I am trying to make Claude into a little snot. He was not as much of one in the original story, but, I think he should be one. Poor Luce - I, and thus he, could barely contain massive gigglefits at some of the things the boy said.
(I realized yesterday that I should probably have made it clear earlier on in the story that by "boy", my Grigori mean someone late teens, early twenties. Young man, really. But they're a bit too demeaning for that.)
Luce can be both my hardest and easiest character to write. He likes to ramble on about the psychology of people and that sort of thing. It's really, really intimidating to think about the sheer volume of epigrams that he ought to be spouting, but once he starts talking... it's hard to shut him up.
David is younger than Claude, and I realized this year that they were far too similar in my head, so I'm working on differentiating them better. Unfortunately for you, they're only coming clearer in my own mind as I write them. :p So please bear with.
Originally, I was just going to have this scene cover some general notes on character relationships, and then have someone (probably Luce) observe and comment on a sniping little bitchfight between Claude and David. That fight has yet to happen... and I have to admit, I'm a little upset about subjecting poor little David to it. Claude is a snot, and is going to be terribly unkind, I'm afraid. The purpose of this fight, I have yet to discover, I just know they should have one. (Though, I'm starting to think Claude should instead pick a fight with Veri - the motivation is clear, and it would be FUNNY AS ALL FREAKING HELL to watch him try it.)
...why are my characters all so sadistic? I'm a nice person! Really! I can barely insult people, let alone plot their moral demises.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
11 - Luce, continued
As the pair reach the closing of the song, the last notes drift in the air for a final endless moment, seemingly caught in the tiny crystals which hang from every surface, the sound, as light, caught and refracted to shimmer in the air. There is light applause, and several of those standing near turn back to their conversations and diversions. A mermaid passes through the corner with a tray of fresh drinks and light refreshments. David begins to shuffle awkwardly, but the girl plays an enchanting fragment of a tune, and he looks back to her with a smile of recognition. She smiles in return, nodding, and then begins to play, and he to sing. Though the audience pays them less heed now – the spontaneity of the thing has gone – there are yet some who remain, enchanted by the lovely sound.
I see Claude make a motion as if to leave, but Meres lays a hand on his arm, gazing at the two musicians on the rainbow-hued rock, perched as sirens amid the vast ocean of the crowd. Claude visibly pouts, and mutters something that I doubt is complimentary. He casts about for some escape, but sees no-one else that he knows.
Mephisto is entirely entranced by the two children, and I see it will be of absolutely no use to attempt to speak with him further. Once the two have exhausted their list of shared knowledge, he will undoubtedly scoop David back up, and spend the rest of the evening in doting on him still more than his usual. Tedious to watch, though I am curious to see how the ending of their story will play out.
I make my way over to Claude, and lay a hand gently on his arm, guiding him to some little distance from the musicians. While we are yet within close range, he sighs audibly in relief. “I thank you for your pity – I cannot see why Meres is so enchanted with such amateurs as they. They are obviously unrehearsed, and the number of mistakes in their harmonies is painful to hear.”
I chuckle to myself, deciding not to correct him by telling him that is the entire charm of their performance – such skilled improvisation is a delight to see. “Meres is often capable of finding beauty where others should hardly think to look for it.”
“That is quite true. He once had me make a sketch of a dead rose bush – something which I at first was dismayed at the sight of, surprised that his gardeners had not discarded it of their own accord. Yet as I drew, I realized there was quite a grace to the way the dead buds curled around toward the ground, the gentle flow of the whole bush giving up its endless fight against gravity, and drooping toward the earth. The paper-like quality of the leaves and petals, too, were quite interesting to try my hand at capturing.”
As he speaks, I can see why Meres is drawn to the boy, apart from his talent – he is capable, when prodded, of seeing the world in the way that Meres himself does. Still, I suspect he is hardly capable of truly confiding in such a child as this, and I am certain he will tire soon. It is obvious that the boy is becoming over-confident, determined to make himself an equal among us... and that, of all things, is entirely impossible for him.
