My prose and writing

Fanny as a nu-Bronte,reads her ‘Sence and Sensibility’
By Julie Ralphs....... @copyright

In the sitting room, Fanny sobs as she is read as a classical novelette by Natalie. A nu-Bronte in ‘ Sence and Sensibility’, in the NEXT ROOM at the Grange. Fanny’s fluffy compendium is left on the drawing table. The diary opens a window to another worldly portrait of her as a modern day heroine and not a sketch of a lady of English middle class life as penned in the eighteenth century.

Its leafs are filled with the sweetness of countenance and her little love petal notelets that are tied together in a soft lace. In her own private language- sweet pony prayers that belong to the language of the soul. A canvas sketches her, where she sits there as though painted there. Her black hair disposed in glossy ringlets falls softly about her visage.

There are quiet conversations but it is only in the opening chapter of Jane Austen’s book. Dining at Thrushcross Lodge are the Middletons, the analogy is taken indoors. Fanny puts away her needlework, as her Gentleman caller arrives. Holding out a hand in a long primrose- coloured glove, there is a sweet but serious kiss. And with a playful tone in her words, ‘ Must I pour out his tea, Papa’. Papa was impressed with her voice, look and air. He smiled upon her,’My dear Fanny’. A tray was brought of old Worcester porcelain. The bourgeois cosiness and domesticity revisited.

Among the lace in the bosom of her silk dress. Edward’s picture was in a tiny locket about her neck. Fanny sits down to the pianoforte and plays something appropriate to love’s young dream, love’s ephemerioe. He stood beside her in a cream waistcoat with gold and onyx buttons and took up his glasses, a little book of her nature poems in hand, came to life in her soft lyrics.

Aunt Anne looked up from her Romantic novel in her velvet chair. She read the maniloquent words in the pages of her life. Her cameo ring, reminded her so much of her mistress. Fanny’s portrait next to the still-life’s seemed to stare back in astonishment. A soft and tender smile seemed to come through the ether like the warmth and perfume of a flower. The fictional young lady is re-invented by an authoress to be the heroine of something other than just her own life.

Her hands gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the other. She blushed a smile so sweetly kind. Edward interrupted the reverie. ‘ There is a painting in her face’ he writes. And then his eyes are fixed upon an old sepia photograph in a gilded frame on the dresser of the drawing room.  

The wrought –iron gate, opens to Edward’s thought of an erotic plate of his mistress in a lacey frock swinging in a garden seat, sat on the mantelpiece. She comes to life. With her black ringlets streaming in the light summer breeze in sepia. Edward had slipped a notelet and key into the seam of her petticoat. The flowers of the ephemeral sewn into her panties. A book of homilies in her hand, and a pony read of Fanny Hill.

The notelet she unfolds and reads. It opens and the words constitute courtship. His letters are enclosing her diary. She walks down the path of the grove down to a secret garden.  He sees her, his mistress and governess in spirit at the Rector’s garden. They meet in secret and walk through to the grove. He meets her with a love letter in a dream.

There Fanny lies on the grass with the letters, and Edward makes her a bracelet out of the pink and white daisies. She reads to him the notelet and some nature verse from a little book by Emily Dickinson. In her lap, lies Edward and a soft embroidery of the Manor and the Estate.

Under the shady boughs and the pink laburnum and lengthening vistas, sits the realm Seamstress on the garden seat with her sketches of her, and Edward’s letters are tied in a religious lace in the pages of her diary as a kind of narrative coverture.

Her secret drawings in the journal and its yellowing leaves fall on the parchment beneath the old oak tree. Fanny is seen by Edward  peering into the fishpond with the water nymphs by the fountain and the impatiens. Edward is combing her hair with a jeweled comb. 

' As the hart panteth after the water brooks,
 so panteth my soul after thee O'God.'  Psalm 42:1

As the little fawn pants for the water brooks, I receive into my spirit faith that bears a flower and a life full of joy, peace, love, kindness and all the fruits of His nature. The little blue and crimson finch sings in the boughs.  His sweet conversation to the deer as he pants at the water brooks, refreshing his spirit. His gentle eyes take in the hues of the Chapel-like forest.  In a hidden Sanctuary between the trees. The leaves of friendship fall about their timid love, and the flowers, He fills their cups with a fragrance in the grove. 

A little butterfly with gossamer wings in a poetic dance of joy frolicks on the unfurling petals of a pink virgin rose. The little fawn sniffs delicately and she settles on it. ' By Julie Ralphs  

A squirrel friend gathers nuts and berries, and a cotton tailed bunny rabbit, in the wet dew of the grass, tramples on a melancholic flower, eating the dandelion leaves and its flower.  Its ears prick up as it hears the thumpings through the forest of the little deer.  They meet and acquaint themselves with each other and the other forest animals. The little fawn looks at himself in the reflection of the pond, where the water lillies grow and e frogs jump from a lillypad.  An orchestra of bird song, birds singing in chorus. They gaze at each other, then at the reflection in the babbling brook.

The Father has clothed the grasses and wildflowers about the brook. He has painted nuance and shade under the gum trees and soft blue hues and cotton clouds with brushstrokes to the skies with His palette.   

This is a sweet allegory that discusses the fruit of the Holy Spirit, Galatians 5: 22-23.  THe fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, faith, meekness, temperance, and the nature of Bambi deer.
 
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The wrought-iron gate swung open, Father and I walk along the path up to the Rectory. A blue wren sings a sibilant note in the branches above.  A book of homilies in my hand as My Father Jesus reads to me a verse.  I read His love for me in every chapter of my Holy book.  As I read to Him His living Word in the verses of my Bible, my  Father reads  me.  I read His love for me in every chapter of my life.  His gaze is loving and  His countenance looks upon me.  His words are soft and maniloquent and He speaks to my heart like a Romantic author and poet.  He writes pages to me on our walk along the path and I hear His Word as  promises…. to me in a love letter in Spirit. The birds sing songs of praise as I read His love letter  to me as  poetry and fidelity in Spirit.  A love letter in Spirit, He tells me that He delights in me and that I am a sweet rose in bloom.   Like the velvety red roses in the cultivated garden and like the climbing rose on the wall of the Parsonage. By Julie nee. Ralphs   

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