Page 59 of The Missing Pages
“I don’t know,” I said. “We use the two words interchangeably, don’t we?”
“But James insists there is a difference. But the answer eludes me.”
I left my friend with his reading and made my way up to my bedroom. I remember thinking it was a puzzling question. How would one even know unless they were dead?
But now, I know all too well.
The two coexist, just like the sun and the moon. Listen to a symphony being performed and you will understand.
The spirit is the warm light within us, the lantern that shines bright. The soul, however, is its moodier shadow. It moves like the pull of water. It broods and it weeps. It bellows and it howls.
I could not have put it into words when I was a young man, though looking back now, I realize I sensed the answer when I first heard Dvorák’s music. A violin’s vibrato had the power to pull me upward toward the heavens, and stir inside me a flicker of being alive. But it was the sound of the cello, so rich and low, that swept within me to my core.
Now I know the reason the cellist pulls his bow across his heart when he plays his instrument. For that’s where the soul’s melody is released.
My own heart felt like it was singing those last days in London with Ada. I felt more alive than ever. We met secretly in cafés. We even ventured up to Newnham, to visit her former college at Cambridge, where she showed me around the library where she first worked.
Moving through the stacks of books, I watched her expression change as her finger gingerly touched one of the spines or when she shared an anecdote from her days as a student there.
Later, we dipped into the bookstore where she’d discovered her first treasure and the one that she so joyously believed she could use to purchase the Rossetti volume. Three days before, I had visited Emilie Barrington again and spoke to her privately about the book. I didn’t want to insult Ada by offering to pay the difference for her, but I also didn’t want her to lose out on owning a book she loved.
“I’m wondering if some arrangement could be made,” I asked. “Miss Lippoldt wants the book for a personal reason, not as an investment. Perhaps we could find a way to make that possible?”
She looked at me through her wire spectacles. Behind her cloudy eyes I thought I glimpsed a flicker of amusement.
“Well now, you are quite the gentleman to come here and try to negotiate on her behalf.”
“Thank you,” I said and laughed. “I try to be.”
“And suppose I asked you to just pay the difference,” she said. “I have a sneaky suspicion that you would.”
I didn’t deny it. “Might I ask if there’s been any other interest in the book?” I asked her instead.
“No, and I can sense that you, the seasoned book collector, realizes that’s a ripe time to make a deal.”
I smiled.
“I’m only asking that you might show her some flexibility.”
“As you’re most aware, I have no interest in the money for myself. My only objective is that the funds go solely toward refurbishing Mr. Leighton’s house. It’s been sadly stripped bare.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “But if I might be frank, you appear to have a deep respect for where Mr. Leighton’s beloved objects belong. Do you think he would want a book of poetry going to the highest bidder, or to a young woman who truly loved its words?”
I had struck her silent.
After a few minutes, her eyes had given me her answer. She did not ask me to pay the difference.
The following day she contacted Ada and told her the book was hers.
Ada had been over the moon when she heard that Emilie had changed her mind. Inside there was a note, where Emilie had written in her elegant scripted hand:
Dear Miss Lippoldt:
After some careful consideration, I believe you should be the next rightful owner of this book. My instincts tell me that Mr. Leighton would approve. You have the same red hair as Rossetti’s beloved, Elizabeth Siddal.
The book should be yours.
Yours Sincerely,
