Maria E-Book

Elizabeth King

• Herausgeber: Elizabeth King
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

This is the story of Maria, a beautiful forty year old Italian woman from Milan. Set in the mid-seventies of the last century it tells of her development as a person, leaving a comfortable bourgeois existence for the life of a promising artist. A chance encounter with a young journalist encourages her to develop her childhood gift for drawing and helped by Victoria, famous and a true friend, she approaches the world of art.The book is packed with colourful, interesting characters and the dramatic scenery of the Italian/French Alps, the dynamic Mittel European atmosphere of Milan and Trieste, a glimpse of sun-kissed Sicily, form a backcloth to the events in Maria's life. But above all it is an important Love Story - Maria's love for Marc.

Leseprobe

MARIA

Elizabeth Harvey

“for my husband Giovanni

«Two things of beauty hath the world, love and death»

Giacomo Leopardi

«and the third is art»

Maria”

Chapter 1

Maria stood at the chalet windows, her fine wool dressing-gown wrapped warmly around her, staring out over the mountains, the slopes, the snow; it was beautiful. But where does the snow end, she wondered? As she saw it just seemed to go on and on and on, to become one with that mornings colourless sky and continue into eternity – beyond. Before her illness she’d sometimes wonder about that incomprehensible ‘beyond’, letting her thoughts wander towards it apprehensive as a child at the onset of some new and solitary adventure yet with the same eagerness and daring; to later return with renewed energy. But she’d no wish to delve deeper now. Strange how illness changed one, altered character, it was like existing obliquely, not running on lines any more. Maria, still at the window, saw with surprise that it was raining, not snowing. The temperature had risen most unseasonably, in still mid winter, just the evening before and huge slabs of snow had slithered down from the roofs of houses as if shoved carelessly aside by some giant thumping through the little town. This morning the rain fell straight down, very deliberately, pock-marking the heaps of snow at the road side, splashing into the puddles forming, like pebbles. You could only just see the rain streamers, it wasn’t pretty at all. The larch trees in their winter brown formed ranks of desolate soldiers, so still they stood, so apathetic seeming from this distance; whilst the clump of fir trees in the foreground, before the French windows where Maria stood watching, were not dancing in the slight wind that had suddenly whipped up again, but twitched and writhed insanely. ‘Oh how different a picture when it snowed, how strange this untimely rain’ thought Maria. But it was all so strange lately, almost as if the world outside reflected her innermost state of mind. She hoped it would snow again before her return to Milan the following week, but of this she would not think this morning. Thoughts wandered back to the snow, it’s magic remained from childhood when, nose flattened against a cold window pane, she would watch in awe, excitement running up and down her eager, wriggling body, the beauty of the first fall of winter’s snow. There was silence, gentle movement, snowflake patterns: it was like ballet dancing for her. She had been taken to see the ballet at the Scala Theatre on several occasions and remembered particularly ‘Swan Lake’. Music was certainly there amidst the floating flakes, she was sure of that, yet she knew it to be so soft, so subdued a melody, that only angels could capture it, mortals could only watch. A fairy world existed then. Maria smiled at her musing and wanted a smile to change her adult present world a little as in children’sstories. It was time to dress, later if fine enough, she would take her daily walk. It was easing up a little now; to the left of the mountain range a creamy yellow strip emerged from out of a mottled corner of sky. The fir trees had calmed down and nearby a dog nosed around in its busy, independent way, seeking new smells and stimuli from a patch of rain released ground. Good gracious, even blades of grass showed, the brief shower had been as tempestuous as in spring, since when had one seen grass in those parts in January? It was pale, discoloured grass bleached by weeks of snow to the snow’s own whiteness. On opening the shutters wider Maria heard the wind and the still pattering rain and it was not difficult for her to imagine the sea behind the mounts. For the first time in months Maria felt a stirring inside herself, a spark of life; she was happy to be there and witness to the intemperance of the day. Few skiers dotted the slopes, but it was surprising that there should be any at all on such a day. What passion was it, she wondered, that flowed through man’s veins urging him in such sport and ventures? What secret longing sent him hurtling down or swooping upwards on those often dangerous mountains: soaring up and down like an eagle or climbing sure as a mountain goat. What made man penetrate wildernesses, aspire to the stars? She stopped wondering and began her morning.

It did not take long to tidy the small chalet. The golden pine covering on the walls smelt pleasant for the peculiar dampness of the day had penetrated the room and the habitually dry mountain air had taken on the fragrance of forests after April showers. She took time over her toilet; dressing with care she chose a bright berry-red pullover with a high neck rollover collar, it contrasted strongly with her light, luminous complexion and set off her really dark, lustrous hair. Maria was beautiful, really beautiful. Tall, but not too tall, slim but not excessively so, with full round breasts and gently curving hips. That morning she looked better than she had done for days and going out into the cold would whip colour to her cheeks and the pure, sparkling mountain air would brush away any remaining tiredness from her eyes. Carefully wrapping a grey mohair scarf round her neck and shoulders, taking pleasure in its voluptuous softness, she thought how romantic she looked with her pale complexion and large lucid eyes. Visions of sleds, of bells, of furs, of gas lights, of romantic encounters in pre-revolutionary Russia raced through her mind with startling rapidity. Laughing at herself again, not just smiling but laughing outright so that her eyes crinkled, became alive, vital, she drew on warm gloves and ventured out into the now brightening January morning.