“...I have never seen any of Meres' paintings, though I know he paints. Are they very bad?”
It is all I can do to restrain myself from erupting into laughter at such pretension. “Bad! My dear boy, they are absolutely exquisite. There is such depth of detail in every aspect, that were you to take a microscope to the canvas, you would yet find more that your eye had been blind to. His skill with color and composition, you must already know, from his gardens and rooms, as well as from such lovely visions as this.” I wave my arm grandly around at the ocean world in which we are encompassed, passing by a coral reef, glimpsing glints of light above from the sun through the green water, reveling in the dark unknown depths of sapphire below.
“But why does he not show them, if they are so lovely? His name could be known throughout the city, if not the country, he could sell them at quite a price – my paintings are selling well enough themselves, that if his are anything the like---”
“Far better.”
He flushes a little at this, but continues on. “He could command any price, then, I would expect. At the very least, I should think he would have them on display somewhere, if only in his own home.”
The boy is obviously unaware of just how little of Meres' estate he has been granted access to. There is a gallery, but it is an entirely private one – even I have been allowed to pass through that lavishly decorated hall several times. His paintings capture such heartbreaking pathos, that they are difficult for any of us to view. He would never allow a shallow-minded boy such as this to see them. Whether he would fail to understand them, or would lose his mind in the pain, I do not know, but one of the two outcomes would be the likeliest result.
“Not every artist creates for the public eye. Meres, as many others I have known, paints solely out of his own need to do so. It soothes him, when nothing else is able, I think. Have you never painted something purely out of a particularly driven emotion, and then been shy of showing it to another, knowing they could not possibly see in it the value that you do?”
He considers a moment, then nods slowly. “Yes, I suppose I have.”
I doubt this, but allow him to imagine he has deceived me.
“Still, I should feel sorry for the world to be denied the pleasure of such a lovely work, were it created.”
At this, I do laugh. “Meres feels obligation to no man! He will do as he wills, he need not feel pity for any mortal soul, which would, in all likelihood, fail to fully appreciate the work of his hands and soul.”
Claude nods and smiles at this, pretending to agree with such a skeptical view of the world, as if he himself has been a misunderstood artist. He most certainly has not, he has gained everything with almost no real suffering. I know he is of a wealthy family, and attended the finest art schools from the earliest age, with private tutors at every step of the way. That is not to deny nor explain away his skill – he does have an eye for arranging things in a very lovely way, and there is emotion in every image he creates. The passion and pathos in his paintings are not a thing that can be taught – and though they are shallow things, created from the innocent imaginings of youth, they are yet beautiful, and show more depth than most works of late years. There is something to be said of the fresh enthusiasms of youth. Though they often blunder, are often wrong-headed about their notions, they believe in them with such fervor that one can hardly help but feel the passions along with them. This is why poets are always best in their youth – they have had no time to think, but simply feel, and feel with such intensity that their stumbling words spill onto the page with fresh blood still on them. With age comes supposed wisdom, and while their words ring with more truths, they are cold and stale, the dry crumbs of a heart which beats quite slowly among old bones.
A serving girl approaches, and as she extends the tray first toward me, showing due deference, Claude snatches a delicate crystal flute from it, drinking half the glass at a swallow as I stare coldly at him. Pretentious boy. I will let Meres have his fun for now, but when he has finished...
He did not see my glare, so I let it pass, for now. I lift a glass gracefully, and thank the girl with a polite smile. I take a small sip, and savor the effervescence of the light champagne, its tiny bubbles bursting into delicate notes of apricot and rose on my tongue.
Claude peers distractedly around the room, looking for something of interest. “I am rather surprised Meres has not planned more entertainments – there seems to be little to do, besides sip wine and engage in conversation.”
“Is more needed, in such a wondrous setting as this? It is rather nice, to simply enjoy the flavors and colors, to soak in the exotic atmosphere of a world that can never be visited.”
The boy sighs, and is obviously not placated by this answer. The evening is about subtlety and savor, but his youth demands action.
