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hrjThe final proof corrections have been sent out. I've started instructing the publicity department who to send review copies to. Already freaking out about publicity opportunities that I didn't even know to try for last time and that may take no notice of my queries this time. But the day is coming--as Antuniet says, no way out but forward.
* * *
There was a usefulness, Antuniet thought, to having a reputation for stiffness and reserve. What had been promised as an informal supper looked likely to drone on for hours. Out in the side chambers off the galleries people would be satisfying themselves with lighter fare. Jeanne would be there, no doubt missing her company. But Jeanne always found something to entertain herself.
For a time, the need to make polite conversation distracted her from her disappointment. Eventually she took refuge in silence. Disappointment! Such a tame word. There had always been so little reason to hope, but hope had been all that sustained her in the dark days. Roasted duck and a paté of oysters replaced the veal roulade before her.
She’d always thought that failure—if it came—would come from within: a failure of her art or of her skill. It had never occurred to her that she might triumph in the Great Work and yet fall short of the prize.
Where is all your pride now? Where is your vow? Why did you even think— It was the same voice that haunted her nightmares: cutting, accusing… Her mother’s voice.
This time she had an answer. No, Mother. I didn’t fail. I did my best. Everything I set my hand to succeeded. There is nothing more I could have done. To change Annek’s heart was never within my power. And for the first time, she believed it.
The voices stilled. It was like the opening of doors and the sun blazing into dark spaces. She had done the best she could have done and would accept what came after. This was her life now: no way out but forward. Perhaps failure was as liberating as success would have been.
* * *
There was a usefulness, Antuniet thought, to having a reputation for stiffness and reserve. What had been promised as an informal supper looked likely to drone on for hours. Out in the side chambers off the galleries people would be satisfying themselves with lighter fare. Jeanne would be there, no doubt missing her company. But Jeanne always found something to entertain herself.
For a time, the need to make polite conversation distracted her from her disappointment. Eventually she took refuge in silence. Disappointment! Such a tame word. There had always been so little reason to hope, but hope had been all that sustained her in the dark days. Roasted duck and a paté of oysters replaced the veal roulade before her.
She’d always thought that failure—if it came—would come from within: a failure of her art or of her skill. It had never occurred to her that she might triumph in the Great Work and yet fall short of the prize.
Where is all your pride now? Where is your vow? Why did you even think— It was the same voice that haunted her nightmares: cutting, accusing… Her mother’s voice.
This time she had an answer. No, Mother. I didn’t fail. I did my best. Everything I set my hand to succeeded. There is nothing more I could have done. To change Annek’s heart was never within my power. And for the first time, she believed it.
The voices stilled. It was like the opening of doors and the sun blazing into dark spaces. She had done the best she could have done and would accept what came after. This was her life now: no way out but forward. Perhaps failure was as liberating as success would have been.
