The Captain and Constance
He sat down at his heavy cherry desk and put the letter down on its surface.
There he stayed still for a few moments, reading the return adress over. He wondered what would compel her to write when nothing had for a number of years he had stopped counting. He then read his address in his disbelief.
He opened the letter.
She had folded it in thirds, then in a half, so the the envelope had been awkwardly lop-sided. He read:
Captain,
I realise that I have not kept as close in touch with you as you have liked me to, and I'm sorry. I also apologize for my first letter to you in all this time brings bad news and a cry for help.
He paused.
My father has died. We did not expect it, he had been in fine health. I'm scared now. You know that he and I were never close, but you also know that I will regret it more now. Please come as quickly as you can,
He paused again.
because I don't think I can face this alone. And because I'm afraid that if I don't take the time now, I'll regret my actions with you, too.
I was just thinking how crazy this world is. A person could die and have their funeral less than a week later. I’m afraid to go to the funeral, no doubt in my mind I’m going, it never once crossed my mind not to go. I don’t know, it’s not that I don’t know that I can cry in front of you… I know I can… I just don’t want to get started because I would go on forever.
My address is on the envelope. Please come, as a favor to what we were.
Yours,
Constance
He arrived two days later at the house with the address he was given. He knocked twice on the solid oaken door, towering and strong, yet reassuring and warm. He sat facing the street.
It was a cold gray day, and the streets were edged with week-old snow, dressed in gloom to match the sky. His felt top hat jumped to free itself from the mess that was his hair, aided by the disheartened wind, but was too snugly fit. The tails of his long coat played at an empty flowerpot under the step as he kept his winter clothes warm.
He heard the ringing of a far off bell over the footsteps of a woman walking alone past him, wrapped in a brown shawl, her child in her arms. He stood up, starting to move towards the bell, and both he and the woman continued acting as if they had not seen each other, as strangers on the street often will do.
He reached the church and took a seat in the back of the nearly empty hall. The service was almost over. He saw Constance, her mother, and her sister in the front pew. Constance was the only one of them who was not crying.
As the service finished and they prepared to move to the yard for the burial, the captain found himself on his way back to the house, and later, at the house. He cursed himself for missing the burial of a man he had known. Constance did not recognize his face when she returned to her home, only the way he decided to act.
They sat in her family's kitchen with a glass of hot water in front of each of them. The sky had fallen dark and night had set in. The room was lit by several candles in the corners, and one in the center of the table. Her face was lit by the shadows the tiny flames cast.
"Why go on living?" she asked the captain. "Why go on if there is an end?"
"Because," he started, "life is all you have, because it's all you know, It's all that is certain. Lose sight of everything, but there is still the one thing you can see, from your pain, from your joy: you are alive. There is no denying it, you are alive. It's the fact that you're alive that makes you want to die sometimes. You cannot deny that you are alive."
Constance thought about this, and a drop of watery wax fell from the candle onto the table. She rebutted, "But for how long? I don't know how long I'll live anyway."
The captain had expected this from her, and he recited, "And you should be thankful for what you have. No matter the length, you must savor every bit of it, in case it all stops. If not, and we go on to a promised eternity, then it is questionable. But since we do not know whether there is life after death, and even if there is, we do not know that it is better than life before death, we must take it upon ourselves to enjoy what we know we have."
Constance stretched her fingers, then relaxed them into a loose fist.
"But what is there worth what pain we suffer here?"
"There is love," suggested the captain.
Constance looked from her fist to the captains hands, wrapped around the glass of hot water, and back to her hand again.
"What is love, anyway?" she asked defiantly.
The captain looked into his cup, still quite full. He could see the reflection of her face in the water, rippling, disturbed. He did not know how to truthfully tell her without embarassing himself.
"Love is a feeling," he began, "which leaves the lover satisfied, if not happy, with life." He hoped he had appeared as unknowledgable of love as he had hoped to.
"You are wrong," Constance told him. "Love is the feeling when you play out every instant of a time you will spend with someone in your mind's eye over a thousand times and it's wonderful, but you know it will not play out as such when the time comes. And when the time does come, and every instant comes true as you had seen it. Love is the one time the fortunate and the observant are blessed with when everything is perfect in their eyes."
The candle between them flickered, and the captain saw a reflection of the flame in Constance's eye.
He asked her, "And how would you know of such a time?"
"I've had it, once."
"When?"
"When else?" Constance whispered. "When I met you."
A candle in the corner went dark as a draft blew through the room. He saw Constance's fist, opening more. He put his cup on the saucer in front of him and his hands left it.
There he stayed still for a few moments, reading the return adress over. He wondered what would compel her to write when nothing had for a number of years he had stopped counting. He then read his address in his disbelief.
He opened the letter.
She had folded it in thirds, then in a half, so the the envelope had been awkwardly lop-sided. He read:
Captain,
I realise that I have not kept as close in touch with you as you have liked me to, and I'm sorry. I also apologize for my first letter to you in all this time brings bad news and a cry for help.
He paused.
My father has died. We did not expect it, he had been in fine health. I'm scared now. You know that he and I were never close, but you also know that I will regret it more now. Please come as quickly as you can,
He paused again.
because I don't think I can face this alone. And because I'm afraid that if I don't take the time now, I'll regret my actions with you, too.
I was just thinking how crazy this world is. A person could die and have their funeral less than a week later. I’m afraid to go to the funeral, no doubt in my mind I’m going, it never once crossed my mind not to go. I don’t know, it’s not that I don’t know that I can cry in front of you… I know I can… I just don’t want to get started because I would go on forever.
My address is on the envelope. Please come, as a favor to what we were.
Yours,
Constance
He arrived two days later at the house with the address he was given. He knocked twice on the solid oaken door, towering and strong, yet reassuring and warm. He sat facing the street.
It was a cold gray day, and the streets were edged with week-old snow, dressed in gloom to match the sky. His felt top hat jumped to free itself from the mess that was his hair, aided by the disheartened wind, but was too snugly fit. The tails of his long coat played at an empty flowerpot under the step as he kept his winter clothes warm.
He heard the ringing of a far off bell over the footsteps of a woman walking alone past him, wrapped in a brown shawl, her child in her arms. He stood up, starting to move towards the bell, and both he and the woman continued acting as if they had not seen each other, as strangers on the street often will do.
He reached the church and took a seat in the back of the nearly empty hall. The service was almost over. He saw Constance, her mother, and her sister in the front pew. Constance was the only one of them who was not crying.
As the service finished and they prepared to move to the yard for the burial, the captain found himself on his way back to the house, and later, at the house. He cursed himself for missing the burial of a man he had known. Constance did not recognize his face when she returned to her home, only the way he decided to act.
They sat in her family's kitchen with a glass of hot water in front of each of them. The sky had fallen dark and night had set in. The room was lit by several candles in the corners, and one in the center of the table. Her face was lit by the shadows the tiny flames cast.
"Why go on living?" she asked the captain. "Why go on if there is an end?"
"Because," he started, "life is all you have, because it's all you know, It's all that is certain. Lose sight of everything, but there is still the one thing you can see, from your pain, from your joy: you are alive. There is no denying it, you are alive. It's the fact that you're alive that makes you want to die sometimes. You cannot deny that you are alive."
Constance thought about this, and a drop of watery wax fell from the candle onto the table. She rebutted, "But for how long? I don't know how long I'll live anyway."
The captain had expected this from her, and he recited, "And you should be thankful for what you have. No matter the length, you must savor every bit of it, in case it all stops. If not, and we go on to a promised eternity, then it is questionable. But since we do not know whether there is life after death, and even if there is, we do not know that it is better than life before death, we must take it upon ourselves to enjoy what we know we have."
Constance stretched her fingers, then relaxed them into a loose fist.
"But what is there worth what pain we suffer here?"
"There is love," suggested the captain.
Constance looked from her fist to the captains hands, wrapped around the glass of hot water, and back to her hand again.
"What is love, anyway?" she asked defiantly.
The captain looked into his cup, still quite full. He could see the reflection of her face in the water, rippling, disturbed. He did not know how to truthfully tell her without embarassing himself.
"Love is a feeling," he began, "which leaves the lover satisfied, if not happy, with life." He hoped he had appeared as unknowledgable of love as he had hoped to.
"You are wrong," Constance told him. "Love is the feeling when you play out every instant of a time you will spend with someone in your mind's eye over a thousand times and it's wonderful, but you know it will not play out as such when the time comes. And when the time does come, and every instant comes true as you had seen it. Love is the one time the fortunate and the observant are blessed with when everything is perfect in their eyes."
The candle between them flickered, and the captain saw a reflection of the flame in Constance's eye.
He asked her, "And how would you know of such a time?"
"I've had it, once."
"When?"
"When else?" Constance whispered. "When I met you."
A candle in the corner went dark as a draft blew through the room. He saw Constance's fist, opening more. He put his cup on the saucer in front of him and his hands left it.