Sometime after the 2007 NaNo, I wrote a short scene between Meres and Veri, where Veri yells at Meres for abandoning him during the rose party, and thus humiliating him. Then they make up and are all sweet and loveydovey, and it was really beautiful to see the love between them, set against all the selfish fixations of the others.
I had planned to stick this into the story long before now. But somehow... there wasn't enough for it to have the impact I'd wanted. So I kept stringing out Veri being angry at Meres, trying to build it up more.
Then Claude stepped into that little conflict at the mermaid party, and I suddenly realized he was trying to break them up, and have Meres for himself, not thinking Veri worth Meres' effort. Which is when the idea popped up for Claude to confront Veri, which sounded fun to write.
Yet, after writing that bit yesterday, it felt.. flat, like not much was accomplished in the scene. I decided Luce should step in and do some meddling. Which he was, as always, more than happy to do.
I knew Meres would be annoyed that Veri didn't come to the play - but I realized this morning just how deeply upset he could be. "The Nightingale and The Rose" (which I summarized poorly - the language in the original is so heartbreakingly lovely, go to Gutenberg and read it, preferably from the pdf at archive.org with the stunning illustrations) is--- wow, good morning run-on parenthesis. The story is about Love in its purest sort of form, self-sacrifice for the happiness of another - the nightingale gives up her life, that Love might have a chance to flourish in the heart of another.
Given that the Grigori were once angels, and thus beings of pure compassion, and now are fallen from that and trying to forget their better natures... I suspect the story will have more than the usual poignancy. Meres in particular... I have a hunch he really, really wanted Veri to hear that story, told, visually at least, by Meres. I haven't sorted out all the rational yet, but... I think Meres is going to be seriously heartbroken.
I suspect that make-up scene in the garden is going to need some hefty re-writing. I'd never intended Meres and Veri to almost lose each other, but I'm afraid that's where it might be going. Wheeee drama!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
14 - Veri, continued
“Veri.”
Am I to have no peace this day!
Luce is at the entryway, removing his shoes, replacing them with silken slippers. His long hair cascades past his face as he leans over, so I am at first unable to read his expression.
I do not acknowledge him at first, merely sighing heavily and leaning back on the cushions, a hand over my eyes. Of all who might intrude upon me, I have had the two least desirable in the space of an hour.
“I know I was not invited, but I found that, on passing nearby, I could not help but visit, it has been so long since I have seen you. I did not have a chance to speak with you at Azal's latest gathering, and you have been absent since then.”
“I did not stay there long. I found the company rather dull that day.” I am certain he knows of the spat between Meres and I, but whether he knows the content of it, I am unsure, and will not reveal to him. He pries too much. Luce makes no mention either of that play, which Meres put such attention into, and I did not attend. I will not be the one to bring it up – I will not even think of it today.
He pauses a moment as he crosses the room, to stand before the girl and watch her play. Her fingers are deft on the silk strings, and though the instrument is longer than she is tall, she moves from one end to the other with no hesitation, the placement of each oddly-tuned note as familiar to her as a lover's body. Though she is clad in bulky wrappings of embroidered silk, the wide sleeves do not impede her ivory hands, and what little is seen of her frame seems all the more graceful, for the rest being hidden from view. Her hands move with such beauty, her face serene as a statue, though she plays the most heart-rending fragments of melody.
“How lovely,” Luce comments, as he turns toward me, moving to seat himself nearby. Not directly in front of me, as rude Claude, but a little to the side, though still able to read my face. “What is the name of that instrument? I cannot recall.”
“The koto. There are versions of it in several Eastern locales, though I found this one, and the girl to play it, in Nippon. She speaks no English, but I find I prefer it that way. It is rather soothing, to know that she will hear nothing of most conversations.”
Luce smiles at this, and gestures at the teapot. “May I?”
“It is nearly empty – I shall have another brought.” I reach behind me, and tug twice on a bell pull, just hidden behind the edge of a rice paper screen.
“I thank you. It is a chill and miserable day out of doors, this is quite a nice retreat from it.”
I make a noncommittal sound – I have not even looked out of a window today. I do wish he would get to the point of his visit, but I know that to demand he do so would be useless. He would only prolong his harassment of me all the more.
We are silent a few minutes, listening to the eerie ripples of a song without name. It is as a world viewed through water, all things distorted and unrecognizable, and yet beautiful in the simplification of their colors and shapes, a landscape viewed in abstracted image, all in rainbowed light and mirrored reflection.
A servant arrives with the tea. Her feet are already clad in silken slippers, that her motions through the house might be silent. She approaches demurely, replacing the empty pot with a fresh one, bringing two clean cups as well. Her movements are smooth and efficient, and she is gone in a moment. As it ought to be.
Luce pours two cups of the tea, handing one to me before sipping of his own. I smile at his gesture of deference to the customs of the country the tea has arrived from. I sip it slowly, and the sudden heat flushes my cheeks, melting away a little of the tension within me. It is a white tea this time, a rarer find, and the light mixture of spices within it is quite nice. I shall have to remember this one, for it refreshes as it soothes.
“I saw Claude leaving, just as I arrived. He seemed quite upset, and did not even look up as he passed me, let alone offer any greeting. Whatever did you say to him?”
I bristle at this, all the benefits of the tea lost in an instant. “He – as you – arrived uninvited. And he – as you – irritated me. Why should you worry yourself over him?”
Luce laughs, and rests his cup on the table. “I was hardly worried! Merely curious. You rarely exert yourself enough to cause such havoc on a boy's soul.”
“Really, I said very little. He tried to assert his possession of Meres' affections, and I simply told him what he ought to have already guessed – that he is merely an amusement for a little while, and will last but a short time among us.”
Luce raises an eyebrow, and hides his smile in another sip of tea. “Is that your read on the situation, then?”
I stare blankly at him. “Whyever would it be any different, from the thousand other times? Claude is hardly worthy of long company among us. He is terribly rude, uncouth, and pretentious. His talent is impressive, yes, but talent can always be found.”
“Not every boy is capable of seducing a priest.”
I bark a short laugh. “Luce. You are not so idealistic as that. This is hardly the first priest to break his vows, and bely the morals he was taught.”
He chuckles at this. “You are, of course, correct. Still, I suspect there is a bit more to the boy than you are seeing.”
“Perhaps. I hardly care to see much of him at all.”
“So, it is possible that you have missed some things.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, narrowing my eyes. “Do not toy with me – what are you hinting at?”
“Only that you might reconsider the relationship between Meres and Claude.”
I nearly drop my cup. “Luce! You do not think it is something more than a little infatuation? It cannot possibly be. There is nothing to the boy to hold anyone's interest for long.”
“So you say. But Mephisto hardly seems to need to find depth to a person to fixate upon them.”
“Mephisto.” I wave the thought away. “He has never had an affair last more than a few weeks.”
“Not in some time, no. But my point remains – infatuation can easily build over mere imagined qualities in a person. Claude, for all his faults, is capable of seeing the world as Meres does. He is able to recognize the beauty in unexpected things, to find the thousand subtle colors within every shadow of a rose petal. This is quite an exceptional quality.”
“The boy has no manners, and I doubt he can learn them.”
“That is what will make him an interesting project – to override the will of such a stubborn soul is not an impossible feat, though it may take time. And time, I need not remind you, is something we all have far too much of to worry ourselves over wasting it.”
“Still, Luce... you can hardly think he will win Meres' heart? He is not like Mephisto, so easily carried away. ...Meres' heart!” I choke another laugh, shaking my head. “Have any of us one left?”
Luce smiles wryly. “If any, I think Meres would. Have you not realized what patience he has shown, what care he has taken, of you all these years?” He gives me a long, steady look, then leans back and chuckles. “Any of the rest of us would have left you to your pains long ago.”
I glare a moment at the insult – he knows full well the depth of my suffering, for I feel nothing the rest have not felt as well. It only leaves my body more frail, and returns more often it seems, than it does to most others. No other has lost all color to their hair, their skin, to the extent that I have – I seem to have fallen into a body of less stability than theirs, but it could just as easily have been Luce in place of me in this delicate frame.
But Meres... he is correct on that, at least. He has shown such unusual compassion, all these years. Could he still be capable of some sort of love? That long-unfelt agape, where all faults are overlooked, and even loved, for the sake of the person they afflict? Where patience and compassion temper all actions, where the heart is subsumed by sheer adoration that ignores all reason?
No. It cannot be. Luce suggests it only to toy with me.
“Meres... has his mysteries, even after all this time,” I muse noncommittally. I force myself to sip my tea calmly, gripping the cup tightly to keep my hands from trembling.
“That he does,” Luce agrees placidly, finishing his tea and setting the cup on the low table. “But forgive me, I must go – I am late for an engagement already. I do hope you are able to partake in our gatherings again soon.”
“Mmm. I suppose I shall.”
Luce rises, and begins to move toward the door, then stops. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I had wanted to leave this with you.” He turns back and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim volume – newly printed, it appears, for the pages are crisp and white, the gilt leather still fragrant.
I do not reach for it, and he lays it on the table, lingering a moment until I meet his gaze. “Be sure to read the story of the nightingale – it is the one the play was based on. I suspect there was reason Meres bothered to put such effort into its production.”
I do not blink, but return his gaze coolly. “If I find myself so inclined.”
A smile quirks the corner of his lips, and he bows slightly. “Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.”
He removes the slippers at the doorway, replacing his shoes, and exits without another word or glance.
It is just as well, for I can no longer keep my hands from shaking. My whole body begins to quake, and my back is heating ominously. I shall be in great pain soon. That is why my face grows wet – the tears are in anticipation of the inevitable burn of old scars. Nothing more. I yank desperately at the bell-pull, five short times, then collapse on the cushions, burying my face in them. Only old scars, it is nothing more, I am only--- it is only the physical pain, and my frail body's reaction to it, it cannot handle such pain, I cannot---
I do not even look at the book, I am in too much pain – my back flares and I cry out, desperate to get away, away from this pain that tears my chest, that tears me into pieces, time and time again...
