How Far Gone?, Cole FitzGibbons ’21

Cole FitzGibbons ’21

How Far Gone?

He

The man gazes into himself, and finds his dearest again. She had been hidden for quite some time but is now illuminated.

She is an image of another. She bears another’s visage, another’s shape, another’s voice (those of the girl from the dance; but the dance is far gone, and the man knows this). This girl was there for but a second with the man: she left as abruptly as she barged into his life, leaving only her appearance for his memory.

The image was a sanctum. For a while he would retreat to her and discover idyll in her presence. But he grew dissatisfied and unappreciative. He ventured out, disdaining this precious jewel, in search of another. Of course, he returned with an outward solitude more profound than before, a craving for inward sympathy renewed.

So now she is once more conjured up within him, for him. He smiles at her, tentatively, reassured by her apparent forgiveness.

He waits for a return of the gesture, but in vain. Her face, so charming, so clear, is utterly lifeless. And her body, a marvelous work, has no vigor. The man sees only his empty reflection in his jewel, but he knows she is animated, and he knows she cares for him. She must—how else could he be so comforted by her emergence?

He says to himself: “Her grace is unparalleled, her beauty, incomparable. My dearest will forgive me and guide me openly and without hesitation.”

The man has built himself an idol, one he can neither fully comprehend nor fully restrain.

“Jewel, craft me an esteem for you so great that I may correct my debt!”

The jewel’s model, the dancer, was a naiad; lithe and light, she waltzed with the easiest, most enrapturing step. She flowed as a zephyr. She spoke as the sea. And for that moment the girl was his partner, she ignited the man.

His solitude had never been as impregnable and absolute as when he was separated from the girl. He burned down, slowly, excruciatingly, until only

a cool pit remained. But he crafted his dearest from it: she was fashioned stolid and withstanding. His sustenance had been born of his affliction.

As he wonders at the jewel in a daze, the man thinks of the dancer. He wonders whether she could have loved him. He certainly could have loved her. But she’s so far gone now, and his dearest is here in her stead.

She

“Hello mother, dear. Yes, yes, I’m holding up fine. Well, you know how intricate these murder trials can be. Oh sure, I’ll call you if anything at all pressing comes up. No, I said she told me they were going to ask me to be a partner tomorrow. Yes, yes. OK, talk to you later, love. Bye-bye.”

Daphne hangs up. She is standing at a crosswalk, urban life racing by. But she retains her poise. She knows that in order to be a respected professional woman, she must constantly be just that—professional. Businessmen lust after her delicate form, clients betray themselves, and friends ask for favors. Sometimes it is more tempting to abandon her careful diligence and indulge in pleasure, ease, and kindness. But with the simple reminder, “gone are my days of carelessness and dancing,” she is always able to return to productivity.

The light changes, and she crosses the street. Daphne had been a dazzling dancer. In fact, she was once called “Grace” for her ease of movement. Most of the dances were trivial and unmemorable. Some linger in her memory, including the Lakewood ball. She enters the firm’s building and then an elevator. That dance was years and years ago; Daphne is surprised to recall it at all. Her partners had varied, but her favorite that night was the quiet man. The elevator pings, she gets out, and makes her way into her office. He danced softly and gently, smiled at her simply and even tenderly. His name she cannot quite remember, but perhaps it was John. The memory is poignant; she catches herself, reckless as her cherished parties, wondering about him.

“Oh well,” she exhales, sitting at her desk and turning on a PC, “that’s all far gone now.”