On the 2nd Anniversary of This Blog

     I don't know—are 382 posts a lot for two years?

     Considering that I spent my first few blogger months in a veritable frenzy, writing the history of my monastic vocation and my musical background, and that I've posted almost every poem I've written since 2005, I suppose 382 doesn't seem like an outrageous number.

     In the first year, the most viewed posts were those concerning monastic life, and particularly those about my visits to the Abbey of Regina Laudis. Given that the Abbey's prioress, Mother Dolores Hart, former Hollywood actress, is the most well-known cloistered nun in the country (along with Mother Angelica), this is no surprise. And now that Mother Dolores' memoir has been published, those posts have had a resurgence of hits in recent months. But there are obviously many women in the world who are discerning a religious vocation or are simply curious about religious life, and they fine-comb the internet for anything about the subject, so my monastery-related posts get hits every day. I'm very happy about this, happy to help in any way I can to encourage those who have felt a call to the religious life, especially to the cloister.

     The more popular posts in the second year have been those dealing with "Niles Crane's Greatest Lines." Again, not surprising. But I think it highly amusing that the two "poles" of this blog are monastic life and Niles Crane. Which is why there is no longer a brief description of this blog under the blog's title. I tried to put one up there, tried various versions, then just threw up my hands. Any first-time viewer can simply look at the page categories at the top and scratch his head trying to figure out what the focus of this blog is. Well, there ain't any. I write whatever comes into my head, and I have many interests in life, which is why this is called "A Spectrum of Perspectives."

     That brings us to poetry. I used to have a whole other blog devoted to poetry and music, and yet another devoted exclusively to reading, but I chucked both of them as superfluous. Why not, I thought, just pile everything onto this one blog and make it even more confusing and unfocused? Sadly, for me anyway, the poetry posts are the least viewed—except for two: Regret and A Sonnet of Sonnets (revamped). These two posts are, astonishingly, the most viewed of all 382. I have absolutely no idea why, especially "Regret." I mean, I've written some depressing poems in my time, but that one takes the proverbial cake. Maybe the painting by Ajvazovskij has something to do with it. Now, with "A Sonnet of Sonnets," I can sort of see why. It consists of love poems that are easy to understand and that many people can readily identify with, as they deal with unrequited/unprofessed love. I truly believe the world is starving for old-fashioned love poems. Still—beating out Niles Crane in page views? Who'da thunk???

     At any rate, I'm very, very grateful that anyone at all reads my random ramblings. (Hey—maybe that's what I should have called this blog!) I hope I can keep you all interested enough to keep reading!

On Waking Early

      Granted, “early” is relative. One man’s “why am I up so early” is another man’s “I’m a lazy slob.” When I worked in opera as a coach and rehearsal pianist, I cursed the days that began at the ungodly hour of 10 a. m. Though we were guaranteed a 12-hour night (that’s twelve hours from the end of the previous day’s rehearsals, not twelve hours from the time you actually lay your music-spinning head on the pillow), 10 a. m. meant for me rising at 7—insult to injury, considering how long it always took to wind down the night before from the day’s labor. It wasn’t just the physical fatigue, though that was enough; it was the intense mental concentration of coaching singers one-on-one, and/or playing long rehearsals under the added pressure of following a sometimes very exacting conductor. Both body and brain were oatmeal by 10 p. m. You’d think I would just conk out as soon as I got home, but, ironically, my body would be too tired and my mind too full of residual music to sleep. Morning was the absolute worst time of day.
     After fifteen years of the late-to-bed-late-to-rise opera life, I followed a call to religious life and entered a Catholic monastery, where we retired every night at 9:30 and woke at 5:20. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me long at all to adjust to my new schedule—if you rise at such an early hour, it’s easy to fall asleep at night, and the busyness of monastic life is different from the busyness of operatic life; where the latter is physically and mentally exhausting, the former is oddly restorative. The monastic horarium is very structured; every minute of the day is accounted for, even times for recreation and rest. I found myself actually being grateful for the sameness of the days; yet there was always variety in the sameness; each day’s liturgy gave a different tenor to the routine. The most surprising thing of all was that I actually came to love the morning with all its promise and newness. Between morning Office and Mass, there were about forty minutes for private prayer/meditation, to be done wherever one felt was most conducive to this holy task. If the weather allowed, I would make my meditation in the woods, where the nascent sunlight would filter through the saplings lining the enclosure wall and create natural “stained-glass windows.” There, in that light reminiscent of His resurrection, I would let the Spirit lead me where it willed. Morning became a true renewal and reawakening for mind and soul.
      Now, away from both opera house and cloister, I have compromised somewhat, rising at 6:30. There are no woods in which to contemplate God’s handiwork and celebrate the gift of a new, fresh day; I can’t take meditative walks in the depressed neighborhood in which I now live; but I’ve made my bedroom a monastic cell of sorts, and always devote the first hour of my day (and the last, as well) to prayer. Morning is still, as it was in the monastery, my time for garnering strength from Him Who is my strength. But every once in a while during my meditation, a rogue thought flits through my mind: how different my mornings are now from my old opera life routine of cigarettes and grumpiness!

Play vs. Film: Sabrina Fair / Sabrina

     There have been two film treatments of Samuel Taylor's 1953 play Sabrina Fair: the 1954 version with Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, and William Holden; and the 1995 remake with Julia Ormond, Harrison Ford, and Greg Kinnear. I like both for different reasons, but I like the play even more and wish I could see it performed.

Joseph Cotton and Margaret Sullavan
as Linus and Sabrina

 

 

L-R: Scott McKay, Cathleen Nesbitt, Robert Duke, Joseph Cotton, and Margaret Sullavan
in Sabrina Fair, 1953

 

     To give the most basic premise of all three: the awkward daughter (Sabrina) of the chauffeur to a very wealthy Long Island family (the Larrabees) goes to work for a few years in Europe (in the play, she works at a NATO/SHAPE-type organization, first as a file clerk, eventually as an executive; in the 1995 film she works at Vogue; and in the 1954 film she simply goes to culinary school); she returns to Long Island all grown up, polished, and confident to pursue the younger Larrabee son (David) with whom she believes she has been in love all her life.

