The Rochester Perspective

A Skylark

At last! I seem to have positioned my ankle at a satisfying angle; weeks of imprisonment has led to this moment, this luxury. One cannot begin to to imagine this moment of movement of a poor restrained, limp sufferer from bewitchment– crack-- I daresay my ankle is not quite at liberty, yet.

   And heaven forbid, that simple-minded, old lady has come in with a cup of tea.

   “Keep it.” I order.

   With slight hesitation, she leaves.

  Yet I still sit her after suffering a blow– yes, you malicious elf, a blow– with my foot repositioned on its rest. My arm extends involuntarily to my glass of wine, to my left; and taking care not to move another muscle, I grasp it.

   I take a sip before proceeding with watching the fire.

  However, there are such luxuries hither at Thornfield: I see hissing stars amongst the sunset, indulging in the privilege of illuminating the chandelier; the infinity of glass around the room; my wine. And although I am blinded amidst tranquility, I am quite satisfied– quite satisfied, indeed.

   Another sip must surely be taken.

   It seems little use for me to read now– oh! heaven knows it, after spending some days divulging in the escape from imprisonment! And perhaps my mind is now full from an image of a certain little bird, for something did, unmistakably, happen when I saw her for the first time. Perhaps some bewitchment of some sort: a sharp but sure pull in my left rib affected my composure; the soft stroke of strings were music to my ears, guiding me to her strength— the clock strikes twelve.

   I take my final sip, clanking the glass back down. With a soft moan, I stand erect, making my way to the window as gracefully as a wounded, clumsy man of forty can be.

    Drip… drip-drip; I sigh, and rip open the curtains.

   Moreover, Thornfield does have its wonders: I have always admired the view from this perspective; the great horse-chestnut tree stands just as tall today, just as whole as ever, occupying a small skyIark. We are just able to see lightning nearby, nearly too sudden to comprehend; she raises her streaky brown, small crest in response; thunder strikes in return…  she does not make a sound, but flies elegantly away, like a fairy. Drip… drip-drip– I feel another pull; I close my eyes. With my head leant on the coolness of the glass, I grasp my left rib.

   Emerald green… small wings… emerald green… no, this cannot do. The deuce would I do without her? Does she not laugh? What if she– compose yourself, for God's sake! Go to bed! … No, I cannot.

   Now I grip the window's walls. My eyes seem to blur, my little bird, and my heart seems to tear-- but the music of the drops keep me sane.