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valhallanrose · 3 years

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The Moon Will Sing

When facing the reality of a bargain made, sixteen year old Catriona realizes that hard choices must be made before she loses herself completely.

Avery (they/them), Edrine (she/they/he), and Astoria (she/they) are all nonbinary. Bolded pronouns are the ones used in this fic for each of them.

This fic acts as the end of the first ‘act’ of Astoria’s pre-canon, and also ends the frequency of Senga appearances. Hell yeah. I also blame the length on this being pretty lore heavy, because this covers a lot of bases.

7.4k. No CWs apply.

Title: The Moon Will Sing, The Crane Wives

Noise was no strange occurrence in the halls of Castle Kintyre - between the three generations living within its walls full time, the youngest generation currently ranging in ages from sixteen to twelve, it was an inevitability. It was easy enough to ignore after a time, and most of the residents had become accustomed to adapting if they could not completely block it out.

The kind of noise that had come to Kintyre on this day, however, was the kind that made your ears ring and your head pound just trying to make sense of it all. There were so many more bodies slipping between the walls, across the grounds, too many unfamiliar faces for Catriona to feel particularly keen on leaving their bedroom until they absolutely had to.

Blessedly, September had brought the beginning of the storm season - the rain pounding against the glass drowning out the gathering crowds until it faded to a murmur they could stand. Though, her sanctuary would have to end. Soon enough, she’d have to face the crowd, and brace herself for the hundreds of pairs of eyes from all corners of Rosinmoor.

Thunder crackled in the distance as she stood before the mirror, idly tracing the gilded flowers and birds that framed the glass with their fingertips even as their mind wandered elsewhere.

Three years ago, Catriona had left with Myrna to visit Lulia, and though she had a wonderful time, the shadow of the promise made with her mother still hung heavy on her shoulders. And it would follow her to Vesuvia, to Firent, to Prakra, from the Sea of Persephia to the Bay of Jewels and everywhere in between.

The letter came in the summer before her sixteenth birthday, calling her home to prepare her for her coronation as Luxe of Kintyre.

True to her word, she’d returned home no matter how desperately she wanted to run, and threw herself into the lessons her mother packed her schedule with in hopes she might just feel nothing at all.

A tactic that had worked a little too well, perhaps, as she felt empty all the way down to her bones.

Her mother hadn’t seemed to care. She’d gotten her way. A fact she emphasized when the Baroness herself flounced into Catriona’s room moments after the sun broke over the horizon with the coronation gown and two handmaids in tow, chattering happily about getting her ready and how perfect she’d look before the morning began to blur into an odd tornado of hair curling and poking and prodding to make everything look just so.

The dress Senga had chosen was white, with a simple neckline and puffy sleeves. The silk base was laid over with delicate gossamer, and the whole thing was embroidered with metallic silver floral motifs as well as tiny vines. The whole thing was finished with a golden sash and a rather full petticoat that made Catriona feel like the porcelain doll that sat untouched on their dresser for most of their childhood.

Senga had kissed her on the brow once she was ready, fluffed the carefully styled curls that hung against her shoulders, and promised she’d be back shortly to come get her once it was time for the ceremony to begin.

Rosinmoor was a nation steeped in tradition as much as it was superstition. The first heir to be named after the establishment of the seven seats was Aoife, the sixteen year old daughter of Balmoral the Breaker and Muiri Leamhnach. As their only child, she stood to inherit Braemuir in its entirety, and Balmoral had thrown a celebration, inviting not only clan leaders but all those who chose to live in the nation once it had been established. Seven clan leaders had borne witness to a public proclamation, and since then, every heir had been acknowledged in the same exact way.

So now that her time had come, seven clan leaders had come to bear witness and acknowledge her as the next to hold the title of Luxe Kintyre, and eventually, Baronet.

A knock at the door drew her out of her reverie, and she quickly slipped her shoes on - flats, her mother had insisted, because it would be ‘disastrous’ if she fell on such an important day - before taking the few steps necessary to open the door and meet her mother’s inspection.

Catriona recognized the suit her mother wore. It was the same from her own coronation as Baroness, though it had been tailored once again, and golden embroidery added to the cuffs and lapels of the deep green fabric. Never did Senga fail to look polished, either, with her auburn hair perfectly straightened and smooth beneath the intricate crown that adorned her head.

The leaders of Rosinmoor did not wear their crowns outside of official ceremonies, for the sake of practicality, but the proclamation of heirs was an occasion that called for them. Senga was no exception, the gold and emerald glimmering even in the low light of the hall.

“There you are, dear.” Senga smiled, reaching forward and gently smoothing a few pieces of hair away from her face. “You look lovely. Are you ready to go down?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Catriona stepped into the hall beside her mother, letting her lead her down the hall with a hand laid lightly against her lower back. Senga only chuckled softly in amusement, heels clicking on the stone floors and cutting through the chatter as it slowly became more noticeable.

“You’ll be fine, Catriona.” Senga took a single step down the stairs, then turned, offering her hand to Catriona with a smile. “It’ll be over before you know it. Cherish it.”

She lingered at the top of the stairs, looking up to the great window of stained glass that was dark with the storm beyond it, and let out a deep breath before she lowered her gaze to her mother’s palm.

Funny to think that once the worst thing in the world had been being eleven years old and having to hold someone’s hand to traverse these same steps. And now, being sixteen, knowing what awaited them at the bottom…

The dam that surrounded their heart began to crack.

* * * * *

When Catriona had been led into the great hall, it was absolutely packed with people - and the storm had kept away the bulk of the crowd, which meant they knew many of those spectating that day were the families and close peers of the families of Rosinmoor. Others still were notable figures of Rosafearn: merchants, artisans, performers, anyone from any walk of life who bore an invitation to the ceremony and the ball hosted immediately afterward.

For the rest of Kintyre, the tour would begin on the morrow. Senga, Catriona, and Senga’s personal guard would begin the rounds to major cities in the region, introducing the Luxe Canonach to the people that one day she would be charged with defending.

Catriona, ever the introvert, was stiff with nerves as Senga led her through the crowd that parted around them to let them pass - so much so that she was pretty sure she had blacked out for a second. One moment, they were just inside the doorway, facing down swirls of color in every shade worn by the guests, and the next...the next she stood before the throne at the complete opposite side of the hall.

Nor could they take comfort in the presence of familiar faces, not when every member of the Canonach family was here today, none the wiser to what terms held her here and how quickly she’d run if she saw a way out. Briefly, she caught a glimpse of Sachairi, who gave her an encouraging smile she couldn’t match as Senga gestured for her to sit.

Her mother, as Baroness, could not take the oath directly - it had been the same since Balmoral, who had not taken Aoife’s oath upon her own proclamation. Rather, the oath had been taken by Cliamon themself, in an attempt to display that Aoife took the oath of her own free will by not having to face her predecessor and her father in the same fell swoop.

Catriona was grateful that she would not face Senga, at least, but somehow seeing Avery Maollosa step forward when Senga asked who would name her was worse.

Avery looked every part the Baronet they were - wild curls braided back, the sleek black doublet and vest paired with the crimson tartan of the Maollosas, the carefully polished silver buttons and sword-shaped kilt pin...and the crown, forged by Avery themself from iron and the raw quartz mined from Ardaleith out of the crown of their father.

A table with a long, hinge-top cedar box had been set up off to the side, watched over by Myrna until Avery approached and gave her grandmother a polite nod and a smile. Myrna returned the expression before she turned, gently lifting the lid of the box and reaching in with both hands to neatly lift the sword inside from where it rested in silken

For a moment, Catriona forgot the situation she was in, tilting her head back and craning to get a good look before Myrna turned and laid the sword delicately in Avery’s outstretched hands - grip snug in their left and blade laid flat against their right palm.

Catriona had only seen Òran na H-ealachan, the Swan Song, once before in their lifetime, but it was as if they knew it like the back of their hand.

The two-handed Highland claymore that had once belonged to Cliamon the Great had been carefully maintained over the centuries, now falling under the stewardship of one Myrna Canonach to be safeguarded and maintained when it was not being used for ceremony. It had been this way since each of the Seven had sworn an oath upon their own weapons to defend not only the land, but the people who lived within it, until their dying days - and Aoife Leamhnach had done just the same on her sixteenth year when she became the Lady of Braemuir.

Senga had made her own oath to the Barony of Kintyre the last time Catriona had seen the sword, and now, they would make their own.

With the sword laid across their hands, Avery turned and took the few steps to approach the dais, each step louder as the crowd watched with bated breath.

Eyes fixed on hers, they lowered themself to one knee, hands uplifted and open for Catriona to take the blade for themself.

“Catriona Canonach.” Avery began, and any lingering chatter in the room swept into silence, the only other sound the rain against the glass. “You come before the people of Kintyre to make an oath, swearing fealty to the Seven Seats and all within the boundaries of Rosinmoor. Do you make this oath of your own free will, with true understanding of the title it will bring you?”

Even though their expression was carefully schooled, Catriona could see in Avery’s eyes the unspoken question.

Do you really want this?

Her eyes flickered toward her mother, whose brows lowered ever so slightly as the pause became slightly more pronounced. Catriona swallowed down their nerves and straightened their shoulders, looking only at Avery, and hoped that they could mask their true thoughts well enough.

No.

“I do.” She said, voice lifting to be heard over the winds that blew the rain in sheets.

Avery nodded and raised the blade, offering it to Catriona from their place before her with both hands open. Catriona would take a breath, then lean forward, carefully wrapping one hand around the leather grip and slipping the other under the flat of the blade so as to not cut herself or Avery when she lifted it into her lap. As she settled with the weight of the blade, she caught a reflection of her own eyes, blue against the carefully polished steel.

“In your hands you bear Òran na H-ealachan, a symbol of the legacy established by Cliamon, first Baronet of Kintyre. I ask of you, as heir to this legacy, will you solemnly promise and swear to lead the people of Kintyre according to its laws and customs? Will you aid the remaining six seats, whoever they may be upon your ascension to the throne, in guiding the nation forward for those who will follow you?

Catriona, whose palms had begun to sweat, could not wipe them on her dress for fear of dropping the sword on the floor in front of hundreds of intently staring eyes. Rather she tightened her grip on the hilt and tried cupping her fingers along the edge, all without cutting her fingers in the process.

Perhaps it was all in her head, but the steel felt like ice - like dipping your hands into the Frozen Sea in the dead of winter.

“I solemnly promise.”

“Will you hold yourself to the same principles of law, justice, and mercy that are upheld by the people of Rosinmoor, in all course of action this oath may bring you?”

Avery held her gaze intently as she nodded slowly, as if searching for something more the longer they looked.

“I will.”

“To the utmost extent of your power and ability, do you swear to act in collaboration and diplomacy to defend the liberties of your people? Do you swear to act in defense of the people’s faith, traditions, and livelihoods wherever you are capable? To act in the best interests of Kintyre and those within, and to spend your life in her service?”

In the crowd beyond Avery’s shoulder, Catriona could see her mother’s approving look - could see Avery’s wife, Rima, with Edrine’s arms looped around her shoulders as he stood behind her. She could pick out other semi-familiar faces from other clans, like the smiling face of Ewan Griogal, who had been crowned heir to Glenarden mere months before. They could see Myrna in their peripherals, forever in black, waiting to receive the sword again and still unaware of the bargain Catriona has struck to keep her safe.

But she had to wonder - was it really in the best interest of Kintyre to name someone heir who didn’t want it at all?

Though they supposed it didn’t matter. Perhaps in time she’d come to enjoy it, though her relationship with her mother would certainly never be the same no matter how much time had passed.

“To my last day.” She answered, and Avery nodded, their face neutral as they lifted themself from their position and extended a hand for her to take. Catriona would accept, shifting to balance the tip of the blade on their soft shoe rather than the hard stone as Avery pulled her to her feet.

“Then rise, and face Kintyre as Luxe Catriona Canonach, descendant of Cliamon and heir to the Seven Seats of Rosinmoor.” Avery gave them a small smile then, all other words nearly drowned out by the roar that greeted her once she was fully upright. “May your life be long and full of love and joy, Catriona.”

Myrna would step forward to gently take the blade from Catriona’s hands again - not before she placed the customary kiss to its smooth pommel before a chanting crowd, a gesture meant to invoke good luck to the one who took the oath. Avery stepped back to give Senga room to step forward, glancing back only briefly before rejoining their family as the Baroness gave the word for the festivities to begin.

Only five minutes, and in that short time, it felt like she’d signed her life away. Sixteen years of wishing and hoping for something to change, for their life to be different, and in moments it all had become meaningless.

In a perfect world, they could abdicate anytime they wanted. A new heir could be chosen and titled, and the cycle would begin anew. But there would be no heir to follow, not while Catriona felt she had to protect Myrna, and certainly not while Senga Canonach held the title of Baroness.

And in this room, full of hundreds all there to celebrate her newfound position, the cracks in Catriona’s heart widened into chasms that threatened swallow her whole.

* * * * *

Contrary to their introverted nature, Catriona actually enjoyed parties on most occasions. They were thrilled to take part in the Hogmanay festivities and birthdays and the like, but they quickly found they did not like being the focus of the party itself on this particular day.

Their sheltered upbringing had meant that while they had met several of the major players in the political sphere of Rosinmoor, it had been only briefly - and it made them a point of intrigue for most of them in return.

Over the sounds of the small band hired to play for the day, Catriona had been constantly at her mother’s side, rubbing elbows and forcing smiles without reprieve. On the occasion she tried to slip away to visit with Edrine or Sachairi or any of her other relatives, Senga would set a hand on her shoulder, a silent demand to stay right where she was, and Catriona would oblige even as she fought the urge to smack her hand away.

It would only be when Senga found herself entrenched in conversation with the Baron of Melinlaesh - Callum Urchardan - about a possible trade agreement for several Melinlaeshi horses that Catriona could finally politely excuse themself, making a beeline straight for one of the tables of confections rather than continue the charade.

After a moment, she picked up a crystal stemmed glass, eagerly eyeing the raspberry cranachan layered within and contentedly making her way to the edge of the room to eat it in relative peace.

The refuge was necessary. She couldn’t leave the hall, not without royally pissing off her mother, but every interaction brought her closer to wanting to scream.

Every single one of the people she’d met had been eager to ask her about her studies, what areas of the Rosen political sphere intrigued her, asked how she felt about this or that relating to the title until she thought she was going to go mad. Her entire education as an heir had just been a regurgitation of Senga’s own plans and beliefs, as she wasn't oblivious to the expectation that she uphold her mother’s legacy even when she was no longer Baroness.

There was a point where Catriona had actually enjoyed the conversation - in meeting the Lady Consort of Glasinshiel, Maisie Ainsworth, she had mentioned raising a litter of pups as herders for the region’s abundance of livestock - but Senga had steered the conversation back once again to politics, leaving Catriona to nod blankly in agreement whenever Senga looked to her expectantly.

Pity Senga was only thirty-five. At least as Baronet, Catriona might have had a chance at some form of freedom, but that wouldn’t be for a long time yet. Her future was so indefinite, so unclear...and yet she’d placed it in someone else’s hands so easily.

Well, that made her cranachan taste rather sour.

As discreetly as she could, she spit her mouthful of trifle back into her glass, setting it carefully on the windowsill and wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb as she hoped nobody had seen.

“Not a fan?”

Catriona jumped, head snapping toward Avery, who merely raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I come in peace.” They teased gently, and Catriona smiled a little before they relaxed. “Thought I’d join you as a wallflower, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. People are...quite overwhelming, honestly. I didn’t expect so many to be here.”

Avery chuckled at that, reaching up to pull off their crown and holding it loosely in hand as they folded their arms across their chest.

“There might have been more, if the rain hadn’t kept the crowds away. You missed Ewan’s proclamation, but people were crowding at the windows just to try and catch a glimpse once the hall was packed to capacity.”

“That sounds nightmarish.” Catriona sighed, wrapping her arms loosely around herself.

“It only gets worse from here. Thousands of people will meet you when your tour begins, all eager to put a face to the name that’s been drifting around the social circles of Kintyre for years. You’ll be at most social events, special occasions, ceremonies…”

“Are you trying to make me more anxious than I am, Avery?”

“I’m trying to be realistic, but that brings me to one of the main reasons I wanted to speak with you in what little privacy we could get.” Avery turned then, one shoulder pressed to the wood paneling on the wall as their expression turned serious. “What changed, Catty?”

Catriona’s breath caught in her throat for a moment before she managed to swallow it down, forcing that same, pretty smile she’d been forcing all night back onto her face.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Avery sighed and gave her a knowing look. “Once upon a time, this was the worst thing you could have imagined. I know five years is five years, but...not when you were so adamantly against it.”

“Perhaps I just came to realize how fortunate I am to have such a life and such opportunities. It’s a privilege I shouldn’t neglect.”

A regurgitated answer, one schooled into them by their mother, for fear that deviation from the script would reveal to Senga’s peers the farce Catriona found herself in. And, well, one that Avery saw through as if the lie were made of the same gossamer overlay to her dress.

“That’s a load of shit and you know it.” Avery’s face didn’t change, save for the slight creasing of their brows as Catriona gave them an incredulous look. “I can see it in your eyes, the same way I have since your mother’s coronation - that sad, heavy weight of understanding what weight fell on your shoulders and wanting none of it.”

Catriona couldn’t help the wry smile that spread across her face, and she kicked loosely at the floor, scuffing the white toe of her shoe.

“It’s not about me anymore.” She whispered, quiet enough to force Avery to lean in to hear her. “I appreciate your concern, but I am fine.”

Avery stared at them for a long moment, eyes searching for something Catriona couldn’t name - but feeling still that they were looking straight into her heart.

“Your mother is young and healthy, meaning she has the potential to be Baroness easily into her sixties or seventies, if she follows the same patterns as her predecessors. Sorcha, who didn’t step down until she was seventy-five, and Malvina, who stepped down at sixty-four, and she considered herself frail. That’s at least another twenty-nine years, possibly up to forty, or even longer than that.”

Catriona swallowed lightly, squeezing the sides of her arms as she looked up at them.

“What are you getting at, Avery?”

“Is whatever changed your mind worth the possibility of living your whole life like this? This life can be exhausting on the mind, body, and spirit, and you are starting leagues behind us all who took their oaths willingly. The dam on your misery will break one day, and it will drown you before you figure out a way to piece yourself back together.”

Her eyes burned, and Catriona quickly looked away, drawing in a sharp breath to try and pull herself together.

“Thank you for your concern, Baronet Maollosa.” She said, a little more forcefully than she meant, and dropped into a quick curtsy. “I’m going to step out for some air, would you be so kind as to let anyone who’s looking for me know? I’m feeling a bit hot.”

She didn’t wait for Avery to answer before she turned on her heel, heading for the veranda and forcing the same pretty smile whenever she got stopped - paired with a “excuse me, I’ll be back in just a moment” as she kept moving as fast as she could for the doors before she crumbled completely.

Avery had been right.

For months, she had pushed the feelings down, drowning out her rational mind screaming as she allowed herself to be pulled further into this life she didn’t want. She knew that in the deal she made with her mother she had condemned her lifetime to that of one dictated eternally by Senga, every move watched, every word controlled, to exist as little more than a porcelain doll on display.

She shoved past the heavy oak door, the thunder a thousand times louder and the wind ripping at that pretty white gown and her perfectly curled hair. Had she not been so numb in that moment, she might have realized that the rain was blowing nearly parallel to the ground, and the temperature was so icy it felt like needles pricking her skin with every gale.

She was selfish. She was weak, and she knew she ran the risk of losing everything, of disappointing her entire family - now her country, to have made the oath and now wish they could turn back the clock and run from the room the second Avery had stepped forward.

But...she would lose herself, too, if she stayed.

A few short steps beyond the safety of the veranda’s roof would have Catriona soaked to the bone, hair plastered to her cheeks and shoulders and her delicate shoes sinking enough in the mud for her to abandon them completely before she even realized that she was running. Anywhere, even in this, would have been better

Faintly, she heard the door’s hinges behind her, groaning under the weight of the oak as someone stepped out onto the veranda. She nearly shit herself thinking it might be Senga, and she pulled at the stupidly heavy skirts, trying to lift them out of her way so she might cover more ground.

“Catty?” She heard Edrine call out, voice nearly drowned out by the wind. “Catriona, what the hell are you doing?”

For a moment, they considered turning to face them, but...if Avery could see into her heart, Edrine would be able to peer right through her soul, and there would be no stopping what came pouring out then. And if Edrine knew, then Avery would know, and when mother inevitably found out that she’d broken her end of the deal to keep this to herself…

She wasn’t prepared for that fury to come down on her.

Catriona bolted out into the gardens, weaving through the carefully manicured hedges and colorful flower beds in an attempt to get as far from view of the castle as possible before she figured out how to go forward. Going back wouldn’t be an option - not with her looking like a drowned rat, even if she wanted to be there - but part of her hoped that if she got away, her mother couldn’t use her as leverage against Myrna ever again.

As she ran past the gazebo, the very same in which Senga had taken her coronation oath, she realized she could hear a second set of footsteps behind them, just barely audible over all the other sounds her ears were contending with.

Edrine had followed them into the storm. And, given the staggering difference in both height and athleticism between them, they were gaining on her quickly.

Catriona at least knew the gardens well after all this time stuck at the estate.

She took a sharp turn suddenly - planning to lose them in the hedge maze near the back of the gardens - but instead she slipped barefoot on the stone path, yelping as she tumbled down and crashed onto her hands and knees. She tried to scramble upright again, but that had been all Edrine needed to catch up, kneeling beside her and asking if she was alright when she shoved them away as best she could.

Edrine, however, barely moved, the brick wall that they were becoming, and reached to grab Catriona’s wrists to keep them from running again as they tried to get a good look at her bleeding palms.

“Stop it, damn it, you’re going to get yourself more hurt than you already are! What were you thinking, running out into this?”

The sob that wrenched out of Catriona’s chest in answer was unbidden, and it made Edrine freeze where they were, hands wrapped around her wrists and eyes wide in surprise as they looked her in the eye.

“Don’t make me go back!” Catriona wailed, body sagging like the strings on a marionette had been cut. “I can’t...I can’t go back, Edie, please, please don’t make me. I can’t do this anymore…”

It was a miracle they understood anything through the strangled hiccuping sounds she was making, but Edrine nodded slowly, releasing her wrists to let her wipe some of her tears away.

“...okay. Okay, we won’t go back to the hall. But I need to take you back to the gazebo so I can at least clean up your hands and take a look at your knees without getting pissed on by the sky.” Edrine cracked a small smile at that, but Catriona did not return it, only nodding slowly as she unstuck some of her hair from her face. “I’m going to pick you up, is that alright?”

When Catriona nodded again, Edrine slipped an arm under her knees and around her back, quickly lifting her up to carry her as quickly as they could to the gazebo without sending them both to the ground again. As soon as they were under cover, Edrine would carefully set her down, wordlessly extending their hands to take her own again and take a better look at them.

For a long while, they were silent, Edrine focused intensely on dabbing at her wounds with the semi-dry handkerchief that had been tucked into their blazer - her knees had, thankfully, been saved by the cushion of stupidly puffy petticoats - while Catriona looked anywhere but their face, her cheeks hot with both tears and embarrassment at the stupidity of the situation.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to play a guessing game?” Edrine said eventually, breaking the silence as they set the kerchief aside. “Last I saw, you were talking to Ava, and everything seemed alright.”

“We’re good at pretending, apparently.” Catriona sighed, closing her eyes as they felt Edrine shift to sit beside her. “If I...if I tell you Edrine, I’ll get in so much trouble…”

“You know, you’re whip smart, so considering I just witnessed you do the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen, you’re not getting off the hook that easily.” She felt them nudge her with their elbow, and she turned to look at them, watery blue meeting the soulful dark of Edrine’s. “Let the rain wash it away, Catriona. There’s not a chance in all the world anyone else will hear you out here. Whatever you tell me, it stays between us, I swear that to you.”

Slowly, Catriona nodded, turning her head up to look at the wood paneling shielding their heads from the storm beyond.

“Do you remember a few years ago, how we had Hogmanay with Myrna down in her little cottage?”