Oh, Meres! My heart burns, it burns in flames brighter and more searing than any other scar could, for this is a fresh flame, a new burn, injuries always and ever new, slicing deeper every time... every time... pain I cannot--- I cannot--- oh, Meres!
Am I to have no peace this day!
Luce is at the entryway, removing his shoes, replacing them with silken slippers. His long hair cascades past his face as he leans over, so I am at first unable to read his expression.
I do not acknowledge him at first, merely sighing heavily and leaning back on the cushions, a hand over my eyes. Of all who might intrude upon me, I have had the two least desirable in the space of an hour.
“I know I was not invited, but I found that, on passing nearby, I could not help but visit, it has been so long since I have seen you. I did not have a chance to speak with you at Azal's latest gathering, and you have been absent since then.”
“I did not stay there long. I found the company rather dull that day.” I am certain he knows of the spat between Meres and I, but whether he knows the content of it, I am unsure, and will not reveal to him. He pries too much. Luce makes no mention either of that play, which Meres put such attention into, and I did not attend. I will not be the one to bring it up – I will not even think of it today.
He pauses a moment as he crosses the room, to stand before the girl and watch her play. Her fingers are deft on the silk strings, and though the instrument is longer than she is tall, she moves from one end to the other with no hesitation, the placement of each oddly-tuned note as familiar to her as a lover's body. Though she is clad in bulky wrappings of embroidered silk, the wide sleeves do not impede her ivory hands, and what little is seen of her frame seems all the more graceful, for the rest being hidden from view. Her hands move with such beauty, her face serene as a statue, though she plays the most heart-rending fragments of melody.
“How lovely,” Luce comments, as he turns toward me, moving to seat himself nearby. Not directly in front of me, as rude Claude, but a little to the side, though still able to read my face. “What is the name of that instrument? I cannot recall.”
“The koto. There are versions of it in several Eastern locales, though I found this one, and the girl to play it, in Nippon. She speaks no English, but I find I prefer it that way. It is rather soothing, to know that she will hear nothing of most conversations.”
Luce smiles at this, and gestures at the teapot. “May I?”
“It is nearly empty – I shall have another brought.” I reach behind me, and tug twice on a bell pull, just hidden behind the edge of a rice paper screen.
“I thank you. It is a chill and miserable day out of doors, this is quite a nice retreat from it.”
I make a noncommittal sound – I have not even looked out of a window today. I do wish he would get to the point of his visit, but I know that to demand he do so would be useless. He would only prolong his harassment of me all the more.
We are silent a few minutes, listening to the eerie ripples of a song without name. It is as a world viewed through water, all things distorted and unrecognizable, and yet beautiful in the simplification of their colors and shapes, a landscape viewed in abstracted image, all in rainbowed light and mirrored reflection.
A servant arrives with the tea. Her feet are already clad in silken slippers, that her motions through the house might be silent. She approaches demurely, replacing the empty pot with a fresh one, bringing two clean cups as well. Her movements are smooth and efficient, and she is gone in a moment. As it ought to be.
Luce pours two cups of the tea, handing one to me before sipping of his own. I smile at his gesture of deference to the customs of the country the tea has arrived from. I sip it slowly, and the sudden heat flushes my cheeks, melting away a little of the tension within me. It is a white tea this time, a rarer find, and the light mixture of spices within it is quite nice. I shall have to remember this one, for it refreshes as it soothes.
“I saw Claude leaving, just as I arrived. He seemed quite upset, and did not even look up as he passed me, let alone offer any greeting. Whatever did you say to him?”
I bristle at this, all the benefits of the tea lost in an instant. “He – as you – arrived uninvited. And he – as you – irritated me. Why should you worry yourself over him?”
Luce laughs, and rests his cup on the table. “I was hardly worried! Merely curious. You rarely exert yourself enough to cause such havoc on a boy's soul.”
“Really, I said very little. He tried to assert his possession of Meres' affections, and I simply told him what he ought to have already guessed – that he is merely an amusement for a little while, and will last but a short time among us.”
Luce raises an eyebrow, and hides his smile in another sip of tea. “Is that your read on the situation, then?”
I stare blankly at him. “Whyever would it be any different, from the thousand other times? Claude is hardly worthy of long company among us. He is terribly rude, uncouth, and pretentious. His talent is impressive, yes, but talent can always be found.”
“Not every boy is capable of seducing a priest.”
I bark a short laugh. “Luce. You are not so idealistic as that. This is hardly the first priest to break his vows, and bely the morals he was taught.”
He chuckles at this. “You are, of course, correct. Still, I suspect there is a bit more to the boy than you are seeing.”
“Perhaps. I hardly care to see much of him at all.”
“So, it is possible that you have missed some things.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, narrowing my eyes. “Do not toy with me – what are you hinting at?”
“Only that you might reconsider the relationship between Meres and Claude.”
I nearly drop my cup. “Luce! You do not think it is something more than a little infatuation? It cannot possibly be. There is nothing to the boy to hold anyone's interest for long.”
“So you say. But Mephisto hardly seems to need to find depth to a person to fixate upon them.”
“Mephisto.” I wave the thought away. “He has never had an affair last more than a few weeks.”
“Not in some time, no. But my point remains – infatuation can easily build over mere imagined qualities in a person. Claude, for all his faults, is capable of seeing the world as Meres does. He is able to recognize the beauty in unexpected things, to find the thousand subtle colors within every shadow of a rose petal. This is quite an exceptional quality.”
“The boy has no manners, and I doubt he can learn them.”
“That is what will make him an interesting project – to override the will of such a stubborn soul is not an impossible feat, though it may take time. And time, I need not remind you, is something we all have far too much of to worry ourselves over wasting it.”
“Still, Luce... you can hardly think he will win Meres' heart? He is not like Mephisto, so easily carried away. ...Meres' heart!” I choke another laugh, shaking my head. “Have any of us one left?”
Luce smiles wryly. “If any, I think Meres would. Have you not realized what patience he has shown, what care he has taken, of you all these years?” He gives me a long, steady look, then leans back and chuckles. “Any of the rest of us would have left you to your pains long ago.”
I glare a moment at the insult – he knows full well the depth of my suffering, for I feel nothing the rest have not felt as well. It only leaves my body more frail, and returns more often it seems, than it does to most others. No other has lost all color to their hair, their skin, to the extent that I have – I seem to have fallen into a body of less stability than theirs, but it could just as easily have been Luce in place of me in this delicate frame.
But Meres... he is correct on that, at least. He has shown such unusual compassion, all these years. Could he still be capable of some sort of love? That long-unfelt agape, where all faults are overlooked, and even loved, for the sake of the person they afflict? Where patience and compassion temper all actions, where the heart is subsumed by sheer adoration that ignores all reason?
No. It cannot be. Luce suggests it only to toy with me.
“Meres... has his mysteries, even after all this time,” I muse noncommittally. I force myself to sip my tea calmly, gripping the cup tightly to keep my hands from trembling.
“That he does,” Luce agrees placidly, finishing his tea and setting the cup on the low table. “But forgive me, I must go – I am late for an engagement already. I do hope you are able to partake in our gatherings again soon.”
“Mmm. I suppose I shall.”
Luce rises, and begins to move toward the door, then stops. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I had wanted to leave this with you.” He turns back and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim volume – newly printed, it appears, for the pages are crisp and white, the gilt leather still fragrant.
I do not reach for it, and he lays it on the table, lingering a moment until I meet his gaze. “Be sure to read the story of the nightingale – it is the one the play was based on. I suspect there was reason Meres bothered to put such effort into its production.”
I do not blink, but return his gaze coolly. “If I find myself so inclined.”
A smile quirks the corner of his lips, and he bows slightly. “Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.”
He removes the slippers at the doorway, replacing his shoes, and exits without another word or glance.
It is just as well, for I can no longer keep my hands from shaking. My whole body begins to quake, and my back is heating ominously. I shall be in great pain soon. That is why my face grows wet – the tears are in anticipation of the inevitable burn of old scars. Nothing more. I yank desperately at the bell-pull, five short times, then collapse on the cushions, burying my face in them. Only old scars, it is nothing more, I am only--- it is only the physical pain, and my frail body's reaction to it, it cannot handle such pain, I cannot---
I do not even look at the book, I am in too much pain – my back flares and I cry out, desperate to get away, away from this pain that tears my chest, that tears me into pieces, time and time again...
Oh, Meres! My heart burns, it burns in flames brighter and more searing than any other scar could, for this is a fresh flame, a new burn, injuries always and ever new, slicing deeper every time... every time... pain I cannot--- I cannot--- oh, Meres!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Note - language
Fifteen minutes of googling and some quick studying got me to the Japanese. I am really not sure it's correct - it should translate to "Girl will play the koto", in a polite form. Verb conjugation seems simple enough, that should be correct, but I'm not entirely sure how he would have referred to her, aaand the sentence structure is snagged from another sample sentence, and I'm not entirely certain how the articles work in it. But I think it's correct enough - I'll consult Tom's two semesters worth of Japanese class later. ;p
ed: From what Tom recalls, I was actually pretty close. If anything, I could probably have left out the noun, but, I'm not entirely certain on that. Still - I suspect Veri is too lazy to bother with every nuance of a language, the way Azal would.
ed: From what Tom recalls, I was actually pretty close. If anything, I could probably have left out the noun, but, I'm not entirely certain on that. Still - I suspect Veri is too lazy to bother with every nuance of a language, the way Azal would.
14 - Veri
Stretched luxuriously on a cushion on the floor, my thoughts had been lost in the strange melodies of a shamisen played by a pale girl with almond eyes and dark hair – had been lost, that is, until interrupted most rudely by sudden, loud speech.
