Download e-book Icarus Sheet Music (Lead Sheet)

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Check out the contents below Mp3 MIDI. About "Oblivion" Digital sheet music for voice, piano or guitar NOTE: chords, lead sheet indications and lyrics may be included please, check the first page above before to buy this item to see what's included. Not a bit of it! Vanity, my dear; sheer vanity. If they cared for me less, if I did not feel that they almost worship me, holding out their old hands to me for all the pleasure that their day still may bring, would I do it?

No; for then I should not care, as I feel I do now, to keep their good opinion, even at the expense of making myself appear better, according to their lights, than I really am. I am a worm; I never thought I could sink so low.

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Another such act of cowardice, and I am lost. It never entered my head, of course, to go the first Sunday I was here; and as it so happened that I had a headache that day, no comment was made upon my absence. This afternoon, the good little old lady asked me to call with her on a friend whose father died last week, and I went, Heaven knows why.

I was well served out. There they sat a mortal hour, blowing their noses and praising their God, until I could have shrieked. And I cried out within myself for very pain that I who had perception of these things should live so lying and so false a life. Perhaps I am not quite myself yet; so much sorrow came to me at once that all my strength has left me. But it is cowardly to make excuses. Besides, what does it matter?

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Little one, do you remember how we shocked each other that Christmas morning in Florence, when we made a round of the churches together? I can see you still, you pretty thing, crossing yourself at the door of Santa Maria Novella. With all the strictness of my nineteen years I was simply horrified. Do let me enjoy myself, you dear old granny! Oh, dear, how the smell of the church comes back with the remembered words!

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It was a long time ago. Dear and sweet one, I must not think of you too much, I long for you so. You must do as you think best. You know that I long for you, that the thought of your wasted life is constant pain to me. Think again, think every day, and if ever you can make up your mind to leave Mrs. Rayner, you know that I am here, that all I have is yours also.

I shall say no more. So you have seen him, and he asked after me. What was he doing in Homburg, I wonder? Not that I care.

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I really believe, Constance, that I care no longer. And yet it so happens that last night I thought of him a good deal.

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It came about so. There are some little water-colours round the mirror that she painted as a girl. I stopped to look at them, and the poor soul took them down one by one to show me. There was a story attached to each, and her eyes brightened with remembrance of the past. Most of the little pictures were different views of the same house. Suddenly she gave a little smile. She cleared a space upon her dressing-table, lighted a third candle, a fourth, making a little illumination; then from her wardrobe she brought an old desk, and unlocked it solemnly with a key that always hangs upon her watch-chain.

The desk was full of treasures,—letters, flowers, ends of ribbon, all neatly labelled. She opened a little case and placed in my hands the portrait of a young man. I hardly knew how to take it. Nothing new, of course.

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She had loved, and—strange to say! Yet another sin to add to his score!

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I lay awake a long time in the night, marvelling at her constancy and her faith. But then I wept to think how many women, even as she, have held one only flower in their hands, clung to it still when colour and scent were gone, refusing to pluck another; wept, too, to think how many such as she are buoyed up by a hope I cannot share. I wonder what it feels like, this implicit faith in an after life! It must make a difference, even in love.

Perhaps we who believe in one life only cling with the greater passion to what we love, seeing that, once lost, we have no hope of re-possession. But a funny one, too. I was quite shy of meeting Aunt Caroline again this morning, lest the remembrance of what she had told me over-night should make her feel ill at ease; lest, in fact, she had repented of her confidence.

And I stood quite a while outside the breakfast-room door, like a fool. But as I entered, her beaded cap was bobbing over an uplifted dish-cover. Good evening, Mrs. I am in a very good temper,—and you? I had an extra letter this morning; somebody spoils me. Now what shall I tell you, Inquisitiveness? Indeed, I tell you all there is to tell. When I find myself in their company, I make the best of it, but I never think about them between whiles. As for Uncle George, why, I dislike him thoroughly. He is handsome in his way, and looks remarkably young,—not that that is exactly a crime!

One of my principal objections to his person is a kind of bachelor smartness he carries about with him. It is quite ridiculous to see him with his daughters, the eldest of whom is just eighteen and engaged to be married. There is nothing of the simplicity of the country gentleman about him,—a simplicity that in many cases covers a multitude of faults. No, I shall never be able to bear him,—neither his juvenility, his jewelry, nor his whiskers—certainly never the scent on his handkerchief!

I hate him altogether. I promise you that when I find a human being with whom I can exchange an idea, whose thoughts have even wandered half a mile beyond the parish, I shall apprize you of the fact. Meanwhile, dearest, you must put up with my company, as I myself am learning to do. It seems to me almost that I need no one else! I sit here in my room, out there in the woods, and I am content.

However, I shall try to finish it. Her beautiful face and yours look down at me from the shelf above my writing-table, amidst a wealth of flowers; and, as I look up, I can see the sun setting behind the beech-trees, for I sit beside the window. The sky is full of hope, the little clouds are glowing with colour, the trees with fulness of life; a blackbird is singing his heart out in the willow by the pond. I must needs believe that life is worth living…. I have watched all the pink fade from the sky; the mottled clouds are grey and sleepy-looking.

I have turned away. You are smiling very sweetly up there; my table is strewn with things her hand has touched,—I am not quite alone. Well, good night. I must go down to my dear old ladies and read to them a while before they go to bed. You are a sweet to write so often, and I am a wretched niggard that deserves not one half of what you give.