Love's Sorrow
Malina Rusu
Malina Rusu
“Do you know Kreisler?”
“No, I can’t say that I do, who is he?”
Julian let out a chuckle, picking up his violin along with his worn out horsehair bow. The smooth, polished perfect trinity of spruce, maple, and rosewood called out to him, yearning to be put to use. Scanning the four strings, he replied.
“Fritz Kreisler is my favorite composer.” The man began, his eyes aglow with fervour as he spoke. “Liebesleid, the song, is his magnum opus. In German, it translates to ‘love’s sorrow.’ But through his melody, he personifies the agony that comes with the feeling of being in love. The fear--”
He placed his violin on the crook of his neck and shoulder, bringing the bow into the air. It was fairly obvious he played much, with the bruised collarbone to prove so. With a suddenness that took the girl aback, he began to play.
“We begin with the first phase of falling in love; the anticipation. The unknown. Not knowing how your significant other is going to react to your little... Quirks. You start to notice the certain set of behaviours they display. Whether it’s the way they tuck a stray strand of hair behind their ears when they’re thinking, or how they tap their fingers on their thighs before replying to a question… Everyone has certain ‘little things.’ Here, Kreisler is personifying the beginning of getting to know someone you’re soon to love. A cat and mouse game, if you will. The chase begins.”
The tremolo.
“Here is what I believe to be their first conversation. A rapid back and forth. Eyes dancing over each other like nimble fingers do across these very strings, looking at the other for some semblance of reaction. Hesitation before speaking. Perhaps they’re afraid they’re going to say something wrong, or maybe they’re doing all in their might to impress the other. It is mere speculation, with each action perfectly prim. They do say that the first impression means everything.”
The staccato.
“Now, they begin the cascade of falling in love. Deeply, quickly, without warning. You are completely terrified-- petrified, even. You have no idea how, or when this has happened. You are oblivious, perhaps. Before you know it, you have found your lover, and you know her. You know every little thing about her. You’ve studied the way the light falls upon her hair, the way she tightens her lips together whenever she’s in deep thought. You’ve memorized the arches of her cupid’s bow, and have learned how to make the corners of her lips curl upward. You know she prefers tea to coffee, how she prepares for bed. You know she prefers being in the passenger’s seat, with the windows down, letting the wind tangle her hair. You know how to make her happy. And that’s all you want-- to make her happy. To learn from her, to grow with her.”
The finale.
“I find the repetition at the end to be quite mesmerizing. When you are in love, you let her know. With the end of every phone call, at the end of every night, with every goodbye. You constantly repeat those three little words; the ones you could never get sick of. Because, God knows, you could never get tired of her. Of her voice, of her touch, her laugh. You are completely, and utterly… In awe. Lovestruck. But that’s just the problem. It’s an endless cycle of obsession. A loop crafted by perhaps even… Hell. We cannot go on like this.”
Julian lowered his bow, and lowered his head. He began to look at her, slowly, taking in all of her one centimeter at a time. Starting from her damned yellow shoes that caught his attention when he first came across her, up to her knees, then to her waist, to her torso, to her collarbones. To her neck. Her face. Her beautiful fucking face.
“I feel such tremendous sorrow and bliss everytime I see you, hear you. For you are not wholly mine, as I am not wholly yours. A piece of me is bare, aching to be occupied with your radiant light.”
The girl leaned forward, a magnetic force pulling her to him. She waited for his next words, eyes hopeful. The crackling embers from the hearth in the corner of his room made her cheeks glow red, contrasting the dark indigo walls.
Even the portraits and tableaus in Julian’s room seemed to monitor the conversation between the two lovers. Some of the framed canvases he had painted himself, although he would never admit such.
Julian reflected on their previous encounters, all of which had led to this moment. The slow dancing in the rococo rooms, the stolen kisses in the corridors. Stealing moments of her time from dinner parties, whispered words of fondness and concealed embraces.
The girl was sitting at the chair of his oak desk, one that seemed to be a good kick away from falling apart. The bureau held a large collection of scribbled letters, and arbitrary pencil drawings of the young girl’s face. Despite the plethora of scrawled papers that seemed to only contain the motif of her, he had never shown her his work.