“Veri! Are you doing well? We missed you at the play the other night, whyever did you not attend?”
I lift my eyes slowly, narrowing them at the intruder. The girl plays on, but the restfulness brought by her music has gone. I take a long sip of the green tea in a small Japanese iron cup, but the taste grows bitter on my tongue. I do not hurry to answer him, he deserves no such preferential consideration.
“Veri?” He crosses the room – with his shoes still on, the heathen. It is a tea room, clearly in Japanese style, to be entered only in slippers, of which there are several pairs beside the entry. He collapses into a cushion on the floor, then adjusts it that he might be facing me.
I sigh heavily, and set down the cup of tea. “Claude. I had asked for no visitors today. Why are you here?”
He laughs, pretending to be merely amiable. The sound grates on my ears. “Why, no-one had seen you for more than a week! And none could say why. I thought I would visit and make certain all was well – I know Meres is quite concerned, yet he seems reluctant to visit.”
My hearts warms half a degree at this news. My dear Meres. At least he thinks of me... But this rude boy. The others are well aware when I desire to be left alone, and respect my wishes. Why did they not make this clear to the boy? “My associates are capable of respecting the privacy of others. They would not burst into my home uninvited, and I have not invited any of late. My health, you know, I have been tired.”
“But it is not good for one to be alone when unwell – you must wish for company at times, to offer sympathy and bring you news, distract you from your illness,” he chatters away without thought.
“There is a great different between company and intrusion.”
He stops at this, frowning a little. I do not think he expected me to receive him with such utter coldness, but how could he have thought otherwise? I do not want his company. I did not ask for it, and I shall have fierce words with the servants later for letting him in – whatever lies he told them to gain admittance, they ought to have known enough to see through.
“Veri... I shall leave if you wish it. But I thought, since Meres seemed not to want to come, that I might look in on you, merely in courtesy to your ill health.”
I nearly laugh. “Meres! As I said, Meres knows to respect my wishes. And I did not wish to---” I break off, recalling the note I had sent him not long ago. And then I was so happy to see him at the party, and so pained when he left me. Oh, it is not true that I do not wish to see him... I wish it so badly, that it is all I can do not to fixate on that single desire. My dear kind Meres... why are you grown so cruel?
A mean smile curls the corner of Claude's lips. “I know you wish him here, with you. But he has chosen otherwise, and spends most of his days with me now.”
Ha! Oh, this ridiculous boy! To think that some few weeks, a month or two, means anything to ones such as us! Meres and I have been together for millenia, we have seen the rise and fall of empires, each at the side of the other. We dallied in the gardens of Babylon, we dined in the courts of Pharaohs, we drank the chocolate of the Aztecs and the wine of Athens. We have spoken sweet words to each other in languages that none on the earth still know; embracing, we have watched the sun set on lands that have sunk below the sea. This boy... this boy has spent a few days painting while Meres watches in idle amusement. What threat is this to me!
Claude appears puzzled, having thought, I expect, that I would have burst into a jealous rage. He will gain no such victory from me.
“Claude. My dear little boy.” I can see him rankle at the patronage in my voice. Good. I sit up, leaning my back against the wall, resting my hand placidly in my lap. “Meres is welcome to amuse himself as he wishes. We all pick up new toys from time to time, to amuse us for a little while. Novelty is the key to appeasing the senses, you know. But when he has tired of you,” I lean forward, staring intently into his smug eyes. “And I promise you, he will tire of you soon. He will drop you as a child drops a stone into a lake, and watch with cold detachment to see what sort of ripples it will make.”
He forces a laugh, but it is short and abrupt, and there is fear at the edges of it. “I will believe no such thing from you. You may have known him once, but I know him now, and---”
At this, I truly do begin to laugh, and he stops short in petulant anger. “You know him! Oh, dear young child. He has told you, then, his family history? He has told you of his past loves? Of his hopes and dreams for the future? He tells you what it is that makes him sad, or angry? You know his real name! He has shown you his paintings!” I am truly laughing now, at the increasing absurdity of these things. “Oh... oh child, you have no conception of the depth of your own foolishness. Did you think you could join our society? Take the place of myself among the others?”
He is scowling fiercely, his fists clenching, his body tense and eyes dark. “I did not come here to be insulted.”
“No – you came here to insult me, in the harshest way you could think to do. You came here to dispose me from my place, which you thought to usurp. You! I have not laughed so in years. You. Are. A. Toy. A mere pet, a plaything. Go ahead, play your rôle, be the eager puppy at Meres' side. Enjoy it while you are able – you shall see that it does not last.”
He stands up sharply, glaring at me coldly. “We shall see. I do not intend to have my life dictated by one such as you.”
I smile cruelly, folding my hands delicately. “One such as me? Do you think I could not control you, that I am somehow weaker than--- oh, I can hardly speak such ridiculous words, you would think I am weaker than you?”
“Perhaps. I am not the child you think I am.”
“No, dear boy... I am beginning to suspect you are even more a child than I had anticipated. Go. Play. I have nothing more to say to you.”
He pauses a long moment, undoubtedly searching for a biting retort to make.
I simply lay back down on the cushions, and pour a fresh cup of tea. The cup scalds my cold hands, which I wrap more tightly around it. I take a slow slip, feeling the heat warm my throat, my lungs, my blood. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the delicate bitterness of the tea, feeling my body relax. I hear heavy footsteps storm from the room, soon receding down the hallways leading him away. What an uncouth boy. It is amazing that he is able to put such grace into his paintings, for he certainly does not possess it himself.
I hear again the strange sharp notes of the shamisen, but they are too sparse to push the echoes of the boy's voice from my mind.
“Onna-san wa koto o hikimasu,” I instruct, raising my voice just enough to be heard across the room. The girl completes the phrase she was playing, then sets the long-necked instrument and its ivory pick to one side. Turning, she faces a long rectangular instrument which rests on the floor, silken strings running its length. Onto her pale fingers, she slides ivory picks, and then skims delicately over the strings. The melodies are so strange, the keys and harmonies so unlike those of the Western world, that I find them quite engaging to the ear. There is no music written for such an instrument, all is passed down in ancient tradition, or invented by the musician's skillful whims. Letting my eyes fall closed again, I sink back into the cushions, and let my mind drift. Claude's rude interruption is soon carried out of my mind, borne on the spiced wind of the East. I recall the drift of cherry blossoms through all the air in spring, the simple blossoms contrasting the sharply elaborate architecture of the temples, with their intricate spines and stolid rectangular arches. The gardens there are so lovely in their spareness, the eye falling on the most minute arrangements of mosses and stones, the channels worn through sand by light rains, all the world seeming to exist in a patch of ground smaller than this room...
Perhaps I shall go with Azal, when again he leaves the city. The air of this place seems so stale of late, an endless gray dullness that seeps in after the rain, and refuses to leave, clouding all freshness and lightness. Meres, I am sure, would like to see the vivid colors of the Moorish temples again, the dazzling whiteness of ancient Grecian pillars, the heated blue of warmer oceans, the strange shapes of tropical flowers... He and I should go, and find rest in such warmth and color, and he might paint some of what he sees, and, in seeing his escape from his thoughts, perhaps I might be carried alongside, at least for a time.
“Veri! Are you doing well? We missed you at the play the other night, whyever did you not attend?”
I lift my eyes slowly, narrowing them at the intruder. The girl plays on, but the restfulness brought by her music has gone. I take a long sip of the green tea in a small Japanese iron cup, but the taste grows bitter on my tongue. I do not hurry to answer him, he deserves no such preferential consideration.
“Veri?” He crosses the room – with his shoes still on, the heathen. It is a tea room, clearly in Japanese style, to be entered only in slippers, of which there are several pairs beside the entry. He collapses into a cushion on the floor, then adjusts it that he might be facing me.
I sigh heavily, and set down the cup of tea. “Claude. I had asked for no visitors today. Why are you here?”
He laughs, pretending to be merely amiable. The sound grates on my ears. “Why, no-one had seen you for more than a week! And none could say why. I thought I would visit and make certain all was well – I know Meres is quite concerned, yet he seems reluctant to visit.”
My hearts warms half a degree at this news. My dear Meres. At least he thinks of me... But this rude boy. The others are well aware when I desire to be left alone, and respect my wishes. Why did they not make this clear to the boy? “My associates are capable of respecting the privacy of others. They would not burst into my home uninvited, and I have not invited any of late. My health, you know, I have been tired.”
“But it is not good for one to be alone when unwell – you must wish for company at times, to offer sympathy and bring you news, distract you from your illness,” he chatters away without thought.
“There is a great different between company and intrusion.”
He stops at this, frowning a little. I do not think he expected me to receive him with such utter coldness, but how could he have thought otherwise? I do not want his company. I did not ask for it, and I shall have fierce words with the servants later for letting him in – whatever lies he told them to gain admittance, they ought to have known enough to see through.
“Veri... I shall leave if you wish it. But I thought, since Meres seemed not to want to come, that I might look in on you, merely in courtesy to your ill health.”
I nearly laugh. “Meres! As I said, Meres knows to respect my wishes. And I did not wish to---” I break off, recalling the note I had sent him not long ago. And then I was so happy to see him at the party, and so pained when he left me. Oh, it is not true that I do not wish to see him... I wish it so badly, that it is all I can do not to fixate on that single desire. My dear kind Meres... why are you grown so cruel?
A mean smile curls the corner of Claude's lips. “I know you wish him here, with you. But he has chosen otherwise, and spends most of his days with me now.”
Ha! Oh, this ridiculous boy! To think that some few weeks, a month or two, means anything to ones such as us! Meres and I have been together for millenia, we have seen the rise and fall of empires, each at the side of the other. We dallied in the gardens of Babylon, we dined in the courts of Pharaohs, we drank the chocolate of the Aztecs and the wine of Athens. We have spoken sweet words to each other in languages that none on the earth still know; embracing, we have watched the sun set on lands that have sunk below the sea. This boy... this boy has spent a few days painting while Meres watches in idle amusement. What threat is this to me!