     I can't go any further, because that is where the basic resemblance between play and films ends.

 

Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn in the 1954 film

 

     In the films (and I must say here that the remake is truly a remake of the older film, and makes no effort to return to the play), the older son (Linus) is absolutely against a union between David and Sabrina, not so much because of the vast difference in social status, but because such a union would thwart plans of a marriage between David and the daughter of a certain tycoon with whom Linus hopes to form a very lucrative business alliance. (Linus doesn't even consider marrying this other girl himself, because he doesn't believe he's the marrying kind.) Linus, being the ruthless businessman he is, plots to get Sabrina out of the way by feigning approval of her relationship with David, then tricking her into falling for himself. After he's accomplished this, he can then ditch her and compensate her with enough money to sustain her in relative comfort for the rest of her life. Of course, he doesn't bargain on actually falling in love with her.

 

Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond in the 1995 remake

 

     In the play, however, Linus encourages Sabrina in her pursuit of David merely because he loves power and manipulating people, and he regards his little matchmaking scheme as some sort of perverse amusement. There is no potential merger, no daughter of a fellow tycoon. He makes no attempt to make Sabrina fall for himself. But he believes he sees in Sabrina a certain ambition and thirst for "the good life." In reality, she really doesn't know what she wants; she has tasted life beyond the Larrabee's garage and the life of a chauffeur's daughter, but now she doesn't know where in the world she belongs.

SABRINA     I think I have a talent for living. Perhaps I'm trying to make the most of something small for want of something better, but I think a true talent for living has the quality of creation, and if that's the talent I was meant to have, I'm awfully glad I have it. I'd rather live a first-rate life than paint a second-rate picture.

     She thinks she doesn't want to be shackled by marriage, but she wants to be in love. She tells Linus of a wealthy Frenchman who courted her during her five years in Paris, and confesses that she fled from him back to America to find out if she still loves David. David does indeed propose marriage—well, actually, he doesn't propose directly to Sabrina; he tells his mother (Maude) that he wants to marry her. Maude discusses it with Sabrina's father, Fairchild (who categorically disapproves), which is how Sabrina herself finds out. And when she does, to the surprise of everyone, she refuses David, having discovered at this point that she does not love him after all.

     In the midst of all this, Sabrina's wealthy Frenchman, Paul, shows up ostensibly to bring her back to Paris with him; however, Linus once more intervenes by making him a business offer he just can't refuse. Linus points out to Sabrina that she can still marry Paul, but she realizes (as does Linus) that isn't where her happiness lies, and she begins to wonder what is really behind all of Linus' manipulations.

     The films leave out a character who plays a rather large part in the stage version—that of Julia, Maude Larrabee's former roommate at Wellesley. Julia is a magazine editor who apparently has led quite the colorful life as a young woman in Paris, and is very close to the Larrabees; indeed, the two sons call her "Aunt Julia." She seems not only to understand Linus completely, but to admire him as the man she, if not for the difference in their ages, would have fallen in love with. But his game-playing with Sabrina infuriates her:

JULIA     What are you trying to do to this girl?

LINUS     How do you know I'm trying to do anything?

JULIA     I have a room with a view! You're afraid to take her, and afraid to lose her, so you're warning her off the rest of the world. I don't have to tell you what you're passing up; it's pretty damned clear you know. But you want to own her without being owned. You can't unbend, you won't give in. You're a stiff-necked, self-sufficient, autocratic bastard— (She begins to cry. Turns away.)  and you've been my favorite man since the day you were born.

LINUS     (Taking a step to her.)  Aunt Julia—

JULIA      (Tearfully.)  If you come near me, I'll kick you. What do you want to do? Make her a part of Larrabee Industries? And then fight off your competitors? Just hang a sign around her neck! "Please don't handle the merchandise!"  (She turns to Sabrina, crosses C.)  And as for you! You listen to me! If anyone tries to tell you that she travels the farthest who travels alone, believe me, when you get there you'll find it wasn't worth the trip!  (She turns on Linus D R. C.)  Get into her life or get out of her life! But don't stand around playing god! 

      The most startling difference between play and films (for me, anyway) concerns the disclosure of Fairchild's wealth. In the films, he reveals that through the years he eavesdropped whenever Linus did business with his stockbroker over the car phone on the way to work; by following Linus' buying-selling moves, Fairchild managed to accumulate his own modest fortune, enough to sustain both Sabrina and himself for the rest of their lives. In the play, he reveals that he made most of his fortune by investing in Larrabee Shipping stock during the Depression, when the company, like so many others, was having great difficulties. In other words, he helped keep the Larrabees, his employers, afloat when they were floundering and, even after Larrabee Industries became a vast financial empire, Fairchild still owned seven thousand shares of their company. When asked by the Larrabees why he kept it all secret and never left their employ, he replies simply and sincerely that he loved his job.

     So Sabrina is an heiress after all, on more even footing—financially, if not socially—with the family she has grown up with and loved as her own. She realizes she is in love with Linus, and Linus finally admits to himself and to her that he is in love with her. Cinderella arises from the motor oil-stained garage floor and wins her Prince Cynical-but-Charming.

SABRINA fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!

     ~ from Comus, John Milton

  

 

Drink or Drown: Part Two

To read Part One or view the Cast of Characters, click here. 

SCENE 3

Enter BEATRICE.

 

ARIBERTO     (Going to meet her and offering his arm.)  Beatrice—daughter—my dear child—take my arm! I shall present you to each other properly.  (Gestures to MARCELLO to come forward, who does so with a mixed air of the awkward and the careless.)  You cousin Marcello—  (BEATRICE's impression is not the most favorable: ARIBERTO takes note of this.)  You will pardon the disorder of his appearance; he arrived only an hour ago—

MARCELLO     (Interrupting.)  —from the Bosporus. It was the devil of a crossing, little cousin! More than once did I curse the moment I ever set sail!  (ARIBERTO tugs at MARCELLO's coat, whereupon MARCELLO corrects himself.)  It was so awfully long! I thought I should never see land.

ARIBERTO     (Aside to BEATRICE.)  He's flustered—doesn't know what he's saying.  (Aloud.)  He meant to pay you a compliment, and he has done so.

MARCELLO     (Smiling.)  A left-handed one.

BEATRICE     (Returning the smile.)  I thank you for the thought, cousin. We have not seen each other these ten years. While I was still at school, you were eager to go to sea.  (MARCELLO steals a glance at his father.)  I am happy to shake your hand at last.

MARCELLO     (Grinning.)  Let us shake, by God!

BEATRICE     Oh!  (Withdrawing her pained hand and saying laughingly to ARIBERTO.)  He has a very strong grip!

ARIBERTO     The emotion—affection—you understand.

MARCELLO     Did I hurt you? Most awfully sorry! We seamen are sturdily made. So long aboard ship, one loses one's sense of touch and taste.

ARIBERTO     What has taste to do with it?

MARCELLO    Allow me to explain. As to sense of touch, it has happened many times that with the pitching and rolling of the ship, I would seize a glass of cognac, and crack!—the glass would break like an eggshell. As to taste: having to down so many spirits and salted food spoiled the flavor of other food, whether it be lobster, caviar, mustard—even cayenne pepper!  (Smacks his lips.)  Bloody good stuff, cayenne pepper!

ARIBERTO     (Aside to MARCELLO.)  What are you saying, you scoundrel?

MARCELLO     (Aside.)  It is a test.

BEATRICE     (To ARIBERTO.)  He seems a bit—indiscreet.

ARIBERTO     (Softly.)  It is a test.

MARCELLO     (Heartily.)  Well, then! May I kiss you, or no?  (Approaching her.)

BEATRICE     (Drawing back.)  But, signor—

MARCELLO     What is this "signor"?  Are we not cousins? Are we not to be husband and wife?  (Insisting.)  Well, then!

BEATRICE     (Appealing to her guardian.)  Uncle!

ARIBERTO     (Aside to her.)  As I told you—the emotion—affection—

MARCELLO     (Aside to ARIBERTO.)  It is going well?

ARIBERTO     (Aside to MARCELLO.)  Control yourself!  (To BEATRICE.)  Come, make the poor lad happy.

BEATRICE     As you wish. I shall obey.  (Offers her forehead modestly to MARCELLO; he plants two long, resounding kisses, one on each cheek; she pulls away disconcertedly.)  Oh, dear!

ARIBERTO     (Enjoying it in spite of himself.)  Why ever was I afraid?  (To MARCELLO.)  Control yourself, young man! There'll be time enough for all that!

MARCELLO     (Aside to ARIBERTO.)  You're making me nervous. Leave us alone a moment. You shall be proud of me!

ARIBERTO     (Aloud to BEATRICE.)  Marcello has requested to speak with you alone. When you parted as children, you were sharing your toys. You meet now in anticipation of sharing a life. It is your right to speak privately!  (Smiling.)  And here is the only circumstance, perhaps, in which a father and guardian may, with impunity, leave two young people alone together—without the world murmuring disapproval!  (Aside to BEATRICE.)  Encourage him; he shall feel more at ease.

BEATRICE     (To herself.)  It would seem he needs no encouragement!

ARIBERTO     (To MARCELLO.)  I beg you—control yourself!  (To both.)  Endeavor to come to an understanding. Upon my return, I shall ask but one thing: what is to be the day of the wedding!  (Makes a hinting gesture to MARCELLO, another to BEATRICE, then exits.)

 

SCENE 4

 

MARCELLO     (Straddling a chair.)  Well, cousin? Is it gospel truth that we are to be man and wife?

BEATRICE     (Looks at him with a touch of surprise and sits.)  It would seem so.

MARCELLO     (Sighing.)  Ah, well!  (Draws out his cigarette case, take a cigarette and lights it.) 

BEATRICE     (Annoyed by the smoke, but pretending not to be.)  "Ah, well," he says!  (Looking at him.)  You have such a manner of behaving!

MARCELLO     What sort of manner is that?

BEATRICE     I should say ... eccentric.

MARCELLO     Hmm ... so it is.  (Flicking ash on the carpet.)  Don't you like eccentrics, cousin?

BEATRICE     It depends. There are those who are amiable and those who are not. In general, however, eccentrics are looked upon as oddities, but—

MARCELLO     (Finishing her sentence.)  —but one doesn't marry them. Quite right. Who, in your opinion, are the not so amiable eccentrics?

BEATRICE     I don't know .... Well ... for example ...

MARCELLO     He that shoots his horse on a bet?

BEATRICE     He is not eccentric; he is a madman.

MARCELLO     One that habitually courts women as his occupation, and compromises them?

BEATRICE     (With unaffected dignity.)  Of certain things, cousin, I have no knowledge! Nonetheless, it seems to me that such a man would not be an eccentric, but merely a good-for-nothing!

MARCELLO     (To himself.)  Take care—she is Prudence Incarnate!  (Aloud.)  Then tell me, who would not be amiable?

BEATRICE     (Twisting her handkerchief.)  Heavens! He that is unkind to ladies—if it were not for good reason.  (Offering him an ashtray.)  Would you like an ashtray?

MARCELLO     Thank you, no; never use them. Much easier without, don't you know.

BEATRICE     Ah.  (Continuing.)  He that possesses habits which are bit—a bit boorish. For example, forever having a cigar in his mouth.

MARCELLO     (Feigning ignorance.)  I see. And do you like men of that sort?

BEATRICE     (Fanning away a cloud of smoke.)  As much as I like smoke in my eyes!  (Coughs.)

MARCELLO     (Feigning surprise.)  Oh, I say! Does my cigar bother you?

BEATRICE     It makes me ill.

MARCELLO     Blast!  (Tosses it away.)  Most awfully sorry. For me, smoking is part of my existence. In the mornings, if I do not have a cigarette between my lips as soon as ever my eyes open, I simply cannot get out of bed. Likewise at night—if I have not enjoyed my Havana before closing my eyes, I am done for—can't sleep at all!

BEATRICE     (Astonished.)  But my uncle assured me that you have no bad habits.

MARCELLO     (Laughing.)  Oh, a father's knowledge of his own son is questionable! It is left to the fiancé, if he is an honest man, to do his duty.  (Soberly.)  And since I believe myself to be such a man, I shall make a confession to you.

BEATRICE     A confession?

MARCELLO     A delicate one, and most eccentric!  But first, tell me frankly: do you, by any chance, love me?

BEATRICE     Ha! You do make me laugh! I do love you—as a cousin. But otherwise? I beg your pardon, but how can one love, then and there, someone whom she has not seen these ten years?

MARCELLO     Yet you would marry me?

BEATRICE     To be sure! It is my uncle's wish.

MARCELLO     Your dead great-uncle?

BEATRICE     (Ingenuously.)  No, no. My living uncle-uncle.

MARCELLO     Has it never occurred to you that I might make you unhappy?

BEATRICE     Never. If my uncle advises me to marry you, it can only mean he is certain I should be happy.

MARCELLO     On the other hand, if my father were to advise you not to marry me—?

BEATRICE     Then I would not.

MARCELLO     You have such enormous faith in my father?

BEATRICE      (Warmly.)  And such esteem, such admiration! He is so wise, so kind—and he loves me so very much! Dear Uncle—and you wonder that I should have faith in him?

MARCELLO     Since that is so, I may make my confession without hesitation or fear. I say fear, for this is always a difficult thing to confess to the one who is to be one's wife.  (Weighing his words.)  I am in love with another woman. I can love none but her!  (With more ease.)  However, since certain things are best said sooner, I therefore tell you this now, so as not to repent later. Do I make myself clear?

BEATRICE     (Bewildered.)  With all the frankness—

MARCELLO     —of a seaman!

BEATRICE     You—are in love with another?

MARCELLO     (Warmly.)  A most beautiful girl with almond-shaped eyes. I do not exaggerate when I say she is beautiful! In all the world, I have not seen such eyes.

BEATRICE     Thank you for telling me, dear cousin!

MARCELLO     Pshaw! Ceremony between us? I left the Bosporus without saying a single word. Woe to me, had she known of it! She is as capable, capable indeed, of killing me and herself, as she is of cracking an egg!  (BEATRICE stares at him wordlessly.)  What is the matter? Why do you not speak?

BEATRICE     I hear you—but your father—? I cannot make it out.

MARCELLO     My father is concerned for your well-being—(sottovoce)—and a bit for his own!

BEATRICE     For his own? Not at all!

MARCELLO     How naïve you are! If you marry, all is well; but if not .... You understand? A spinster at home ... and with his hopes, his aspirations ....

BEATRICE     What sort of aspirations?

MARCELLO     Well—to remarry.

BEATRICE     Remarry?  (Surprised and incredulous.) 

MARCELLO     You don't know? Why, to be sure! And what a fine husband my father would be! Enough; I have done my duty. I have concealed nothing from you. If you are satisfied, here I am, ready to obey my father's command. If your answer is yes, we shall immediately prepare two apartments—one here and one elsewhere. If no, I shall promptly re-board my ship and hasten to dry the tears of that forsaken girl.  (Very casually.)  Whilst you are considering, I shall go out on the terrace and have a smoke.  (In full view of the audience, he goes and sits out on the terrace, lights a cigarette, crosses his legs and smokes arduously, watching BEATRICE all the while.)

BEATRICE     (To herself.)  I would have expected anything, but this—! Could my uncle have deceived me so? Poor thing! I understand very well that he, too—if it is true that he has the notion—!  (A bit piqued.)  Though if he wanted to be free of me, he could have told me why! Mean thing, wanting to remarry and saying nothing to me! Does he want to be free? I shall satisfy him in some other way. I shall settle in the country, alone with my old, grumbling aunt—until I, too, become a grumbling old maid! What else is there to do?  (Glancing towards her cousin.)  My cousin? No! Some other man? He wouldn't have me, not without a dowry. And if he wanted the dowry, it would mean that he wouldn't have me for my lovely eyes alone! So then, I shall be a good housekeeper. I shall learn how to breed silkworms, and teach it to my fellow peasants. The blessing of such good people shall be worth that happiness which I could not obtain through a marriage of convenience!  (Becoming somewhat emotional.)

MARCELLO     (Suddenly shouting.)  Cousin!

BEATRICE     (Startled.)  Yes?

MARCELLO     (Spiritedly.)  I've an idea! Between puffs, there flashed before me a scathingly brilliant idea!

BEATRICE     What?

MARCELLO     (Coming in from the terrace.)  What did Great-Uncle's will stipulate? That you, born a Guidobaldo, marry a Guidobaldi. Now, as far as I know, there are only two men in the world with that name: myself, and my father.

BEATRICE     (Curious.)  Well?

MARCELLO     Well—as for myself, I seem to be out of the question. That leaves my father!  (Blows out a cloud of smoke.)  Cousin—what if you were to marry—my father?

BEATRICE     (Caught unaware.)  Uncle? Ha, ha, ha!

MARCELLO     I find nothing laughable in it. To choose between a husband two years younger and one eighteen years older—a girl who has good sense, as do you, should not be in doubt.  (Convincingly.)  For it must be confessed: a father is worth more than a son. The chaps of my generation rather envy the men of my father's. Our hair begins to grey at thirty; that of a father, at sixty!  (Taking her hand.)  Have you looked closely at him? How elegant he is! What eyes! What teeth! Small hands and feet, half the size of my own! I give you my word of honor that, love aside, between him and me—if I were in your place—I should choose him!

BEATRICE     Oh—not Uncle! Such a serious man—

MARCELLO     (Pointedly.)  That is why he wants to remarry.

BEATRICE     (Becoming pensive.)  I am astonished!  But what of all the good he has said of you?

MARCELLO     Lies!

BEATRICE     (Angering.)  He has done wrong, then!

MARCELLO     Tell him! He would say she has done right.  (With a resigned air.)  As for me, I repeat—here I am!

BEATRICE     (Seriously.)  Marcello, that will do. Let us put an end to this nonsense.

MARCELLO     You see? Now you too are becoming serious! Believe me: in this world, what appears to be impossible is precisely that which comes about with the most ease!  (BEATRICE stares at him a moment, then laughs.)  Go on, then, laugh; but consider! Here he is. He left me alone with you—I shall leave you alone with him.  (Insisting.)  Speak to him, but in doing so, look at him closely—particularly his eyes!

