01-27-2013, 12:00 PM
Gerbold's dark assumption was clearly such a low blow that it looked like it might topple this great tree trunk, but it remained solid. The eyes - MacFusty's eyes - were a giveaway, though - they remained as hard as they could be, but all manner of emotions were alight in them. He wore his heart on his sleeve. For all his muscles, this made him weak.
He was also stupid. This was becoming more and more obvious as time went by. A man who felt the need to claim "I am not stupid" on more than one occasion was clearly aware that he was seeming that way. And there was a reason for it. Gerbold looked at him and saw a lovestruck moron, and one with all the manners of something much worse. He threw insults at Gerbold, one after the other, childish namecalling, snide remarks, indignant little bouts of wretched contempt.
MacFusty could call Gerbold whatever he wanted, but he was the one who was trespassing, who stood - utterly unwelcome - on another man's property, refusing to leave, and had the dare, the stupidity, to think himself a reasonable person.
Gerbold, on the other hand, did not think himself entirely reasonable in this case. He was aware that he could not be reasoned with, that his opinion of his daughter held him back. But there was some rationale in him, and that part of him was rather startled that MacFusty had chosen to go about this with such adamant disrespect. If the younger man had played this differently, perhaps he would have found himself with a fiancÃe who wasn't disowned by her family, shunned by society. With this scandal hatefully defining her, Violet would bring shame to the MacFustys - not necessarily personally, but in the scope of society. And that, at least, was not her fault. It was her dear Hamish's.
The cold Ollivander was tempted to bring MacFusty up on a number of points. To write him a laundry list of mistakes he had made. From impatience with the way Gerbold spoke of Violet, to the bizarre fact that he thought trespassing was the best way to change Gerbold's mind about him. But the heartless wandmaker knew childishness when he saw it, and refused to buy in to a tennis match of contradictions.
I am at a loss. Margaret means very much to me - more, indeed, than I can put into words. She has inadvertently enlivened a spirit of rebellion in me...
... no matter what her father thinks...
"That's what this is about, isn't it", he said coolly as MacFusty finished his lofty speech. "You don't care about respect, or courtesy, or society - you don't care about her family, or the scandal of taking a girl without the permission of her head of family. You don't even seem to care that standing unwelcome on my property and refusing to leave is the least effective way of making me think you any more respectful. None of that matters to you. All that matters to you is that girl". And that was his impression set. Any man who loved Violet was worthless, foolish, and wildly misguided. No wonder she had fallen for him. (If indeed she had.)
"And perhaps in that... enormous block head of yours", he gestured vaguely to the man's powerful jaw, "you believe that all I'm really doing here is preventing her from being happy. Well you'd be right, Hamish MacFusty. You'd be right". Ollivander didn't seem so cool and collected any more. His pale eyes were ablaze, and he spoke as if reciting something demonic.
"Because why should she be happy? Why should I make a decision that will make her the happiest she's ever been when she's given me twenty two years of misery. Twenty two years of hell. Twenty two years and eleven months and fourteen days. That's how old she is. That's how much I know my daughter. I bet you didn't know that, did you MacFusty?" He was not standing still now - he was walking slowly out from behind the counter, but his eyes were still fixed on MacFusty's.
"Twenty two years and eleven months and fourteen days it has been... since she killed my wife". He seemed quite mad now, his voice full of hatred, driven to harsh digression by the state MacFusty's behaviour had led him to. "And you'd say it wasn't her fault, wouldn't you", he continued, leaving no room in any of this for MacFusty to interject. "Your dear 'smart, courageous, kind' Violet, and just a baby she was back then. How could it be her fault". Gerbold was finally voicing what was inside him. The truth of it all. "But it was not my decision to swap my wife's life for that of a squalling brat".
He was advancing now, and his hand was near his pocket - near his wand. "No matter how kind and courageous and clever you find Violet", his voice cracked - for that had been exactly what he'd thought of Margaret, "her life was swapped with that of my wife. And I..." his voice was dangerous, now - and demented, "... did not..." he was now inches away from the man now, ready to curse him from his life with the most powerful wand Ollivander had ever made, "... consent", he finished.
Not even a split second passed after he said this. For he was only now aware that his chest hurt. More than any physical pain he had ever endured. It was like an anvil had been sitting on him for some time. And the hand that reached for his wand - it shook, and the tingle ran right up his arm. The pale, furious eyes staring at MacFusty were suddenly unseeing, and he fell backwards, cracking his head against the counter. There was a hard flurry of blood as he crashed to the floor, then there he was, Gerbold Ollivander, as still and silent as death.
He was also stupid. This was becoming more and more obvious as time went by. A man who felt the need to claim "I am not stupid" on more than one occasion was clearly aware that he was seeming that way. And there was a reason for it. Gerbold looked at him and saw a lovestruck moron, and one with all the manners of something much worse. He threw insults at Gerbold, one after the other, childish namecalling, snide remarks, indignant little bouts of wretched contempt.
MacFusty could call Gerbold whatever he wanted, but he was the one who was trespassing, who stood - utterly unwelcome - on another man's property, refusing to leave, and had the dare, the stupidity, to think himself a reasonable person.
Gerbold, on the other hand, did not think himself entirely reasonable in this case. He was aware that he could not be reasoned with, that his opinion of his daughter held him back. But there was some rationale in him, and that part of him was rather startled that MacFusty had chosen to go about this with such adamant disrespect. If the younger man had played this differently, perhaps he would have found himself with a fiancÃe who wasn't disowned by her family, shunned by society. With this scandal hatefully defining her, Violet would bring shame to the MacFustys - not necessarily personally, but in the scope of society. And that, at least, was not her fault. It was her dear Hamish's.
The cold Ollivander was tempted to bring MacFusty up on a number of points. To write him a laundry list of mistakes he had made. From impatience with the way Gerbold spoke of Violet, to the bizarre fact that he thought trespassing was the best way to change Gerbold's mind about him. But the heartless wandmaker knew childishness when he saw it, and refused to buy in to a tennis match of contradictions.
I am at a loss. Margaret means very much to me - more, indeed, than I can put into words. She has inadvertently enlivened a spirit of rebellion in me...
... no matter what her father thinks...
"That's what this is about, isn't it", he said coolly as MacFusty finished his lofty speech. "You don't care about respect, or courtesy, or society - you don't care about her family, or the scandal of taking a girl without the permission of her head of family. You don't even seem to care that standing unwelcome on my property and refusing to leave is the least effective way of making me think you any more respectful. None of that matters to you. All that matters to you is that girl". And that was his impression set. Any man who loved Violet was worthless, foolish, and wildly misguided. No wonder she had fallen for him. (If indeed she had.)
"And perhaps in that... enormous block head of yours", he gestured vaguely to the man's powerful jaw, "you believe that all I'm really doing here is preventing her from being happy. Well you'd be right, Hamish MacFusty. You'd be right". Ollivander didn't seem so cool and collected any more. His pale eyes were ablaze, and he spoke as if reciting something demonic.
"Because why should she be happy? Why should I make a decision that will make her the happiest she's ever been when she's given me twenty two years of misery. Twenty two years of hell. Twenty two years and eleven months and fourteen days. That's how old she is. That's how much I know my daughter. I bet you didn't know that, did you MacFusty?" He was not standing still now - he was walking slowly out from behind the counter, but his eyes were still fixed on MacFusty's.
"Twenty two years and eleven months and fourteen days it has been... since she killed my wife". He seemed quite mad now, his voice full of hatred, driven to harsh digression by the state MacFusty's behaviour had led him to. "And you'd say it wasn't her fault, wouldn't you", he continued, leaving no room in any of this for MacFusty to interject. "Your dear 'smart, courageous, kind' Violet, and just a baby she was back then. How could it be her fault". Gerbold was finally voicing what was inside him. The truth of it all. "But it was not my decision to swap my wife's life for that of a squalling brat".
He was advancing now, and his hand was near his pocket - near his wand. "No matter how kind and courageous and clever you find Violet", his voice cracked - for that had been exactly what he'd thought of Margaret, "her life was swapped with that of my wife. And I..." his voice was dangerous, now - and demented, "... did not..." he was now inches away from the man now, ready to curse him from his life with the most powerful wand Ollivander had ever made, "... consent", he finished.
Not even a split second passed after he said this. For he was only now aware that his chest hurt. More than any physical pain he had ever endured. It was like an anvil had been sitting on him for some time. And the hand that reached for his wand - it shook, and the tingle ran right up his arm. The pale, furious eyes staring at MacFusty were suddenly unseeing, and he fell backwards, cracking his head against the counter. There was a hard flurry of blood as he crashed to the floor, then there he was, Gerbold Ollivander, as still and silent as death.
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