It all came pouring out - once the first words left her, there was no stopping her, beginning all the way back at that first departure from Rosinmoor right after the holiday had ended. The reason why she left home, her mother’s threats against Myrna, the promise she’d made to keep her grandmother safe, the agreement to come back and take the oath to keep Senga happy in return, even what Avery had said that had made them finally break under it all

To Edrine’s credit, they kept their composure until the very end,

“Fucking hell.” Edrine muttered, and Catriona couldn’t help but laugh even as Edrine apologized, simply laying her head against their shoulder and letting out a long breath.

“That feels like an ample way to describe all of it.” Edrine huffed a small laugh as she continued, temple pressed to the crown of her head. “But...my stupid plan was to just run away. I figure if I’m gone, Mother can’t use me to hurt Granny anymore. I didn’t think about the rain, I just thought if maybe I could get away from everything else here…”

“Where would you go?”

“I said it was a stupid plan, Edie, not a full blown strategy. My running away attire unfortunately does not include a ballgown.” She said, tone dry. “I didn’t really get that far.”

“Would have been in character with all those fantasy novels you read.” Edrine teased, ruffling her hair playfully even as she groaned and tried to squeeze some of the water out of it. “But...I don’t actually think running is a terrible idea.”

“Sorry, what? I think my eardrums are full of water.” She made a dramatic tapping gesture against her temple with the heel of her hand, as if to knock water loose. “Say that again?”

Edrine only shook their head, wrapping their arms around their knees and lacing their fingers together. “No, I mean it. You’ve been talking about Myrna through all of this, and how you can’t be the reason she gets hurt, but...you’re not, Catty. If anyone hurts her, it’ll be your mother. But have you even spoken to Myrna about this, seen what she has to say?”

“No, I...I didn’t want to put her in the middle of this.”

“Well, sucks to suck, but she’s in it whether you like it or not. Senga used her because she knew it would hurt you, and it worked. And granted I’m not around your grandmother as much as you are, but the woman I know would kill for you before she let anyone else hurt you. So I think you should run, but I think you should go with her like you did before, because you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“And what about the rest of her family?” Catriona whispered. “That’s her blood...everyone is here.”

“Blood doesn’t mean anything, in my opinion. Your family is made up of the people you choose, and who choose you in return. They love you without terms or conditions, without expectations - completely and utterly unconditionally. And if the rest of them don’t understand why she’d take you and go, then they weren’t family at all.”

“What if you’re wrong, Edie? What if she won’t go and I’m left alone?”

There were a few beats of pause between them both, punctuated by a clap of thunder, before Edrine broke the silence once again.

“Do you know what a threefold death is?”

Catriona nodded, swiping away the new tears that had formed before they could fall. “Yeah, they’re a type of oath. The idea is that if you break your oath, whatever it may be, you die in three ways simultaneously - which I am very glad my proclamation was not one.”

With a snort of laughter, Edrine shifted, kneeling in front of her and taking both their

“Smartass. Thought I maybe knew something you didn’t for once.”

“Keep trying, blockhead.”

They shared a small smile before Edrine squeezed her hands, drawing her gaze down to look at their joined hands before she met their eyes again.

“I ask because I intend to make you one, Catriona. Should it all go to shit and you find yourself alone, I swear to you that you will always have a place in Ardaleith. I vow to defend you in all ways, to be your sword and your shield to call on, even if you have no name or title to call your own. If I break my oath, then may the land open to swallow me, the sea rise up to drown me, and the sky fall upon me to right the wrong I have done you.”

Catriona watched with wide eyes as they lifted her hands, pressing a kiss to the back of each

“Why would you…?” She began, and Edrine scoffed, setting her hands back in her lap and sitting cross-legged on the wooden platform.

“Because, stupid, you’re my family. And while I can’t go with you, I want you to know you will never not have a home in Rosinmoor - no matter what happens in the future. I also think the idea of nature itself trying to kill me is pretty terrifying, so you know I’m good for it.”

She stared with wide eyes before she let out a small laugh and shook her head, swatting lightly at Edrine’s knee.

“You really want me to go, huh?”

“If I’m honest, no, because I’ll miss you. But I want you to be happy, and that matters to me more than anything else. Sachairi, too, if he were out here to say it himself.”

Edrine stood up then, offering a hand to help her to her feet as they looked around the gardens beyond the railings of the gazebo.

“Come on, Catty. The rain is slowing down a little bit. Let’s go find Myrna.”

Catriona looked at that hand for a long, long moment, briefly thinking back to earlier that afternoon on the stairs - when she stood at the top of the stairs and looked at Senga’s hand and thought back to the time where the worst thing in the world had been to take someone’s hand for help forced upon you.

There were no expectations now. Only a genuine love, of someone more like a sibling than a friend, who offered help in her time of need.

After another moment’s pause, she allowed herself to take that outstretched hand, feeling a little lighter as she and Edrine raced through the rain to find another entrance back inside without running through the great hall itself.

* * * * *

Thankfully, Edrine’s oath had not needed testing so quickly. When they made their way inside, Myrna had found them both easily - fussing over their sopping wet clothes and how they were ‘going to catch their deaths’ if they didn’t come up and dry off. She pulled them both into her own quarters, finding the fluffiest of towels and setting them up by the fire so they could fight the tremors that racked both of them.

It would be then that Catriona swallowed her fear and asked Myrna, ever so softly, if she could tell her something important.

Edrine had stayed the whole time, a comforting presence to Catriona as she recounted it all again - their hand gently rubbing her back when the tears started anew and she found it harder to get the words out.

To say Myrna wept with her would have been an understatement. Her tears, much like Catriona’s own, had become a blend of rage and despair that rivaled the monsoon as she began packing her things right then and there. She’d asked Edrine to help Catriona do the same, asserting that they’d get as far from Kintyre as they could tonight before taking a ship further north.

The storms would be too rough for them to depart tonight, but Catriona only heard ‘leaving Kintyre’ to crumble all over again, realizing that Myrna didn’t hate her after all.

Edrine had helped her pack the important things before leaving her alone in her room with a parting kiss to her cheek, promising they’d cover for her long enough to keep Senga from searching for them right away once she pulled herself out of the attention she’d been basking in. Catriona swore up and down she’d write to both Edrine and Sachairi as soon as she and Myrna stopped somewhere, though Edrine told her not to worry - that they’d take care of Sachairi, and to be safe above everything else.

Their departure was swift and silent once she’d packed and changed, taking two horses rather than the Canonach carriage to avoid attention, continuing that way even after Catriona glanced back over her shoulder and could no longer see the lights of Castle Kintyre in the distance.

She wasn’t sure either of them spoke again until they’d settled onto a ship at the crack of dawn the next morning, the skies clear and painted gold with the early morning light. But she knew it wasn’t because Myrna did not want to talk, nor was she angry with her - she was simply waiting for her grandchild to let her know she was ready.

Myrna’s cane heralded her presence as always, tapping against the deck as she came to join Catriona at the railing to watch the sunrise.

“Granny?” She asked, smiling a little as Myrna jumped in surprise, but seemed to recover quickly as she rested her elbows against the wood.

“Yes, a bhobain?”

“How long will we be gone?”

Myrna hummed in thought, then shrugged, watching Catriona out of the corner of her eye. “I should think however long you want to be gone. My place is with you, after all, and I don’t plan to stray from it.”

When she fell silent again, Myrna took advantage of the opportunity, knowing that she would still be listening.

“Catriona, I want to tell you something, I want you to listen to me well.” Myrna waited for Catriona to nod in acknowledgement, the latter turning to look her in the eye. “I could never be angry with you for wanting to choose what life you have for yourself. I have had my time, and you should never feel like you need to sacrifice for me.”

“But Astor and Balfour -” She started, but Myrna raised a hand, gently and effectively cutting her off.

“I don’t need to visit their graves to remember them, sweetheart, though I appreciate you knowing how much they mean to me. But I carry them with me, always, and I remember them every day - it’s just nice to have a place to visit when I feel up for it. The fact of the matter is that I don’t need the place so much as I want for you to be happy, and there is nothing I would not give to make sure that you have every opportunity to achieve that for yourself.” Myrna sniffed a little, but stubbornly swiped a hand across her cheek, setting it on her hip once she flicked the tears away. “Do I make myself clear? No more secrets. You tell me everything from now on, or I’ll…”

Myrna floundered, waving her cane a little, and Catriona couldn’t help but smile - Myrna didn’t have a threatening bone in her.

Rather than answer, she stepped forward, wrapping Myrna up in the tightest hug she could manage and burying her face in her shoulder as she felt Myrna squeeze her right back.

“I promise.” Catriona murmured, and Myrna hummed her acknowledgment, but neither of them let go of the other. Nor would they until the ship began to move out of the harbor of Briar Glen, when Catriona broke the long silence to draw Myrna’s attention again.

“Granny, can I ask you for an odd favor?”

Myrna nodded, leaning back to look her in the eye and gesturing for her to continue.

“I...don’t want to be called Catriona anymore. It makes me think of Mother. And maybe it’s stupid, but Catriona is who she wanted me to be, not who I wanted to be. So I want to pick a new name, and I want to be just myself for myself, and nobody else. I hope that doesn’t offend you, though.”

Her grandmother snorted, giving her a playful look and nudging her lightly. “What, because my full name is Myrna Catriona? Please, darling, I don’t even use that part of my name for myself. Never have. But do you have a name in mind that you’d rather I use, or do you want to try a few and see what sticks?”

She hummed a moment, lacing and unlacing her fingers as she listened to the sounds of the wind catching in the sails.

“My full name is Catriona Astoria Elspeth Canonach-Fenharrow, though it’s always been shortened.” She mused. “I like parts of it still, so I don’t want to just get rid of it, either. Can’t I be just Astoria Fenharrow, like I was Catriona Canonach?”

Myrna smiled warmly, giving her a squeeze as the wind began to pull at their hair and the harbor began to grow smaller behind them.

“There’s nothing stopping you from giving it a go, Astoria.” She said, making the teen in question smile broadly at the sound of the name from someone other than themself. “But I do think it suits you well.”

#astoria fenharrow #idk where all these thoughts came from lmao #oops

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

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Ginger Snap, Chapter 3

A/N And just like that, here’s another chapter of Ginger Snap. This one has no Chef!Jamie (at least not in person, but he is the invisible third presence in the room) but read it anyway! He’ll be back in the next chapter, I promise.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my Ao3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

I appraised my reflection in a plate glass window. Today was my thirtieth birthday. I’d spent most of the day at a fancy salon having assorted hairs waxed, plucked and uncoiled. Twenty minutes in the capricious October wind, and my sleek hairstyle was on the verge mutiny. I smoothed it down as best I could with my palms, mentally shrugged my shoulders, then entered the upscale restaurant.

“Happy birthday, darling.” Frank left a dry kiss on my cheek, careful to not mar my make-up, as he greeted me. “You look very beautiful with your hair straight like that.”

It was clear why Frank had chosen the Witchery for my birthday celebration. Nestled against Edinburgh Castle, it radiated history with its dark woods, tapestry-covered walls, burgundy banquettes and faux Tudor painted ceiling. Everywhere crystal and silverware reflected the bountiful candlelight. I pictured Jamie’s thick-soled work boots striding across the antique Persian carpets towards the kitchen and had to suppress a giggle.

Frank stood respectfully while the maître d’ pulled out my chair. He played the part of the genteel academic to a tee. Ten years’ my senior, he sported thick-framed glasses, a full head of dark hair and a trim figure that spoke more to abstemious habits than vigorous exercise. Still, he was wearing his best tailored suit and the tie I’d bought him for Christmas. I reminded myself that I was lucky to be in a relationship with a decent, courteous and dependable man who offered me the stability my tumultuous childhood had been sadly lacking.

We conversed quietly as we each perused the leather-bound menus, the noise of other diners a discrete background hum. Frank told me all about the history of the sixteenth century oak panels that lined the room, and I listened politely.

“It’s so refreshing to see an establishment buck the trend of those horrendous open-style kitchens,” he pronounced with a dramatic shudder.

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather enjoy watching the orchestrated chaos that goes into making my meal. It’s like dinner theatre,” I contradicted.

“Some things are better appreciated unseen, darling. It’s like that gaudy museum we visited in Paris. Ductwork and elevator shafts on display along with the art. It’s tremendously distracting, and not at all the point.”

He was referring to our visit to the Pompidou Centre the previous summer. I had found the juxtaposition of modern art and naked architecture fascinating. Frank much preferred the Louvre.

I was saved from having to defend my opinion by the arrival of our waiter. Using a well-manicured fingernail to indicate his choices, Frank ordered for us both.

“The lady will have your Grand Cru Mambourg. I’ll start with a Lagavullin 16, and proceed to the Chambolle-Musigny with my main course,” he said with conviction.

“Very good, sir.” The waiter collected the enormous wine menu and decamped, having failed to even look me in the eye. A little ember of resentment glowed in my belly.

“How did you know what wine to order when I haven’t told you what I’ve chosen as my main course?” I challenged once the waiter was out of earshot.

Frank looked perplexed, as though we were acting in a play and I’d suddenly said the wrong lines after countless perfect dress rehearsals.

“It’s your birthday, darling. You always get lobster for your birthday.”

I thought about this. He wasn’t wrong. I liked lobster. The first time we celebrated together in Boston, on my twenty-fifth birthday, it had felt like a sophisticated, grown-up choice. But I never intended for it to become my only option.

The rest of the meal passed without event. Frank was more animated than usual, reaching across the table to caress my hand twice and joking that his Angus steak tartare appetizer made him feel like a veritable red-blooded carnivore.

Once our plates were cleared Frank cleared his throat and squared his shoulders in a way that reminded me of the day he announced that we would be moving to Edinburgh. Now what? I wondered.

“Claire. Darling. I think you know how happy you make me, and how delighted I am that we’re building this new life together back in the UK. Your thirtieth birthday is such a special occasion, and I think it’s fitting that we mark it with something momentous.”

He reached across the table and took my left hand in his right. His skin was cool and dry against my oddly numb palm. I considered whether I might be going into cardiac arrest. My heart felt untethered in my chest, leaping towards my throat and then plunging into my gut. I concentrated on taking short, sipping breaths so that I didn’t regurgitate lobster all over the pristine white table linens.

Frank continued, unaware of my turmoil. “I’d like us to be married within the year. That way, our children will be born before you enter the high-risk years. A late-spring wedding sounds lovely, don’t you think?”

He looked at me expectantly, so it must be my turn to speak. The problem was I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to marry you?” I managed to ask around my stomach, which had joined my heart in my throat.

Frank chuckled. “Of course I am, darling. Isn’t this what we always planned?”

Strictly speaking, it was what Frank had always planned. He’d certainly never made any secret of the fact that matrimony and a family were what he saw in our future. So why was I blind-sided? It felt as though I had been driving a practical four-door sedan with an excellent crash test rating at highway speed, only to suddenly realize that nothing happened when I pumped the brakes.

I said the next thing that came into my malfunctioning brain.

“What about my licensing exams?”

“There really won’t be time, darling. Planning a wedding is a full-time job in itself, from what I hear. We need to get moving if we’re to have two children. You aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

I nodded weakly as though this made some kind of sense. Frank took the gesture as silent acceptance of his hyper-practical proposal, clapping his hands together in delight in a way that made me jump.

“Marvelous. Now, I know that you’re very particular about jewelry, so I thought it best that we shop for a ring together. But I wouldn’t dream of celebrating your special day without giving you something tangible. Happy birthday, Claire.”

He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the table. My fingers trembled and twitched as I tried to open the seal. Inside was a certificate printed with a familiar logo. I looked at Frank in shock. How did he know?

“I know how much you want to learn to cook. This place has an excellent reputation, despite their ridiculous name. They offer group lessons, but only at their location in Leith. I suppose the rent is cheaper there, but clearly that was out of the question. Fortunately, I was able to arrange something more suitable with the owner, so you’ll be learning at home from a private chef!”

At that moment our waiter reappeared carrying a bowl of dark, rich-looking pudding. As he placed it on the table in front of me, the spicy vapours of whisky assaulted my nose. With a flourish, the waiter extracted a long-handled lighter and ignited the liquor. Through the ensuing burst of purple flame, Frank’s familiar features transformed into something far more sinister.

#my writing #outlander #ginger snap

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minervacasterly · 4 years

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Tudors, the Masters of Propaganda: When the Pen is Mightier than the Sword

The biggest winners of royal history because as far as European dynasties go are the Tudors. Let’s face it. There’s been no dynasty or group more successful in rewriting and shaping the modern world as the Tudor clan. “The story of our past is open to interpretation. Much of British history is edited and a deceitful account of events … The sooner you do a little digging, you discover it is a tapestry of different stories, woven together by whoever is in power at the time.” (Lucy Worsley in “British History’s Biggest Figs) ^This! How we see history is in accordance to our politics. Her first episode focuses on deconstructing the wars of the roses, presenting the facts and the different accounts that have come up of the men and women involved in this conflict, leaving the viewer to decide what might have likely happened. In regards to the Princes, in other pages I administer, some have said that it would be good to have the bodies that were found in the Tower of London examined to find once and for all who ordered their deaths. But assuming that the crown allows for DNA testing, allowing the world to finally know if they are the Princes in the Tower or not, supposing they are, it wouldn’t provide us with an answer. Like with Richard III, science would tell us how they died -and offer us an accurate description (based on facial reconstruction) on how they looked- but it wouldn’t tell us who kill them. Unless we were to discover a letter of Richard, Margaret Beaufort or any other suspect, declaring their guilt, the Princes in the Tower will remain one of history’s greatest cold cases. What is undeniable though is that the Tudors were crafty in making the people believe that they were chosen by God to rule over England. There were prophecies by the Welsh, made up ancestry, and of course a wedding that was promoted as the union between Lancaster and York that would put an end to the war and bring forth a dynasty that would last forever. “The line between fact and fiction often gets blurred.” (Lucy Worsley in “British History’s Biggest Figs) It’s true. Often fiction becomes the new history. Most of the times, it is because we have great storytellers who give us a simpler version that isn’t too complicated or convoluted, that it is easier for us to accept. The wars of a roses a turbulent period but it wasn’t chaotic. People were tired of civil war, and it might be one of the reasons why they were ready, after Henry VII put many rebellions down, to accept their new overlords. Not only that but fast-forward to the sixteenth century when religious tensions were at an all-time high, when there was divisions among Catholics and even Protestants, the Tudors were more desperate than ever to solidify their power. Henry VIII needed a son to secure a dynasty that many abroad still questioned its legitimacy, while also a tool to make themselves immortal. Henry VIII wasn’t a fan of Protestantism but he liked the idea of Kings being above reproach, subject to no judgment but God’s. Kings were no longer half-divine, in Henry’s mind, English Kings were now completely divine. What their conscience wanted is what God wanted. Going against the King was no longer treason but a sin as well. When Edward VI succeeded his father, his coronation pageant included many religious symbolism, primarily figures of the Old Testament like Josiah and Moses. These powerful visuals were meant to tell the people that their new King was God’s messenger on Earth and that he would turn England into an Evangelical nation. Then there is Mary I. Mary was seen as the great Catholic hope and to some extent she was but she soon proved that she her father’s daughter. And like her father she was determined to be the sole sovereign of her nation. She engaged in theatrics as her mother had done, playing the part of the dutiful wife to her Spanish husband, Prince Philip, King of Naples and Sicily, begging him not to leave, writing to him constantly about how much she needed him. But once he was with her, she proved that she was more like her Tudor ancestors than their Spanish ones. Mary was also compared to religious figures. These matronly figures helped her justify her reign before her subjects who weren’t used to the idea of female monarchy. When her friend, cousin and Archbishop of Canterbury, Reginald Pole, advised her to return Church lands to the Church, she pretended not to listen. Those lands had benefited many powerful subjects she didn’t wish to antagonize, not to mention that some of those lands were now in possession of the crown. Would Mary really give them all up after all the revenue they had provided her family? The answer is obviously ‘no’. When she confronted the rebels that were led by Wyatt, she inspected the troops as a King would, and gave a rousing speech, where she said that she was a mother protecting her children from harm, and that she would be ruled by her people rather than by her needs. Mary ended up pardoning many of the rebels but had no mercy for most of their leaders. At the end of her reign despite her efforts to cleanse the Catholic Church in England of corruption and restore a Humanist curriculum in the universities, as well as re-funding some of them; Mary suffered from Protestant propaganda and her own failure which was not giving the kingdom an heir to continue the Tudor line and her religious ambitions. As soon as Elizabeth I got her sister’s reign, she quoted one of the psalms where she said that “this is the Lord’s doing” and “it is marvelous in our eyes”. Curiously, it is recorded that when she said this, she was next to a royal oak, similar to what her ancestress, Elizabeth Woodville, when she reputedly encountered the Yorkinst King for the first time. As always, another Tudor monarch who employed great rhetoric, and used biblical and classical symbols to justify her reign. As she got older, she continued to dress extravagantly. While many people expected her to marry, she chose to remain a Virgin. Nobody knows the full extent of her relationship with her male favorites but given how strict she was with her ladies, it is safe to say that her religiosity wouldn’t have allowed her to be intimate with them. While supporting many Protestant groups overseas, she was quick to dismiss them when they preached about a Republican government. Elizabeth didn’t like this because that meant that the King was no longer close to God, but another public servant who was under strict scrutiny by his people. In various paintings, one can see Elizabeth being led to victory by classical goddesses, being given the sacred fruit. She is their chosen one, the one who will vanquish all of England’s enemies and is closer to God than anyone else. Using her single status, she became a substitute for the Virgin Mary. One whose virtue was no longer mocked but praised. But, in spite of this, Elizabeth I was also a pragmatist and as previously stated, when she found that some of her councilors were leaning towards more radical branches of Protestantism, she confronted them and fought them hard using her best tool: her words. Turning them against one another, and foiling their plans to institute Evangelical measures. When she died, she was hailed as one of the greatest. This is largely due to nostalgia. James VI of Scotland succeeded her becoming James I of England. He and his wife, Queen Anne were jointly crowned on Westminster Abbey. Despite James’ efforts to be a good ruler, people grew disappointed of him and soon began to look towards the past, transforming it into a place of beauty and mysticism. Despite some writers looking down on Catholic Margaret Beaufort and her son Henry VII, and his granddaughter Mary I, they made figures like Henry VIII and Elizabeth I into national icons. Henry VIII’s split from Rome and Elizabeth I’s defeat of the Armada became legend. What they wrote endured for centuries. Some will argue that it endures today, with many people still buying into the myths that these figures wrote about their reigns, proving that nothing is more powerful than propaganda. The pen is truly mightier than the sword. Recommended reading: Tudor by Leanda de Lisle; Wars of the Roses: Fall of the Plantagenets and the Rise of the Tudors by Dan Jones; Armada by Garrett Mattingly, Elizabeth I: The Struggle for the Throne by David Starkey, Henry VII by SB Chrimes, Plantagenet Chronicles by Derek Wilson; Mary Tudor: Princess, Bastard, Queen & The Queen’s Bed: An Intimate History of Elizabeth’s Court by Anna Whitelock; Blood Sisters & Game of Queens by Sarah Gristwood; The Myth of Bloody Mary & Tudors vs Stewarts by Linda Porter; Inside the Tudor Court by Lauren Mackay; The Anne Boleyn Collection by Claire Ridgway; In Bed With the Tudors & Elizabeth of York & The Six Wives and the Many Mistresses of Henry VIII by Amy Licence; Blood will tell by Kyra Cornelius Kramer; Margaret Beaufort by Elizabeth Norton; The King’s Mother by Elizabeth Norton; 1536: The Year that changed Henry VIII by Suzannah Lipscomb; Private Lives of the Tudors by Tracy Borman; The Woodvilles by Susan Higginbotham; The Wives of Henry VIII & Mary, Queen of Scots by Antonia Fraser.In terms of documentary, there is the source quoted which comes from the first episode of the new documentary series “British History Biggest’ Fibs” presented by Lucy Worsley.I also recommend her six wives documentary which is currently being shown on PBS every Sunday on the US; Suzannah Lipscomb and Dan Jones’ documentary on the six wives and David Starkey’s documentary on them as well. They also have other documentaries that also focus on the wars of the roses and the Tudor era. Bits and pieces of some of these can be found on YouTube, while others you have to buy or watch if you have subscription on Netflix or Hulu.

#tudors #tudor history #dailytudors

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ironychan · 4 years

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*clears throat*

Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe.

I don’t know if the average person has heard of Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe. He does come up if you read about the history of science but he's not quite on the level of Galileo or Newton. You may have some idea that he lived in Ye Olden Times when people wore puffy striped shorts and the Pope would set you on fire for saying the world was round.

(That’s a common misconception, by the way. The Pope knew perfectly well that the world was round. What got you in trouble was saying it went around.)

Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe was born in 1546 to a family of rich assholes who were friends with the kings of Denmark. Said family expected him to go into law and politics, but he did not want to be Danish Lawyer Tycho Brahe. He therefore moved to the island of Hven, where I guess it was nice and dark, to pursue astronomy.

Astronomy is supposed to be a humbling occupation, which confronts humanity with our own insignificance in the face of a vast, empty universe. Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe missed that memo.

Upon arriving at Hven, he nearly bankrupted the place by building himself a lavish palace-slash-observatory right in the middle of the best pastureland on the island. He decorated this with gold and with statues of himself, and later added a purpose-built alchemy dungeon. During his stay there, he made what was, at the time, the world's most accurate star catalog, and took measurements of the motion of the planets which allowed later astronomers to figure out how orbits work. He also fostered rumors that he was a sorcerer. His palace, called Uraniborg or 'Castle of Heaven', had secret systems for communicating with his servants to make guests think he was summoning them by magic. He wrote poems about how awesome he was and had a pet moose.

The people of Hven despised him. He appropriated their land, taxed them heavily to pay for all that gilding, worked them like slaves, and let public buildings he was supposed to maintain fall to ruin. Between that, the ego, and the sorcery and heresy, the dude was a full-on Dark Lord. He even lost a body part and replaced it with a prosthesis made of gold, because if it's good enough for a Bond villain, it's good enough for Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe!

(If you're wondering, the missing bit was his nose and he lost it in a duel with a classmate at college. They were fighting over who was better at math and clearly the best way to settle that was with swords.)

Eventually the peasants got fed up with this bullshit and literally formed a mob and tore Uraniborg down. Tycho wasn't home at the time, so another mob had to track him down and set fire to his house in Copenhagen. History does not record whether either mob carried pitchforks but the second one obviously had torches at least. This second mob also failed to kill him, which left Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe to die in 1601 of a kidney problem.

Or he might have died of mercury poisoning, which tends to happen to people with personal alchemy dungeons.

Or he might have been murdered by one of his assistants, because he wouldn't share his astronomical data. I suspect many modern graduate students would sympathize.

Or the King of Denmark might have ordered his assassination after finding out Tycho had slept with his (the king's) mom. Danish royalty is known for being Not Okay with that sort of thing.

Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe left an important scientific legacy that you can read about in many books. I won't go into it here, because this post is about how he was a freaking Disney villain. Next time you encounter some piece of fiction with the cliché of the tyrannical sorcerer in his Fortress Of Darkness, just remember that the image goes back to the sixteenth century, when the island of Hven was ruled by the iron fist (and golden nose) of Danish Astronomer Tycho Brahe.

#weird historical episodes

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antiquecompass · 5 years

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Untamed Fest Day 22: Trust

“Good shower?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Jingyi said as he slid into Sizhui’s bed.

It wasn’t the easiest of fits, two eighteen-year-olds on a full mattress, but it was a small price to pay to cuddle up next to a warm Sizhui, and rest his chin on his shoulder as the snow continued to fall outside. He pressed a kiss to the bare skin of Sizhui’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of apples from his shampoo, and let his hands rest low on Sizhui’s belly. He could, and probably would, fall asleep like this, lulled by the warmth of his boyfriend and the steady rise and fall of chest as he read The Faerie Queene because Sizhui was the type of person who, when presented with Intro to Oceanography or Sixteenth Century Literature of the World as elective courses, chose the one with the epic poems and not the Shark Week videos.

To be fair, Jingyi had also passed on Intro to Oceanography and instead took the History of Modern Art course with Zizhen, but that was because the thought of all those creatures lurking deep in the ocean depths scared the everloving crap out of him. Sizhui, on the other hand, liked not only Sixteenth Century English Poets but Middle English too.

This, this was the dork at whose feet he’d chosen to lay all his affections.

And he loved him for it.

A soft knock on the bedroom door broke the peace.

“I think your fathers are home,” Jingyi said.

Sizhui frowned. “That was a short date night. Come in!” he called.

Cousin Zhan smiled at them from the doorway a bakery box in his hands. Jingyi’s mouth watered once he smelled the fresh brownies.

“We decided to come home early because of the snow,” he explained. “Movie night is about commence downstairs. Would you like to join us for brownie sundaes or should I leave these up here?”

It was tempting to stay wrapped around Sizhui and his warmth in his too small bad, but it was equally as tempting to go downstairs, be wrapped up in blankets on the ridiculously comfortable couch in the game room, and listen to Cousin Wuxian’s hilarious running commentary on any movie they watched.

Surprisingly, it was Sizhui who looked hesitant.

“It’s not Lord of the Rings again, is it?” he asked.

Cousin Zhan gave them his soft, crooked smile. “I suppose you’ll have to come down and see.”

With that he turned and left, taking the brownies with him, like some Pied Piper of Baked Goods.

“I’m comfortable,” Sizhui complained.

Jingyi kissed his shoulder again and tried not to laugh at his boyfriend’s exaggerated pout.

“Well, I can just leave you up here to cuddle with Spenser’s most famous work.”

Sizhui dramatically sighed with a hand over his eyes. “I’ve been abandoned for brownies. The romance is truly gone.”

“Brownies and a movie,” Jingyi corrected.

“Get out of my bed,” Sizhui said with a playful shove.

Jingyi laughed as he did just that, walking over to the dresser and pulling out his favorite sweatpants and warmer t-shirt. He grabbed one of his hoodies from the closet for Sizhui who was already holding his hands out for it. The last thing he grabbed was two pairs of thick socks. It was hard to heat such a massive house in the winter and the floors remained especially cold.

As he pulled on his own pair he took a moment to once again marvel at the amount of trust Sizhui’s fathers placed in them.

Up until they were both seventeen, the rule was the door stay opened. Once they both turned seventeen it was up their own discretion and if it was closed, there would be a knock first and a wait for acceptance to come in.

And while Sizhui and Jingyi tried not to take advantage of that trust and respect for their privacy, they were still two eighteen-year-olds who had been dating since they were fourteen and getting each other off in some way or another since they were sixteen.

When Jingyi had moved in permanently a few months ago Cousin Wuxian had come to him with a bag of condoms and lube and muttered something about continuing a family tradition of making sure they were fully prepared and protected now that they’d have unlimited amounts of time together. It was embarrassing but sweet, and came only two days after Cousin Zhan had done much the same thing, but at least his bag also had candy in it.

But Sizhui’s fathers had always trusted them with their own choices and respected their decisions. Some of the Lans said they were far too indulgent, but Jingyi always loudly countered that they were openly communicative with both of them, had set down ground-rules from the start, and trusted them to respect those rules, rather than threatening them for daring to have emotions or hormones.

And so Jingyi and Sizhui respected those rules, even when they were tempted not to, because it wasn’t worth the disappointment they’d feel in themselves, each other, or from Sizhui’s fathers if they broke them.

It might not have been the most accepted form of parenting, but Jingyi damn well knew where he was going to look for his examples when he and Sizhui had a kid of their own.

“You’ve got that ‘fifteen year plan’ look on your face,” Sizhui said as they walked down the stairs towards the family room.

“I think we can cut it down to ten now, maybe even eight,” Jingyi said as he wrapped an arm around Sizhui’s waist, pulling him close and trying to steal some of the heat he radiated like a furnace.

“No kids before I finish grad school,” Sizhui said. “You promised.”

“As long as you don’t go for your doctorate, we’ll be fine,” Jingyi said.

“And if I want to go for my doctorate?” Sizhui asked.

“Then we’ll figure it out from there,” Jingyi said.

“Oh not again,” Sizhui said as they entered the family room to the haunting sound of music and a black screen.

“The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air.”

“Extended Editions Marathon Time!” Cousin Wuxian announced. He patted the couch cushions next to him. “Pop a squat, kiddos. We’re not going anywhere until Sunday.”

Sizhui sighed. “Please no commentaries this time. Your commentary is enough, Dad.”

“The commentaries are one of the best parts!”

“And where are the sundae bribes?” Sizhui asked.

“Your papa’s heating up the hot fudge now.” He pulled Sizhui down onto the couch and cuddled him like he was still five. “Is my son too grown-up now to spend time with his poor, lonely father? I miss you, it’s like we never talk anymore.”

“We talked not even three hours ago!”

“But that was personal stuff. I want one of our classic bullshit sessions where I give my commentary and you increasingly try not to roll your eyes because somehow you’re still such a polite young man, even though we’ve let you spend all this time around Jingyi.”

“Hey!” Jingyi protested through his own laughter. “I guess I won’t politely tell you you have a piece of spinach in your teeth.”

“Lan Zhan what vipers have you allowed into our house? They betray me!”

“I told you to brush your teeth when we got home,” Cousin Zhan called back.

Jingyi sprawled out on the far end of the couch, delighting in Sizhui’s ever-reddening face as his dad’s complaints grew more and more dramatic. Cousin Zhan appeared, easily picking Sizhui up and placing him down next to Jingyi before shoving a spoonful of sundae into his husband’s mouth to quiet his complaints.

“How can he still do that?” Sizhui asked. “I’m not that short.”

“You’re hobbit-sized, babe,” Jingyi said. “And we love you for it.”

Sizhui elbowed Jingyi’s stomach just as Concerning Hobbits started to play on the screen.

There wouldn’t be many more nights like this, not with the school year hurtling towards its final end and graduation and college on the horizon. Come August they’d have to pack up their stuff and drive down to Boston for good, escaping to the Berkshires for vacations and long-breaks, except for Christmas which was at Lotus Pier and Thanksgiving which had become an ever-increasing gathering at the Nie farmhouse.

And they wouldn’t even have nights like this now, if Sizhui’s fathers weren’t so open and trusting and respectful of their son and his decisions. If they weren’t so accepting of Jingyi and his place in Sizhui’s life.

They’d done a damn good job of raising Sizhui. And, Jingyi could admit, an even better job of raising him.

“Your sundae’s melting,” Sizhui whispered.

Sundaes and movies and warm cuddles with his soulmate. His best friend’s fathers who had become like his own giving a running commentary of book to movie changes. A crackling fireplace and snow falling outside.

If life never got any better than this, Jingyi would die happy.

But he knew, something told him, something he believed in, that even better days were yet to come.

#long post #fandom: the untamed #verse: lahl #fic: tales from lan academy

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pofcroyalfanfiction · 5 years

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Chapter Two - A New Palace

September 1st 2028

Marlborough, England

The drive back into Marlborough was always difficult on the 1st of September. Traffic would grind to a halt in the sleepy little village as students started returning to school, their parents desperate to find an empty parking space so that moving their children's things was that much easier. The Cambridge family were no different, stuck in traffic in the middle of the high street as they waited for the roads to clear. It took them thirty minutes to travel a mile, and then another thirty sitting in a side road outside Ivy House as they waited for a parking spot to free up. Kate could still vaguely remember her own mother driving her back to school, in a time where Marlborough was less famous and the student body was still something that the small town could handle.

What days those were.

She passed the time by browsing photos on her phone, trying to pick from the hundred that she'd taken of her kids together on their first day of school. It was a good distraction from the growing restlessness inside the car, trying to find one photo where Charlotte was looking at the camera or one where Alex wasn't making her little brother laugh by pulling silly faces.

"Oh! How 'bout this one?" Kate asked hopefully, holding up her phone so that Ellie and Alex could see from the back seats of the family Range Rover.

"No! Only one of my eyes is open there!" Ellie shot her down quickly and impatiently, like she'd done for the entirety of their journey.