Claude appears puzzled, having thought, I expect, that I would have burst into a jealous rage. He will gain no such victory from me.
“Claude. My dear little boy.” I can see him rankle at the patronage in my voice. Good. I sit up, leaning my back against the wall, resting my hand placidly in my lap. “Meres is welcome to amuse himself as he wishes. We all pick up new toys from time to time, to amuse us for a little while. Novelty is the key to appeasing the senses, you know. But when he has tired of you,” I lean forward, staring intently into his smug eyes. “And I promise you, he will tire of you soon. He will drop you as a child drops a stone into a lake, and watch with cold detachment to see what sort of ripples it will make.”
He forces a laugh, but it is short and abrupt, and there is fear at the edges of it. “I will believe no such thing from you. You may have known him once, but I know him now, and---”
At this, I truly do begin to laugh, and he stops short in petulant anger. “You know him! Oh, dear young child. He has told you, then, his family history? He has told you of his past loves? Of his hopes and dreams for the future? He tells you what it is that makes him sad, or angry? You know his real name! He has shown you his paintings!” I am truly laughing now, at the increasing absurdity of these things. “Oh... oh child, you have no conception of the depth of your own foolishness. Did you think you could join our society? Take the place of myself among the others?”
He is scowling fiercely, his fists clenching, his body tense and eyes dark. “I did not come here to be insulted.”
“No – you came here to insult me, in the harshest way you could think to do. You came here to dispose me from my place, which you thought to usurp. You! I have not laughed so in years. You. Are. A. Toy. A mere pet, a plaything. Go ahead, play your rôle, be the eager puppy at Meres' side. Enjoy it while you are able – you shall see that it does not last.”
He stands up sharply, glaring at me coldly. “We shall see. I do not intend to have my life dictated by one such as you.”
I smile cruelly, folding my hands delicately. “One such as me? Do you think I could not control you, that I am somehow weaker than--- oh, I can hardly speak such ridiculous words, you would think I am weaker than you?”
“Perhaps. I am not the child you think I am.”
“No, dear boy... I am beginning to suspect you are even more a child than I had anticipated. Go. Play. I have nothing more to say to you.”
He pauses a long moment, undoubtedly searching for a biting retort to make.
I simply lay back down on the cushions, and pour a fresh cup of tea. The cup scalds my cold hands, which I wrap more tightly around it. I take a slow slip, feeling the heat warm my throat, my lungs, my blood. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the delicate bitterness of the tea, feeling my body relax. I hear heavy footsteps storm from the room, soon receding down the hallways leading him away. What an uncouth boy. It is amazing that he is able to put such grace into his paintings, for he certainly does not possess it himself.
I hear again the strange sharp notes of the shamisen, but they are too sparse to push the echoes of the boy's voice from my mind.
“Onna-san wa koto o hikimasu,” I instruct, raising my voice just enough to be heard across the room. The girl completes the phrase she was playing, then sets the long-necked instrument and its ivory pick to one side. Turning, she faces a long rectangular instrument which rests on the floor, silken strings running its length. Onto her pale fingers, she slides ivory picks, and then skims delicately over the strings. The melodies are so strange, the keys and harmonies so unlike those of the Western world, that I find them quite engaging to the ear. There is no music written for such an instrument, all is passed down in ancient tradition, or invented by the musician's skillful whims. Letting my eyes fall closed again, I sink back into the cushions, and let my mind drift. Claude's rude interruption is soon carried out of my mind, borne on the spiced wind of the East. I recall the drift of cherry blossoms through all the air in spring, the simple blossoms contrasting the sharply elaborate architecture of the temples, with their intricate spines and stolid rectangular arches. The gardens there are so lovely in their spareness, the eye falling on the most minute arrangements of mosses and stones, the channels worn through sand by light rains, all the world seeming to exist in a patch of ground smaller than this room...
Perhaps I shall go with Azal, when again he leaves the city. The air of this place seems so stale of late, an endless gray dullness that seeps in after the rain, and refuses to leave, clouding all freshness and lightness. Meres, I am sure, would like to see the vivid colors of the Moorish temples again, the dazzling whiteness of ancient Grecian pillars, the heated blue of warmer oceans, the strange shapes of tropical flowers... He and I should go, and find rest in such warmth and color, and he might paint some of what he sees, and, in seeing his escape from his thoughts, perhaps I might be carried alongside, at least for a time.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Note
I was in such a rut this morning - it felt like one of two scenes should happen next, and they were both ones I'd already written. xp Luckily, it took some setup to reach where I wanted to stick in Azal watching his dancer in the garden.
If that scene seems familiar... It's a re-edited version of "Fuschia", which I posted over on Amaranth and Jasmine whenever it was I wrote it. Unfortunately, I think I had Meres in mind when I wrote it, because I'd originally made a reference to Azal in the thing. A few other minor changes were made this morning, but... it was really pretty. I wanted Azal to have a moment of comfort after all his recent trauma. (Especially as he has more coming, the poor dear.)
I'm not entirely confident it's properly in his voice, but I have more trouble with his voice than anyone else's. Meres - artistic commentary. Veri - whiny. Luce - devious and philosophical. Mephisto - daydreamy and theatrical. (I am still swooned from last night's chapter. I am so in love.) Adir - uh, a non-voice, largely. I still go back and forth as to whether he should get anything from his pov at all, but, I'm a bit attached to the contrast. Also, there's a scene I wrote him (or Nila, or Carey, I forget) for the original 2007 version, coming up soon I think, that had some elements I really, really liked. So, for now, he stays.
If that scene seems familiar... It's a re-edited version of "Fuschia", which I posted over on Amaranth and Jasmine whenever it was I wrote it. Unfortunately, I think I had Meres in mind when I wrote it, because I'd originally made a reference to Azal in the thing. A few other minor changes were made this morning, but... it was really pretty. I wanted Azal to have a moment of comfort after all his recent trauma. (Especially as he has more coming, the poor dear.)
I'm not entirely confident it's properly in his voice, but I have more trouble with his voice than anyone else's. Meres - artistic commentary. Veri - whiny. Luce - devious and philosophical. Mephisto - daydreamy and theatrical. (I am still swooned from last night's chapter. I am so in love.) Adir - uh, a non-voice, largely. I still go back and forth as to whether he should get anything from his pov at all, but, I'm a bit attached to the contrast. Also, there's a scene I wrote him (or Nila, or Carey, I forget) for the original 2007 version, coming up soon I think, that had some elements I really, really liked. So, for now, he stays.
13 - Azal, continued
Ah, my bella incantevole, how gracefully you dance! There is such fluidity and perfection to her every motion, each gesture refined and unhesitant. I had not thought to dally here in the hall, but I find I cannot help but do so, having once glimpsed her nymphean form. I lean now against the wall, half-hidden by the rich damask drapes, my eyes hopelessly ensnared by her visual eloquence. I am certain you do not see me - not only is there a good deal of distance between my third-story vantage and the garden you pirouette within, but my form can be only one more shadow among the shadows of this house. The morning sunlight is drawn all to you, the brightest blossom among so many others. The mist left by dawn's recent passage shimmers about you, as the silken scarves I first saw you in - but there is a chill yet in such latitude as this, and your lithe form is clad in more conventional dress. Yet I can see the flashes of your dark eyes from even this distance... though I will not have them meet mine.
I have tormented myself with the consequences of my - what, rescue of you? I hardly think it that, for I keep you here as a silent ornament, an animate statue. Yet if I did not, and did not keep you secluded, you should have been his instead of mine and he--- Oh but I may in the end do the same, as so often before! But there is something in your gaze, in the steady earthiness and the celestial purity, the richness of soul within those thousand shades of sable... I cannot let such eyes become tainted. I know that were you brought fully into our world, those eyes should become dim and jaded, your motions tired from a thousand late nights and too much wine, your body should grow thin and lusterless from too many demands upon it... No! I will not have it! I have done so to so many others, it is a tiresome form of decay... I will not bring it upon such a delicate flower as you.
I will not allow myself even to come close to you, never to speak to you, for I am certain the decay which consumes me should carry its blight to your flawless skin. And the sheen of your brightness should fall on my hands, and I would carry it into the shadows where the others would see it, and guess at what a virginal secret I keep from them, and then they should look and I do not doubt that they should find you! Ah darling, though your dance threads its golden paths through the thick bushes of honeysuckle, and you linger in the shade of the trellised roses, I know they should find you.
Your impossibly long hair flows in graceful swirls behind you, showing the invisible ripples you leave in the air as you pass, the dark strands a weightless shadow, echoing your every gesture. I know of no names for your sequences of motion, these are no studied poses, no mere repetition of lessons learned by rote. Each movement of pure beauty is an expression of untainted emotion, there are no missteps or ill-suited sweeps of your lithe limbs - there is no break between aesthetic intent and your body's response, so great is your talent. And ah, this morning your dance is of all the beauty surrounding you, it is the sparkling of the dew upon each untouched petal. You need no music performed to ease your artistry, for you find it in all around you, not only in the delicate bird songs but in the drops of white sunlight caught in the veins of leaves, refracted in every petal to shower you with a thousand colors and tones...
You raise one leg in a graceful arabesque behind you, leaning to pluck a scarlet lily from the flower bed, and as you rise you weave the blossom securely into your raven hair, just behind one ear. You pause a moment more, considering, as your slender fingers seek out the most flattering position for the flower. Your gaze drifts to the trellis nearby, and the moment the lily is adjusted to your satisfaction you make a sudden leap to the left, using the momentum to guide your body in a spin and another light leap, and as you turn about a circular space in sheer rapture of motion, your dark hand plucks a stem of fuchsias from a trellis, which you catch within your dazzling teeth and hold between your full lips as you fly through paths overhung with trumpet flowers.
