Testimonies: A Novel

by Patrick O'Brian

elisions,

I said that there was hardly any doubt that I had deceived myself; that my passion was no more than the last burning-up of the desires of a man who, though long celibate, was still, after all, a male creature; that I had idealized a perfectly ordinary young woman by way of making my love reasonable—for a love like that, if it is not an illusion, needs a wonderful object—that I had taken Bronwen at her face-value and I was a poor judge of faces.

Some relative had given Gerallt a musical box. It was a metal object, about the size and shape of a tobacco tin, with a cranked handle. When this handle was turned a plectrum moved over a series of pins, which gave out different notes. The last two pins in the series were broken and the tune was forever incomplete. It was a tune something like Barbara Allen; one was left poised in the air, waiting for the notes that would resolve it all, and they never came. The beastly thing started again, and unless I paid attention my mind would follow unconsciously and there I would be, hung up, waiting and frustrated.