BEATRICE     (Still laughing.)  I understand. Very well, I shall look at him. You truly are an eccentric!

 

END SCENE

 

To be continued.

 



Drink or Drown: Part One

DRINK OR DROWN  (O BERE O AFFOGARE)
A comedy in one act by Leo di Castelnovo

Translated from the Italian © 2001 by Leticia Austria


Cast of Characters:

BEATRICE GUIDOBALDI, niece and ward of
ARIBERTO GUIDOBALDI, father of
MARCELLO
A SERVANT

Italy, 1870's. A richly appointed salon in Ariberto's house.

 

SCENE 1

BEATRICE is busy arranging a basket of flowers. ARIBERTO is pacing, absorbed in thought.

 

BEATRICE     (Without stopping her work.)  Uncle!

ARIBERTO     Eh?

BEATRICE     What is the time?

ARIBERTO     (Distractedly.)  Two o'clock.

BEATRICE     And when is it Marcello arrives?

ARIBERTO     (Abashed.)  I know not.

BEATRICE     (Smiling.)  You do not know when your own son arrives? Come now!

ARIBERTO     If I knew, I would tell you. Why should I not tell you?  (Approaching her and changing the subject.)  What do you do there, with so much care?

BEATRICE     Ungrateful uncle! It is for you, what I am doing! Cannot you see? I am filling the room with flowers. You have given hospitality to your niece, and she wishes to leave some trace of her stay in this house: flowers here and there, a bit of scent—  (Prettily.)  Tomorrow, these blooms shall be quite faded—I shall return to the country—and you may toss them out the window!  (Pointing one out.)  See how pretty is this rose.

ARIBERTO     (Still preoccupied.)  Very pretty.

BEATRICE     Oh! Such manners! Mind you, as long as I am to stay in your house, I shall place flowers everywhere, whether you like it or not!  (Noticing his anxiety.)  But what troubles you, that you pay me no attention? Do you wish to tell me when this blessed betrothed of mine is coming?

ARIBERTO     (To himself.)  Oh, if she knew that he is already arrived—!  (Aloud.)  If I tell you I know not—  (Pacing and tugging at his moustache.)

BEATRICE     (Laughing.)  Very well, then; let me guess. He shall arrive shortly.

ARIBERTO     Who told you that?

BEATRICE     Your nerves. You see how you torture your poor whiskers? That is the most eloquent proof of your nervousness.

ARIBERTO     Yes, all right—it is true; I expect him at any moment. And as it grows late, I am worried.

BEATRICE     Are you not going out to meet your son, who returns home after five years away? You do not stand on ceremony with me, I hope!

ARIBERTO     (To himself.)  She confounds me!  (Aloud.)  What an idea! It is only that I do not wish that so many people witness my emotion. You know—they all form their own notions.

BEATRICE     Then that door may open at any moment, and your son—my fiancé—may suddenly appear, like the bogey man?

ARIBERTO     (Glancing toward the door to which BEATRICE refers.)  Good Lord, I am a bundle of nerves!

BEATRICE     (Finished arranging the flowers, she rises.)  There! Now, Uncle, do not you find this basket pleasing?  (Provoked, because he continue to tug his whiskers and pays no attention.)  Forget your poor nerves for a little, and be good!

ARIBERTO     (Takes her hands, gazing at her.)  come closer, Let me look at you.

BEATRICE     (Prettily.)  Here I am! And what would you read in my face, with so much seriousness?

ARIBERTO     Whether your cousin's arrival does not disturb you in any way. . . . I say, you are quite beautiful, Beatrice!  (Towards the door.)  You know, my son does not deserve you!

BEATRICE     Sh! Why all this bellowing? And what do you mean, "disturb" me?

ARIBERTO     (Looking at her.)  There is nothing—not even the slightest flush in your cheeks.  (Touching her wrist.)  No quickening of the pulse—nothing! Your calm gives me cause to wonder.

BEATRICE     (Laughing.)  Poor Uncle!

ARIBERTO     It is no laughing matter! Mine is a delicate situation.  (Stomping his foot.)  Oh, if only my good uncle had reconsidered before he died! What the devil sort of will was it? "I leave all my earthly possessions in equal parts to my heirs: my nephew Ariberto"—me—"my grandniece Beatrice,"—you—"orphan of my other nephew Goffredo,"—my brother—"provided this same grandniece, born a Guidobaldi, marry a Guidobaldi. Should she, however,—"

BEATRICE     (Interrupting him laughing, as one who repeats something long memorized.)  "Should she, however, for whatever reson, not cede to my wish that she marry a Guidobaldi, her share of my wealth shall pass to my beloved nephew Ariberto." I've heard it so often repeated, I know it by heart!

ARIBERTO     But I do not wish to have your share, you understand? So: either marry my son, or remain a spinster your entire life!  (Gravely.)  But—what if Marcello, whom you knew as a child, should prove disagreeable to you as a man?

BEATRICE     He is your son! He can be nothing but a gentleman of quality.

ARIBERTO     But—you do not love him.

BEATRICE     But I shall love him. You have told me so often he is to be my husband, that now I am persuaded of it! I shall be happy.

ARIBERTO     (Towards the door.)  God willing!  (A cough is heard offstage.) 

BEATRICE     (Startled.)  Oh—there is someone listening. (Moves to the door, but ARIBERTO stops her.) 

ARIBERTO     No, no! Merely someone talking in the courtyard. It must be Marcello, just arrived.

BEATRICE     It is he? Then I shall go.

ARIBERTO     Go? Why?

BEATRICE     (Indulgently.)  I am a woman! Before meeting my fiancé after these ten years, I want to have a look in the mirror. Do you think he would marry me in the state I am now? We must ensure that he will not find me at my least attractive.  (Makes to leave, then turns back.)  I should not like to call you "Papa", you know. "Dear Uncle"—"guardian"—those are easy enough; but "Papa"? My tongue would rebel, rather.

ARIBERTO     And when may I be called "Grandpapa", my daughter?