“You might always engage one of the mermaids – Azal left with one quite early in the party, and has yet to return. The girls must be quite skilled in the artistry of pleasure, for one to have held his attentions so long.” He blushes! I restrain my laughter, and merely take another sip of the wine. “Or, if the girls are not to your liking, there are undoubtedly some mermen among their company as well, who might suit you better.”
He feigns laughter, uncomfortable with what he apparently still considers a heretical notion. “Of--- of course not. The girls are quite beautiful, but...” His mind races for an excuse. “But I should not want Meres to miss me, if he should look for me when the performance has ended.”
“Oh, I can relate to him any message you wish, if you desire to absent yourself. Would you prefer a genteel allusion to your actual whereabouts, or a more polite invention? Or, perhaps, an invitation for him to join you? I am sure he would be most interested in the novelty.”
The boy is absolutely aghast by the casualness in which I make these suggestions. I cannot keep my amusement from showing in my eyes, though I keep my face and voice otherwise composed.
“No! ...I, no, that is, I should prefer to remain out here. Meeting more of your company is always a pleasure,” he demurs lamely, refusing to meet my gaze.
I see Claude make a motion as if to leave, but Meres lays a hand on his arm, gazing at the two musicians on the rainbow-hued rock, perched as sirens amid the vast ocean of the crowd. Claude visibly pouts, and mutters something that I doubt is complimentary. He casts about for some escape, but sees no-one else that he knows.
Mephisto is entirely entranced by the two children, and I see it will be of absolutely no use to attempt to speak with him further. Once the two have exhausted their list of shared knowledge, he will undoubtedly scoop David back up, and spend the rest of the evening in doting on him still more than his usual. Tedious to watch, though I am curious to see how the ending of their story will play out.
I make my way over to Claude, and lay a hand gently on his arm, guiding him to some little distance from the musicians. While we are yet within close range, he sighs audibly in relief. “I thank you for your pity – I cannot see why Meres is so enchanted with such amateurs as they. They are obviously unrehearsed, and the number of mistakes in their harmonies is painful to hear.”
I chuckle to myself, deciding not to correct him by telling him that is the entire charm of their performance – such skilled improvisation is a delight to see. “Meres is often capable of finding beauty where others should hardly think to look for it.”
“That is quite true. He once had me make a sketch of a dead rose bush – something which I at first was dismayed at the sight of, surprised that his gardeners had not discarded it of their own accord. Yet as I drew, I realized there was quite a grace to the way the dead buds curled around toward the ground, the gentle flow of the whole bush giving up its endless fight against gravity, and drooping toward the earth. The paper-like quality of the leaves and petals, too, were quite interesting to try my hand at capturing.”
As he speaks, I can see why Meres is drawn to the boy, apart from his talent – he is capable, when prodded, of seeing the world in the way that Meres himself does. Still, I suspect he is hardly capable of truly confiding in such a child as this, and I am certain he will tire soon. It is obvious that the boy is becoming over-confident, determined to make himself an equal among us... and that, of all things, is entirely impossible for him.
“...I have never seen any of Meres' paintings, though I know he paints. Are they very bad?”
It is all I can do to restrain myself from erupting into laughter at such pretension. “Bad! My dear boy, they are absolutely exquisite. There is such depth of detail in every aspect, that were you to take a microscope to the canvas, you would yet find more that your eye had been blind to. His skill with color and composition, you must already know, from his gardens and rooms, as well as from such lovely visions as this.” I wave my arm grandly around at the ocean world in which we are encompassed, passing by a coral reef, glimpsing glints of light above from the sun through the green water, reveling in the dark unknown depths of sapphire below.
“But why does he not show them, if they are so lovely? His name could be known throughout the city, if not the country, he could sell them at quite a price – my paintings are selling well enough themselves, that if his are anything the like---”
“Far better.”
He flushes a little at this, but continues on. “He could command any price, then, I would expect. At the very least, I should think he would have them on display somewhere, if only in his own home.”