"You've rejected every one so far Ellie." Kate pouted at her in the rear view mirror. Getting her eldest daughter to take nice photos was always difficult, but Ellie's pickiness meant Kate could take as many photos as time would allow and then get to coo endlessly as she scrolled through every single one. Will had noticed her getting teary eyed more than a few times during the trip to Marlborough.

"Just pick one already. It's obvious she's not gonna help out." Alex threw her head back against the seat and groaned at her older sister. She would have been perfectly happy with any one of the last hundred that Kate had showed them.

"Can we get in yet?" Ellie asked, noticing a car leaving the parking lot.

"Nope, still full." Will said, glancing around the cars ahead. "I'm sure if we let them know we're here, they'd make a space for us."

"No!" Ellie denied him quickly. "It's fine. We can wait."

"Speak for yourself why don't you?" Alex rolled her eyes at her sister.

It was hard not to find Ellie a little irritating. She had been restless and overeager to be back at school ever since they'd left London. Kate had tried to get her to unwind over the journey but her daughter was having none of it, she was a bundle of energy that was itching to explode.

Kate had never seen her eldest acting this way, definitely not when it came to her education, something which for the last three years Ellie seemed only half interested in at best. This year there was a spark inside of her that had never been there before, a drive to do well and achieve great things. Kate was loving her daughter's new spirit, but she couldn't help but be a little worried.

She's planning to do everything. Every class, every club, every team, every sport. Even ones she knows she won't like. She wants to make a million friends and pass every exam with top marks. She wants to craft the perfect school life for herself, but she thinks it'll happen straight away.

Kate wanted her daughter to do well, as any mother would, but she didn't want to pressure her. The performance reports she had been getting from Ellie's teachers implied that her daughter was an average student, that she wasn't trying, and most worrying of all that she wasn't making any friends.

Kate couldn't figure out what to do. She knew Ellie was being naïve thinking she'd be able to do everything and not have it affect her classes, but she didn't want to crush her daughter's new found adventurous attitude. This wasn't the Princess Eleanor she'd been raising previously, this was her Ellie, her bundle of curious and excitable energy before she'd been told what her future role would be.

Kate wanted to keep that going, but she didn't want Ellie doing all this because she felt she had to, she wanted her doing well in school because she wanted to. Kate could only hope that the school would look after her daughter, help her achieve everything she was aiming for this year and not pressure her to do anymore.

Ellie is putting enough pressure on herself as it is. And besides, Marlborough makes no secret of being proud to teach two Royals. They want them to be shining examples of excellence.

Ivy House itself was a collection of buildings that had been squeezed into a narrow plot of land, stretching back at least half a football pitches length away from the high street. The oldest part of the house was all anyone could see from the main street and was built in the sixteenth century, but the rest of Ivy was built via multiple extensions over the years to accommodate more and more girls. The whole complex was so squashed into the middle of the town, a hundred meters from the school grounds and requiring a ten minute detour to get to the parking spaces at the back.

Kate regretted Ellie and Alex's placement into Ivy House every year, with the struggle for parking spaces and the squashed atmosphere, but she knew that the girls would be comfortable once everyone had moved in. Ivy was one of the smaller houses at the school even after Marlborough started accepting more students, and on any other day it would be relaxed and peaceful, the perfect place for her girls to live while studying.

When they were finally able to get a parking spot outside, Ellie couldn't wait to get out of the car. They were all restless after sitting on traffic for hours, but Ellie was on another level. She was outside, closing her car door and breathing in the Marlborough atmosphere before anyone else had a chance to undo their seatbelts.

"Did you bring the toddler reins?" Will asked her, wiping pretend sweat from his brow.

"We'll have to buy some in town." Kate told him, gathering her things and sliding out the car gracefully.

Immediately she could feel the eyes following them, excitable young kids carrying suitcases were stopping in their tracks to watch their every move. Kate waved at some of them before their parents smiled apologetically at her and shepherded their children away, allowing the chaos of moving in to return.

New students.

Kate looked around for her own children. Alex had already rushed off and was hugging another girl, a short and awkward looking girl who beamed at Alex and proudly introduced her to her parents. Kate couldn't remember the girls name, Susie was her best guess, or Lola. Alex had never spoken at length about her friends at school, only that there were lots of them.

Ellie was a different story. Kate found her hovering by the old noticeboard that stood by the back entrance, reading all the different postings for clubs and sports teams. Kate watched her for a moment, seeing how she acted around the other girls who were nearby. Some girls said hello to her, but nobody greeted her like a friend they hadn't seen in months. Kate could sense her daughter's nerves as she tried to hold conversations with other girls, obviously fighting herself to be more talkative. She knew how awkward her daughter must be feeling, but a smile was forming on her lips.

Kate watched proudly, clasping her hands together and full of joy. Ellie was immersing herself in school and putting herself out there. She wasn't standing out either, wearing the same uniform as all the other girls meant there was no hint of a Princess there, which seemed like the only thing that was holding her daughter back.

Will tapped her on the shoulder. "Kate, the new housemistress wants to say hello."

He had Alex with him, having wrangled her from her friends, and was gesturing to a strict looking older woman in her forties, with wavy red hair, a large nose and wearing a black pantsuit. She was waiting patiently, briefly and politely greeting other parents. Kate found her gaze unsettling as it repeatedly focused back on her and William, clearly showing which royal couple she wanted to speak with.

"Ellie. Grab your things." Kate called back over her shoulder to the group of girls at the noticeboard, hating to ruin her eldest's fun. When no response came she turned and tried to pick Ellie out from the crowd, but the oddest feeling stopped her. She couldn't recognise her daughter, all the girls seemed to blend together. Normally Ellie's awkwardness made her stand out, but now all she could see were a bunch of giggling school girls in the middle of a reunion.

"Ellie." Kate shouted again. Her daughters face snapped to her direction and immediately Kate could see the disappointment in her eyes. She said her goodbyes and trudged away from the group, leaving the rest to keep talking.

"You can go back to them in a bit." Kate said, putting her hand on Ellie's back and looking at the girls, wondering if all this time her daughter really did have friends here. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Mum." Ellie said to her casually, not sensing the significance as she repeatedly looked back over her shoulder.

The housemistress stood at attention as Kate approached. Another woman was beside her, looking slightly younger and more welcoming. Her summery dress and sandals came across as less professional, but there was an obvious friendliness about her that Kate could appreciate.

The older woman shot Ellie a glance and then subtly looked at Kate.

"Mum, this is our new Housemistress Rachel Hunt." Ellie looked quite put out as she hastily introduced them, her voice professional and slightly bored. Kate watched and smiled as the older woman's chest swelled with pride at the sound of her new title.

"Your Royal Highnesses" Miss Hunt sunk into a deep curtsey as she shook both her and Will's hand. "A pleasure to meet you both, ever since I was made Housemistress of Ivy I've been looking forward to this moment."

"Please, just Will and Kate is fine." Will heartily shook her hand with a disarming smile.

"We're just excited and proud parents today." Kate told her as she shook Ms Hunts' hand gently.

"And our House Dame, Jenny Moon." Ellie introduced the younger woman in a clearly more excited voice which Kate and Will quickly picked up on. Mrs Moon offered a lighter curtsey, focusing more on a relaxed, welcoming handshake. "Nice to meet you both."

"So you'll be making sure the girls don't get into trouble?" Will asked jokily, wrangling Alex with his forearm like she was a wild lioness as she rolled her eyes and snickered quietly.

"Of course, though Ellie won't be any trouble. We can count on that." Miss Hunt said proudly whilst Ellie looked away and grumbled.

"And we'll make sure Alex cuts out the late night T.V" Mrs Moon said, crossing her arms and already laying down the law, yet her familiarity with the girls made her seem more like a big sister who wanted to watch the T.V in peace.

"Don't worry." Alex laughed mischievously. "There's nothing good on this year."

#royalfanfiction #pofcroyalfanfiction #emmawatson #royalfanficcollection #royalfanficcentral #katemiddleton #writing #fanfic

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the-busy-ghost · 3 years

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TSP S02 E07 - Thoughts

Well I don’t have many honestly. The last two episodes were at least bizarre enough to be entertaining but this was really rather dull, notwithstanding the amount of blood. Mostly I was waiting for the Fake-Scottish plot as usual but that was brief and incomprehensible. But here goes.

- Wee James V is adorable but “sassenach”? As if we needed any more proof that the TSP writers got all their knowledge about Scotland from Outlander- and they slept through half of that. I suppose it’s no good pointing out that, in one sense of the word, James V is also a sassenach.

- Oh Angus is ‘that milksop’ now- see this is the problem. In this show Angus is a ‘milksop’, we are supposed to hate him because he’s ‘weak’, not like everyone’s kick-ass heroine Meg. But how are we supposed to understand Margaret’s fear of his influence? It has been shown that he commands no respect and we haven’t seen a single kinsman or retainer of his in ages. We have seen that Andrew Rothney is perfectly capable of acting ‘menace’ so why haven’t they given Angus his fully-fledged Chaotic personality? One example- it’s perhaps worth remembering that while Margaret Tudor’s ‘firing cannons at her husband’ moment sounds impressive, it didn’t actually scare Angus off in itself. The man is very much a Borderer, for all his Perthshire and Angus estates, and I cannot believe he was any less intimidating than your average sixteenth century Scottish nobleman. Henry VIII was also sufficiently convinced of his ability to influence events in Scotland (even if some of his influence was perhaps exaggerated by Angus himself). I can see TSP’s version of Angus kidnapping the young king, but I cannot see him holding him for more than two weeks. Once again TSP’s tendency to water down their male characters to make their female characters look Strong TM (even when Margaret’s historical actions show that she really didn’t need them to do that), has backfired, as this Angus is a shadow of the historical figure, and it is definitely not the actor’s fault.

- In all honesty the scene with Albany was not some of Georgie’s best acting tbh. But I think that’s because they’ve written her to be so one-note that there’s only so many times an actress can break out the Rage and Fury without it looking old-hat.

- No offence to Gordon Kennedy, who is looking good for his age, but the historical rumours about Margaret and Albany’s relationship would be a lot more believable in this show if TSP Albany were closer to his historical age (and portrait) and not just in terms of looks. Gordon Kennedy’s Albany is a fatherly figure- IMO it would take a lot for even the most suspicious Scot to look at his relationship with ‘Meg’ and think ‘Ah yes, clearly they are Secret Lovers’. But I suppose only the pope needs to believe that- oh wait, the pope whose great-niece Catherine de Medici was also Albany’s niece and there were other connections too. Hmm, bit of a stretch methinks.

- Also Margaret was not ‘co-regent’, it’s more complex than that. Also Albany was not basically her little sidekick.

- Why is she in London again? All of this could have been done in a letter, honestly.

- Let’s take a quick break from Scotland at the moment and open the Pandora’s Box that is TSP’s English court. We got a very short Epic Villain Crossover event this week between Katherine and Wolsey, and yet it didn’t really achieve much other than to make poor Thomas Boleyn fidget very nervously. Henry is experimenting with gluing squirrels to his face. Katherine has still not learnt her lesson about assuming her baby’s gender before it is born. She also seems to believe that she can speed up pregnancies whenever she likes. Also it’s always nice to see the whole population of London turn out for public book-burnings and executions- all twenty of them. Lina finally gets to rip Katherine a new one but sadly it is robbed of its effect. Katherine and Stafford do something VERY dangerous and somehow Katherine is not on trial as well. Thomas More keeps bloody torture implements IN HIS HOUSE and doesn’t even close the door to that room (maybe he was just subtly trying to get rid of Maggie? Like he definitely left that lying where she would find it. Weirdest break-up if so). Thomas Boleyn is an echo chamber and yeah, otherwise the rest of the episode if pretty dull and even Olly Rix’s best acting as Stafford is undercut by that.

- If I have to hear the words “Hal Stewart” ONE MORE TIME I will explode. EF this is not England and you are not Shakespeare, you are not pulling this off.

