Sunday Scrapbag

Reading: Oh, several things. In the Office of Readings (Liturgy of the Hours), lately I've been substituting the prescribed second readings with passages from Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI's encyclical Spe Salvi. I'm ashamed to say that this will be the first papal encyclical I will have read straight through, all the way through. Always before, I've only read excerpts of various encyclicals through the Liturgy of the Hours, or in articles and blogs.

     I'm also still reading bits and pieces of Robert Gibbings' books and have begun re-reading Elizabeth Taylor's The Sleeping Beauty which I read many years ago and have completely forgotten. I'm very bad about remembering the plots of books. So if I recommend a novel to someone and they ask me what it's about, I always say, "I forget—but I do remember I absolutely loved it."

     Also, I'm reading through all my journals in search of material for new poems. An enlightening experience.

Watching: I seem to have lost interest temporarily in movies. I own on DVD all the movies I like to watch (the most recent being Quartet, that lovely little film starring Maggie Smith and directed by Dustin Hoffmann). Sometimes (not often, admittedly) I regret having such limited tastes in film; were my tastes broader and more varied, I could watch and enjoy so many more things. But what I don't like in films is pretty much identical to what I don't like in books, which I wrote about in this post. 

     The cheesy part of me is psyched that the new season of Dancing with the Stars is in full swing. Can I just say that, though he seems like a very nice guy, I'm not sorry to see the football player go? I'm so tired of football players winning the DWTS mirror ball trophy! I haven't picked a favorite yet.

Writing: Lately, prose poems. I've written two posts in this past week alone about this new venture in Poetry Land (new for me, that is), this form that I used to despise as being fancified prose or free verse bound up in paragraph form. Now I see its merits as well as its many difficulties. But other than my prose poem experiments and this blog, I haven't been writing anything, not even my journal. Bad, bad girl!

Listening: To the wonderful Romanian pianist Clara Haskil (d. 1960). I tend to go through phases with pianists, concentrating on one for a few weeks, then going back to others before fixating on a "new" one. Haskil is my fixation at the moment. Her Mozart is impeccable in both style and technique. It's the kind of Mozart I myself always wanted to play, the kind I think is "true" Mozart. Poetic, profound, yet not over-sentimentalized as so many contemporary pianists are wont to do. Playful when playfulness is called for, but not overly so. Of course, she played many other composers brilliantly as well.

 

Considering: Cancelling my Tumblr account. I very much enjoy following art and photography blogs, and I enjoy following Catholic blogs on Tumblr. But I got a huge dose of disillusionment and disgust yesterday, when one of the Catholic blogs I follow got hacked and I found a number of pornographic posts on my dashboard. I realize hacking goes on everywhere, but Tumblr seems to be particularly susceptible. Plus which, there's no way (at least that I can find) to delete or hide posts you don't want to see on your dashboard; on Facebook, you can do this, which I really appreciate. When I saw those porn posts on my Tumblr dashboard, all I could do was "unfollow" that particular blogger until he realized he'd been hacked and cleaned out all those offensive images. But I think I will leave Tumblr altogether. I already follow a lot of Catholic blogs on Blogger and Wordpress anyway, and I follow many art and photography pages on Facebook.







Twenty Years Ago, I Wrote ...

     This post is not just a selection of journal entries from twenty years ago; more specifically, it is an homage to a little café in Houston called Epicure. I frequented Epicure during my many years living in Houston, always finding it to be, as the Germans say, a most gemütlich retreat with good food and coffee. It's on West Gray in River Oaks, a street that twenty years ago was one of the most charming commercial streets in the city; I believe it's changed a bit since.

     Epicure Café began rather humbly, as a true konditorei run by a certified Konditormeister; now, looking at its website, it seems to have evolved into a full-fledged café. If I ever visit Houston again, Epicure will definitely be on my list of places to go.

 

19 September 1993

     I'm having breakfast before a long day of chorus rehearsals. Epicure serves their coffee with hot milk, as it should be served, and their ham and cheese croissant is very substantial and comes with nice fresh fruit.

     The most beautiful child just came in—can't tell whether it's a boy or girl; I think boy—a Botticelli cherub crowned with copper curls. The parents are foreign, but I don't recognize the accent. She's very striking, strong dark features in a small face. The child is having gelato for breakfast, and his older brother is entertaining him by rolling his red toy convertible across the table. The cherub shrieks with delight, little pink mouth covered with vanilla gelato.

     I do love watching children, especially babies and toddlers.

     Epicure has retained the European way of not issuing bills—when you finish eating, you simply remind them of what you had.

     It's starting to get busy in here. Late-rising single women, older ladies just come from church, middle-aged bespectacled gentlemen reading the paper while their breakfast cools. Above it all, the white ceiling fans whir away, the soft lights casting small rainbows on their blur of blades. Sunday morning, a time of quiet recovery from the bustle of the week and the gaiety of Saturday night.

     The cherub is wandering around on his little unsteady feet, flourishing a menu. Maybe when he grows up he'll be a maître d'.

     And now, off to work and the stark, sterile surroundings of the opera house.

 

1 October 1993

     What a wonderful place this is. In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic come in and read, or in my case write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple has come in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. I wish I could really understand; I can catch a word here and there but can't put anything together. They always have good music playing; today it's Strauss waltzes. Sunday morning it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie. I think I'll make it a custom to come here every Sunday, a mini-retreat of sorts.

 

26 October 1993

     There are two people that are almost always here when I am: a middle-aged woman with carrot-colored hair and matching glasses, and a young man who reminds me of James Stephens in The Paper Chase television series. Like me, they each sit at the same table every time. There's something very comforting about that. It's good to know that other people need these little rituals too. Both of them are writing something, too.

     The Paper Chase guy speaks French and Spanish. The other day, he spoke to the owner in French; now he's speaking to a companion in Spanish.

James Stephens

 

 

31 October 1993

     A quick sweet and a pot of coffee before going to Butterfly second cast piano dress. Saw, at the table behind me, someone writing in a cloth-bound blank book. A fellow journalizer.

     It gets dark so much earlier now. I much prefer it to stay bright as long as possible. This way, the day has such an early death.

     The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street—all the buildings have been restored and done in stark white with black trim. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are lit up at Christmas with tiny white bulbs. The shops are mostly of the "yuppie" type, upscale but not too; and of course there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two types of bookstores—one chain discount (Crown Books) and one independent (River Oaks Bookstore). Two types of movie theaters—one multi-screen mainstream, and one artsy-fartsy (the latter is still showing Like Water for Chocolate). The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea at one end to Café Express at the other, with a moderately priced seafood kitchen and moderately priced southwestern eatery in between. There is a pizza joint, a Chili's, and a grocery store. You can buy futons and antiques, coffee beans (at the wonderful Café Maison) and apple strudel, wilderness equipment and gently worn evening gowns. Or you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure three or four times a week and write in your journal. West Gray is probably my very favorite street in Houston.

Drink or Drown: Part Four

     Wow, it's been so long since I posted Part Three of this one-act play by Castelnovo! You can read it, along with Parts One and Two, by clicking "Italian Plays in Translation" above. Here's a reminder of the cast of characters:

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

     A summary of the action to this point: Ariberto's deceased uncle has stipulated in his will that his fortune be divided equally between his nephew, Ariberto, and his grand-niece, Beatrice, who is also Artiberto's ward. However, Beatrice will receive her inheritance only if she marries a Guidobaldi. Ariberto, therefore, has arranged that she marry his son Marcello, a seaman. However, Marcello has already promised himself to another woman. Marcello suggests to Beatrice that she marry his father instead.

BEATRICE has just run out of the room after telling ARIBERTO of MARCELLO'S suggestion.

 

SCENE 7

 

ARIBERTO     (For a few minutes, he is ecstatic. In the long pause, he reveals the strange battle of his emotions; by and by, he persuades himself and exclaims:)  "—provided she marry a Guidobaldi."  (Reflecting.)  But—Marcello? No! I cannot insist upon this with such certainty of making them both unhappy. Another man? Even worse! She would lose everything. And to whose advantage? Her good uncle's—her guardian's—mine! I, who have the sacred duty, in the face of the law and of the world, to protect her interests!  (Soberly.)  It is a matter of conscience. I cannot allow it! I cannot allow her to condemn herself to a life of isolation, without family—poor girl—without a husband who would wish for her all the good fortune she deserves! But not a featherbrain—that sort, God forbid, would perhaps cause her to pine away. Whereas a serious, settled man ...  (Approaches the mirror, but then turns back.)  It is a matter of conscience!  (Trying to convince himself.)  Oh, if Marcello had not declared that he did not want to ... if she ... I am a good father! but since Marcello does not want to ... nor does she ... (Little by little simplifying the facts.)  And then, what are forty years? To a fit man, forty is nothing! It is usually said that for a ... and then ... (He again approaches the mirror and looks at himself stealthily, afraid of being observed)  ... and then, Beatrice has said that I possess a certain carriage ... elegance ... (Appraising himself.)  Ppuh! Not at all bad! She mentioned my hair ... (Smooths his hair.)  There is a bit of greying ... but not very noticeable! She said as much to Marcello! It distresses her when I tug at my whiskers ... (Curls them.)  Not bad, not at all! And the notion did occur to my son. I had not thought of it!  (Brightening in his own contemplation.)  How impossible things seem—but then, they grow more and more possible—so that they are very nearly probably!  (Again at the mirror.)  What a lovely rose! How becoming! "It was the only thing you needed"! She said so herself. Heavens, how flushed I am! I no longer know where my head is!  (MARCELLO enters, sees him at the mirror, and halts in the doorway.)

 

SCENE 8

 

MARCELLO    (To himself.)  Looking at himself in the mirror! It's done, then!  (Entering.)  Papa!

ARIBERTO     (Moving quickly away from the mirror.)  Oh!

MARCELLO     Did I startle you? I beg your pardon. It is that I have urgent need to speak to you.

ARIBERTO     And I to you!  (Fondly.)  Marcello—you are a good son, a loyal man. I have discovered in you some excellent qualities. Come, let me embrace you!

MARCELLO     (Goes to him and allows himself to be embraced.)  It's done, it's done!  (Aloud.)  Dear Papa, your words are a great comfort to me. I thank you from the depths of my heart! And what is more, to prove to you that I am not ungrateful, I am come to tell you something.

ARIBERTO     (With hearty affection.)  Speak up, with no reticence! You know your father has always helped you when he could—even when you did not deserve it! Go on, speak up!

MARCELLO     (Gravely.)  I have considered.

ARIBERTO     What?

MARCELLO     Marrying my cousin.

ARIBERTO     (Startled.)  Oh! And?

MARCELLO     And ... I examined my conscience and said to myself: Papa is only acting in my interests. I am blind in both eyes! A wife such as Beatrice is a veritable little treasure!  (Enthusiastically.)  Her ingenuousness, her spirit, her sense, her heart—all these things are enough to turn the head of the most serious man in the world! After our interview, I have decided to—

ARIBERTO     (Anxiously.)  To—

MARCELLO     To satisfy you, dear Papa! And as soon as possible. I hope this time, you are truly happy with me!

ARIBERTO     (Very agitated.)  Well, naturally—of course!  (Hesitantly.)  But—I don't understand. Just a few moments ago, you—

MARCELLO     I changed my mind—and also myself. I wish to obey you.

ARIBERTO     (With much effort.)  Excellent!  (Hesitantly.)  But—Beatrice—after all you confessed to her—is she—?

MARCELLO     I shall say it was merely a scheme.

ARIBERTO     And if she does not believe you?

MARCELLO     You must help me to persuade her.  (Emphatically.)  She greatly esteems and—loves you. You need only to say the word!

ARIBERTO     (Searching for excuses.)  Marcello—what if both of you were to be unhappy in this marriage? For you do not love her! Did you, or did you not, tell me that you do not love her?

MARCELLO     Aye, I did tell you that. But you answered: "Once you come to know her, you shall adore her!"

ARIBERTO     Surely! I believed that. But then, in speaking with Beatrice, she considered the disparity in your ages. You are two years younger! and this, you must know, is a great misfortune. If you were, let us say—

MARCELLO     Ten ... fifteen years older ...

ARIBERTO     Precisely! Then we should not worry. But since you are not—

MARCELLO     I shall compensate for it with good judgement.

ARIBERTO     (Blurting out unintentionally.)  A fine judgement you have!

MARCELLO     I am your son. I shall follow your example.  (Softly, mischievously, glancing around.)  As for the other—the lady with the almond-shaped eyes—she shall console herself.

ARIBERTO      Easy enough to say so! And if she does not? I should not like to have any regrets, you understand.

MARCELLO     That is not my business. I am a good son—my father commands; I obey.

ARIBERTO     (At his wit's end.)  But I did not mean to force you! It is a matter of conscience! I absolutely do not want to be accomplice at any wrongdoing!

MARCELLO     (Pretending astonishment.)  What? Now it has become wrong? Papa! Either I deceive myself, or you are retracting your own words!

ARIBERTO     I? No, indeed! I am not retracting anything—I am merely reconsidering.

MARCELLO     Reconsidering! I am dumbstruck! You, who at first found everything so simple? You, who just moments ago, shouted, "Either we drink, or we drown"? To which I responded: "That other lady shall die of a broken heart." And you: "Rubbish! Youthful whims! Heed you father—for he has the experience of forty-one years!"

ARIBERTO     (Interrupting.)  I believe I said forty years.

MARCELLO     "Heed your father, with his grey hair and wrinkles!"

ARIBERTO     (Disconcerted.)  Leave my hair and wrinkles out of this! I only mentioned them to say something.

MARCELLO     and now, I come here and say to you: "Here I am!" You, for some strange reason to which I am not privy, have had a change of heart!

ARIBERTO     That is not true!

MARCELLO     You are confused!

ARIBERTO     I, confused?

MARCELLO     Aye. You very nearly make me suspect—

ARIBERTO     What?  (To himself.) I'm perspiring!  (Aloud.)  Suspect what?

MARCELLO     (Intentionally hesitating.)  That you—pardon me saying so—that you are acting in your own best interests?

ARIBERTO     (At the peak of his confusion and embarrassment.)  I? Well—that is—I mean to say—I— Oh, dash it, it is not true! Even if it were—

MARCELLO     (With wonderment.)  If it were! Did you say, "if it were"?  (As if scandalized.)  Who'd have thought it? The father is the son's rival! Oh, if the world only knew!

ARIBERTO     Don't shout so! Quiet! You are mad. I said nothing of the kind. You are but imagining—it is not true!

MARCELLO     It is too late, Papa, too late! You have betrayed yourself!  (Aside.)  Now to fan the flame!  (Aloud.)  Listen, Papa—a son is always a son. He owes his father respect, obedience—and, in some cases—enough, let us forget it! But in this particular case, I tell you loud and clear:  (Loudly and resolutely.)  My cousin belongs to me! It was you gave her to me, and woe to whomever may try to take her from me!

ARIBERTO     (Confused, bewildered.)  Why, yes, yes! Your cousin belongs to you. If you want her, marry her—and may God bless you both!  (Very distressed, he paces up and down the room.)

MARCELLO     Amen!  (Hurrying to the door.)  Cousin! Cousin!

ARIBERTO     (Also hurrying to the door.)  Beatrice! Beatrice!

 

FINALE

 

BEATRICE     (Entering quickly.)  Here I am! What is it?

ARIBERTO     (With effort.)  Marcello has confirmed what I myself told you—and has finally asked—

MARCELLO     (Interrupting in a tone much altered than before.)  One moment! Before tying the knot, I must beg a favour of my cousin.  (Takes from his pocket a telegram.)  Please read this telegram to my father. It has been burning a hole in my pocket these two hours. The reason I did not show him it earlier shall not be difficult to imagine. Listen carefully, Papa, for it concerns a very grave matter.  

BEATRICE     (Reading.)  "Landed safely at Genoa. Made good railway connection. Shall arrive in few hours."  (BEATRICE and ARIBERTO are puzzled. She continues reading.)  "Young Ariberto in excellent health"—young Ariberto?—"With heart full of trepidation and hope, I embrace you. Irma."  (Looks at MARCELLO).

ARIBERTO     What is this business? Who are these people?

MARCELLO     (Quietly.)  My wife and son.

BEATRICE     You are married?!

MARCELLO     (Half laughing, half serious.)  And a father.

ARIBERTO     (Half disbelieving, uncertain how to take it.)  It—it cannot be!  (Grasps MARCELLO's arm and looks into his eyes.)  Marcello?

MARCELLO     (Bowing his head.)  It is so!  (Straightens up with conviction.)  They are my wife and son. She is an honest woman who may enter the house of my ancestors with her head held high.  (Tenderly.)  And he is a blond angel, named Ariberto—for my father.

ARIBERTO     (Not quite convinced, but essentially happy.)  Married?

MARCELLO     These three years. And now you see that, already possessing a wife, I naturally cannot take another!

BEATRICE     But Cousin, why did you not say so immediately?

MARCELLO     (Jokingly.)  Ungrateful girl! She asks me why!  (Soberly.)  First of all, I had two difficult tasks to fulfill: to render myself disagreeable in such a way as to leave you with no regrets; and to obtain, in some way, absolution from my father. Needless to say, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I return home after five years under rather unusual conditions; and find the old home hearth diligently arranged with good pieces of log, and beneath the log, young, sweet wood—and beneath that, all the kindling and dry cones, which require but a spark to set the whole thing afire! So I light a match—and suddenly, the dry cones crackle to life—they spew forth smoke and sparks—then up, up, up! They illuminate the whole room with a lovely glowing flame, so cheering to see!  (To his father.)  Papa—if, in order to light that flame, I used a bit of friction and, for just a moment, acted disrespectfully towards you—and Cousin—if, for just a moment, I deceived you and pretended to be something I am not—I ask you both to forgive me.  (Little by little becoming moved.)  Forgive me! Let my own hands warm themselves by the flame that they themselves lit. Let us all gather round it! And allow also those two poor souls who shall arrive shortly, wearied by the stormy ocean crossing, numbed and shaking with fever, emotion and cold—  (Forcefully.)  —welcome those two poor people, who are the innocent cause of your happiness!

ARIBERTO     (After a pause.)  Beatrice?

BEATRICE     (In a resigned tone, but smiling at him.)  Uncle?

MARCELLO     (Returning to high spirits, shouting:)  Drink or drown!  (To his father.)  I use your words!  (Linking arms with both, one on either side of him.)  Usually it is the father who blesses the marriage of the son. This time, for the first time, it shall be the son who gives his blessing to the father.  (Hears a carriage outside.)  It is they!

ARIBERTO     (Looking at BEATRICE.)  They?  (Solemnly.)  Very well—five places round the hearth are ready and waiting.  (Offers his arm to BEATRICE, who understands and smiles.)  Let us go and greet our daughter and grandson!  (The curtain falls as they walk towards the door.)

 

FINIS   

Frasier Turns 20!

 

     You didn't think a truly devout Frasier fan would let this day go by without some kind of acknowledgement, did you?

     I've already written so many posts about my favorite TV series of all time, including My Favorite Frasier Episodes  and of course My Least Favorite Frasier Episodes, not to mention my series "Niles Crane's Greatest Lines" (link above), it would seem there wouldn't be anything left for me to write about—but there is, and I'll probably keep writing Frasier posts as long as there are Frasier fans. And when will there not be Frasier fans?

     For now, just a little something: while I love all the principal characters in the series, I certainly don't love them equally. It's no secret that Niles is by far my favorite and, I daresay, the favorite of many viewers. My reasons, besides my being a huge DHP fan, are outlined in this post.

     My second favorite is Eddie. Yes, I consider him to be a principal character, as eloquent and developed as any of the others. (I would also add that I think Moose, the first Eddie, was much more facially expressive and generally charismatic than the second Eddie, Enzo, who incidentally was Moose's son.)

 

Moose, the first "Eddie"

Enzo, Moose's son and successor

    

     My third favorite character is Marty. I love the way he mellows over the course of the show; I love his forthrightness, his no-nonsense approach to life, his down-to-earth charm, and the integrity that Frasier and Niles admire in him. Plus, he's funny as hell. 

     Tied for fourth are Daphne and Roz. I have to say, I like Daphne better in the earlier seasons, and a lot better before she and Niles get married. After their marriage, she seems to lose some effervescence and much of the adorable, ingenuous wackiness that won our hearts early on. I know she had to grow up, even more so than any of the other characters, because she started out (according to the producers' conception) in her late 20's and ended the series nearing 40. Everyone else in the show starts out in their 30's or older, already past that long maturity spurt which is our 20's. (At the start, Frasier is 40, Niles 36, Marty 63, and I think Roz is around 32.) Still, I find myself regretting a bit Daphne's acquired gravitas in seasons ten and eleven.

     Roz is one of those characters that most women like a lot. She's brassy, aggressive, wears her sexuality like a flashy blouse, and isn't afraid of anyone, including Frasier. If I were writing this post twenty years ago, I would have placed Roz ahead of Daphne without any hesitation. Now, however, my values and views have changed, and while I love Roz's humor and essential good-heartedness, I identify personally much more with Daphne. The early Daphne. Conversely, I like the later, post-pregnancy Roz much better than the early Roz. Like Marty, she mellows over the seasons without losing her humor.

     Ironically, the title character is my least favorite of the principals. That isn't to say I dislike him. It's only to say that he annoys me much, much more often than do the other characters. In fact, none of the other characters ever annoy me. There are many times when Frasier is unbearably self-centered and petty, and I just want to slap him. What I love most in him is his deep love for his father, and also for his brother (despite, or perhaps because of, their sibling rivalry). And he has afforded me one of my very favorite comic moments in the whole series—his unforgettable rendition of "Buttons and Bows."

 

     Oh, yes—the minor characters. Both Bebe and Bulldog had to grow on me. I started out not liking them at all, but now I appreciate them, Bebe because she's just a brilliant caricature portrayed by such a brilliant actress (Harriet Harris); and Bulldog redeemed himself in my eyes when he revealed himself to be a sucker for children and genuinely in love with Roz. Kenny is your stock "boob," and I like him as well.

     The one and only character I still wrestle with is Gil. Nothing against the fine Edward Hibbert; I just don't understand why Gil is there at all. And I find nothing really likable about him.

     At any rate—Frasier is twenty years old today, but it hasn't really aged at all. The writing is so good, the show and its unforgettable characters are still fresh, and will stay fresh for many more decades to come. It is television at its most excellent.

The Exaltation of the Holy Cross

 

     Today the Catholic Church celebrates the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, a day that is especially meaningful for me because it was my feast day when I was a novice, my full name in religion being Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus.

     During my novitiate I wrote a hymn text in honor of this feast. The meter (organists will understand this) is 7.6.7.6., and the tune I recommend it to be sung to is ST. THEODULPH, although  ELLACOMBE works well, too.

 

"O Holy Cross of Jesus"
for the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross
7.6.7.6.

1.  O Holy Cross of Jesus,
     We honor you this day.
     Christ shed His blood upon you
     And gave mankind the way
     To blessèd life eternal
     With all the Saints above,
     Where angels sing in chorus
     To praise the Father's love.

2.  O blessed Cross of Jesus,
     The victory is won;
     Our Father, in His mercy,
     Did send His only Son.
     And through His bitter Passion,
     His agony and pain,
     The bonds of sin were broken;
     His death became our gain.

3.  O glorious Cross of Jesus,
     Forever may you be
     A symbol of the God-Man
     Who came to set us free
     From death's eternal prison,
     From night that never ends.
     The legacy of Adam
     God's love for us transcends.

4.  All praise to God the Father
     And to His only Son
     And to the Holy Spirit,
     Almighty Three in One!
     O Cross of our salvation,
     Upon your wood He died
     To give us life eternal,
     In body glorified.

© Leticia Austria 2005

     Unfortunately, I never did get to hear this sung in the monastery. We have, however, used it at the little chapel where I currently cantor and play the organ.

     It was Christ Crucified that brought me back to my faith. The Holy Cross will always hold the most hallowed place in my heart. When I look at Jesus on the cross, I see nothing but love, a love I will strive to repay as best as my feeble soul can. And that's all I will say.

 

Tune: ST. THEODULPH



Tune: ELLACOMBE

From My Big Orange Book: Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

The Philosopher

 

And what are you that, wanting you,

     I should be kept awake

As many nights as there are days

     With weeping for your sake?

 

And what are you that, missing you,

     As many days as crawl

I should be listening to the wind

     And looking at the wall?

 

I know a man that's a braver man

     And twenty men as kind,

And what are you, that you should be

     The one man in my mind?

 

Yet women's ways are artless ways,

     As any sage will tell,—

And what am I, that I should love

     So wisely and so well?

The Scarlet Cupboard

This little poem was most definitely influenced by both Christina Rossetti and early Emily Dickinson.


There is a scarlet cupboard
     Inside a scarlet room,
Whose door is locked
And cracks are sealed:
     A silent, scarlet tomb.

It stands in scarlet penance
     While days and nights dance by
With lilting or
With ponderous step
     Till earthly time shall die.

Then shall its door be opened
     And all its content known;
The scarlet notes
And scarlet knots
     To judging eyes be shown.


© Leticia Austria 2007

Blasts from the Past

     I used to think reunions weren't my thing. I thought they were only for people who were happy in high school and had nothing but great memories—in other words, class reunions were for football players, cheerleaders, class officers, and the "popular set." I was none of those things (bet you could have guessed I didn't play football). No, the only bright light for me was choir. Choir I knew how to do. Choir was my lifeboat in the dark, turbulent waters of high school. But even my good memories of choir weren't enough to entice me to wade through the crowd of "others" in search of a small handful of fellow choir geeks.

     So it shouldn't be surprising that I haven't attended any of my class reunions, and there have been several, both major and "mini." Granted, I sometimes had legitimate excuses; for instance, I couldn't go to the big 20th because I was in Italy at the time, but I did order the book for which I and my classmates wrote short summaries of our lives since graduation. I was rather proud of mine, as I thought it a sort of vindication for the negative social status and miserably low grades that marked my high school career. "Choir Geek Makes Good in Major World-Class Opera Company." It is a sad aspect of my character that puts so much importance on other people's opinion of me. I've never been able to do anything, anything at all, without wondering how it would look to other people. But at least I'm aware of this shortcoming, and it is indeed a shortcoming—it's called pride.

     One of the things that can conquer self-pride is love for others. Last weekend, there was a reunion, not of my class, but of my high school choir. I couldn't participate in the concert they literally threw together willy-nilly, but the temptation to see after so many decades some of my old choral comrades was just too great. So when they went to lunch between rehearsals for the concert, I joined them, literally for just an hour; but that hour was one of the happiest I've had since November 4, 2009 (you're probably wondering what happened on that date, but I'm not telling, and please get your mind out of the gutter!). This sounds so terribly cliché, but everyone looked exactly as I remembered them. That's because I was looking at them through, to quote Frasier, "love goggles." These people made high school tolerable for me, and I loved them for it.

     A couple of days later, I made a date for coffee with one of them. She and I didn't really get a chance for a good chin wag at that flying lunch, but we certainly made up for it over our laid-back coffee at Starbucks. She brought with her a copy of my book of juvenile poems and song lyrics which I had given her as a graduation present. My own copy of the book, and it was the only copy I had, went missing back in the '80s. Needless to say, I'm thrilled to have my old poems and lyrics again, horrible as they are. Believe me, they are horrible. But since I threw out all my adolescent journals during a fit of depression in college, these horrible things are the only written record of those turbulent years. So they are very, very precious to me, like a bratty kid whom you love anyway because he is your child. And my friend was everything I remembered her to be: one of the sweetest, kindest people I know.

     I came away from that weekend with the conviction that there should only be specified reunions of choirs, bands, football teams, pep squads, drill teams, clubs, etc. You can keep the big, general class reunions. But I'm only speaking as one for whom high school wasn't a generally great experience.

    

Drink or Drown: Part Three

To read Parts One and Two, click "Italian Plays in Translation" above.

SCENE 5

(enter ARIBERTO.)

 

ARIBERTO     (To himself, on the threshold.)  They are laughing—a good sign!  (MARCELLO goes to meet him.)  Well?

MARCELLO     (Aside to ARIBERTO.)  It's done!

ARIBERTO     (Aside to MARCELLO.)  You have reached an understanding?

MARCELLO     Of course!

ARIBERTO     Good lad! I'm proud of you!  (To BEATRICE.)  Well, then?

BEATRICE     I must speak with you privately!

ARIBERTO     (Believing to understand.)  Ah! Quite right—after an interview with the son, it is only natural you should wish one with his father.  (A small smile to MARCELLO.)  Marcello, you may leave us for moment.

MARCELLO     (Glad to go.)  Very well.

ARIBERTO     Wait! First—come here.  (Affectionately.)  You are a good son. I feel the need to embrace you!  (Extends his arms.) 

MARCELLO     (Drawing back.)  Later, Father!  If we should begin straightaway, Beatrice may laugh!

ARIBERTO     These blessed men of the sea! That is how they are—bears on the surgace, lambs underneath.  (MARCELLO makes to go.)  What? You would go, without even—  (Motions meaningfully to BEATRICE.)  Come now, I believe even she—

MARCELLO     (Moves to embrace her.)  With all my heart!

BEATRICE     (Pulling away.)  That is enough for today.

MARCELLO     You see, she does not want to. As for me—

ARIBERTO     Be off with you; if she says 'enough', then that is enough! Do not insist.

MARCELLO     I am not insisting. But you have seen for yourself that she does not want to.  (Aside to ARIBERTO.)  I've done my part—now for you to do yours!  (To himself as he exits.)  If you can pull it off—bravo!  (Exits.)

 

SCENE 6

 

ARIBERTO     (Sits near BEATRICE and takes her hands affectionately.)  So—we are alone, my dear child. I believe I can guess what it is you wish to tell me! Oh, if you only knew the weight which has been lifted from my heart!

BEATRICE     (Placing herself directly face to face with him.)  Clever Uncle—very clever, indeed! This is going too far!

ARIBERTO     What do you mean? What is wrong?

BEATRICE     (Reproachfully.)  I shall not enter a suit against you—

ARIBERTO     (Surprised.)  A suit?

BEATRICE     No, I shall not; for I should like to believe that if you wished to deceive me, it was for a good cause. But—

ARIBERTO     But what?  (Believes he has guessed.)  Ah, I understand! Marcello has blurted out to you that he arrived last night, and that I—

BEATRICE     Last night? This too?  No, he did not tell me that. But he has told me ... other things.

ARIBERTO     (Beginning to feel uneasy.)  What is all this business?  (As before.)  Ah—now I have it! Before tying the knot, your betrothed naturally wished to make a general confession to you.

BEATRICE     Precisely!

ARIBERTO     (To himself.)  He should have kept it to himself!  (Aloud.)  He has been an upright young man—it is to be commended. (Jokingly.)  Puhh! It really is no great matter. I suppose he spoke of certain love letters he should burn—a lock of hair to toss out the window? Mere bygones; things of the past! Do not take them seriously. The gentleman on the verge of taking a wife may liken himself, more or less, to the painter who has finished a picture and is not content with it. He destroys the canvas, changes his palette—and where there once were clouds, flashes, and bolts of lightning, he now paints a beautiful sky studded with stars. And where there were once crashing waves and great, heaving billows, he now paints a sea calm and clear as a mirror, as sparkling as your own two heavenly eyes! The past—and what is still to come! He might have kept silence, yet he chose to speak—and you must appreciate his loyalty, smile upon the picture he paints of his future, which is also yours—and destroy the canvas of the past!

BEATRICE     Ah, yes; but once one begins destroying canvases, there may be no end to it. You do not know what he has told me.

ARIBERTO     (To himself.)  Heaven help us!  (Aloud, with growing interest.)  Speak up, speak up. What has he told you?

BEATRICE     That he loves another! That he has pledged his constancy to a woman who possesses the most beautiful eyes he has seen.

ARIBERTO     (To himself, biting his lip.)  Scoundrel! He has duped me!

BEATRICE    Come; justify yourself now if you can!

ARIBERTO     (Attempting to joke about it.)  Ha, ha, ha! And you believed it? Did you not see it was all a plan?

BEATRICE     (With conviction.)  Uncle! What good is this? It is useless to seek excuses. You have gone quite red. One lie is quite enough.  (Soberly.)  This marriage cannot take place.

ARIBERTO     (Shaken.)  Do not say that, even in jest! After all, Marcello's past indiscretion was but a brief flame.

BEATRICE     Save me from such a flame!

ARIBERTO     He is truly a good man, deep down. Once you are his wife, he shall adore you!  (Gravely.)  Do you believe that I should be capable of inventing a falsehood without having your happiness, your best interests, at heart?

BEATRICE     (A little maliciously.)  My happiness? Mine alone?

ARIBERTO     (Staring at her in astonishment.)  You would doubt it?
BEATRICE     (Dissembling.)  No, no! Rather, I acknowledge it. Only I should have preferred you told me the whole truth. You might have spared me some distress!
ARIBERTO     It is that—you see—I also believed—  (Angrily.)  That scoundrel Marcello! If you knew how it grieves me to see you unhappy!
BEATRICE     (Sadly.)  I thank you, but it is nothing! I, too, had built many castles in the air. I took much pleasure in the thought that we might be a family. But now—I understand too well that it is not possible.  (Under her breath.)  For you—you could not sacrifice your own life to be the guardian of a spinster niece. Your own aspirations, hopes—
ARIBERTO     (Puzzled.)  What hopes?
BEATRICE     (Continuing.)  Do not worry on my account! You know how I love the country. I live eight months of the year there; I shall add another four, to make up the whole year.  (Emotionally.)  It means that—if I cannot stay here as a daughter, nor as your ward—when you are no longer alone—when, as is natural, you have also chosen a wife—
ARIBERTO     I? What the devil are you saying?
BEATRICE     (Continuing in the same tone.)  Well—if my—aunt should have no objection, I shall come back to stay with you both. And, as I have done today, I shall adorn your parlor with flowers.  (Wipes away a tear, then smiles.)  I told you that I should never call you Papa—it seems my heart had a presentiment!
ARIBERTO     Beatrice! Do you know, you have become quite serious. Speaking in such a way—I've never heard you speak like this! Your laughter makes me want to weep in spite of myself ....  (Stomps his foot.)  I could give myself to the devil, when I think that that scoundrel had a treasure in his hand—and he tosses it away!
BEATRICE     (Pacifying him.)  Do not trouble yourself! It is much better this way. Marcello, to begin with, is two years younger than I. We women are already old at thirty. You men, at forty, are still in your prime.
ARIBERTO     (Smiling.)  Not quite ....
BEATRICE     It is so! And, supposing Marcello should, by and by, discover all those lovely things which you have attributed to me—do you really believe they would be enough for him? Unfortunately, those qualities do not last forever! And when my hair has become quite white—while his remains dark, like yours—do you think the silver of my locks would be compensated by the hidden gold of my virtue? Let us not delude ourselves!  (With conviction.)  Oh, if only Marcello were ten years older, then I could not say—! But, being two years younger—with those almond-shaped eyes locked in his heart—come now!
ARIBERTO     Oh, that will, that cursed pride in the family name!
BEATRICE     Guidobaldi? Well, it is a beautiful name. There is nothing more to say of that.
ARIBERTO     Yes—the name of honest people, if you will! But if there are only two men in the world of that name—my son and myself ....  (He seems suddenly struck by a vague idea; he looks at BEATRICE; he stands, then sits again; settles his cravat and smooths his hair. He is disturbed.)
BEATRICE    (Pointedly, preoccupied.)  Yes ... there are only two. Your son, and ....
ARIBERTO     (Promptly.)  Me.  (Pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his brow.)
BEATRICE     (Almost mechanically.)  ... and you!  (They stare at each other.)  Uncle—why do you stare at me so?
ARIBERTO     (Embarrassed.)  I? Nay, my dear; it is you who are staring at me!  (Rouses himself, gets up, passes in front of the mirror and glances furtively at his reflection, saying to himself.)  Ugh! This heat!  (Sits down again and fans himself with his handkerchief. BEATRICE does the same. He does not know how to resume the conversation.)  Tell me: you spoke before—of age. You said that, generally speaking, the happiest marriages are those in which the husband is—somewhat older?
BEATRICE     I have said so, and I believe it to be true.
ARIBERTO     (Elated.)  And ...  (Draws nearer to her.)  I beg your pardon; I cannot recall. How many years older did you say?
BEATRICE     I don't know—ten—fifteen—
ARIBERTO     (Hinting.)  Eighteen?
BEATRICE     (Flushing.)  Oh, yes—even eighteen!
ARIBERTO     (Even more elated.)  And then, if the man were well-preserved—if he had all his teeth—and his hair—?
BEATRICE     (A bit tongue-tied.)  Well, certainly ...  (Abruptly.)  Uncle, what is your age?
ARIBERTO     (Wiping his brow.)  My age? Calculate for yourself! I married at twenty, fathered a child at one-and-twenty, was widowed at five-and-twenty; my son is now twenty—so then—
BEATRICE     (Counting to herself.)  Nineteen!
ARIBERTO     How came you to that number?
BEATRICE     I mean to say—you are nineteen years older than I.
ARIBERTO     Beatrice—do you know, your way of arithmetic makes my head spin!
BEATRICE     Uncle—do you know what Marcello suggested to me earlier?
ARIBERTO     (Ill-humoredly.)  Something beastly, to be sure!
BEATRICE     (Coquettishly.)  No—he suggested I marry his father!
ARIBERTO     (Stunned.)  Did he?  (To himself.)  The idea! Poor boy!  (Aloud, with increasing emotion.)  Ah, did he, now? And you—?
BEATRICE     I? I laughed at first.
ARIBERTO     (Hanging on her every word.)  And—now?
BEATRICE     (Emotionally, her eyes shining.)  And now—I am no longer laughing.  (Having said this, she quickly runs out, leaving ARIBERTO bewildered.)

END SCENE

 

To be continued.