The boy is obviously unaware of just how little of Meres' estate he has been granted access to. There is a gallery, but it is an entirely private one – even I have been allowed to pass through that lavishly decorated hall several times. His paintings capture such heartbreaking pathos, that they are difficult for any of us to view. He would never allow a shallow-minded boy such as this to see them. Whether he would fail to understand them, or would lose his mind in the pain, I do not know, but one of the two outcomes would be the likeliest result.
“Not every artist creates for the public eye. Meres, as many others I have known, paints solely out of his own need to do so. It soothes him, when nothing else is able, I think. Have you never painted something purely out of a particularly driven emotion, and then been shy of showing it to another, knowing they could not possibly see in it the value that you do?”
He considers a moment, then nods slowly. “Yes, I suppose I have.”
I doubt this, but allow him to imagine he has deceived me.
“Still, I should feel sorry for the world to be denied the pleasure of such a lovely work, were it created.”
At this, I do laugh. “Meres feels obligation to no man! He will do as he wills, he need not feel pity for any mortal soul, which would, in all likelihood, fail to fully appreciate the work of his hands and soul.”
Claude nods and smiles at this, pretending to agree with such a skeptical view of the world, as if he himself has been a misunderstood artist. He most certainly has not, he has gained everything with almost no real suffering. I know he is of a wealthy family, and attended the finest art schools from the earliest age, with private tutors at every step of the way. That is not to deny nor explain away his skill – he does have an eye for arranging things in a very lovely way, and there is emotion in every image he creates. The passion and pathos in his paintings are not a thing that can be taught – and though they are shallow things, created from the innocent imaginings of youth, they are yet beautiful, and show more depth than most works of late years. There is something to be said of the fresh enthusiasms of youth. Though they often blunder, are often wrong-headed about their notions, they believe in them with such fervor that one can hardly help but feel the passions along with them. This is why poets are always best in their youth – they have had no time to think, but simply feel, and feel with such intensity that their stumbling words spill onto the page with fresh blood still on them. With age comes supposed wisdom, and while their words ring with more truths, they are cold and stale, the dry crumbs of a heart which beats quite slowly among old bones.
A serving girl approaches, and as she extends the tray first toward me, showing due deference, Claude snatches a delicate crystal flute from it, drinking half the glass at a swallow as I stare coldly at him. Pretentious boy. I will let Meres have his fun for now, but when he has finished...
He did not see my glare, so I let it pass, for now. I lift a glass gracefully, and thank the girl with a polite smile. I take a small sip, and savor the effervescence of the light champagne, its tiny bubbles bursting into delicate notes of apricot and rose on my tongue.
Claude peers distractedly around the room, looking for something of interest. “I am rather surprised Meres has not planned more entertainments – there seems to be little to do, besides sip wine and engage in conversation.”
“Is more needed, in such a wondrous setting as this? It is rather nice, to simply enjoy the flavors and colors, to soak in the exotic atmosphere of a world that can never be visited.”
The boy sighs, and is obviously not placated by this answer. The evening is about subtlety and savor, but his youth demands action.
“You might always engage one of the mermaids – Azal left with one quite early in the party, and has yet to return. The girls must be quite skilled in the artistry of pleasure, for one to have held his attentions so long.” He blushes! I restrain my laughter, and merely take another sip of the wine. “Or, if the girls are not to your liking, there are undoubtedly some mermen among their company as well, who might suit you better.”
He feigns laughter, uncomfortable with what he apparently still considers a heretical notion. “Of--- of course not. The girls are quite beautiful, but...” His mind races for an excuse. “But I should not want Meres to miss me, if he should look for me when the performance has ended.”
“Oh, I can relate to him any message you wish, if you desire to absent yourself. Would you prefer a genteel allusion to your actual whereabouts, or a more polite invention? Or, perhaps, an invitation for him to join you? I am sure he would be most interested in the novelty.”
The boy is absolutely aghast by the casualness in which I make these suggestions. I cannot keep my amusement from showing in my eyes, though I keep my face and voice otherwise composed.
“No! ...I, no, that is, I should prefer to remain out here. Meeting more of your company is always a pleasure,” he demurs lamely, refusing to meet my gaze.
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