- Margaret breaks into the Tower of London???? And nicks everything and Harry Stewart is turned on by Anti-English Crime (fair) but Margaret’s like I don’t have time for this sorry and then?? They just ride away??? And ok so I see why Henry doesn’t want to do the undignified thing of chasing after her but you could have just sent letters to York and Berwick asking for them to be intercepted? What is going on

- Also this ENTIRE ride to London was COMPLETELY pointless and you could have spent this time actually progressing the Scottish plot because now, if they do it at all, they’re going to have to cram eight years of Scottish political shenanigans into their allotted ten minutes in one episode WHILE they try to finish their English plot. Angus hasn’t even kidnapped James V yet- I told you he wouldn’t be able to hold him for more than two weeks.

- Margaret Douglas is still nowhere to be found.

#Honestly lads I was bored #I suppose though it was technically An Episode #TSP #Margaret Tudor #Meg Tudor

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marginalgloss · 6 years

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unclean without and within

From time to time while reading Patrick O’Brian’s novels in the Aubrey-Maturin series I stop and search them for signs of late style. By this I mean the sense of an ending, or at least the feeling that there is surely more of them behind me than there is in front. I recently finished The Wine-Dark Sea, which is the sixteenth instalment in a series that began in 1969 and ended with the publication of a final (unfinished) volume in 2004. This one came out in 1993, with the author well into his 70s; almost twenty-five years after the first in the series.

Yet such a progression of time is scarcely evident from the text: this is unmistakably the same writer who started out with Master and Commander and Post Captain all those years ago. If you were to read them back to back, they’d seem less contiguous than seamlessly continuous. It is not for nothing that some readers describe this series as really being instalments in one vast novel completed over the course of perhaps a third of a man’s lifetime.

This is not to say that there’s no change in style, no progression, no growth. To take an obvious example, by now the author has become much more dextrous when it comes to the handling of the naval jargon for the benefit of the casual reader. The books become more comfortable dwelling in the interiority of their characters, sometimes to unusual and oblique effect. And of course our heroes have aged a bit, but not much; for several books now Jack and Stephen are referred to in ways that suggest the onset of late middle age, but what exactly this means is never quite clear. Age, here, is like a layer of dust that settles quickly but can be blown away at a moment’s notice when required. Much like how the HMS Surprise itself vanished for several books before appearing with most of its old crew again, O’Brian is not above grinding the authorial gears, bending the rules of historical fiction to get what he wants at times. Such is the writer’s prerogative.

I thought the previous book, Clarissa Oakes, was a rare misfire; by comparison The Wine-Dark Sea is very much a return to form. It finally details the completion of a journey which I think was first mentioned way back in The Letter of Marque. As if to compensate for the relative quietude of its predecessor, this is a story crowded with incident. There’s a couple of great sea-chases, an erupting volcano, a thrilling sequence in an ice floe, and a bigger than usual helping of Napoleonic banter and intrigue by land. We even get a trip way up into the Andes, and a terribly bloody battle with pirates (rarer than you’d think in this series). All of which is to say that at this stage in the books, there is still no sign of the author slowing down.

To detail the story would be somewhat besides the point here. The form of this novel is mostly given over to the picturesque; much like those earliest books in the series, it is a series of events loosely connected by plot but mostly engendered by chance. Perhaps the most interesting character in this instalment is Dutourd, a French captain mentioned briefly in the last book but only met properly here. He is a would-be revolutionary and accidental privateer, an apparently sincere idealist dedicated to setting up a new kind of society in whatever colony will have him and his gunboat. Naturally, Jack is fairly frank in his contempt:

‘From the first Jack Aubrey had disliked all that he had heard of Dutourd: Stephen described him as a good benevolent man who had been misled first by ‘that mumping villain Rousseau’ and later by his passionate belief in his own system, based it was true on a hatred of poverty, war and injustice, but also on the assumption that men were naturally and equally good, needing only a firm, friendly hand to set them on the right path, the path to the realisation of their full potentialities. This of course entailed the abolition of the present order, which had so perverted them, and of the established churches. It was old, old stuff, familiar in all its variations, but Stephen had never heard it expressed with such freshness, fire and conviction. Neither fire nor conviction survived to reach Jack in Stephen’s summary, however, but the doctrine that levelled Nelson with one of his own bargemen was clear enough, and he watched the approaching boat with a cold look in his eye.’

Stephen is a little more nuanced — and sarcastic — in his critique. After being asked what he thinks of democracy, he appears to avoid the question, pleading etiquette:

‘…we nevertheless adhere strictly to the naval tradition which forbids the discussion of religion, women, or politics in our mess. It has been objected that this rule makes for insipidity, which may be so; yet on the other hand it has its uses, since in this case for example it prevents any member from wounding any other gentleman present by saying that he did not think the policy that put Socrates to death and that left Athens prostrate was the highest expression of human wisdom, or by quoting Aristotle’s definition of democracy as mob-rule, the depraved version of a commonwealth.’

Between Aubrey’s stolid conservatism and Maturin’s cynicism, it is difficult to extract much which is admirable about Dutourd from O’Brian’s writing. Perhaps the best we can say for him is that he seems to have a genuine concern for the wellbeing of the men around him. But he is not a leader. Being genuine in this world seems to count for very little unless you have the capability to back it up.

Given the constant level of contempt aimed at Dutourd throughout, I wonder if it’s possible to salvage a consistent political perspective from these books. There’s a gentle but consistent conservatism, of course, that comes from the overwhelming faith throughout in the institution of the navy — a faith only partly related to the actual men who serve in it, and which has little or nothing to do with a sense of Britishness or national identity. The thing above all for O’Brian is the nature of the service, as exemplified by what it takes to operate one of the most complex engines of war ever designed. This, for him, is society; it is not an ideal society, but it is an immensely capable example of one. In Dutourd we see one whose only goal is to undo that society, and replace it with something decentred, nebulous, suspicious.

The pleasing contrast in the series always comes from comparing this conservatism to Maturin’s revolutionary liberalism, itself tempered with doubt towards all institutions. But as the series goes on it seems like Stephen’s most defining characteristic is that he has no faith in anything except himself. His concern for the welfare of his fellow man seems sincere, at least when a scalpel is in his hand, but it isn’t heartfelt; were he living on land, we can’t really imagine him working as a surgeon, either for profit or out of the goodness of his heart. He lives for the moments when he is alone in nature. And in that regard he seems like a figure who exemplifies a certain kind of libertarianism, one which is sometimes associated with the later years of the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Less Rousseau, more Thoreau.

But Maturin’s gift, and his curse, is that he alone amongst the crew seems to possess a particular sense of aloneness. I love, for example, this little passage, from his trip into the Andes:

‘So it was: yet the western sky was still dark violet at the lower rim and as he looked at it Stephen remembered the words he had intended to write to Diana before he put his letter to the candle: ‘in this still cold air the stars do not twinkle, but hang there like a covey of planets’, for there they were, clear beads of unwinking gold. He could not relish them however; his dream still oppressed him, and he had to force a smile when Eduardo told him he had reserved a piece of bread for their breakfast instead of dried potatoes, a piece of wheaten bread.’

That pretty image followed, by the pang of self-awareness — the memory of a dismal dream, his faraway wife hung for some strange crime — and then that old O’Brian trick of breaking through with indirect discourse that gently mimics speech. ‘A piece of wheaten bread.’

One more thing I want to add. There’s something very peculiar about the fate of Martin here. I always found something feminine about his portrayal, perhaps in part because his traditional role in these books is to be Stephen’s conversational partner while Jack is indisposed. Theirs is a friendship in which intimacy seems to have been traded in for constant peaceful companionship.

Eventually Martin becomes such a constant presence that he seems almost like a chaste spouse to Stephen. I don’t think O’Brian ever explicitly describes him as effeminate; but as a man, he doesn’t quite match up to the capabilities of his shipmates. Jack is perpetually uneasy with him, and I’m not sure it will suffice to say that he’s only suspicious of Martin’s authority on doctrinal matters. But the suspicion is strange, because it seems rootless. Martin isn’t outwardly threatening. He’s sensitive, observant, yet utterly hopeless as a physical presence compared to either of the leads. He’s perfectly pleasant, but not exceptional.

In this book, something odd happens. In Clarissa Oakes, Martin’s role as occasional companion appeared usurped by the titular woman smuggled aboard the ship. Now, it seems like O’Brian was looking for a way to get him out of the way, perhaps in order to set up a situation further down the line in England. Martin’s relationship with Clarissa becomes the instrument for bringing this about. Here is Stephen on the subject:

‘…Whether he has the disease I cannot tell for sure without a proper examination, though I doubt he has it physically: metaphysically however he is in a very bad way. Whether he lay with her or not in fact he certainly wished to do so and he is clerk enough to know that the wish is the sin; and being also persuaded that he is diseased he looks upon himself with horror, unclean without and within…’

Martin becomes desperately ill, and for a while Stephen cannot diagnose his problem. Eventually it turns out that, being tormented with guilt over an affair with Clarissa, he has poisoned himself with a desperately strong treatment for syphilis, derived from mercury. Here, perhaps, is what Jack had to be suspicious about all these years. We see this again and again in certain outlying characters in O’Brian’s world. They are tormented by a certain inner conviction, entirely irrational but thoroughly humane, that becomes not only a personal agony to the individual, but a true risk to the security of that precious narrow society.

There is something uniquely sinister and sad about Martin’s condition here. It is as though he becomes here the ship’s equivalent of the portrait of Dorian Grey: he has somehow soaked up all the bad feeling, all the wickedness that was spread around during the Oakes incident. Ailments outside the physical have always proved entirely alien to Stephen, and so the only treatment he can conceive of is to send him on the first ship back to England. Instead of sending him to the bottom of the ocean, they send him home.

#books #patrick o'brian #the wine dark sea

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mermaidsirennikita · 6 years

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Why do you hate H8 most of all? I mean there were shittier rulers in history who did many more awful things and killed more people? So why is he on top of your list?

Well, it’s really not a matter of who is the worst but who I really dislike. Like, obviously Hitler was a worse person than Henry VIII, but in a sense Hitler transcends history for me because... His ideologies remain relevant in every day life, he was very recent, and his evil was beyond politics and was just a monstrosity.

I don’t dislike Henry VIII as a monster, I dislike him as a very average and pathetic man who happened to be born with a lot of power. I compare him to men who were his contemporaries or close--Suleiman, Charles V, Francis I, Rodrigo Borgia, Cesare Borgia. And beyond politicians, Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo--all lived at the same or near the same time as Henry VIII. All the women too! His wives, Elizabeth, Catherine de’ Medici, Marie de Guise, Isabel of Castile, Hurrem Sultan, the list goes on and on.

And this guy got a TV show?

That’s part of what irks me, is that he is still pretty celebrated? “He changed the world through the Reformation” which wouldn’t have happened had he not wanted a Specific Woman vs. accepting his daughter as his heir or possibly even choosing a political bride who would have been backed by her own country and possibly would have been seen as a better option by the pope. Henry was not a crusader for religious change; he did not truly change the way he worshiped.

I think I’ve said this before, but I see Henry VIII as a pretty run of the mill abusive asshole who happened to be born into power, and with a fortune HIS FATHER who actually got the throne through force amassed. He frittered away a ton of money, the actions he took against his wives are often studied at great length because he’s famous (BECAUSE HE WAS A KING) but lmao let me tell you... There are men who are dicks to their wives all the time, and it’s not because of religious torment or mental illness of brain damage after a jousting accident, it’s because they’re assholes. Truly, the Scott Peterson of the sixteenth century. Or Drew Peterson, maybe, as Henry killed multiple wives.

And like, if he came off as truly smart or like, devious to me I’d maybe be more interested. My favorite male historical figure is Cesare Borgia. A murderer and rapist. I consider him a monster. But he was an interesting one to me. He was a very smart man who happened to be a cardinal a probable atheist at the same time--a man who questioned, who believed he’d die young and so he might as well conquer Italy while he could. A man who outsmarted people who were ALSO brilliant. So like, good thing he never actually won what he wanted, but it’s insane to me that at one point the guy had EVERYTHING stacked against him but people were still scared of him!!! That’s someone who earned fear and respect by being intelligent, brutal, and bombastic.

Henry VIII is just............................ like I swear to God if he was born today he’d be named Chad.

