"Charles L. Harness-O Lyric Love" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

O Lyric Love
by Charles L. Harness
This story copyright 1985 by Charles L. Harness.Reprinted by permission of Linn Prentiss.This copy
was created for Jean Hardy's personal use.All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the
copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

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This is about my high school English teacher. I adored her. She once went out on a limb for me-- to
my eternal shame: she gave me a final grade that included a nonexistent term paper on Browning. I had
promised I would write it and turn it in, but I delayed and dawdled and never did.
(So, my lyric love, here it finally is. With compound interest. You are long dead, but deathless.)
This one led me into research about Florence, the Renaissance, and ultimately to "The Tetrahedron."
***


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I had long ago realized that Professor Mae Leslie identified strongly with the Victorian poet Elizabeth
Barrett. She looked like Barrett and dressed like Barrett. Like Barrett's, her hair dangled in long ringlets
about a pale but lively face. Like the poet, she wore no make-up. She out-Barretted Barrett in one
respect: an adolescent maltreated bout with polio confined her to a wheelchair, which she maneuvered
with great skill and energy. As we know, the British poet had a spinal problem and was in bed a lot, but
she was certainly ambulatory on her wedding day. Which brings me to the next similarity: both women (in
their own way, and in their own time) loved Robert Browning.
And I loved Mae Leslie. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways! First as a beautiful woman.
Consider the stark black hair, artfully contrived into those curls. The flashing green eyes. The naturally
red lips between the translucent cheeks. That body. I imagined marvelous breasts, smooth, semi-firm,
capped by roseate buds. Then the erotic sweep of belly. Her hands were sonnets. And yet she was
virginal. I doubted that any male hand had ever been laid on her in lust. What a waste!
For years I had gone to sleep thinking of her. She was older than I-- by six or seven years. It didn't
matter to me. Her erudition was formidable, but that didn't matter either. Recognized authority on minor
Victorian poets. She had written books. She lectured by video terminal all over the world: Oxford, the
Sorbonne, Moscow U., and (would you believe it!) M.I.T.
She knew something about everything. The universal doctor. She could even hold her own when we
discussed my undergraduate specialty, which was quantum physics, and how certain theoretical
sub-particles could move forward and backward along a time axis (the "Feynman minuet"). She
appreciated me. She encouraged me. As my senior year in college closed, she helped me get the
graduate scholarship.
Aye, there's the rub.
So here we were in her little office in the Fine Arts Building, once again after all these years, and I
knew exactly what she was thinking.
 The Browning paper.