“I need to say something, Gwendolyn. I—that is, much of what The Roach said was true. We live in different worlds, and—well—”
“You find it hard to see either of us in each other’s life?”
I sighed. “Yes. I cannot imagine you in the whirl of the artist’s life in the great cities—the salons and the galleries. Though, it would be fun while it lasted! Half the lords and ladies of the land would die of mortification, the ones you didn’t kill outright. And while I could see myself in your world, in some ways—as I told you, I am not much given to political thoughts. My sympathies, insofar as I have ever considered the question, lie with you, I suspect. But still—”
I heaved another sigh. “The Roach was right, damn him. I do want to be an artist, just as he said. I do want to sculpt the statues and paint the cathedral ceilings—not because they’re cathedrals, but because they’re the world’s greatest ceilings.”
Gwendolyn leaned over and stroked my cheek.
“And you should, Benvenuti,” she said quietly. “You will never be happy if you don’t at least try it. I know that.”
“But—the fact remains. I love you, Gwendolyn.”
She looked away. “I love you too, Benvenuti. I’ve known that for some time. I don’t really understand it, actually. Not that you aren’t a very attractive man, and all that. But I never would have thought—me! Of all people!”
Her sense of humor rescued us.
“This is so grotesque! It’s like a bad novel—one of those Ozarine fantasies I hate! The star-crossed lovers, doomed by fate! It’s ridiculous.”
Laughing, we resumed our journey. In the few hours of daylight left, I asked Gwendolyn to tell me more about The Roach. Partly, that was done out of my own interest in the man. But more, it was because I knew she needed to grieve. And so she began to talk, and as the time wore on her tales grew lighter and more gay. My initial impression of the man—of a great, quiet dignity—faded somewhat. True enough, in itself, it seemed. But there was also the immense irritability of the man, his famous temper, his rough sense of humor, his pigheadedness.
Of them, she and he, I learned of a long and deep friendship, years in the making.
“The first time I met him, I was much too shy to say anything. The Roach himself! The second time, I was a year older—seventeen, I was—and I threw myself at him.” She laughed. “He was always such an righteous lot. ‘Lass, I am much older than you’, he said, ‘and I’ll not be taking advantage of youthful infatuation.’ And why not? I demanded. The infatuated youth is willing. Well, I was just as stubborn as he. It took me another year, but I finally brought him to my bed. And there he’s been ever since, off and on.”
She said no more. Shortly after nightfall, we pulled into a roadside inn to spend the night. I saw to the horses, while Gwendolyn made our arrangements. I entered in time to hear her say to the innkeeper, very firmly: “We’ll just need the one room.”
Once upstairs, in the room, we gazed into each other’s eyes, acknowledging the grief in the future. Of the rest, I will say nothing. It belongs to me alone.
* * *
The next morning, awakening before Gwendolyn, I spent some time gazing upon her recumbent form. At first, with an artist’s eye. The Lioness Asleep, I thought I would call it. Oil on canvas. The artist fled, replaced by the man. She awoke, then.
Much later, Gwendolyn gazed up at me, a quizzical look in her eyes.
“You’ve got a funny expression on your face. Cheerful, like.”
“And why shouldn’t I be cheerful?” I demanded. “I don’t know why I was so stupid about this yesterday.”
“About what?”
“All this silly moaning about star-crossed lovers and such—you know, fate takes us down different trails, we shall never meet again, etc.”
She frowned. “And what have you figured out that’s supposed to change all that? It’s still true.”
I stopped smiling. “No, Gwendolyn, it’s not. I don’t know your precise place in the Groutch revolutionary movement. But even someone as ignorant of political matters as I can figure out that you occupy a prominent position in the movement.”