BEATRICE     (Bursting out laughing.)  Grandpapa? With those curly whiskers, and that slim, elegant figure? Do not make me laugh so!  (Sniffs a rose in the basket.)

ARIBERTO     (Nervously.)  What are you doing? What about the mirror? Did you not want to tidy yourself?

BEATRICE     One moment—I want to give you a present.  (Placing a rose in his button-hole with solemn courtesy.)  For you. See how well it looks! This lovely rose was the only thing you were lacking.  (Moving a bit away from him to get a better look.)  And you want to be called "Grandpapa"!  (Vivaciously.)  Anything else, yes, but Grandpapa—absolutely not!

ARIBERTO     (Urging her to leave.)  There is no doubt! This time it is really he!

BEATRICE     I'm going. I'm going!  (Exits L.)

 

SCENE 2

(BEATRICE has not completely left; she pokes her head through the door.)

 

MARCELLO     Has she gone?

ARIBERTO     Wait a moment! (Hurries to the door to give BEATRICE time to get away.)  You rascal! You swore to compromise me—make a liar out of me? No, I did not tell her you had arrived last night; and since then, you have caused me endless distress. You are just this minute arrived, understood?

MARCELLO     (Glancing towards the door.)  Understood.

ARIBERTO     Well, then? Have you seen her? Have you considered?

MARCELLO     I have, indeed.

ARIBERTO     And the upshot is—

MARCELLO     —that it was not worth crossing so much ocean only to repeat what I have told you again and again in my letters and telegrams: no, no, no—  (As he speaks, his voice rises in volume.) 

ARIBERTO     (Clapping a hand over his mouth.)  Don't shout! Shame on you! Where will you ever find another more beautiful and agreeable than your cousin?

MARCELLO     (Still reckless.)  Now, listen, Papa! When I was a boy you sent me away to school against my will. I went, because I had to. (Imitating his father.)  "Well, of course, it was not my fault if the Principal was ill-tempered"—then one fine day, pulled by the hair,—

ARIBERTO     (As before, stopping him by the arm.)  Shh! None of these theatricals! Lower your voice, I tell you!

MARCELLO     (Beginning sottovoce, but then little by little getting louder.)  Following that fatal event, you took it into your head that I was a scamp. "the sea shall put you to rights!"—and you sent me into the Navy. I went—by force, it is true, but I went. I sailed for five years, made three journeys round the world. God knows how my poor stomach bore it, but I had submitted myself! Twice I was on the point of being swallowed by a shark. Did I complain? Now, for some reason or other, you oblige me to abandon my blue Bosporus. On its shore, along with the Legation, on which you took so much pleasure in imprisoning me, I left behind two almond-shaped eyes. Yes, I abandoned those eyes, the Legation,—everything! No matter; I obeyed, and I am arrived. Am I, or am I not, reasonable? And now you want to present me with a wife, even when I tell you that I have sworn my love and constancy to another! I beg your pardon, Papa, but this—this is too much!

ARIBERTO     (Who had been gesturing to him to lower his voice, begins to lose patience.)  Marcello! Do not cause me to lose my temper! You must believe in the experience of my forty years. When you better know the world—

MARCELLO     (Interrupting.)  You make me go round it three times, and have the audacity to tell me that I don't know it?

ARIBERTO     Yes! Even the wool-winder turns when winding the wool into a ball. Do you know what it does, the wool-winder?  (Calming.)  Pay heed to these grey hairs . . .

MARCELLO     (Looking in amusement at his father's head.)  Where are they? You hide them very well—I cannot even see them!

ARIBERTO     Do you see these wrinkles? It was you gave them to me! Do not add to their number, and I shall forget all the worry you have caused me!  (MARCELLO shakes his head.)  There is but little to discuss. You recall you uncle's will? Well, we cannot get out of it: either we drink, or we drown!

MARCELLO     If I did not drown in the ocean, you may be certain I shall not drown now! As for Uncle's will—I take my hat off to his millions; I bow down before his splendor, his honor, and his name; but I tell you loudly and distinctly that, concerning his name, I believe I would do it much more harm going back on a promise already made, than by making another, which I could not keep! So—all things considered—show your hand! What is this marriage, after all? A game of interests, nothing more.

ARIBERTO     That is not true. It means happiness for you, fortune for her—and it would be a good deed.

MARCELLO     Marriage, a good deed? Hmph! Until now I have known various kinds of marriage: that of love, of convenience, of caprice; I have known marriages of common interest, of hasty necessity—and finally, the ultimate marriage, from which God saves us. But I confess my ignorance; I did not know there also existed the "marriage of good deed"!

ARIBERTO     Yes, a good deed! Do not feign to be ignorant of it. Rather, you must appreciate the sentiment which leads me to it. Beatrice is beautiful and good; she has wit, spirit—she shall make a model wife! And you?  (Fondly.)  You, if you are like you poor mother in heart as you are in countenance, you cannot be wicked, not with intention nor by whim. Through this marriage, I give you an angel who shall render your life blessed; through her husband, I shall be giving her all the comfort of which an ill-inspired will would have deprived her in my favour.

MARCELLO     And what of the other lady, who would die of a broken heart?

ARIBERTO     Rubbish! The whims of youth! She shall have forgotten you even as we speak! Beatrice, however—once you come to know her, you shall adore her!

MARCELLO     (Firmly.)  I cannot, Papa, I cannot!

ARIBERTO     No?  (Sternly.)  Then hear my ultimatum! Either reform, and everything shall go well; or persist in this nonsense, and I shall solemnly declare, since I alone am administrator of my affairs, that before my eyes close forever, I shall dispose of my fortune in any manner I choose.  (MARCELLO makes as if to speak.)  You know me well, Marcello. You know that when I confront obstinacy and ingratitude, I am implacable as stone.  (Gravely.)  It is time to decide. Look at me: do you think I am in jest? Decide.

MARCELLO     (Resigned.)  Very well. I shall speak to Beatrice.

ARIBERTO     (Rings a bell; a SERVANT enters.)  Ask the marchioness if she would kindly favour us with her company.  (Exit SERVANT L.) 

MARCELLO     But what if I should not please her?

ARIBERTO     You must!

MARCELLO     Oh, yes? Very well. I shall try.

