Somnium

by Steve Moore

  At last I walked away from all that sacred earth, though not without the proper farewell words, said soft beneath my breath; and so returning to the inn I ate my supper, took my claret, locked my bedroom door. And now, I hope, no interruption intervening, to write fair words, just like my singular unborn friend, of twenty decades’ time.

  And so his fair Diana left Lee then, to thoughts and solitude. He found himself with little time for either.

  Sweet Melissa, all-too-lately punished, peeped around the doorway, blushed, and pattered forward, then down upon her knees she threw herself, at bathside’s edge. And hardly knowing whether best to smile, or just to cry, she looked him in the eye.

  ‘Good master, many thanks,’ she said at last. ‘For but for you, I’d scream away an hour of the day, in agonies of bliss.

  ‘But will you let me tell you something to your good? My mistress is a wonder and a beauty quite supreme, and in her heart is nothing ill.

  ‘But love her not, good knight! For never loved she living man, and though she would, she can’t. At least not in the way you wish, although I know she loves you well enough, at least, as best she can. But blissful passion’s fruit you’ll never taste with her while living in your body. And never will you hold her in your arms at night, uniting love and sweet delight, unless it be in dream alone.

  ‘And worse, I tell you now, that if you love her and your heart is lost, then you will never love another, and all the women on the Earth will seem to you as nothing.’

  Dumbfounded by her earnest plea, he could but sit and soak and stare.

  ‘Oh, don’t you see?’ she continued, all a-rush. ‘When you are dead, all things are possible, for spirit freed from matter knows no bounds. And then mayhap you’ll find her love, in ways unsought or haply even thought. But if my lady sends you back to lands of daylight sun, and your heart remains behind, then ever after will your senses long for Somnium, and in every woman that you meet, you’ll seek for Somnium’s queen… her beauty, her smile, her flashing eye; the sound of voice and laughter; the softness of her flesh, the smoothness of her skin; the breath of perfume all around her; the sweetness of her kiss… and you will not find them, evermore. And though you think you joy in love, your portion will be all too sad, and tragic.’

  ‘Sweet child,’ he said at last. ‘Whether what you say is true or not, in truth I’ve no idea. But I think you mean me well, and for that I give you thanks. If your words had warned me earlier, then even so I fear I would ignore them. And as it is, they come too late. I love your lady, always will, and never will no other. And so it seems, alas, that all is lost; and yet, in losing, giving up, resigning hope besides, mayhap we find a way to win … although perchance the prize is something other yet than first we thought to gain. I cannot tell, but time it has the answer.

  ‘Oh, look not sad, for sadness sits so ill upon a face as charmed as yours. All men they have their destined fate, and mine has brought me here, and was there ever stranger? And if old fate is but a deck of cards, or perhaps a pair of dice, then I’ve been dealt a flush of Queens and rolled the Venus Throw, and so I take the hand of Lady Luck and say, “what comes, will come”, and play things to the full. For if I did the less, then just so much, the less I’d be a man.

  ‘Ah, weep not, dearest girl, but look upon my smile. For nothing in the world is worse than death, and now you give me hope of bliss beyond, with she I love the best. And such a hope of heaven all-deferred, makes even longest life of hell seem frolic.

  ‘So smile, and get you gone, and let me take my bath, and leave my heart to me. And if you’d please me still, and lessen all my cares, then never more be lady in distress, and free me of your burden.’

  He grinned at her; she smiled so weakly back, then turned away and left him to his thoughts. And what those thoughts were, even he, in latter days, would never one declare.

  Thursday, 27th September 1803

  I dreamt of him last night, that writer who I fore-remember two whole centuries hence. He smirked at me as if he knew that I was looking, knew what I was thinking even, and all his mouth was twisted wry and quite lopside. He’s old enough to be my father, hair all greying, lenses to correct his sight, living quite alone yet somehow not (I do not understand it quite: he seems to live with someone only nearly there; perhaps she is a spirit, but how can spirits live with men?). He survives, though little more, upon his works; but what he writes, I know not. And in his time, this very Bull Inn where I write is all pulled down; perhaps rebuilt, but smaller, and so its glory lost. His house is near to where I write, although I’m not sure where; perhaps where Broomhall stands today, though how such a rich-appointed mansion could be ever quite destroyed escapes me. At least, I realised eventually that what I saw was just his house: when first I dreamt, I thought it was a library. But then I realised, instead, it was a house quite full of books, by the hundred, by the thousand. Yet it was not the number alone that removed my breath; rather it was that a single man, apparently of no great means, might own so many. Could they be so wealthy in the future?

  I say I dreamt of him last night; of course I meant this morning, for once again I wrote the whole night through. I do not know quite where this story goes, except each night it takes me somewhere lovely. I read over all that I have writ when once I wake up at midday, and do not quite believe it; the most part because I was so drunk I cannot remember any word I’ve written. At times I wonder if I’ve written in my sleep, or if some pagan angel moved my hand while I was unaware. I think I begin to fall in love with fair Diana Regina, although she is a fiction; and though I fear she is too sweet for such a one as me. Who would have thought: the more delightful that I make her, the more she breaks my heart.

  I went to dinner; Cynthia Brown she pouted at me, whispered that I did neglect her. I told her that I had to write; she looked at me all strange and said that I should write of her. All debonair and too unthinking, I said perhaps I did. No sooner were the words quite out my mouth than she demanded that I read to her the whole that I had written. She was so imperious, I hardly know how I managed to put her off until tomorrow. She looked at me unkindly until I explained: I had to write to Liz. And then she smiled, so sweet and strange, I did not know quite what to think.

  And so this afternoon I wrote to dearest Liz indeed, and told her how I loved her. Again some part of me, I know not why, it told me that I should not speak too much of Cynthia, except to say that she was kind. I did not tell my Liz that Cynthia’s eyes are much the same as hers; or, indeed, that Lizzie aged, she’d look like Cynthia, or Cynthia young would look like Liz. And perhaps the difference in their age is but illusion; a decade’s nothing when beauty is eternal.

  But Liz, I told her to tell me everything of her, of what she does each minute of the day, of what she thinks of in the night. I told her of my writing, but not so much of drinking; I told her of my dreams, though not quite all of what she did in them. But most of all I told her that I missed her, quite as much as she did me. I said she was the sweetest girl; I thought it better not to say that if she had been any other than my sister, then I would have had her for my bride. I know not what she’d think of that; and yet I think she knows it nonetheless. And if she knows it, then she’ll know another reason why, for now, it’s better we should be apart.

  I slipped out with my letter late this afternoon, unseen by Cynthia, Watkins, Brown, or anyone at all. I confess I felt released to be alone, and swaggered down to the Red Lion, swinging my cane quite lustily. I bade Master Wellbeloved a fair good afternoon, asked him for a glass of porter, and presented him my letter. It will not make its way to dear Elizabeth until tomorrow; I hope it finds her well. More’s the point, I hope it makes her happy.

  Returning up the hill, I lingered by the wall and gate of fairly-built Broomhall. I could not gain admittance; indeed I hardly wished to. Instead I tried to see it not quite there at all; all hammered down and then replaced with strange-built houses of the future. I thought of him who was not born; wondered if he thoug
ht of me long dead. Some part of us, we spoke together, though it was not ever quite with words. I confess it made my hair stand up. I thought that we were counterpoint upon a single harpsichord, though who the right hand, who the left, I could not quite decide.

  I walked back through The Bull’s front door and Cynthia, she looked at me so strange. Demanded all abrupt to know just where I’d been, and why I’d walked out all alone. I started to expostulate, and then I stopped. I realised upon the sudden that she cared about me. I do not know why this should be; she does not make a similar fuss about the others of her clientele. I told her I had been to post my letter; told her more she should not worry so. And on an impulse then, I kissed her on the forehead. Her blush was oh-so absolutely pretty. And while she stood there all confused, I sped back to my room.

