“Good Afternoon sir”
“Good Afternoon Mr. Halverson.”
Mr. Halverson was much taller than I had anticipated. The letters suggested that he was a man of distinguished stature, but I presumed it referred only to his standing within landed gentry.
“I trust your travel was well? Your arrangements are satisfactory I presume?”
“Indeed yes Mr. Halverson, quite.”
Mr. Halverson pulled a small metallic flask from his coat pocket and flicked the top open with his thumb. He tapped it to the back of his opposite hand, into the divot formed between the thumb and forefinger. He then slowly secured the flask and returned it to his coat pocket, his opposite hand hanging motionless.
“Oh, I apologize Mr. D’Claire. Snuff?”
“No thank you sir.”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned forward and lifted his hand to his nose. He snorted swiftly. He then pitched his nose and sniffed a few more times, whilst dusting the remaining snuff from his hands.
“D’Claire, to be frank,” Mr. Halverson paused “I must confess a considerable level of uneasiness that which I keep. Why, your pedigree is sufficient as is you capital worth; however, I am troubled with the notions of your, perhaps, inadequacies surrounding the ability to properly love my daughter.”
“Mr. Halverson, I can assure you that not only do I love Ms. Halverson but I…”
“D’Claire, pardon my interjection. It is conceivable, you and she; yet, I am concerned with the prolonged existence of such. Ms. Halverson is a true lady, one with a sincere heart meant certainly for marriage. But you Mr. D’Claire, you demonstrate not the qualities of a man prepared to well into the life of a married man. Where in reality… ”
“With all respect due Mr. Halverson, I must object. I am …”
“Mr. D’Caire, please allow me to finish.” He paused and eyed me gently “Where in reality, sir, you are a free-willed soul, one charged with much yet and desisted still for certain, undeniable greatness. Indeed sir, you understand my words, yet fear that should you heed them you shall fall to the wraths shared by those who shun the conformities bequeathed them by society past. Mistake me not, Mr. D’Claire, it isn’t that I forecast failure for the marriage of you and my daughter. Simply, I see within you a clear, perceptible recreation of myself not less than thirty years past.”
“You gather this notion from your daughter?”
“Nay sir,” Mr. Halverson paused “I gather this from my immediate perception of your being. Your future rests not in the confines of a manor with stimulus granted from none but the contents of a snuff flask or wine bottle. The labors of your heart are written across your brow Mr. D’Claire: Nepal, Scandinavia, and the untouched Amazons, with books and apples in a satchel across your back. Am I mistaken sir?”
“You are not sir.”
He retrieved the flask once again from his pocket. “And is this, this synthetic aristocracy, want you indeed strive for son?”
“It is not.” Said I.
The heathery moors and green farmlands floated by the coach’s window. I turned the flask over in my hand and flicked the lid open and closed for several moments.
Fulfillment is granted not from the hands of conventionality and tradition but rather from the toils of one’s own failures and successes as he or she endeavors towards that which exists in the heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment