March [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE October 21, 1861 TTiis is what I write to her: JTie clouds tonight embossed the sky. A dipping sun gilded and brazed each raveling edge as if the firmament were threaded through with precious filaments. I pause there to mop my aching eye, which will not stop tearing. The line I have set down is, perhaps, on the florid side of fine, but no matter: she is a gentle critic. My hand, which I note is flecked with traces of dried phlegm, has the tremor of exhaustion. Forgive my unlovely script, for an army on the TTiarch provides no tranquil placefor reflection and correspondence. (I hope my dear young author is finding time amid all her many good works to make some use of my little den, and that her friendly rats will not gmdge a short absence from her accustomed aerie.) And yet to sit here under the shelter ofa great tree as the men make their cook fires and banter together provides a measure of peace. I write on the lap desk that you and the girls so thoughfiilly provided me, and though 1 spilled my store ofink you need not trouble to send more, as one of the men has shown me an ingenious receiptfor a serviceable substitute made from the season s last blackberries. So am I able to send "sweet words" to you! Do you recall the marbled endpapers in the Spenser that I used to read to you on crisp fall evenings just such as this? If so, then you, my dearest one, can see the sky as I saw it here tonight, for the colors swirled across the heavens in just such a happy profusion. And the blood that perfiised the silted eddies of the boot-stirred hi ;¦,; :