  She pouted at me once again, when down I went for supper; I gave her such a grin. I knew her pout it called me ‘bad boy’; my grin said ‘yes I am’. I ate my supper with great relish; I am not quite certain why.

  Friday, 28th September 1803

  My writing was quite poor last night. The Moon it was too bright, the sky was full of stars. The night outside was full of silence; within the inn was nothing but a harpsichord. I knew that it was Cynthia, playing galliards, and more she used the lute-stop. I found I had to pause and listen: she played with so much passion I could not help but think she played for me. Yet let me make that clear: I do not think she played to please me; rather I think it was merely to distract me. I knew somehow this was revenge for all my independence of the afternoon. It made me laugh, and so I poured out too much claret.

  She played and played and, at the last, as if she knew I’d emptied out by far too many bottles, she played me gentle lullabies. I sprawled down on the bed, still dressed, and let her play me off to sleep, to dream and, at the last, to heaven.

  And so I had my strangest dream so far: I dreamt of woman, queen and Goddess, I know not what except she seemed to be all of these, and more than them besides. For she was Diana Regina, the Goddess, queen and heroine who rules my fictional Somnium; and Selene the Grecian Moon-Goddess, that epitome of loveliness who stands there at the start of time; and Elizabeth Tudor with the heart and stomach of a king, on whom the Armada foundered and of whom the poets wondered; and she was sweetest sister Liz all dressed in nothing but her curls; and Cynthia Brown-eyes too. All of these she was, one and all and separate, every single one containing all the others, lovely and large-eyed; and in the end she kissed me. I moaned, it was so heavenly. There may have been more than this to follow, but I awoke, and cursed myself for waking, and wished the world were always dream. Or perhaps it is. Perhaps to wake, and to be parted from that lovely fairy Goddess, nine times more perfect than the very world itself; perhaps that parting is a dream, or nightmare, or a horrid fit. But, the loss. The loss.

  Saturday, 29th September 1803

  So yesterday, when I had finished writing the above, I took me down to dinner, and Cynthia Brown-eyes she was waiting there for me. Sat herself down at my table, wanted to know where all the pages were that I was going to read to her, made it plain that there would be absolutely no escape. I had to chuckle; told her that I could not possibly read upon an empty stomach; and neither without a glass or two of sack to lubricate the throat. She looked at me, pretending ire. I ate and made her wait.

  At last, when I thought that she was quite prepared to chase me to my room, rather than let me out of her sight, I confessed I had the pages in my pocket. She pouted so preposterously, my impulse was to thrash her; and after that she glanced around, then took my hand, and led me out the inn’s back door.

  Although she’d shown me the pleasure garden stretched out far behind the inn, with gazebos, trees and pools, and gravelled walks all serpentine, I had not realised there was a little private garden there just nigh the building, all fenced around and full of eglantine. A little bower on the north, it caught the afternoon sun, and there within, a wooden bench-seat, barely big enough for two. She sat me down, sat herself beside me, looked at me imperious, and all her look was one that did command: said nothing more than ‘read to me’. And so I did.

  I read until the opening section’s end, and then I paused. She put her hand upon my knee and told me it was lovely; I almost gasped for pleasure. Several deep breaths I had to take before I could continue. Even so, she left her hand upon my leg.

  So the time passed, and the sun it rode the sky, and then I’d finished all I had. She looked at me so very sweet, said ‘thank you’ very soft, and kissed me on the cheek. I asked her if she liked it; she told me that she did.

  And then she quoted one whole sentence, word for word, from the first page I had wrote, and pointed out where it could be improved with but one extra syllable, to make the rhythm flow. I looked at her astonished. Three other sentences entire she followed this with, and for each a minor correction.

  I stared at her, my mouth agape. I was no way offended, for well I knew that she was right. And neither was it that she had a better ear for rhythm than me. It was that on one single hearing she had committed those entire sentences to memory, even when the error occurred quite near the end. I simply had no idea at all just how she did it.

  She told me then some things I thought were rather sweet; of how she liked to have a poet in the inn, and a gentleman (so young) of such romantic instincts. She told me I should write the more, and read her each night’s work upon the following day, because she’d love to hear it. I was quite touched. And then she laughed and told me that her small improvements did not come without a price.