She was far too kind, too wise. She should’ve seen it coming, nevertheless, she did not. She had absolutely no clue that the boy she had learned to love and to trust, who showed her around his hurricane of a persona that was constantly kept under lock and key, would end up ripping her unsuspecting heart into a myriad of pieces. A heart so beautiful one could compare it to stained glass of the Byzantine era, shattered.
“You imagined children, an infant with olive green eyes and dark curled locks, whom we mindlessly thought names for. Instead, I have given you nothing but a burden to carry. And for that, my dear, I apologize.’
Julian put his violin to rest in its case, murmuring softly. “I know that I should continue to try for you. I know that I should keep you on my arm, keep you feeling alive. After all, isn’t that why you kept me around? I made you feel electric, your whole body and mind energized.”
The boy kept his gaze lowered, unable to face her. He couldn’t look at her, not now.
“But now, I must put the flame out. We’re too young, too passionate. We are too in love to realize the damage we have done to each other.”
Julian bit his lower lip, a nervous tick that he had ever since he was a young boy.
“I can only hope that in time, you will forgive me. When you can’t recognize me, and I can’t recognize you. When the saplings we grew up around blossom into frightening branches. When you can look out your window, and no longer expect me to be waiting. When we are only echoes of our love.”
He stood, finally mustering up the courage to face her. He felt as if he was coming undone, as if one of those very strings in which he had just played had snapped. One could even go so far as to say the thread of fate between them that kept their connection taut was slowly being severed by the scissors of the Moirae themselves.
The girl stayed still, defiant. She would not let him see her break, she would not give in. Although tears swelled at her eyes in response to the words spoken by her now former lover, she was determined to keep the illusion of strength. To have him remember her in this way: sanguine.
A bittersweet emancipation. Julian tensed before muttering the final words he would say to his first love.
“My dear, my love for you will never cease. But, for now, I must let you go.”
“No, I can’t say that I do, who is he?”
Julian let out a chuckle, picking up his violin along with his worn out horsehair bow. The smooth, polished perfect trinity of spruce, maple, and rosewood called out to him, yearning to be put to use. Scanning the four strings, he replied.
“Fritz Kreisler is my favorite composer.” The man began, his eyes aglow with fervour as he spoke. “Liebesleid, the song, is his magnum opus. In German, it translates to ‘love’s sorrow.’ But through his melody, he personifies the agony that comes with the feeling of being in love. The fear--”
He placed his violin on the crook of his neck and shoulder, bringing the bow into the air. It was fairly obvious he played much, with the bruised collarbone to prove so. With a suddenness that took the girl aback, he began to play.
“We begin with the first phase of falling in love; the anticipation. The unknown. Not knowing how your significant other is going to react to your little... Quirks. You start to notice the certain set of behaviours they display. Whether it’s the way they tuck a stray strand of hair behind their ears when they’re thinking, or how they tap their fingers on their thighs before replying to a question… Everyone has certain ‘little things.’ Here, Kreisler is personifying the beginning of getting to know someone you’re soon to love. A cat and mouse game, if you will. The chase begins.”
The tremolo.
“Here is what I believe to be their first conversation. A rapid back and forth. Eyes dancing over each other like nimble fingers do across these very strings, looking at the other for some semblance of reaction. Hesitation before speaking. Perhaps they’re afraid they’re going to say something wrong, or maybe they’re doing all in their might to impress the other. It is mere speculation, with each action perfectly prim. They do say that the first impression means everything.”
The staccato.
“Now, they begin the cascade of falling in love. Deeply, quickly, without warning. You are completely terrified-- petrified, even. You have no idea how, or when this has happened. You are oblivious, perhaps. Before you know it, you have found your lover, and you know her. You know every little thing about her. You’ve studied the way the light falls upon her hair, the way she tightens her lips together whenever she’s in deep thought. You’ve memorized the arches of her cupid’s bow, and have learned how to make the corners of her lips curl upward. You know she prefers tea to coffee, how she prepares for bed. You know she prefers being in the passenger’s seat, with the windows down, letting the wind tangle her hair. You know how to make her happy. And that’s all you want-- to make her happy. To learn from her, to grow with her.”
The finale.
