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impertinences) wrote2022-07-25 03:51 pm
impertinences) wrote2022-07-25 03:51 pm
Entry tags:
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Second writing session response! Feeling pretty good about the nice cut-and-dry, somehow miraculously-completed work from today, even if it's so sweet that you're likely to get a toothache from reading. Tread carefully.
--
“In your mouth,
I want to be laid to sleep.”
– Martina Werner, tr. by Rosemarie Waldrop, from “Monogram 23”
The poetry had been his idea.
In truth, all of the reading had been his idea.
Abigail had said yes, of course, because he was the prince but also because she had wanted to prove something to herself even if she was initially embarrassed. Some of the words had felt funny in her mouth at first, and it was difficult to remember which shapes created which sounds. She’d had to explain, too, how she’d learned her letters a little as a girl until her father deemed it inappropriate, and then she’d spent her days with needle and thread or learning how to ride the gentle mares in their stables or practicing dance and art. The lessons had made her well-suited for court life, but she’d never learned to silence the curious part of her soul, the part that gave voice to her questions and longing, that asked for stories from the eligible courtiers, that rang with wonderment.
Gerhard had told her, later, that this had been what had first attracted him to her, and a small part of her had felt seen then, appreciated.
(It is not what will attract Renan. He will not see her for her intellect but for something else entirely. He will not need her questions or her curiosity, and he does not care for poetry.)
Now, that part inside of her has grown like a sapling, and she looks forward to their lessons together. He always has her start with a new poem.
“Would I were … s-steadfast … as thou art,” Abigail says haltingly and in a half-whisper, “not in lone splendor hung a-aloft in the night…” Her eyes are at the end of the tip of her finger as it trails a line of writing from the book open in her lap. It’s a small leather-bound collection of poetry, the pages crinkled from time, the edges gilded. She had admired its beauty before she knew how to admire the words within it, and the struggle of learning to read the small type had diminished her appreciation some, even if it had amused Gerhard.
“And watching, with eternal lids apart, like Nature’s patient sleepless Er-erri-era–”
“Eremite,” Gerhard says, without judgment.
“Eremite,” Abigail repeats, forming the word carefully. She looks down at him, his body sprawled easily atop the duvet they’d spread in the garden, his head nestled close to her hip.
“A recluse. Usually a religious one.”
She pushes aside his dark hair to better catch his eyes, and he grins at her in the boyish and suddenly affectionate, spontaneously warm way that he has. “How do you know all of these words? I can’t imagine crown princes meeting many eremites.”
“No, but crown princes have the best of education.” He gestures with his eyes back to the book nestled amongst her skirts. “Go on.”
Clearing her throat, Abigail continues. “The moving waters at their priestlike task of pure abso—ablu—ablution round earth’s human shores, or gazing on the new soft fallen mask of snow … upon the … mountains and the moors.” She stops her reading aloud, huffing, and glances up at the branches above them. This is her favorite tree in her father’s garden, her favorite spot. It offers shade most of the day, and the leaves are deliciously sage-scented while the small buds of violet and pearl that drift down on the breeze get caught in her hair, making her feel like a child again. There’s a peaceful buzz of activity amongst the branches as bees and butterflies flutter amongst the flowers and that too can lull her. Gerhard likes it as much as she does, and they’re given privacy because of his royal standing, which makes the afternoons hum with lazy intimacy.
“I don’t understand,” she says after a moment, watching a blue-winged butterfly rest atop a branch of cream-colored blossoms.
“You haven’t finished it. Sometimes you have to see the end of a thing to better understand it.”
“Why would you want to be as steady and unchanging as a star?”
Gerhard shifts beside her, lifting a hand to shield his eyes so that he can follow her gaze up between the branches. The sun is still high, and the stars will not emerge for many hours, but Abigail seems to be hunting for them anyway.
“I would argue, I think, that man has always fought for stability. To stand still. To resist change, which is of course futile, and thus there is the tragedy.”
She makes a soft sound of understanding and returns to the poem. This time, she reads silently to herself, her finger still marking her place. When she finishes, she closes the book, then drapes herself backward so they are side-to-side on their backs. Her hand finds his between the length of their bodies, and their fingers tangle together.
“So?” he prompts after she has stayed quiet.
“He doesn’t want to be a star in the sense that he doesn’t want to be alone in the sky, watching, but he wants to never change so that he can lie with his lover. He wants to feel her breathing, forever, and if he cannot do that, he wants to die.”
“Very good,” Gerhard says with an obvious note of pride in his voice. His thumb traces her knuckles.
“It’s sad though, isn’t it, like what you said about the tragedy of it all? There’s loneliness and distance in a star, and they might be constant and dependable, but they’re so far above us.” She pauses, thinking, “I don’t think a star’s steadfastness can be achieved on earth, with people, I mean. It’s just the poet’s dream, it’s a fantasy.”
“Sometimes dreams make reality worth living. What would we be without our dreams?”
She gives him that noise again from her throat, like a punctuation to his thoughts, a soft vocal acknowledgement and agreement with his ideas.
His hand slips from hers when Gerhard turns on his side, propping himself up on an elbow. They’ve circled like Chinese symbols so that his head is close to her feet, as hers are to his. She’s barefoot, and he ghosts his right hand along the shape of her foot before slipping his fingers beneath the hem of her dress to stroke her ankle. In return, Abigail shifts to rest on both of her elbows, her back slightly arched, her hair flower-studded and a golden tousle around her cherubic face. She smiles across at him. He loves the feel of her bones beneath his hands, loves the softness of her skin, the easy honey-sweetness of her on days like this, and she opens herself always to his advances—to his touch, to his inquiries, to his mind. She is becoming, more and more, a bright spot on an often mundane landscape.
When he dips his head, he kisses the bump of bone by her ankle then the side of her calf. He pushes at her skirts to expose more of her skin, and Abigail laughs, shoving a hand into his curls to pause his exploration. “My father,” she says. “He can see straight into the gardens from the corner window of his study.”
“I’ll order him to look away.”
She laughs again before sliding gracefully to settle on the sides of her knees while adjusting the fall of her dress. Gerhard mocks a groan then, defeated, nestles his head into her lap, kissing the lace-pattern of ivy leaves intricately sewn into the gown’s fabric. She twines her fingers through his hair, a blush of color turning her cheeks the red of berries.
“Later, my prince,” she promises, “when we can sleep amongst your bedsheets and not rise again until the dawn peaks. We’ll make even the stars jealous.”
Abigail is true to her word.
His bedroom always smells of parchment and ink, of candle wax and fresh autumn apples, of ash from the fireplace and expensive leather. His bed is large, a goose-down mattress befitting royalty, and the sheets always feel clean against her skin. She likes to burrow beneath them like some woodland creature, losing herself against the bedding and his coltish limbs, wrapping and winding herself around him until she cannot decide where she begins and he ends. When they’re satiated, she’ll curl against his chest and let him do the reading, sometimes mimicking the shape of the words quietly to herself while she traces his ribs with her nails.
He, too, can be her tree in the garden, can lull her with his rhythm and his cadence.
--
“In your mouth,
I want to be laid to sleep.”
– Martina Werner, tr. by Rosemarie Waldrop, from “Monogram 23”
The poetry had been his idea.
In truth, all of the reading had been his idea.
Abigail had said yes, of course, because he was the prince but also because she had wanted to prove something to herself even if she was initially embarrassed. Some of the words had felt funny in her mouth at first, and it was difficult to remember which shapes created which sounds. She’d had to explain, too, how she’d learned her letters a little as a girl until her father deemed it inappropriate, and then she’d spent her days with needle and thread or learning how to ride the gentle mares in their stables or practicing dance and art. The lessons had made her well-suited for court life, but she’d never learned to silence the curious part of her soul, the part that gave voice to her questions and longing, that asked for stories from the eligible courtiers, that rang with wonderment.
Gerhard had told her, later, that this had been what had first attracted him to her, and a small part of her had felt seen then, appreciated.
(It is not what will attract Renan. He will not see her for her intellect but for something else entirely. He will not need her questions or her curiosity, and he does not care for poetry.)
Now, that part inside of her has grown like a sapling, and she looks forward to their lessons together. He always has her start with a new poem.
“Would I were … s-steadfast … as thou art,” Abigail says haltingly and in a half-whisper, “not in lone splendor hung a-aloft in the night…” Her eyes are at the end of the tip of her finger as it trails a line of writing from the book open in her lap. It’s a small leather-bound collection of poetry, the pages crinkled from time, the edges gilded. She had admired its beauty before she knew how to admire the words within it, and the struggle of learning to read the small type had diminished her appreciation some, even if it had amused Gerhard.
“And watching, with eternal lids apart, like Nature’s patient sleepless Er-erri-era–”
“Eremite,” Gerhard says, without judgment.
“Eremite,” Abigail repeats, forming the word carefully. She looks down at him, his body sprawled easily atop the duvet they’d spread in the garden, his head nestled close to her hip.
“A recluse. Usually a religious one.”
She pushes aside his dark hair to better catch his eyes, and he grins at her in the boyish and suddenly affectionate, spontaneously warm way that he has. “How do you know all of these words? I can’t imagine crown princes meeting many eremites.”
“No, but crown princes have the best of education.” He gestures with his eyes back to the book nestled amongst her skirts. “Go on.”
Clearing her throat, Abigail continues. “The moving waters at their priestlike task of pure abso—ablu—ablution round earth’s human shores, or gazing on the new soft fallen mask of snow … upon the … mountains and the moors.” She stops her reading aloud, huffing, and glances up at the branches above them. This is her favorite tree in her father’s garden, her favorite spot. It offers shade most of the day, and the leaves are deliciously sage-scented while the small buds of violet and pearl that drift down on the breeze get caught in her hair, making her feel like a child again. There’s a peaceful buzz of activity amongst the branches as bees and butterflies flutter amongst the flowers and that too can lull her. Gerhard likes it as much as she does, and they’re given privacy because of his royal standing, which makes the afternoons hum with lazy intimacy.
“I don’t understand,” she says after a moment, watching a blue-winged butterfly rest atop a branch of cream-colored blossoms.
“You haven’t finished it. Sometimes you have to see the end of a thing to better understand it.”
“Why would you want to be as steady and unchanging as a star?”
Gerhard shifts beside her, lifting a hand to shield his eyes so that he can follow her gaze up between the branches. The sun is still high, and the stars will not emerge for many hours, but Abigail seems to be hunting for them anyway.
“I would argue, I think, that man has always fought for stability. To stand still. To resist change, which is of course futile, and thus there is the tragedy.”
She makes a soft sound of understanding and returns to the poem. This time, she reads silently to herself, her finger still marking her place. When she finishes, she closes the book, then drapes herself backward so they are side-to-side on their backs. Her hand finds his between the length of their bodies, and their fingers tangle together.
“So?” he prompts after she has stayed quiet.
“He doesn’t want to be a star in the sense that he doesn’t want to be alone in the sky, watching, but he wants to never change so that he can lie with his lover. He wants to feel her breathing, forever, and if he cannot do that, he wants to die.”
“Very good,” Gerhard says with an obvious note of pride in his voice. His thumb traces her knuckles.
“It’s sad though, isn’t it, like what you said about the tragedy of it all? There’s loneliness and distance in a star, and they might be constant and dependable, but they’re so far above us.” She pauses, thinking, “I don’t think a star’s steadfastness can be achieved on earth, with people, I mean. It’s just the poet’s dream, it’s a fantasy.”
“Sometimes dreams make reality worth living. What would we be without our dreams?”
She gives him that noise again from her throat, like a punctuation to his thoughts, a soft vocal acknowledgement and agreement with his ideas.
His hand slips from hers when Gerhard turns on his side, propping himself up on an elbow. They’ve circled like Chinese symbols so that his head is close to her feet, as hers are to his. She’s barefoot, and he ghosts his right hand along the shape of her foot before slipping his fingers beneath the hem of her dress to stroke her ankle. In return, Abigail shifts to rest on both of her elbows, her back slightly arched, her hair flower-studded and a golden tousle around her cherubic face. She smiles across at him. He loves the feel of her bones beneath his hands, loves the softness of her skin, the easy honey-sweetness of her on days like this, and she opens herself always to his advances—to his touch, to his inquiries, to his mind. She is becoming, more and more, a bright spot on an often mundane landscape.
When he dips his head, he kisses the bump of bone by her ankle then the side of her calf. He pushes at her skirts to expose more of her skin, and Abigail laughs, shoving a hand into his curls to pause his exploration. “My father,” she says. “He can see straight into the gardens from the corner window of his study.”
“I’ll order him to look away.”
She laughs again before sliding gracefully to settle on the sides of her knees while adjusting the fall of her dress. Gerhard mocks a groan then, defeated, nestles his head into her lap, kissing the lace-pattern of ivy leaves intricately sewn into the gown’s fabric. She twines her fingers through his hair, a blush of color turning her cheeks the red of berries.
“Later, my prince,” she promises, “when we can sleep amongst your bedsheets and not rise again until the dawn peaks. We’ll make even the stars jealous.”
Abigail is true to her word.
His bedroom always smells of parchment and ink, of candle wax and fresh autumn apples, of ash from the fireplace and expensive leather. His bed is large, a goose-down mattress befitting royalty, and the sheets always feel clean against her skin. She likes to burrow beneath them like some woodland creature, losing herself against the bedding and his coltish limbs, wrapping and winding herself around him until she cannot decide where she begins and he ends. When they’re satiated, she’ll curl against his chest and let him do the reading, sometimes mimicking the shape of the words quietly to herself while she traces his ribs with her nails.