ARIBERTO     (Sighing.)  Thank Heaven!  (Motioning him nearer.)  Come here. Settle your cravat a bit.  (Adjusting it for him.)  Smooth your hair. button your coat. Try to look agreeable—be courteous—  (Noting with exasperation MARCELLO's awkwardness.)  So this is my son! Upon my word, enough to drive one mad!

MARCELLO     (To himself.)  What must be, must be!

 

END SCENE

 

To be continued.  

A Bookish Survey

This A-Z survey apparently began life on The Perpetual Page-Turner, but I first saw it on Pretty Books. I thought it looked fun, though a couple of the questions are difficult for me to answer, as I don't read series, except in juvenile literature.


Author you've read the most books from: Probably Barbara Pym at 13. Close second, Emily Kimbrough at 11.
Best sequel ever: John Galsworthy's tryptich A Modern Comedy, which is the sequel to his tryptich The Forsyte Saga.
Currently reading: If the truth be known, I'm celebrating the imminent start of the school year by re-reading some Trixie Belden and Sue Barton books.
Drink of choice while reading: Iced water. After that, my "cocktail"—half ginger ale, half sparkling cherry-flavored water.
E-books or physical books: Do you even have to ask?
Fictional character you would have wanted to date in school: Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility. (Fictional character you would have actually dated: Probably Willoughby. I had a fondness for rakes.)
Glad you gave this book a chance: Hm. I'd have to say Little Women. I first tried it in 6th or 7th grade, thought it was boring, chucked it after a couple of chapters; then in 8th grade, my brother gave me the beautiful Tasha Tudor illustrated edition for Christmas, so I gave it another chance and wound up absolutely loving it.
Hidden gem book: Seventy-five percent of the books I read are "hidden" gems.
Important moment in your reading life: The very first complete sentence I remember being able to read—I was around five, I think—was from a Dana Girls mystery: "Louise Dana, a pretty, dark-haired girl of seventeen, paused in the doorway with an armful of paper novelties." I still remember the sentence, because your first is not easily forgotten.
Just finished: Trixie Belden and The Mysterious Visitor.
Kind of books you won't read: Well, I recently wrote a whole post about that. Sci-fi, adult mystery, crime, thriller, anything to do with vampires, and, as a general rule, best sellers.
Longest book you've read: Hmm, that would probably be Gone With the Wind. But Henry Handel Richardson's Maurice Guest was pretty long, too.
Major book hangover (lingers longest in the mind): Persuasion.
Number of bookcases you own: Can't really say, because most of my shelves are twelve-by-twelve- inch units that I've pushed together along one wall to form one longer unit. And I have miscellaneous shelves scattered round the house as well as actual cases.
One book you've read multiple times: Only one??? Seriously? There are about 100 or more books I read multiple times. And I really mean multiple.
Preferred place to read: At the dining table. That way I can have everything to hand that I need: drink, snack, Kleenex, a place to put my regular specs while I use my reading specs, a pencil just in case, my lap desk with the beanbag underside that I use to prop my book up higher so I won't get neck ache, my book weight to hold the pages open as it lies on the lap desk (this way, my hands are free to reach for drink or snack or pencil or Kleenex or whatever). I use a lot of accoutrements when I read.
Quote: I'm not sure if this means book-related quote or actual quote from a book. In any case, I can't think of one right now, and I'm too lazy to look one up.
Reading regret: At this very moment, my regret would be reading the blog where I saw this survey.

—You'll notice that as I get near the end of the alphabet, I tend to get a bit loopy.—

Series you started and need to finish: Well, I haven't read every Nancy Drew book ever written, and I probably never will. I generally only read the ones written pre-1960s.
Three all-time favorite books: Three??? Seriously? Take a look at my "Novels I Love" list at left.
Unapologetic fan of: That would be the aforesaid Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Dana Girls, and Sue Barton books. They are my not-so-guilty pleasure.
Very excited for this release: Since I tend not to read newly published books, I will leave this unanswered.
Worst bookish habit: Trying to read too many things at once and not finishing any of them.
X marks the spot—start at the top left of a shelf and pick the 27th book: A Small Place in Italy by Eric Newby.
Your latest book purchase: Modern Saints, 2 vols., by Ann Ball
ZZZ-snatcher book (one that keeps you up at all hours): The last book I stayed up till the wee hours to finish was, I think, An Imaginary Experience by Mary Wesley. But that was years ago. Nowadays, if I read in bed, I fall asleep after fifteen minutes.

Done, done, and done! You know, it occurred to me that most of these could apply to a film survey .... No, don't go there.

A Sentimental Sonnet

This sonnet is about as overtly sentimental as I get. It was originally the closing sonnet to the "sonnet of sonnets" in my collection The Distant Belovèd, but I pulled it in favor of a much better one. Still, I'm not ashamed of this sonnet's sentimentality, nor its honesty. Though I would never send it out to editors (I know very well it isn't publishable), I have no qualms about posting it on this blog.

IN LOVING YOU

Such bounty you have given unaware!
In loving you, I learned to see the earth
With clearer, more discerning eyes; to dare
Explore anew the mind's unbounded worth.

You gave my spirit strength to gain new height,
And strive for what is noblest, what is best;
Belief in what exists beyond this sight,
Beyond this life and earth's most lofty crest.

You gave my soul voracity for Truth;
In loving you, I saw what I had not,
Then came to know at last what I had sought,
And found again the Father of my youth.

My heart is hungry for the God that gave me you;
In loving you, I found the Love that is most true.


© Leticia Austria 2008

Authors Readers Expect Me to Have Read that I Haven't Read

     Aaaand—that's the longest post title ever!

     The inspiration for this post came from The Broke and the Bookish, a blog that on Tuesdays posts a "Top Ten" list dealing with some bookish aspect or other.

     But anyway, here's my partial list of "classic" authors that are considered sort of de rigeur by the well-read set, but which I have never read. I may read a few of these in future, but some I don't really want to read at all because they're just not my "thing."

George Eliot
Leo Tolstoy
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Charles Dickens
Henry James
Harper Lee
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Ernest Hemingway
John Steinbeck
James Joyce
Mark Twain
Thomas Hardy
D. H. Lawrence
Nathaniel Hawthorne
William Thackeray
Henry Fielding
Gustave Flaubert

     Shocking, isn't it? Looking at this list, you may be wondering which authors I indeed have read! Suffice it to say, I've read many authors, but I tend to champion those less known or downright neglected (some of them are listed in my "Novels I Love" list at left). Which is why I love imprints such as Persephone and Virago, who reissue these forgotten treasures. If you aren't familiar with them, and you have a particular fondness for women authors of British persuasion, you really should check them out. Their books can easily be found on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

*R-r-i-i-i-i-ng!!* Time for lunch!

     My oldest friend, whom I have known since the third grade, recently posted this question to our friends on Facebook: "What was your favorite lunch in school?" It evoked a lot of memories for me.

     In elementary school, I almost always brought my lunch from home. My first lunchbox that I remember was white tin with sky blue trim and, on the lid, some kind of whimsical picture of a girl on a bicycle. My problem was I never finished everything in my lunchbox, but instead of chucking out what I didn't eat, I just left it in the box, so it frequently attracted ants later in the afternoon as it sat on the classroom shelf with the other boxes. My teacher would make me throw out the food, wash the box, and put it outside on the ramp to dry. If the weather was mild, I'd have to sit out on the ramp with it. I never really understood what I did wrong to warrant such exile.

     My favorite lunchbox was the one I had in third grade. It was bright, shiny red vinyl with pictures of go-go dancers on it. (I was a child of the '60s; go-go dancers were our version of hip-hop dancers.) When I carried it swinging into school, sporting my little white leather go-go boots with the sassy tassels, I felt truly cool. However, I still usually left the sandwich and fruit untouched and went straight to the chips and cookies. My poor mother.

     Speaking of my mother, she worked in the cafeteria of the school I attended for third and part of fourth grade. She brought me to the school with her every morning at six, and I sat quietly in a chair in the kitchen next to the big chest freezer, and watched my mother make huge batches of cookies or big sheets of cake, mixing the batters in deep steel vats. She and a German farm woman named Hilda were in charge of desserts. I liked chocolate chip cookie day best, because Hilda always gave me chips in a 1-cup measure and I happily gorged myself on my perch by the freezer. At Christmas she gave me a stuffed dachshund which I named Fritzie von Hüth.

     I had a nickel to buy my milk every day, and I always got chocolate. Of course.

     I don't remember ever eating in junior high. I mean, I'm sure I did eat; I just have no recollection whatsoever of what I ate, with whom I ate, or if I had a good time eating. Maybe it's because I had outgrown the go-go lunchbox and graduated to the boring brown paper bag.

     My freshman year in high school, I attended a Catholic girls school, and again, I have no clear recollection of lunch. However, I vaguely remember the cafeteria, which, like the rest of the school, had green subway tile on all the walls, halfway to the ceiling. I think I still brought my own food, because my parents just couldn't afford to give me lunch money every day.

     My most vivid memories of school lunch are of public high school, to which I transferred in my sophomore year—because I had the same "lunch" every single day, practically. My other close friend (not the Facebook post-er) and I always eschewed the steam tables in the cafeteria and made a bee-line to the snack bar to buy French fries and a Mounds; then we'd get sodas from the machine, she a root beer and I a Coke. Fat, carbs, and sugar. That was my daily high school lunch menu. It's a miracle I developed any kind of refined palate. It's also a miracle I didn't have a heart attack in high school.

    

Dog Days

     You know what I'm talking about. Especially if you live in the south. Those days when you don't want to get in the car and go anywhere past noon, because you know when you get back in the car to go home, you'll be roasted to a perfect medium rare in just five minutes. It's especially hard for me, because I can't drive at night due to night blindness. So if there are any necessary chores to be done or appointments to be met, they'd better be done and met by lunchtime, or else they ain't gonna be done nor met. 

     Which leaves me with these long, heavy afternoons to fill. Reading? I'd love to, and I try, but my eyelids start drooping after only twenty minutes. And I hate to take naps. Why? Because I always wake up from them groggy, draggy, and discombobulated, then, even though I remain groggy till I go to bed at night, I have a hard time falling asleep.

     Watching movies/TV? A better choice. Which is what I was doing earlier this afternoon, until I got tired of sitting on my duff. So now I'm in front of the computer, sitting on my duff. From one screen to the other. Hardly progress. Well, at least I'm doing something creative, even it's creating pointless ramblings such as these. My only defense is that I'm certain there are lots of people just like me, lazing around on an oppressively hot Saturday afternoon, going through the same motions, or some very like.

     Someone suggested I try going for a walk. Ha! I laugh at the very thought. In this heat? Uh-uh! In this neighborhood? Not in ANY weather! I do go for walks, however, when the temperature is more agreeable, and in much more agreeable 'hoods.

     That same "someone" also suggested I go swimming. She doesn't know I can't swim, and I didn't have the heart to tell her.

     Sharp, sudden turn to the left ....

     In case you haven't noticed, I've started another blog (see shameless plug and link in right side bar). I decided I needed a space where I could just write about spiritual things. I know this blog is purposely called "A Spectrum of Perspectives" and that one of the colors in that spectrum is my monastic vocation story, but I realized not too long ago that, in those posts, I wrote very little about my interior struggles and growth, and perhaps that was a huge oversight. I know there are so many women out there discerning a religious vocation, and I want to help in what little way I can by sharing everything I've experienced in my own discernment and subsequent experience. I also simply want to share my spiritual musings, such as they are, and my love for God, the Church, and my faith. Hence the new blog. I'm presently mulling over a few posts in my head. Those kinds of posts, with that kind of material, are so much more difficult to write. I need to pray and meditate over them, unlike posts like this where I just type as I think. On the fly. (I'll have to look up the origin of that expression—"on the fly." If you think about it, it's sort of bizarre. It conjures up images of sitting in a tiny saddle on top of a fly and buzzing around to random places.)

     Well, it's been nice chatting with you. In case you're interested in what I'm reading these days: Time Enough by Emily Kimbrough, my favorite travel memoirist, and of course Elisabeth Leseur: Selected Writings.

     Stay cool!