I feel a sudden heat on my cheeks as my hand clutches my aching breast. Oh if only I could have you and not bring you to ruin! I cannot watch you more yet I cannot bear to take my eyes from you, I take solace in your momentary absence from view but I cannot bring myself to leave the window...
That this yearning could torment me so! To look upon such beauty, and possess it and yet not possess it, you are kept within these walls and yet I cannot touch you. Ah! it is so early in the day! If only the terrors of memory had not kept me from sleep. I have felt tired for endless days, and the whiteness of the morning light makes my head ache. I see a motion far below and look (far more eagerly than I should like to admit) for you---
But no, it is only the gardener, now making his rounds. I have not watched him at his work before. His hands are gnarled and dry, as twisted dead branches left on a desert floor - yet his rheumatic fingers caress each flower with the delicacy of silk upon freshly-bathed skin. He moves slowly from plant to plant, leaving me to wonder how he ever manages to traverse the grounds in their entirety. Yet it is clear that he does, and lends such tender devotion in every corner of the landscape. Truly, my gardens have never looked so lovely, so I will allow such apparent ugliness as the old man to remain. I must be sure to confirm Luce in his proclamations of the best ways to relegate a garden's care, for his suggestions were quite useful.
...but no, I ought to do no such thing, not carelessly, anyway. She must be well-hidden before any opt to visit my gardens again, to see the results for themselves. I ought to maintain her bounds more closely in any event, to know where she will be and at what time - but no again! To cage this exotic bird, to clip her glistening wings, to curb the freedom of her motions in such a way... Her poise would be spoiled, the moment she felt anything but unfettered---
Oh what nonsense is this! Never again will I rise so absurdly early as this, it puts my mind in such a preposterous state. To be so considerate of a lowly creature's comforts like this is obscenely beneath me. I shall return to my rooms and ring for some warm, soothing drink to be brought me, as I should have done the moment I---
But there is a sudden burst of scarlet and ebony, limned with teak and the sun's golden lace. Ah, she sings! I can hear you but faintly, my pet, though I would scarcely find sense in your strange and ancient tongue, molded by the primal ululations and untamed swoops through half-tones never named. Oh my desert nightingale, my elusive flash of shadow and radiance...
Your hands are now filled with a kaleidoscope of hues, a strange beauty in the haphazard arrangement of them. I was told at once of course, the first time you plucked flowers from my gardens - such trespass being forbidden to most. But I told the servants to let you take any cuttings that you seemed to desire. I could do nothing to curb your comeliness, my dear, and I am certain you miss the warm perfumes of your once-home. ..
So out-of-sorts am I, with the hour and these enchantments, that I do not notice the serving maid until she is nearly behind me. It would not do to have any see me in such a state as this. I hold myself motionless until she has reached me, and turn at the exact moment when doing so will bring her directly before me.
Instantly she halts and drops into a low courtesy, her delicately-featured face turned down."Is there anything you wish of me, Master?"
I have a momentary vision of my desert danseuse in the place of this girl, those words murmured in her low, sultry voice---
"Yes, in fact. Have a glass of something warm – a mulled wine, perhaps – brought to the atrium. Have... let me see. Have Serena sent to me there, and let it be known that I am not to be disturbed in any way after that."
"Certainly, Master." She pauses just a moment more - as all good servants do, in the event the master may have another task to give, as well as to maintain a sense of decorum. I wish my servants to be prompt, but never be seen running or rushing about in hasty disarray. It spoils the refinement of a place far sooner to have servants moving frantically to clean spilt wine, than to have a slight stain left in the carpet.
Once the girl is out of sight I turn again to the window - how could I do otherwise? But you have again left the range of my vision. You must have returned to your chambers (in a wing of the house distant from my own), to fill them with the thousand blossoms so blessed by your touch...
Oh I will have myself thus tormented no longer! I have no real need for any particular one such as you, little bird, you are no more than these other trinkets, scattered along the walls. You certainly can hold no control over my thoughts, and can always be replaced. I turn sharply from the window, and pace rapidly toward the atrium. It will be sunny there, with its domed glass roof, and the many flowers in bloom there will serve as a safer mirror of those wilder gardens. Serena is a lovely new acquisition, and her dark hair and dark eyes will rest my dazzled sight. I shall distract myself with whatever pleasures I might find in her, or have another sent to me, if I find she does not suit me. That will tire my anxious heart, and then I can sleep for a time. My body is merely restless from lying still so long, and needs exerted before it will relax. How ridiculous of me to have spent so long by the window! If it is beauty of form I desire, I have any number at my call to satisfy me, I need not remain in an open hall, chilled by the lonely expanse of air, and pained by the garish pallor of the morning light. There is a party being held by some associate of Luce's tonight, and there will be excellent entertainment I am certain. I should like to be well-rested, for such an outing is just what my troubled thoughts need. Companionship among my own sort, where I might talk and feel not weary, where I might rest in the comfort of so many shared centuries. Amidst our own company, we shall find some sort of peace to our troubled souls.
I have tormented myself with the consequences of my - what, rescue of you? I hardly think it that, for I keep you here as a silent ornament, an animate statue. Yet if I did not, and did not keep you secluded, you should have been his instead of mine and he--- Oh but I may in the end do the same, as so often before! But there is something in your gaze, in the steady earthiness and the celestial purity, the richness of soul within those thousand shades of sable... I cannot let such eyes become tainted. I know that were you brought fully into our world, those eyes should become dim and jaded, your motions tired from a thousand late nights and too much wine, your body should grow thin and lusterless from too many demands upon it... No! I will not have it! I have done so to so many others, it is a tiresome form of decay... I will not bring it upon such a delicate flower as you.
I will not allow myself even to come close to you, never to speak to you, for I am certain the decay which consumes me should carry its blight to your flawless skin. And the sheen of your brightness should fall on my hands, and I would carry it into the shadows where the others would see it, and guess at what a virginal secret I keep from them, and then they should look and I do not doubt that they should find you! Ah darling, though your dance threads its golden paths through the thick bushes of honeysuckle, and you linger in the shade of the trellised roses, I know they should find you.
Your impossibly long hair flows in graceful swirls behind you, showing the invisible ripples you leave in the air as you pass, the dark strands a weightless shadow, echoing your every gesture. I know of no names for your sequences of motion, these are no studied poses, no mere repetition of lessons learned by rote. Each movement of pure beauty is an expression of untainted emotion, there are no missteps or ill-suited sweeps of your lithe limbs - there is no break between aesthetic intent and your body's response, so great is your talent. And ah, this morning your dance is of all the beauty surrounding you, it is the sparkling of the dew upon each untouched petal. You need no music performed to ease your artistry, for you find it in all around you, not only in the delicate bird songs but in the drops of white sunlight caught in the veins of leaves, refracted in every petal to shower you with a thousand colors and tones...
You raise one leg in a graceful arabesque behind you, leaning to pluck a scarlet lily from the flower bed, and as you rise you weave the blossom securely into your raven hair, just behind one ear. You pause a moment more, considering, as your slender fingers seek out the most flattering position for the flower. Your gaze drifts to the trellis nearby, and the moment the lily is adjusted to your satisfaction you make a sudden leap to the left, using the momentum to guide your body in a spin and another light leap, and as you turn about a circular space in sheer rapture of motion, your dark hand plucks a stem of fuchsias from a trellis, which you catch within your dazzling teeth and hold between your full lips as you fly through paths overhung with trumpet flowers.
I feel a sudden heat on my cheeks as my hand clutches my aching breast. Oh if only I could have you and not bring you to ruin! I cannot watch you more yet I cannot bear to take my eyes from you, I take solace in your momentary absence from view but I cannot bring myself to leave the window...
That this yearning could torment me so! To look upon such beauty, and possess it and yet not possess it, you are kept within these walls and yet I cannot touch you. Ah! it is so early in the day! If only the terrors of memory had not kept me from sleep. I have felt tired for endless days, and the whiteness of the morning light makes my head ache. I see a motion far below and look (far more eagerly than I should like to admit) for you---
But no, it is only the gardener, now making his rounds. I have not watched him at his work before. His hands are gnarled and dry, as twisted dead branches left on a desert floor - yet his rheumatic fingers caress each flower with the delicacy of silk upon freshly-bathed skin. He moves slowly from plant to plant, leaving me to wonder how he ever manages to traverse the grounds in their entirety. Yet it is clear that he does, and lends such tender devotion in every corner of the landscape. Truly, my gardens have never looked so lovely, so I will allow such apparent ugliness as the old man to remain. I must be sure to confirm Luce in his proclamations of the best ways to relegate a garden's care, for his suggestions were quite useful.
...but no, I ought to do no such thing, not carelessly, anyway. She must be well-hidden before any opt to visit my gardens again, to see the results for themselves. I ought to maintain her bounds more closely in any event, to know where she will be and at what time - but no again! To cage this exotic bird, to clip her glistening wings, to curb the freedom of her motions in such a way... Her poise would be spoiled, the moment she felt anything but unfettered---
Oh what nonsense is this! Never again will I rise so absurdly early as this, it puts my mind in such a preposterous state. To be so considerate of a lowly creature's comforts like this is obscenely beneath me. I shall return to my rooms and ring for some warm, soothing drink to be brought me, as I should have done the moment I---
But there is a sudden burst of scarlet and ebony, limned with teak and the sun's golden lace. Ah, she sings! I can hear you but faintly, my pet, though I would scarcely find sense in your strange and ancient tongue, molded by the primal ululations and untamed swoops through half-tones never named. Oh my desert nightingale, my elusive flash of shadow and radiance...