  I knew just what she meant upon the instant, for Saturn’s day has come around once more. And so, tonight, it seems, again I have to dance.

  Sunday, 30th September 1803

  And dance I did, and it was sweet. Her husband gone upon some jaunt of which I cared not to inquire, she had me to herself. And so the dance hall we abandoned; the music could be heard quite plainly in her parlour, so there we drank and danced. We drank too much, we danced too much; eventually we had to sit, and when we did she rested lovely head upon my shoulder, closed her eyes and sighed.

  And so much then I wanted just to kiss her. No, I confess, that is not quite the half of it. For all I love my dearest Liz, with Cynthia Brown-eyes in my arms I knew, I wanted to take her straightway off to bed. She looked up then and, oh, her lovely eyes they were so huge, I guessed she knew just what I thought. And then she laughed; her little tongue poked out, all saucy; then up she got, my hand in hers, and demanded further dances. And so the moment passed.

  By midnight the musicians left, the inn was closed; and I could barely stand. Cynthia then sat down before the harpsichord and played me nothing more than old almaynes and galliards, and voltas and pavanes. And when she paused, I asked her why she played Elizabethan airs; she told me straight it was the music played in Somnium. Of course I’d read to her of Moon-maids playing so; but now somehow I knew that she was right, yet how I knew I am in no way sure. My mind it conjured up an image then, in which Diana Regina and I we danced a slow pavane; it was so sweet. I wished that I could act my fancy out with Cynthia Brown-eyes then, but while she played she could not dance.

  I think that woman reads my mind. She stood up then and took my hand; I knew upon the instant what she wanted. And so in deepest night-time silence, we danced so stately a pavane around my lady’s parlour; and all the music of the Moon was in my head, and the light of all the stars was in her eyes.

  I think back now and find myself surprised we did not collapse into each other’s arms all lost in drunken laughter. And yet we did not.

  We danced in perfect time and step; we concluded note for note. I bowed. She curtseyed. I kissed her hand and thanked her for a lovely evening, thought I ought to go upstairs and so back to my room.

  Instead she helped me up another stair (my feet, but moments gone all full of dances, were somehow on the sudden full of trips and stumbles), and so up to the lantern tower, where we could view the Moon. All s
ilver was that semi-orb, and sweeter to my sight for viewing with a companion near as lovely. A sofa seat she sat upon; invited me to lay my head upon her lap and look up at the Moon while little fingers stroked my hair and fondest smiles were all about her rosy lips. My eyes were all at war: the right it looked up to the Moon, the left at dearest Cynthia; and each demanded of the other that it should share its view. Somehow (perhaps the fumes of wine they misted up my gaze), I thought that Cynthia’s face was there upon the Moon, while all the light above the world was shining in my hostess’ eyes. I could have laid there thus forever.

  She would not let it be, for at the last she lifted up my head and sat me upright, more or less. By then I was resistless; she helped me to my room and lay me down a-bed. Somehow, when she was gone (I hope) I managed to undress.

  I dreamt that I was dead and buried in the ground.

  I woke and yet I found myself no way distressed at all; for dead I may have been, yet somehow I survived. I cannot say quite how; it was not Christian resurrection, heaven, purgatory, or any of those things. It was as if I’d died to sunshine days, but still lived on in Moonlight. In other times I would have been quite terrified; now, somehow, I found it rather reassuring.

  I slept till noon; it was only when I woke I realised today was Sunday. My prayers to all the ancient Gods and Goddesses have been answered quite! The unspeakable Kinnock was unable to deliver his abominations this weekend, being sorely stricken with the gout. And how dear Cynthia smirked to tell me; I swear that woman has a pagan heart to match quite with my own. I thought the man a drunkard from the first I saw his florid face. When I drink, I think of Bacchus, offer him salutes, and all is well; for barbarous Christians, drink is but a sin, and so it strikes him down. On his own head be it, then; or rather on his foot.