I scraped my wrist on a book today--The Fool's Girl, by Celia Rees. I'd much rather get scraped by a book than anything else!
This novel is a sort of sequel to Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, in which Viola's daughter Violetta along with the fool Feste end up in London, where they meet William Shakespeare and Violetta tells him of her mother's adventures which 'Will' apparently then puts into a play. According to Ms. Rees, Illyria does not long stay happy, but is in a horrible state, and Violetta is trying to put it back to rights, with the help, (or not,) of characters from the original play as well as new additions. It started out very confusingly, going back and forth from Violetta, Lady Maria, and Feste telling about the events leading up to their coming to London, but now, (I'm not quite halfway through, this book has been unusually slow-going for me,) it's getting clearer though I'm still not sure how they ended up in London!
When I finish reading it, I'll give it a review out of five stars. And then...the next book I read...and the next...and on and on...with also get a review.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A Short Story about Anne Boleyn
It doen't have a title yet...
England, 1536--Greenwich Courtyard, April 30
A king--stature so stately, and a queen--elevated so high, and then fallen so low. It was a dusky evening, and the king was strolling in the courtyard of Greenwich Palace after an afternoon of merriment, when he heard a voice.
“Your Majesty! Henry!”
The king turned. “Anne!” he said, not so much delighted as puzzled.
“Your Majesty, I beg of you! For the love of our child, have some mercy! Give me another chance!” The Queen’s dark hair was slipping out of it’s pins, her hood askew. Her eyes were pleading, her face frantic. She clutched Princess Elizabeth in her arms.
Henry glared at her. He was almost moved to be forgiving, looking at her dark eyes beseechingly looking at him, but quickly changed his mind. This woman had lured him with her exotic, irresistible beauty, and she had tricked him. There was no need for mercy. “You failed to give me a son. You lied to me. I will give you no more chances!”
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “Henry! You loved me! I thought you loved me! Can you not spare some kindness! Look at our child!” Princess Elizabeth squirmed in her mother’s arms and turned around to look at her father. Met by this menacing figure she quickly hid her face in her mother’s gown.
“I loved you! For the sake of this love, please, I beg of you! Henry!” This last was cried out in vain as the great king turned away from his wife, ornate cloak swinging as he strode away, callous to his wife’s pleas.
Anne stood forlornly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched her husband disappear into the distance, before she sank to the ground in utter despair, burying her head in little Elizabeth’s dress.
~~
The next day she tried again, carrying Elizabeth past Henry’s window, but he did not come out. He was with Jane Seymour, the little blond lady-in-waiting that had replaced Anne in Henry’s affections. He had flirted with her, gratified that she was the entire opposite of Anne, who was dark, bold, passionate and vivacious compared to meek, fair, quiet Jane.
Hurrying away, with no success, Anne wondered despairingly if Henry would finally show her mercy, or she would lose.
She lost.
England, 1536--Greenwich Courtyard, April 30
A king--stature so stately, and a queen--elevated so high, and then fallen so low. It was a dusky evening, and the king was strolling in the courtyard of Greenwich Palace after an afternoon of merriment, when he heard a voice.
“Your Majesty! Henry!”
The king turned. “Anne!” he said, not so much delighted as puzzled.
“Your Majesty, I beg of you! For the love of our child, have some mercy! Give me another chance!” The Queen’s dark hair was slipping out of it’s pins, her hood askew. Her eyes were pleading, her face frantic. She clutched Princess Elizabeth in her arms.
Henry glared at her. He was almost moved to be forgiving, looking at her dark eyes beseechingly looking at him, but quickly changed his mind. This woman had lured him with her exotic, irresistible beauty, and she had tricked him. There was no need for mercy. “You failed to give me a son. You lied to me. I will give you no more chances!”
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “Henry! You loved me! I thought you loved me! Can you not spare some kindness! Look at our child!” Princess Elizabeth squirmed in her mother’s arms and turned around to look at her father. Met by this menacing figure she quickly hid her face in her mother’s gown.
“I loved you! For the sake of this love, please, I beg of you! Henry!” This last was cried out in vain as the great king turned away from his wife, ornate cloak swinging as he strode away, callous to his wife’s pleas.
Anne stood forlornly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched her husband disappear into the distance, before she sank to the ground in utter despair, burying her head in little Elizabeth’s dress.
~~
The next day she tried again, carrying Elizabeth past Henry’s window, but he did not come out. He was with Jane Seymour, the little blond lady-in-waiting that had replaced Anne in Henry’s affections. He had flirted with her, gratified that she was the entire opposite of Anne, who was dark, bold, passionate and vivacious compared to meek, fair, quiet Jane.
Hurrying away, with no success, Anne wondered despairingly if Henry would finally show her mercy, or she would lose.
She lost.
This story is based on a true event.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Weekly Character
Each week I'm going to pick a picture from my extensive historical fashion picture folder, whether a Victorian fashion plate, a '50s model, a 18th century Duchess or a Regency dancer, and create a small profile of the person. Of course, I'll choose images of unidentified people, because the whole point of this is to make up who the person is.
Today this picture caught my eye:
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The lady in the center is Lucille Marie Vensten, nee Georget, and her children are Isabel and James, or "Jamie" for short. She was born in France in 1882, and as this picture looks to be about 1910, she is twenty-eight. She met Henry Vensten, a British painter, at a art convention in Paris in 1901. The two were married in 1902, in an outdoor ceremony at Henry's parent's villa in the south of France. In 1903, their daughter Isabel was born, and their son James in 1906. Lucille is also a very artistic person, and takes delight in sketching miniature portraits of Isabel and Jamie. When Jamie was two, the Venstens moved to Italy, where Henry is an artist. They live in a little seaside cottage, with extensive gardens that Lucille tends every morning. The base drawing for this idyllic portrait was quickly sketched by Henry one morning in May when he saw his son bringing his mother and sister a rose from the giant rosebush by the front walkway. He presented the painting to Lucille for her birthday in September, and it hangs in the sunroom, which is Lucille's special place.
(Disclaimer: the story above is completely fictional and all the characters are of my own invention. The painting is not of Lucille, Isabel and James Vensten, nor was it painted by Henry Vensten.)
Today this picture caught my eye:
The lady in the center is Lucille Marie Vensten, nee Georget, and her children are Isabel and James, or "Jamie" for short. She was born in France in 1882, and as this picture looks to be about 1910, she is twenty-eight. She met Henry Vensten, a British painter, at a art convention in Paris in 1901. The two were married in 1902, in an outdoor ceremony at Henry's parent's villa in the south of France. In 1903, their daughter Isabel was born, and their son James in 1906. Lucille is also a very artistic person, and takes delight in sketching miniature portraits of Isabel and Jamie. When Jamie was two, the Venstens moved to Italy, where Henry is an artist. They live in a little seaside cottage, with extensive gardens that Lucille tends every morning. The base drawing for this idyllic portrait was quickly sketched by Henry one morning in May when he saw his son bringing his mother and sister a rose from the giant rosebush by the front walkway. He presented the painting to Lucille for her birthday in September, and it hangs in the sunroom, which is Lucille's special place.
(Disclaimer: the story above is completely fictional and all the characters are of my own invention. The painting is not of Lucille, Isabel and James Vensten, nor was it painted by Henry Vensten.)
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Anniversary of the Romanov's death
Since today is the 93rd anniversary of the Romanovs' assasination, (er, late tonight it will be,) I am posting a short story I wrote a couple months ago about them, as well as a tribute video I made.
SKATING ON THE STANDART
a short story about the Romanovs
WITH THE RELEASE of the film, “Rasputin and the Empress”, starring the Barrymore family, in 1932, an interest in the last imperial Romanov family of Russia was kindled.
At the time I was a young reporter for a newspaper in my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
There had been many stories circulating the town about a Russian immigrant named Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky in the early 1920s when I was around ten years old. As far as I knew, he still lived in a little house at the end of Thirty-Fourth street, and so, armed with notebook and pencil, I boldly knocked on his door one day in the spring of 1933 with the hope of interviewing him for the newspaper.
I was surprised to find that he was a very amiable man, a bit of a recluse, and not at all the cruel Russian the townsfolk had made him out to be. I suppose these assumptions were merely made up out of prejudice and not knowing the truth about the friendly Mr. Chegoffsky.
He welcomed me in and made me a glass of tea with a Russian samovar. I told him of my purpose in coming, and he nodded.
“Ah, yes. I heard of this film, and out of curiosity I went to see it. It is terribly inaccurate, I must tell you. The Imperial Family is portrayed most untruthfully. It is merely a trumped-up version of fact, embellished with wild tales to make it appealing to the public. But--if it has sparked an interest in the family, then I am glad. More tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Now,” said Mr. Chegoffsky, settling back into his chair. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“Well, I came to interview you and see if you knew anything about the Imperial Family. It seems that you do.”
“Yes, indeed! I had the great pleasure of knowing them intimately for several years.”
“Really?” This was more than I had ever hoped for! My pencil poised to take notes, I asked,
“How so?”
“I served as a sailor on the yacht Standart from 1908 to 1911. I was in my early twenties then, and very proud indeed to serve the Tsar.”
Warming up to the story, I began to take down all he said. The following is the tale he told me, in his own words.
I have often thought back to my time as a sailor on the Imperial yacht Standart with joy. The Imperial Family was truly lovely, and it was an honor to serve them. I always look back to the events of 1917-18 with sadness, and wish that the lives of these remarkable people had not been cut off with such brutality.
My favorite memory from serving on the Standart is of the Grand Duchesses and some of us sailors roller-skating down the deck. It must have been around 1910 that we did this, for I left my time on this large yacht in 1911.
I believe it was the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaievna’s idea, and the rest of us played along. It made many a boring hour sailing on the Baltic Sea merry.
I do not recall how us sailors obtained roller-skates, but I distinctly recall skating along the deck with the two younger Grand Duchesses, Maria and Anastasia Nicholaievna, on either side of me.
There are many more fond recollections from my time on the Standart, but this one is my favorite. It shows how unaffected and candid the Grand Duchesses were, which, I think, will present a different view to the people of the present day. I sincerely hope that some day this cruel Soviet regime will end, and that the Imperial Family will some day be known as they truly were.
This I later transposed into a newspaper article which won the first prize blue ribbon in our yearly “Best Article” contest. I was very proud of that ribbon, and hung it in a place of honor in the den when I had my own house.
I became very good friends with Vasily Chegoffsky, and was saddened when he died at the age of eighty-two in 1966. He told me many more tales of the last Romanovs, and by the time he passed on, I felt as if I had really known them.
At that point I was the head of the newspaper and I wrote an obituary for the Russian:
Two days ago a citizen of our city, Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky, passed away in his home on Thirty-Fourth Street. Many of you may remember the prize-winning article of 1932, which I wrote as a young junior reporter. That article would never have come to being if it wasn’t for Vasily Chegoffsky. He was a fine man, and he will be missed.
~~~~~
Video: OTMA: Antebellum
R.I.P.
![]()
SKATING ON THE STANDART
a short story about the Romanovs
WITH THE RELEASE of the film, “Rasputin and the Empress”, starring the Barrymore family, in 1932, an interest in the last imperial Romanov family of Russia was kindled.
At the time I was a young reporter for a newspaper in my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
There had been many stories circulating the town about a Russian immigrant named Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky in the early 1920s when I was around ten years old. As far as I knew, he still lived in a little house at the end of Thirty-Fourth street, and so, armed with notebook and pencil, I boldly knocked on his door one day in the spring of 1933 with the hope of interviewing him for the newspaper.
I was surprised to find that he was a very amiable man, a bit of a recluse, and not at all the cruel Russian the townsfolk had made him out to be. I suppose these assumptions were merely made up out of prejudice and not knowing the truth about the friendly Mr. Chegoffsky.
He welcomed me in and made me a glass of tea with a Russian samovar. I told him of my purpose in coming, and he nodded.
“Ah, yes. I heard of this film, and out of curiosity I went to see it. It is terribly inaccurate, I must tell you. The Imperial Family is portrayed most untruthfully. It is merely a trumped-up version of fact, embellished with wild tales to make it appealing to the public. But--if it has sparked an interest in the family, then I am glad. More tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Now,” said Mr. Chegoffsky, settling back into his chair. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“Well, I came to interview you and see if you knew anything about the Imperial Family. It seems that you do.”
“Yes, indeed! I had the great pleasure of knowing them intimately for several years.”
“Really?” This was more than I had ever hoped for! My pencil poised to take notes, I asked,
“How so?”
“I served as a sailor on the yacht Standart from 1908 to 1911. I was in my early twenties then, and very proud indeed to serve the Tsar.”
Warming up to the story, I began to take down all he said. The following is the tale he told me, in his own words.
I have often thought back to my time as a sailor on the Imperial yacht Standart with joy. The Imperial Family was truly lovely, and it was an honor to serve them. I always look back to the events of 1917-18 with sadness, and wish that the lives of these remarkable people had not been cut off with such brutality.
My favorite memory from serving on the Standart is of the Grand Duchesses and some of us sailors roller-skating down the deck. It must have been around 1910 that we did this, for I left my time on this large yacht in 1911.
I believe it was the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaievna’s idea, and the rest of us played along. It made many a boring hour sailing on the Baltic Sea merry.
I do not recall how us sailors obtained roller-skates, but I distinctly recall skating along the deck with the two younger Grand Duchesses, Maria and Anastasia Nicholaievna, on either side of me.
There are many more fond recollections from my time on the Standart, but this one is my favorite. It shows how unaffected and candid the Grand Duchesses were, which, I think, will present a different view to the people of the present day. I sincerely hope that some day this cruel Soviet regime will end, and that the Imperial Family will some day be known as they truly were.
This I later transposed into a newspaper article which won the first prize blue ribbon in our yearly “Best Article” contest. I was very proud of that ribbon, and hung it in a place of honor in the den when I had my own house.
I became very good friends with Vasily Chegoffsky, and was saddened when he died at the age of eighty-two in 1966. He told me many more tales of the last Romanovs, and by the time he passed on, I felt as if I had really known them.
At that point I was the head of the newspaper and I wrote an obituary for the Russian:
Two days ago a citizen of our city, Vasily Ivanovitch Chegoffsky, passed away in his home on Thirty-Fourth Street. Many of you may remember the prize-winning article of 1932, which I wrote as a young junior reporter. That article would never have come to being if it wasn’t for Vasily Chegoffsky. He was a fine man, and he will be missed.
~~~~~
Video: OTMA: Antebellum
R.I.P.
Greetings!
Inspired by the darling blog "Amabellen", that my mother's friend made, I decided to make one of my own to post assorted writings of mine and any other thing that catches my eye. I have been writing stories for about seven years now, from childish one-page pioneer tales to a 30-some page 10-year-old Wizard-of-Oz "masterpiece", (now I consider it quite dreadful,) and now to more mature stories about the last Romanovs, other royals, Edwardian shopgirls, Regency ladies...the list goes on and on. I could count over 20 unfinished works presently! And movie scripts, too...My mother often says that I learned to write by reading, and it's probably very true. My love of books, (sometimes I read three or four a week,) has turned me into an aspiring author, and someday I hope to go beyond giving 40 page 'books' as presents to family and friends. I guess this blog, "publishing" some of my "works" online, is another step towards that!
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