He, too, can be her tree in the garden, can lull her with his rhythm and his cadence.
no subject
Abigail’s father never saw Gerhard coming with that decision. My fella, a fancy prince with a love of… I was going to say “brains” but that makes him sound like a zombie. Intellect! Growth! Affinity toward studiousness!
“she’d never learned to silence the curious part of her soul, the part that gave voice to her questions and longing, that asked for stories from the eligible courtiers, that rang with wonderment.
Gerhard had told her, later, that this had been what had first attracted him to her, and a small part of her had felt seen then, appreciated.”
Imagine the babeliness that is Abigail at a party, ignoring your flirting to ask you for so many details about the anecdote you were telling. And Ger’ hears her like “Yes, this is the one! This undercover nerd!”
I’ve been thinking about Gideon too much because rereading this I keep expecting it to go bad suddenly. As if Gerhard is at all manipulative and “said the spider to the fly” ish.
“that part inside of her has grown like a sapling” Love me some tree imagery!
“She had admired its beauty before she knew how to admire the words within it, and the struggle of learning to read the small type had diminished her appreciation some, even if it had amused Gerhard.” This is like how Belle started teaching The Beast to read via a thick, classic piece of literature. As opposed to THE LOGICAL WAY WITH EASY WORDS. Like she just slapped War and Peace down on the table and had ~expectations~. Only in this instance Abigail is both Belle and The Beast. She chose her own tool of torture.
““Eremite,” Gerhard says, without judgment.
“Eremite,” Abigail repeats, forming the word carefully. She looks down at him, his body sprawled easily atop the duvet they’d spread in the garden, his head nestled close to her hip.
“A recluse. Usually a religious one.”” Beside the sprawling I get such Knoxley from this. Hanging out at a picnic, reading poetry, teaching words. Without judgement. My soft souled awkward turtle. …I need to stop making such sweethearts. I wanted to write a bastard at some point!
“She pushes aside his dark hair to better catch his eyes, and he grins at her in the boyish and suddenly affectionate, spontaneously warm way that he has.” *_________* I can picture this. That’s a great way to describe his look.
“She stops her reading aloud, huffing, and glances up at the branches above them.” We’ve all been there honey.
“the leaves are deliciously sage-scented while the small buds of violet and pearl that drift down on the breeze get caught in her hair, making her feel like a child again. There’s a peaceful buzz of activity amongst the branches as bees and butterflies flutter amongst the flower” I must have this tree.
““You haven’t finished it. Sometimes you have to see the end of a thing to better understand it.”” I love this and I hate this. Love because true. Hate because this feels like foreshadowing on the scale of Philomena’s “God gives us each other” sentiment.
“When she finishes, she closes the book, then drapes herself backward so they are side-to-side on their backs. Her hand finds his between the length of their bodies, and their fingers tangle together.” I love when that fall-back happens in movies where the woman is wearing a luxurious skirt. Sinking into a puddle of their own clothes, how the fabric poofs up. It’s just a lovely visual. I’m sure the handmaids who have to get out the wrinkles feel otherwise.
““So?” he prompts after she has stayed quiet.
“He doesn’t want to be a star in the sense that he doesn’t want to be alone in the sky, watching, but he wants to never change so that he can lie with his lover. He wants to feel her breathing, forever, and if he cannot do that, he wants to die.”
“Very good,” Gerhard says with an obvious note of pride in his voice.” THis, all of this, but especially here is perfect Gerhard. He lets her think, but can’t help his curiosity, and then he’s proud of her AND lets her hear it.
““I’ll order him to look away.”” Ha, he is a Lance boy after all. Kind Sir, look away as I defile your daughter on your lawn, by order of the Crown Prince!
“His bedroom always smells of parchment and ink, of candle wax and fresh autumn apples, of ash from the fireplace and expensive leather.” …In my head I’ve always thought Renan ate a lot of apples. And pears. Like, that whole lounging against a wall or doorway and biting into one thing? A vaguely threatening allure, with that solid crunch and the attention drawn to the mouth? So the fact that you chose apples is doing things over here.
“She likes to burrow beneath them like some woodland creature” Lene does that to get her scent all over Roman’s bed and help fool the shifter maids for their cover. There are a few photos of Lene’s model peeking out from under a sheet and one specifically popped into my head.
“He, too, can be her tree in the garden, can lull her with his rhythm and his cadence.” I’m very interested in how Abigail and Renan work when alone. Renan read to Gerhard all the time, but he’s not looking to lull Abigail. ALTHOUGH. He still reads while in bed, so at some point it might make sense for him to just start reading aloud out of old habit because someone is nestled in there with him. Abigail could respond in all kinds of ways to that.