The story I'm working on is still the one that is set in the time of Bloody Mary, and based on a fairy tale (namely The Beauty and the Beast). I find the original fairy tale disturbing in parts, but intriguing. The moral of the tale is essentially lost on me, though. I'm willing to disregard the riches and titles of people, and I think I'm not picky about appearances, but I don't think I'd want to marry anyone, even if he were a paragon of virtue, if the rest of his personality isn't attractive or interesting (or both). The original French tale emphasized that the prince was not only enchanted so that his outer appearance was ugly, but also commanded not to let his wit ("esprit") appear in his conversation. Admittedly it is quite touching when, in the garb of the beast, he remarks mournfully that he has no wit; La Belle wisely answers that he who says that he is witless cannot be entirely so. I suppose that the point is that wit is most admirable if it is informed by a good heart and a modest soul; it cannot stand on its own. (By the way, I think it would be nice if "esprit" and refinement became fashionable virtues again.)
Anyway, in my version of the story, the heroine is Margaret, the daughter of a merchant (like in the fairy tale). She is well-educated because, as a child, she lived with a comparatively learned aunt. But when the story begins, she has returned to live with her father, two sisters, and two brothers. The brothers are away at sea as much as possible, and the unpleasant sisters rule the roost, while Margaret and the housekeeper do the actual work, and while their merchant father struggles with the finances. The mother died in childbirth.
One day the merchant receives bad news about his ships. He travels to London to sort things out. There he falls ill, and Margaret must go to him (dressed as a man and accompanied by the family dog Achates for safety). On the way back, as they are passing through a forest, it is stormy, one of the horses bolts, and they get lost until they find a mansion surrounded by a high wall. There seems to be no one at home, and they trespass. The owner of the mansion is, however, very much present. He catches them red-handed, and, because he has enemies who would do him harm if they heard of his whereabouts, he harshly orders them to stay in his house indefinitely so that they can't betray him. In the morning Margaret explains that the father must go back home, because he is the breadwinner of the family and her two sisters are dependent on him. The owner of the mansion, the younger son of a Sir Armitage, agrees to let the father go (with two chests of silver and gold), but keeps Margaret as a guarantee of secrecy.
Fortunately the owner is a principled soul, and there is an old housekeeper to act as chaperone. At any rate, Master Armitage is much embittered by the betrayals of friends and family; he is at loggerheads with his parents and his elder brother, has few friends, and confides only in his aunt (to whom the mansion belongs). He is also not used to being confined to the countryside, and besides growing an ogreish beard as a disguise, he grows a rough and unpleasant manner. He regards Margaret with suspicion (though she does seem trustworthy), though this does not prevent him from making the library and music room available to her. The story at this point is decidedly unromantic, and I'm glad to have it so. The heroine passes her days with books and the lute, and in the garden, and, though she feels homesick, rather likes the feeling of temporarily having no responsibility for anyone else, and of finally being able to satisfy her thirst for knowledge and music.
Anyway, after some two weeks, a supposed friend alerts (by pigeon post) Armitage -- who is an influential Protestant -- that Queen Mary's adherents are onto him. And, within an hour (yes, I know: quite some coincidence), soldiers come tearing down the gate. Armitage, Margaret, and the two servants escape by means of an underground passage. The existence of this passage has been betrayed, too, but fortunately there is another connecting passage whose existence was previously known to no one except the lord of the manor. So the four of them escape out into the forest, and then must spend an uncomfortable night in a cave carved into the bank of a ravine, before journeying further.
That's as far as I've gotten. I add to the story every evening, and a little during the day. The ending will be the predictable one -- they marry and live happily ever after -- but everything else that will happen in between is still a mystery to me. The literary, historical, and intellectual value of the tale are low, and the dialogue is in eighteenth-century language at the earliest (I plan to make it properly sixteenth-century with the assistance of Shakespeare later), but it's great fun to write. I usually find it difficult to think up plots and to keep the momentum going, so this is a nice exception for me. Above all, I hope that the story will end up not being typically romantic. I think much of Plato's (or Pausanius's, I suppose) ideas on the subject of love:
"[. . .] The common or vulgar lover [is] in love with the body rather than the soul; he is not constant because what he loves is not constant; as soon as the flower of physical beauty, which is what he loves, begins to fade, he is gone 'even as a dream,' and all his professions and promises are as nothing. But the lover of a noble nature remains its lover for life, because the thing to which he cleaves is constant."*Shakespeare's Sonnet CXVI works too (though I find it a little hyperbolical):
Let me not the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
I never write, nor no man ever lov'd.**
On the other hand I am sure that I am fairly indifferent to appearances because my own appearance is hardly smashing, not because of any high-mindedness. I suppose that one could "cheat" with make-up, but (though I am by no means a Puritan) I think that if I did wear make-up I would feel like a painted woman of ill repute. That's how I felt when my friends tried out eye glitter on me in Grade 8 . . . I don't like the idea of presenting a pretty face to the world and then look like a comparative hag if I happen not to be wearing it. And I don't like being focused on my appearance. The virtues of showering and of having a nice skin I fully understand, but I'm sure that lipstick and rouge and so on don't suit my personality. In Canada I was basically the only girl not to wear make-up in my high school, which I didn't mind so much, but it does feel nicer to live somewhere where more people also see it as a marginal issue.
I suppose I could exercise more so that I am no longer plump, too, but I also don't see weight as such an important matter unless I am unhealthy -- besides, thinking about my figure has always been counterproductive. If other people just think about that, then I think they're not being particularly sensible. And, even though I'm weak where many other things are concerned, I am strong-minded where this is concerned.
At any rate, I did write another blog post today, but then I deleted it because I was ashamed of it. Today was another one of those days where I doubt that I am going anywhere, and doubt that I ever will. But I seek consolation where I can. I don't know if it's true, but in an online novel (of all places!) I found the saying that "If you can't see the way ahead, it means that you're about to turn a corner." Using this metaphor, I certainly hope I am about to turn a corner, because it would certainly be difficult to see the way ahead less well. There is university, though.
* From The Symposium, trans. by Walter Hamilton
** From The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, W.J. Craig, Ed., Clarendon Press
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment