to tears. I compared each conversation and day of foolishness with those of my dearest Rebecca. I knew it was an injustice to compare the two, yet I could not help to notice that these two women were incomparable. As Caroline and I walked through the Garden of Botany, (a touring exhibit which just arrived in the city), I kissed her in the middle of a pathway of cacti; only to get her to stop talking. I dropped my face from hers and got on one knee, “Miss Murphy, I will not excite you enough to tell you that I am in love with you, but I do know that I will learn to love you the way a man should love his wife and the mother of his children,” I cringed at the words I was feeding her, knowing they should have been told to someone else a number of years ago. “I have decided that I want you to marry me. I want you to teach me how to love,” I looked into her bright hazel eyes as she eyed the ring Father handpicked for this proposal. I saw that she had not listened to a word I said. I recognized fantasy in her eyes. She saw nothing but the ring, heard nothing but the question of marriage. “Oh, my,” the familiar voice of a scorned woman appeared in the vicinity before Caroline could give her answer. I turned to see who the woman’s voice belonged to. It was no other than my dearest friend, Mrs. Rebecca Jane Moreau, fashioned with the swollen stomach of a woman with child. “Oh, Rebecca!” Caroline gasped at the unexpected presence of our estranged friend. “Please do not be angry with me! I did not plan this to spite you!” Rebecca gazed deep into my eyes as she formulated her response to Caroline, “I am not angry with you, Caroline. I could never blame you for not being able to deny yourself such a profitable marriage.” As she said this, she held Caroline’s hand in order to reassure her against her anger, and to spite me with the betrayal she appeared to feel from my selfish actions. “Wait!” I called to Rebecca’s backside, walking away from us in a fury. “Rebecca, wait!” I caught up to her and caught her arm, in means to turn her towards me. In the action of her turning to face me, a sense of lust and recognition in my love for her overcame me. I cupped her chin and kissed her with the passion of a man in love. The spark which ran through my body at the slightest hint of her touch was euphoric and familiar; a kind of sensation one would feel in a warm bath; comfortable and elated. Rebecca removed herself from me, and with a tear shedding down her face she responded to my gesture. “No,” as she said this, she ran her hand down my arm and looked over my shoulder to Caroline. “I’m sorry, my friend.”