“I find the repetition at the end to be quite mesmerizing. When you are in love, you let her know. With the end of every phone call, at the end of every night, with every goodbye. You constantly repeat those three little words; the ones you could never get sick of. Because, God knows, you could never get tired of her. Of her voice, of her touch, her laugh. You are completely, and utterly… In awe. Lovestruck. But that’s just the problem. It’s an endless cycle of obsession. A loop crafted by perhaps even… Hell. We cannot go on like this.”
Julian lowered his bow, and lowered his head. He began to look at her, slowly, taking in all of her one centimeter at a time. Starting from her damned yellow shoes that caught his attention when he first came across her, up to her knees, then to her waist, to her torso, to her collarbones. To her neck. Her face. Her beautiful fucking face.
“I feel such tremendous sorrow and bliss everytime I see you, hear you. For you are not wholly mine, as I am not wholly yours. A piece of me is bare, aching to be occupied with your radiant light.”
The girl leaned forward, a magnetic force pulling her to him. She waited for his next words, eyes hopeful. The crackling embers from the hearth in the corner of his room made her cheeks glow red, contrasting the dark indigo walls.
Even the portraits and tableaus in Julian’s room seemed to monitor the conversation between the two lovers. Some of the framed canvases he had painted himself, although he would never admit such.
Julian reflected on their previous encounters, all of which had led to this moment. The slow dancing in the rococo rooms, the stolen kisses in the corridors. Stealing moments of her time from dinner parties, whispered words of fondness and concealed embraces.
The girl was sitting at the chair of his oak desk, one that seemed to be a good kick away from falling apart. The bureau held a large collection of scribbled letters, and arbitrary pencil drawings of the young girl’s face. Despite the plethora of scrawled papers that seemed to only contain the motif of her, he had never shown her his work.
She was far too kind, too wise. She should’ve seen it coming, nevertheless, she did not. She had absolutely no clue that the boy she had learned to love and to trust, who showed her around his hurricane of a persona that was constantly kept under lock and key, would end up ripping her unsuspecting heart into a myriad of pieces. A heart so beautiful one could compare it to stained glass of the Byzantine era, shattered.
“You imagined children, an infant with olive green eyes and dark curled locks, whom we mindlessly thought names for. Instead, I have given you nothing but a burden to carry. And for that, my dear, I apologize.’
Julian put his violin to rest in its case, murmuring softly. “I know that I should continue to try for you. I know that I should keep you on my arm, keep you feeling alive. After all, isn’t that why you kept me around? I made you feel electric, your whole body and mind energized.”
The boy kept his gaze lowered, unable to face her. He couldn’t look at her, not now.
“But now, I must put the flame out. We’re too young, too passionate. We are too in love to realize the damage we have done to each other.”
Julian bit his lower lip, a nervous tick that he had ever since he was a young boy.
“I can only hope that in time, you will forgive me. When you can’t recognize me, and I can’t recognize you. When the saplings we grew up around blossom into frightening branches. When you can look out your window, and no longer expect me to be waiting. When we are only echoes of our love.”
He stood, finally mustering up the courage to face her. He felt as if he was coming undone, as if one of those very strings in which he had just played had snapped. One could even go so far as to say the thread of fate between them that kept their connection taut was slowly being severed by the scissors of the Moirae themselves.
The girl stayed still, defiant. She would not let him see her break, she would not give in. Although tears swelled at her eyes in response to the words spoken by her now former lover, she was determined to keep the illusion of strength. To have him remember her in this way: sanguine.
A bittersweet emancipation. Julian tensed before muttering the final words he would say to his first love.
“My dear, my love for you will never cease. But, for now, I must let you go.”
//
Malina Rusu is a nineteen year old English Literature student at the University of Texas at Dallas. Born in northern Romania, Rusu has traveled across Europe during her youth, finding a particular liking to England. The elements of British Romanticism influence her writing, and she regards Wordsworth, Woolf, and Wilde as her literary role models. Her experience in England shines in her writing, and she is knowledgeable of Oxford’s most notorious traditions through her encounters with Englishmen.
Malina Rusu is a nineteen year old English Literature student at the University of Texas at Dallas. Born in northern Romania, Rusu has traveled across Europe during her youth, finding a particular liking to England. The elements of British Romanticism influence her writing, and she regards Wordsworth, Woolf, and Wilde as her literary role models. Her experience in England shines in her writing, and she is knowledgeable of Oxford’s most notorious traditions through her encounters with Englishmen.