Your hands are now filled with a kaleidoscope of hues, a strange beauty in the haphazard arrangement of them. I was told at once of course, the first time you plucked flowers from my gardens - such trespass being forbidden to most. But I told the servants to let you take any cuttings that you seemed to desire. I could do nothing to curb your comeliness, my dear, and I am certain you miss the warm perfumes of your once-home. ..
So out-of-sorts am I, with the hour and these enchantments, that I do not notice the serving maid until she is nearly behind me. It would not do to have any see me in such a state as this. I hold myself motionless until she has reached me, and turn at the exact moment when doing so will bring her directly before me.
Instantly she halts and drops into a low courtesy, her delicately-featured face turned down."Is there anything you wish of me, Master?"
I have a momentary vision of my desert danseuse in the place of this girl, those words murmured in her low, sultry voice---
"Yes, in fact. Have a glass of something warm – a mulled wine, perhaps – brought to the atrium. Have... let me see. Have Serena sent to me there, and let it be known that I am not to be disturbed in any way after that."
"Certainly, Master." She pauses just a moment more - as all good servants do, in the event the master may have another task to give, as well as to maintain a sense of decorum. I wish my servants to be prompt, but never be seen running or rushing about in hasty disarray. It spoils the refinement of a place far sooner to have servants moving frantically to clean spilt wine, than to have a slight stain left in the carpet.
Once the girl is out of sight I turn again to the window - how could I do otherwise? But you have again left the range of my vision. You must have returned to your chambers (in a wing of the house distant from my own), to fill them with the thousand blossoms so blessed by your touch...
Oh I will have myself thus tormented no longer! I have no real need for any particular one such as you, little bird, you are no more than these other trinkets, scattered along the walls. You certainly can hold no control over my thoughts, and can always be replaced. I turn sharply from the window, and pace rapidly toward the atrium. It will be sunny there, with its domed glass roof, and the many flowers in bloom there will serve as a safer mirror of those wilder gardens. Serena is a lovely new acquisition, and her dark hair and dark eyes will rest my dazzled sight. I shall distract myself with whatever pleasures I might find in her, or have another sent to me, if I find she does not suit me. That will tire my anxious heart, and then I can sleep for a time. My body is merely restless from lying still so long, and needs exerted before it will relax. How ridiculous of me to have spent so long by the window! If it is beauty of form I desire, I have any number at my call to satisfy me, I need not remain in an open hall, chilled by the lonely expanse of air, and pained by the garish pallor of the morning light. There is a party being held by some associate of Luce's tonight, and there will be excellent entertainment I am certain. I should like to be well-rested, for such an outing is just what my troubled thoughts need. Companionship among my own sort, where I might talk and feel not weary, where I might rest in the comfort of so many shared centuries. Amidst our own company, we shall find some sort of peace to our troubled souls.
13 - Azal
I cannot sleep. Yet I cannot allow myself the luxury of consciousness, for borne upon its back is memory, and memory, I have not the strength for. My body, exhausted and pained as it is, refuses to be at rest. My eyes will not close, my muscles will not relax. My palms will grow scarred from the times my nails have made them bleed this night, these nights, this abhorrent stretch of nameless time...
My usual escapes seem useless, their effectiveness worn thin by repetition. Smoke is too nebulous a haze to obscure my senses. Alcohol only amplifies the emotions that rack my tired body. There are drugs I might inhale, drugs I might let mix with my overheated blood, but they are all so fleeting... I have cultivated every plant that mystics have held dear through all the long years, yet their powers are too weak for agony such as this.
My soul is too heavy within me, I cannot stand, I cannot move. I lie here alone, for I do not have the strength to communicate with any other. I have had girls brought to me, that they might attend me, but they scarcely hold my interest long enough to make the effort worthwhile. Their most novel ideas are rarely new to me.
Oh.... if only it had worked! I see now why it failed, and failed so badly, I was too drunk, and overconfident in my command of languages I had not worked in centuries. It was not so much having used the wrong materials – which, in my desperation, I did – but the wrong... the wrong logic, basing my words on the wrong premises. The words were wrought into the right forms, but their core meaning, the structure on which they were built, was faulty, the reasoning flawed. In my alcoholic haze, I did not think in the manner of those spirits on which I called. I offended them, and followed these offenses with rationale they were incapable of understanding. No wonder at all then, that they should throw my demands back in my face! Oh... how could I have been so foolish. I felt so desperate...
And I feel no less desperate now, but there is no heat left to the emotion, all has grown cold. I pull the blankets tightly around me, and move to sit up, my back supported by thick pillows. The first chill light of morning is seeping through the curtains, and I feel so tired at the sight of it... There is nothing worse than daylight that follows a night incapable of sleep, its chill rays burning defeat into one's heart, showing all chances for that blissful escape gone.
Meres has his art, Veri has Meres, Mephisto has music, Luce has... society at large, I suppose, his puppets. Adir and Nila have their social circles, as do many others, and they somehow find it distraction enough... All have their escapes but me. I should not have come back here, I should have remained in the deserts, where the air is dry and clear, free of this rain and smoke, where my thoughts do not become so heavy in the thick atmosphere. I should return there... but, perhaps, not yet. It is terribly weak to think of it, but I cannot ignore the loneliness that I felt, so far from all the rest. There... there are so few of us left, in these late days. Others must yet linger on in the world, but they have found forgetfulness, or gone mad, or refuse memory, or hidden away in absolute solitude, or... None of those options sound at all plausible, even in my own muddled mind. I do not know where they have gone, only that they will not return to tell us. Adir, Nila, I feel shall leave us soon, as Carey and many others. They are too near the common level, they are able to let themselves believe that they are no more than the simple humans they associate with. I wonder how long that façade will remain intact?
I lean toward the bedside, where a tray has been left for me. I pour a cup of tea – some dark spicy blend, perhaps a chai of India. The cinnamon warms my breath, the ginger soothes my knotted stomach, the cardamom brings an odd comfort in its bitter semblance of sweetness. I sip it slowly, letting my gaze fall unfocused, breathing into the delicate china cup, that the steam will billow up into my face, soothing my sore temples, my aching eyes.
I set the empty cup on the tray, and take a few long, deep breaths. I cannot remain here another day, I am so weary of this room, of the softness of this bed. It takes a great effort, and my back flares into flame, but I pull my legs over the side of the bed, and, holding tight to a bedpost, carefully stand. My legs quiver a moment, having spent such time without taking weight, but I stand nonetheless...
I stand, and do not let my eyes cross the room, that I might catch sight of my reflection. I know already how like a cripple I seem, how frail and fragile, like an old, old man, whose body is long past any usefulness. My back is still badly torn, looking like that of a soldier on the field who no medic would bother to touch, knowing any effort would be a wasted one. But still, I stand, useless and beyond hope, and still here... still here.
I move to the window, and part the gauzy curtains, that I might look out into the gardens below. I am caught off-guard by how lovely it looks in the morning light. The sunlight is still cool, casting a soft gray light, which is caught in the pockets of fog still lingering in lower places. It is as though a photograph has been laid out beneath my window, everything caught in a perfect stillness, even the color made motionless by contact with silver and... and strange chemicals, I do not recall what they are. It feels as though the fog has seeped through my skin and into my mind, for I cannot seem to clear it. I pour myself another cup of tea, and gaze out the window, watching for some motion to hold my attention. A few birds flit about, but they are too distant, and their motions are so fitful that they are hardly a joy to watch. Such a pathetic imitation of flight, so brief and low in the air, with such spastic motion of the wings, it should hardly be called by the same word as we used...
My eyes search the grounds desperately for something else.
Several young men move into view, carrying rakes and pruning shears, and though I cannot hear their voices through the closed glass, I can see they laugh and jest together. There is a playful push, a punch lightly thrown, and their motions are light and careless. The group soon disperses, and each sets to work with his task, manicuring my grounds with the greatest care. I do not see the old gardener who is in charge of their work, but I am certain he has given them instruction – young men are rarely capable of noticing a branch half a centimeter out of line with its brethren, or seeing the leaves of a weed creeping in among a jasmine vine. Yet I have had little complaint with the quality of my gardens of late, though I was away from them so long, and they were only rarely visited by others.
My cup is again empty, and I set the rapidly cooling china back on the tray. The room feels suddenly small, after such a wide landscape before my eyes. I move slowly still, but restlessness drives my tired body into motion, and I put on a fresh dressing gown and silk slippers. I rinse my face in cool water, and comb my hair smooth again. Already, I feel a little refreshed, my body finding some relief in a change of physical state. My face in the mirror still holds a great weariness, but it is presentable enough otherwise. The long silk jacket covers all scars, and lies coolly against them.
I move out of the room, leaving the heavy mahogany door open behind me – this is a signal for the servants to straighten the room, refresh the blankets and such. I need no longer communicate such things verbally – word is passed along, from one generation to the next, and my households run entirely by themselves, by habit, tradition, and what becomes cultural memory. There is no need to bother myself about small details of their management, for that is the whole reason one bothers to retain servants.
Slowly, I walk down the hallway, unsure of my destination but glad to be free of the confines of my bedchambers. I wonder how long it has been? Certainly no more than a few days, perhaps a week. Meres remained with me for some little while, though I suspect it was less in compassion, than simply to ensure that I did not attempt anything still more reckless in my weakened state. It was an unexpected kindness, however, and I suppose I ought to find some way to acknowledge it. Some other day, I am yet weary...
The walls of the high-ceilinged hall are painted a warm scarlet, the trim around them ochers and golds. All along them, on small tables and staggered shelves, are trinkets of my endless travels. There are delicately painted vases from the Orient, eerie masks from Africa and the New World, small remnants from the ruins of cities which long ago fell dead in the world, idols and arcane tools. Strange instruments of music and medicine, vessels from the treasure hordes of kings of old, intricate and frivolous little devices of gears and clockwork. I pause before a few of them, letting the cool weight of onyx soothe my burning palm, resting a cheek against smooth marble, losing my gaze in the distorted reflections of beaten gold. But these things are old comforts, and so bring me little help, their sensations felt a thousand times.
I reach a tall window, and pause in the space between its rich crimson curtains, to look out over the garden again. The little time which has passed has brought a great change in their appearance, so changed is the light. It has warmed now, the sun just breaking over the rim of the world, and the silver is slowly turning to pale gold, tangling in the last shreds of morning mist.
Motion catches my eye, and--- oh! My heart rises in delight to see such beauty, for the girl – oh what is her name? I cannot recall. But she has always brought fuchsias to mind, the delicate double-blossoms invoked by the swirl of silken scarves she once shrouded herself in, the poise with which the curving stems hold the elaborate blossoms suspended in air revealed in her every graceful motion.
My usual escapes seem useless, their effectiveness worn thin by repetition. Smoke is too nebulous a haze to obscure my senses. Alcohol only amplifies the emotions that rack my tired body. There are drugs I might inhale, drugs I might let mix with my overheated blood, but they are all so fleeting... I have cultivated every plant that mystics have held dear through all the long years, yet their powers are too weak for agony such as this.
My soul is too heavy within me, I cannot stand, I cannot move. I lie here alone, for I do not have the strength to communicate with any other. I have had girls brought to me, that they might attend me, but they scarcely hold my interest long enough to make the effort worthwhile. Their most novel ideas are rarely new to me.
Oh.... if only it had worked! I see now why it failed, and failed so badly, I was too drunk, and overconfident in my command of languages I had not worked in centuries. It was not so much having used the wrong materials – which, in my desperation, I did – but the wrong... the wrong logic, basing my words on the wrong premises. The words were wrought into the right forms, but their core meaning, the structure on which they were built, was faulty, the reasoning flawed. In my alcoholic haze, I did not think in the manner of those spirits on which I called. I offended them, and followed these offenses with rationale they were incapable of understanding. No wonder at all then, that they should throw my demands back in my face! Oh... how could I have been so foolish. I felt so desperate...
And I feel no less desperate now, but there is no heat left to the emotion, all has grown cold. I pull the blankets tightly around me, and move to sit up, my back supported by thick pillows. The first chill light of morning is seeping through the curtains, and I feel so tired at the sight of it... There is nothing worse than daylight that follows a night incapable of sleep, its chill rays burning defeat into one's heart, showing all chances for that blissful escape gone.
Meres has his art, Veri has Meres, Mephisto has music, Luce has... society at large, I suppose, his puppets. Adir and Nila have their social circles, as do many others, and they somehow find it distraction enough... All have their escapes but me. I should not have come back here, I should have remained in the deserts, where the air is dry and clear, free of this rain and smoke, where my thoughts do not become so heavy in the thick atmosphere. I should return there... but, perhaps, not yet. It is terribly weak to think of it, but I cannot ignore the loneliness that I felt, so far from all the rest. There... there are so few of us left, in these late days. Others must yet linger on in the world, but they have found forgetfulness, or gone mad, or refuse memory, or hidden away in absolute solitude, or... None of those options sound at all plausible, even in my own muddled mind. I do not know where they have gone, only that they will not return to tell us. Adir, Nila, I feel shall leave us soon, as Carey and many others. They are too near the common level, they are able to let themselves believe that they are no more than the simple humans they associate with. I wonder how long that façade will remain intact?
I lean toward the bedside, where a tray has been left for me. I pour a cup of tea – some dark spicy blend, perhaps a chai of India. The cinnamon warms my breath, the ginger soothes my knotted stomach, the cardamom brings an odd comfort in its bitter semblance of sweetness. I sip it slowly, letting my gaze fall unfocused, breathing into the delicate china cup, that the steam will billow up into my face, soothing my sore temples, my aching eyes.
I set the empty cup on the tray, and take a few long, deep breaths. I cannot remain here another day, I am so weary of this room, of the softness of this bed. It takes a great effort, and my back flares into flame, but I pull my legs over the side of the bed, and, holding tight to a bedpost, carefully stand. My legs quiver a moment, having spent such time without taking weight, but I stand nonetheless...
I stand, and do not let my eyes cross the room, that I might catch sight of my reflection. I know already how like a cripple I seem, how frail and fragile, like an old, old man, whose body is long past any usefulness. My back is still badly torn, looking like that of a soldier on the field who no medic would bother to touch, knowing any effort would be a wasted one. But still, I stand, useless and beyond hope, and still here... still here.
I move to the window, and part the gauzy curtains, that I might look out into the gardens below. I am caught off-guard by how lovely it looks in the morning light. The sunlight is still cool, casting a soft gray light, which is caught in the pockets of fog still lingering in lower places. It is as though a photograph has been laid out beneath my window, everything caught in a perfect stillness, even the color made motionless by contact with silver and... and strange chemicals, I do not recall what they are. It feels as though the fog has seeped through my skin and into my mind, for I cannot seem to clear it. I pour myself another cup of tea, and gaze out the window, watching for some motion to hold my attention. A few birds flit about, but they are too distant, and their motions are so fitful that they are hardly a joy to watch. Such a pathetic imitation of flight, so brief and low in the air, with such spastic motion of the wings, it should hardly be called by the same word as we used...
My eyes search the grounds desperately for something else.
Several young men move into view, carrying rakes and pruning shears, and though I cannot hear their voices through the closed glass, I can see they laugh and jest together. There is a playful push, a punch lightly thrown, and their motions are light and careless. The group soon disperses, and each sets to work with his task, manicuring my grounds with the greatest care. I do not see the old gardener who is in charge of their work, but I am certain he has given them instruction – young men are rarely capable of noticing a branch half a centimeter out of line with its brethren, or seeing the leaves of a weed creeping in among a jasmine vine. Yet I have had little complaint with the quality of my gardens of late, though I was away from them so long, and they were only rarely visited by others.
My cup is again empty, and I set the rapidly cooling china back on the tray. The room feels suddenly small, after such a wide landscape before my eyes. I move slowly still, but restlessness drives my tired body into motion, and I put on a fresh dressing gown and silk slippers. I rinse my face in cool water, and comb my hair smooth again. Already, I feel a little refreshed, my body finding some relief in a change of physical state. My face in the mirror still holds a great weariness, but it is presentable enough otherwise. The long silk jacket covers all scars, and lies coolly against them.
I move out of the room, leaving the heavy mahogany door open behind me – this is a signal for the servants to straighten the room, refresh the blankets and such. I need no longer communicate such things verbally – word is passed along, from one generation to the next, and my households run entirely by themselves, by habit, tradition, and what becomes cultural memory. There is no need to bother myself about small details of their management, for that is the whole reason one bothers to retain servants.
Slowly, I walk down the hallway, unsure of my destination but glad to be free of the confines of my bedchambers. I wonder how long it has been? Certainly no more than a few days, perhaps a week. Meres remained with me for some little while, though I suspect it was less in compassion, than simply to ensure that I did not attempt anything still more reckless in my weakened state. It was an unexpected kindness, however, and I suppose I ought to find some way to acknowledge it. Some other day, I am yet weary...
The walls of the high-ceilinged hall are painted a warm scarlet, the trim around them ochers and golds. All along them, on small tables and staggered shelves, are trinkets of my endless travels. There are delicately painted vases from the Orient, eerie masks from Africa and the New World, small remnants from the ruins of cities which long ago fell dead in the world, idols and arcane tools. Strange instruments of music and medicine, vessels from the treasure hordes of kings of old, intricate and frivolous little devices of gears and clockwork. I pause before a few of them, letting the cool weight of onyx soothe my burning palm, resting a cheek against smooth marble, losing my gaze in the distorted reflections of beaten gold. But these things are old comforts, and so bring me little help, their sensations felt a thousand times.
I reach a tall window, and pause in the space between its rich crimson curtains, to look out over the garden again. The little time which has passed has brought a great change in their appearance, so changed is the light. It has warmed now, the sun just breaking over the rim of the world, and the silver is slowly turning to pale gold, tangling in the last shreds of morning mist.
Motion catches my eye, and--- oh! My heart rises in delight to see such beauty, for the girl – oh what is her name? I cannot recall. But she has always brought fuchsias to mind, the delicate double-blossoms invoked by the swirl of silken scarves she once shrouded herself in, the poise with which the curving stems hold the elaborate blossoms suspended in air revealed in her every graceful motion.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Music and translation notes
So, the song in French is possibly a little late - the site that posted it dated the recording between 1898 and 1900. But the opera it's from was 1888, so, plausible. And the words were just far, far too lovely to not use it!
I do not know French. Like at all. But GoogleTranslate gave me this, which provides a clear enough sense of the thing:
Jocelyn's Lullaby
Hidden in the asylum where God has led us
United by misfortune during the long nights
We rely both asleep in their sails
Where to pray against the trembling stars.
Oh! does not wakes
For a beautiful angel in your dream
Unrolling his long golden thread
Child, allowing it ends.
Sleep, sleep, the day just to him.
Blessed Virgin Mary, watch over him.
I swear to you all, I did NOT even make the connection between the title and my character, not until I wrote the song into the story and decided to mention the name of the song. Suddenly I realized I HAVE A CHARACTER NAMED JOCELYN AND OMFGWTFH SHE GAVE THE RECORDING TO MACKIE. It almost (almost) made me not want to use it anymore, but by then a) it was too late, b) I was too freaking attached to the song. Follow the link, and you can listen to it too. :) Quite a bit of static, of course - the recording is over a hundred years old, and on a thing made out of freaking wax, but.. honestly, that just makes it all the more amazing to me.
I did some writing this morning, a bit more in the afternoon, and then finished up just now. And I am in such a state of sheer bliss - I crossed the halfway point without even noticing it! And, more importantly... I felt like I really fell into the world of the story tonight. I was so caught up in Mephisto and David... and it was partly the music I had cranked on my headphones (Mackie playlist, natch), and partly the absinthe I was sipping (yay!), but...
Those moments, those are the reasons I've kept on doing this year after year. It's those moments, that artists live for, when another world just blossoms almost unbidden under your fingertips...
(I hadn't even thought of the implications when I picked out David's song: Link to sheet music, Googled for the missing verse. I just saw that it was pretty and a bit fantastic, I didn't even realize at first it was to be sung by a woman originally. And then he sang, and... and then everything got really, really beautiful. <333)
I do not know French. Like at all. But GoogleTranslate gave me this, which provides a clear enough sense of the thing:
Jocelyn's Lullaby
Hidden in the asylum where God has led us
United by misfortune during the long nights
We rely both asleep in their sails
Where to pray against the trembling stars.
Oh! does not wakes
For a beautiful angel in your dream
Unrolling his long golden thread
Child, allowing it ends.
Sleep, sleep, the day just to him.
Blessed Virgin Mary, watch over him.
I swear to you all, I did NOT even make the connection between the title and my character, not until I wrote the song into the story and decided to mention the name of the song. Suddenly I realized I HAVE A CHARACTER NAMED JOCELYN AND OMFGWTFH SHE GAVE THE RECORDING TO MACKIE. It almost (almost) made me not want to use it anymore, but by then a) it was too late, b) I was too freaking attached to the song. Follow the link, and you can listen to it too. :) Quite a bit of static, of course - the recording is over a hundred years old, and on a thing made out of freaking wax, but.. honestly, that just makes it all the more amazing to me.
I did some writing this morning, a bit more in the afternoon, and then finished up just now. And I am in such a state of sheer bliss - I crossed the halfway point without even noticing it! And, more importantly... I felt like I really fell into the world of the story tonight. I was so caught up in Mephisto and David... and it was partly the music I had cranked on my headphones (Mackie playlist, natch), and partly the absinthe I was sipping (yay!), but...
Those moments, those are the reasons I've kept on doing this year after year. It's those moments, that artists live for, when another world just blossoms almost unbidden under your fingertips...
(I hadn't even thought of the implications when I picked out David's song: Link to sheet music, Googled for the missing verse. I just saw that it was pretty and a bit fantastic, I didn't even realize at first it was to be sung by a woman originally. And then he sang, and... and then everything got really, really beautiful. <333)
12 - Mephisto, continued
The drive seems to take an age. David chatters lightly about meaningless things, and I listen and do not listen as the mood suits. He does not seem to mind either way – he is such an easygoing boy, so happy to be simply allowed in my presence. And I... I find it so strange, that such a lighthearted soul can exist in such a world as this. Whether he is incapable of seeing things that would bring him sorrow, or simply disregards them, I do not know. But it seems nothing in this cold world will dissipate the sunlit atmosphere around him.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
History of Recorded Music
Aaaand I just spent nearly two hours pouring over phonograph history. I had a hunch records weren't around in the late 1800s (not even the giant breakable shellac ones). I remembered seeing cylinders put into a phonograph-like thing in "An American Tale". That was all.
Thanks to Wikipedia, I now have the entire early history of sound recording lodged in my brain:
The phonautograph - earliest sound recorder, but was NOT intended for playback. Just took down the waveforms, essentially. Two years ago someone finally figured out how to reproduce the sound, and thanks to FirstSounds.org, I got to listen to a scientist singing in 1860s - a scrap of music that went completely unheard, and unlistenable, for over 150 years. Really, really haunting.
But obviously, that is not what my characters would have had on hand. Cylinders (which could both record and play back) showed up around the 1870s, so that's plausible. I spent awhile over on Tinfoil.com, which has A FREAKING TON of recordings from old cylinders - there are select recordings from the 1890s onward posted, and you can purchase cds (and in my case, listen to samples) of things from cylinders going back to the 1880s. Peeeerfect.
Only, Edison used tinfoil-covered cylinders first. A couple years later, wax ones came along, which had much better sound and were easier to handle. So, I need to decide which I'm going with - this feels like a HUGE decision to make, as it basically decides whether my story takes place after 1886 (wax cylinders patented).
...this, of course, is not something that aaanyone would nitpick me on. I don't think anachronisms within a couple of years count for much, when the setting is over a hundred years ago.
Still, I'm oddly fascinated by this stuff. I went through about half of Rene Rondeau's amazing site filled with pictures and descriptions of the early machines. (A talking doll from 1890?! With a tiny little wax cylinder player in her chest! I am all kinds of delightfully terrified by this thing.) While most of the recordings on Tinfoil.com are very static (wax cylinders wore down after about a dozen plays, plus mold and age do not play nicely with them), there's a video embedded on Rene Rondeau's site, that shows a recent demonstration of a tinfoil cylinder. Sound quality? Is *really*, really impressive, especially for music. So impressive, that I think Mackie is going to get one. Well, maybe a wax one - I suspect Mackie is going to be the very first audiophile. XD lmfao.
...and, there, wiki's article on phonograph cylinders: commercial ones would play about 2 minutes of music. That's what I was looking for. (Descriptions of gorgeous tinfoil machines like this one - which I am insanely in love with - mention things like "could only record 50-60 words". Not quite enough to work with.) Tough to find pictures of machines from before 1900, and apparently the material the earliest wax cylinders were made of...uh, didn't survive well. Many fogged during the summer due to high heat, and inconsistent ingredient formulations were an issue. (The tinfoil ones can't be played back anymore at all. That's so sad.)
The cardboard tubes the cylinders were packaged in? Just gave company name, artist info was hand-written on them. No marking on the cylinders themselves at all - though an announcer often gave that info at the start of the recording. To hold one properly, you should stick your fingers inside the cylinder at either end, not touching the wax part. (This, on further thought, makes an awful lot of sense. You could buy attachments to shave flat - and thus erase - recorded cylinders.) Such odd little details, things you'd never think of questioning...
Also - I suspect that, come editing time (and/or desperate-for-wordcount-time), I am going to make some serious, serious use of this stunning collection of old sheet music. What a truly amazing resource, I cannot WAIT to dive into it!
...but I should probably remedy my word count first. Worked early yesterday, so only had time to put in about 700 words in the morning, and when I got home, there was a football game to watch with Tom, and then we decided to have a nice lil evening. (Didn't post on here yesterday - backdated it when posted today.) Poor lil word count.
One last link: piano recording, no date, though I'd guess late 1880s-early 1890s, since it's a white cylinder of a metal soap, which was tried shortly after wax ones came on the market.
Thanks to Wikipedia, I now have the entire early history of sound recording lodged in my brain:
The phonautograph - earliest sound recorder, but was NOT intended for playback. Just took down the waveforms, essentially. Two years ago someone finally figured out how to reproduce the sound, and thanks to FirstSounds.org, I got to listen to a scientist singing in 1860s - a scrap of music that went completely unheard, and unlistenable, for over 150 years. Really, really haunting.
But obviously, that is not what my characters would have had on hand. Cylinders (which could both record and play back) showed up around the 1870s, so that's plausible. I spent awhile over on Tinfoil.com, which has A FREAKING TON of recordings from old cylinders - there are select recordings from the 1890s onward posted, and you can purchase cds (and in my case, listen to samples) of things from cylinders going back to the 1880s. Peeeerfect.
Only, Edison used tinfoil-covered cylinders first. A couple years later, wax ones came along, which had much better sound and were easier to handle. So, I need to decide which I'm going with - this feels like a HUGE decision to make, as it basically decides whether my story takes place after 1886 (wax cylinders patented).
...this, of course, is not something that aaanyone would nitpick me on. I don't think anachronisms within a couple of years count for much, when the setting is over a hundred years ago.
Still, I'm oddly fascinated by this stuff. I went through about half of Rene Rondeau's amazing site filled with pictures and descriptions of the early machines. (A talking doll from 1890?! With a tiny little wax cylinder player in her chest! I am all kinds of delightfully terrified by this thing.) While most of the recordings on Tinfoil.com are very static (wax cylinders wore down after about a dozen plays, plus mold and age do not play nicely with them), there's a video embedded on Rene Rondeau's site, that shows a recent demonstration of a tinfoil cylinder. Sound quality? Is *really*, really impressive, especially for music. So impressive, that I think Mackie is going to get one. Well, maybe a wax one - I suspect Mackie is going to be the very first audiophile. XD lmfao.
...and, there, wiki's article on phonograph cylinders: commercial ones would play about 2 minutes of music. That's what I was looking for. (Descriptions of gorgeous tinfoil machines like this one - which I am insanely in love with - mention things like "could only record 50-60 words". Not quite enough to work with.) Tough to find pictures of machines from before 1900, and apparently the material the earliest wax cylinders were made of...uh, didn't survive well. Many fogged during the summer due to high heat, and inconsistent ingredient formulations were an issue. (The tinfoil ones can't be played back anymore at all. That's so sad.)
The cardboard tubes the cylinders were packaged in? Just gave company name, artist info was hand-written on them. No marking on the cylinders themselves at all - though an announcer often gave that info at the start of the recording. To hold one properly, you should stick your fingers inside the cylinder at either end, not touching the wax part. (This, on further thought, makes an awful lot of sense. You could buy attachments to shave flat - and thus erase - recorded cylinders.) Such odd little details, things you'd never think of questioning...
Also - I suspect that, come editing time (and/or desperate-for-wordcount-time), I am going to make some serious, serious use of this stunning collection of old sheet music. What a truly amazing resource, I cannot WAIT to dive into it!
...but I should probably remedy my word count first. Worked early yesterday, so only had time to put in about 700 words in the morning, and when I got home, there was a football game to watch with Tom, and then we decided to have a nice lil evening. (Didn't post on here yesterday - backdated it when posted today.) Poor lil word count.
One last link: piano recording, no date, though I'd guess late 1880s-early 1890s, since it's a white cylinder of a metal soap, which was tried shortly after wax ones came on the market.
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