#every time a henry viii-centric piece of fiction comes out i'm like CAN WE MOVE ON NOW. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. CAN WE MOVE ON.#also louis xiv is another good comparison #a bastard #not super great with his various wives and mistresses #(if not nearly as bad as h8)#but like interesting in his own right and smart #basically all i'm asking for is FLAIR #Anonymous

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douchebagbrainwaves · 6 years

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WHY IT'S SAFE FOR MAKING NEW VENTURE ANIMAL

It's exciting that there even exist parts of the world than what I saw immediately around me. The Mythical Man-Month, adding people to a project tends to slow it down. More often it was just an arbitrary series of hoops to jump through, words without content designed mainly for testability. It's like the court of Louis XIV. Modern literature is important, but the job listings have to be really useful. But you could in principle have a useful conversation about them with some people. Technological progress means making things do more of what we want. It would be less now, probably less than the cost of sending them the first month's bill. But that same illiquidity also encouraged you not to seek it.1 You don't do that if you start scanning people with no symptoms, you'll get this on a giant scale: a huge number of software patents there's not a lot of users.

It's what bias means. By definition they're partisan. I worked at Yahoo during 1998 and 1999.2 If I remember correctly, our frontpage used to just fit in the size window people typically used then. Now the frightening giant is Microsoft, and they could not master it. Want to know if you bet on Web-based software, you can probably get even more effect by paying closer attention to the time you have.3 Enough of an effect to triple the value of what they create. There are really two variants of that question, and the bureaucratic obstacles all medical startups face, and the classics. When I was 13 I realized, is that my m. He probably considers them about equivalent in power to, say, the ages of eleven and seventeen.4

And yet, mysteriously, Viaweb ended up crushing all its competitors. The war was due mostly to external forces, and the most efficient way to do it. So for any given team of founders, would it not pay to wait till his arteries were over 90% blocked and 3 days later he had a quadruple bypass.5 At the end of the year I couldn't even remember what else I had stored in that attic. Obvious comparisons suggest themselves, both to the process and the resulting product. Basically, Apple bumped IBM and then Microsoft stole its wallet. What happens now with the Super Bowl used to happen every night. That is, are the riskiest startups the ones that wanted Oracle experience. That doing good work.6 It let them build great looking online stores literally in minutes.7 Web-based application.8

They're a lot of bandwidth.9 What that level of ability can get you is, say, Python? Or rather, any client, and if you have genuine intellectual curiosity, that's what you'll naturally tend to do if you just follow your own inclinations.10 As a result it became massively successful. By granting such an over-broad patents, but they are an order of magnitude less important than solving the real problem, my friend Robert Morris and I started a startup to do this is to collect them together in one place for a certain number of hours each day.11 Everyone was so cheerful and healthy and rich. What was really happening was de-oligopolization. When would you ever want to do. I found I could entertain myself by having ideas instead of reading other people's.12 Microsoft client and server software. One forgets it's owned by a private company. You can mitigate this with subsidies at the bottom nine tenths of university CS departments.13

And while I miss the 3 year old ever had. You might think that people decide to buy something, and if you want to be their research assistants because they're genuinely interested in the topic. A company that sues competitors for patent infringement till you have money, and making money consists mostly of errands.14 This was too subtle for me. People from the desktop software business will find this hard to credit, but at the time. But if you look at the source, because you control the whole system, right down to the hardware. For the first week or so we intended to make this point diplomatically, but in some cases it's possible to get rich will do whatever they like with you: install puppet governments, siphon off your best workers, use your women as prostitutes, dump their toxic waste on your territory—all the things we describe as addictive are. I got was $12. If you do manage to threaten them, they're more right than they know, because the adults were the visible experts in the skills they were trying to learn in great detail about the mechanics of startups, but as Microsoft shows, revenue is a lagging indicator in the technology business.15

At least $1000 a month. The best ideas are just on the right side of impossible. Programs that write programs.16 You can figure out the tricks for winning at this new game. That is very hard to answer in the general case. This will take some effort on the part of the game.17 And yet the authorities still for the most part act as if drugs were themselves the cause of the problem.18 Perhaps a better solution is to let as few things into your identity as possible. You can probably take it as a computer system executing that algorithm. The effects of World War II were both economic and social history, and the advantage will grow as fast as I can type, then spend several weeks rewriting it.19 Finally, the truly serious hacker should consider learning Lisp: Lisp is worth learning for the profound enlightenment experience you will have when you finally get it; that experience will make you a better programmer for the rest of us can use. I wanted to buy them, however limited.

Notes

But although I started using it, and the older you get to profitability on a weekend and sit alone and think.

It's unpleasant because the arrival of desktop publishing, given people the shareholders instead of themselves. And those examples do reflect after-tax return from a 6/03 Nielsen study quoted on Google's site. I talked to a VC is interested in investing but doesn't want to write your thoughts down in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, Oxford University Press, 1996.

Does anyone really think we're so useless that in the world of the company.

73 billion.

Apparently there's only one founder is being compensated for risks he took earlier. The shift in power from investors to founders is how much they can be explained by math. MSFT, having spent much of observed behavior.

I ordered a large company? As well as down.

But his world record only lasted 46 days.

Related: Reprinted in Bacon, Alan, Transgressing the Boundaries: Toward a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity, Social Text 46/47, pp. If you seem like noise.

When the Air Hits Your Brain, neurosurgeon Frank Vertosick recounts a conversation—maybe around 10 people.

I call it procrastination when someone works hard and not fundraising is because their company made money from them. Learning this explained a lot of detail. If this is the kind that has little relation to other investors, even thinking requires control of scarce resources, political deal-making power. It tipped from being this boulder we had high hopes for doesn't do well, but that's a pyramid scheme.

Financing a startup. The dialog on Beavis and Butthead was composed largely of these titles vary too much. Copyright owners tend to say, of course it was 94% 33 of 35 companies that an eminent designer is any better than enterprise software—and to run on the server.

Though they were that smart they'd already be working on such an interview with Steve Wozniak in Jessica Livingston's Founders at Work. A single point of treason.

There's a good chance that a startup you can do it in B. That's why there's a continuum here. The other cause is usually slow growth or excessive spending rather than ones they capture.

By Paleolithic standards, technology evolved at a time machine. There are still expensive to start a startup to become addictive. Instead of bubbling up from the other seed firms always find is that most three letter words are bad news; it would not change the world barely affects me. Then when we got to see if you do.

But not all are. They're common to all cultures with long traditions of living in cities. I think it's mainly not having the universities in the former, and large bribes by the normal people they're usually surrounded with.

They're still deciding, which parents would still send their kids won't listen to them about your fundraising prospects. The Socialist People's Democratic Republic of X is probably not do that.

And the reason.

As I was once trying to sell hardware without trying to capture the service revenue as well, but economically that's how we gauge their progress, but rather that if a company just to go to college, they have to decide between two alternatives, we'd ask, what if they pay so well is that it killed the best hackers want to design these, because people would treat you like a compiler, you could only get in the narrow technical sense of being harsh to founders would actually increase the spammers' cost to reach a given audience by a sense of the word intelligence is the least correlation between launch magnitude and success. Good and bad luck.

Heirs will be interesting to 10,000 sestertii, for many Americans the decisive change in how Stripe felt. I talked to a woman who had recently arrived from Russia. Many will consent to b rather than ones they capture. Good investors don't lead startups on; their reputations are too valuable.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #equivalent #advantage #Centuries

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harapirena · 6 years

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BOOK REVIEW : Empress of the East: How a European Slave Girl Became Queen of the Ottoman Empire by Leslie Peirce

co-authored with @gevherhans

Haseki Hürrem Sultan (or Roxelana) was catapulted into the history books after she became Sultan Süleyman’s concubine & his favorite. She would eventually become his chief consort - his haseki, a title created for her position as chief consort, but unequal to that of the sultan. Her true name is lost to history; however, she was renamed Hürrem - a name that she used to refer to herself for the rest of her life. Captured & enslaved as a young woman, Hürrem was ultimately brought to the imperial harem, an institution Peirce thoroughly examined in The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire. Going against the tradition of one son per concubine, Hürrem would remain in Süleyman’s bed & would give birth to six children, five of them sons; her son Selim would become sultan after Süleyman’s death.

Despite its interesting subject matter, Peirce’s Empress of the East: How a European Slave Girl Became Queen of the Ottoman Empire is a terribly written & biased piece that lacks structure, neglecting to include important information at logical junctures. More alarmingly, she distorts & exaggerates historical fact to embellish her subject’s power & influence, caters to fans of the ruthless second wave feminism trope, & ultimately tries to spin history into a fairytale rags-to-riches story. In the attempt to exonerate Hürrem & frame her as a heroine worth rooting for, Peirce presents her as far too brilliant, far too powerful, & far too perfect. Peirce’s Hürrem can do no wrong; she is intelligent, politically aware, & a keen manipulator of circumstance, but at the same time indisputably innocent of charges leveled against her - not even to ensure one of her sons would take the throne. Conversely, those who stood against Hürrem’s success like Mahidevran, Ibrahim, & Mustafa are consistently painted in a far more negative light. Their importance is watered down, their merits are downplayed, & their figures presented dismissively order to serve the narrative & make Hürrem look better.

When compared to her academic work, Empress falls flat on itself. While the prose is easy to read, Peirce’s writing falters as she attempts to write for a general audience. Rather than providing a scholarly analysis backed up by historical evidence, she favors a biased narrative that relies heavily on speculative “imagining”, value judgments, & tenuous yet sweeping claims. Her use of romantic & idyllic language drags down her writing rather than lift it up, & uncritically attempts to frame Hürrem & Süleyman’s relationship as a love story. The concluding statement of the introduction provides no better example of Peirce’s modus operandi, in which she asserts the Ottoman Sultanate’s survival was largely “bolstered by the reforms she introduced”, a process “generated along with the Ottoman empire’s greatest love story.”

This language is typical in the book. Peirce forces the reader to see the Ottoman world through her lens & adopt her wishful imagings, instead of allowing them to form their own views & imagine independently. Her “speculation” includes comparisons that make little sense, all the while implying that Hürrem “must have thought” of such things herself! Peirce notes that women forced into sexual servitude may not have viewed their status positively, yet at one point abhorrently tries to justify it because of the “compensations” - that these women “must” have known they probably wouldn’t have had easy lives or happy marriages in their homelands, & would be comforted that, even as palace slaves, they could at least live in the lap of luxury: “An emotionally & sexually fulfilling marriage had not necessarily been in store for them in their hometowns & villages. The common practice of arranged marriage could saddle them with husbands who were unattractive, considerably older, or even brutal. Mostly peasants, they were more likely than not destined for a life of daily toil - perhaps poverty - early death. The dynastic family to which they now belonged at least kept them in luxurious comfort - good health.”

Of course, no one knows what Hürrem thought during certain events; suggestions that she would have connected herself to other women in history, or compare the converted Ayasofya to her own experience, do not belong in a biography. Peirce can speculate - draw conclusions based on the facts that she has. However, she can’t lead readers to imagine that Hürrem ever thought of what architectural endeavors she might take on should she succeed with Süleyman, sympathized with Anne Boleyn, or compared herself to Gürcü Hatun (a Christian-born consort beloved by a Muslim ruler) - Byzantine royals like Eirene; that Süleyman instructed her in the art of war, tutored her as a diplomat, or gave her a say in how the design of the new palace harem, especially whilst Süleyman’s mother Hafsa was alive. There’s no evidence for any of these things. Such fanciful scenarios are better suited for a work of historical fiction - & considering how Peirce omits pertinent information she herself described in The Imperial Harem to suit the narrative, she might as well have written a novel!

Empress gives the impression that it was by marrying Süleyman that Hürrem became a “queen” & obtained the stature that she had. However, this is not the case. Although Peirce mentions that noblewomen married Ottoman sultans in prior centuries, she neglects to inform the reader that because royal wives were barred from having children, they were not as powerful as their slave counterparts who did. “Women without sons were women without households & therefore women of no status,” she summarized in Harem. Because the Ottomans granted greater prestige to women who bore a son over a childless one, limiting reproduction limited access to political power: “Royal wives were deprived of this most public mark of status [the patronage of public buildings], presumably because they lacked the qualification that appears to have entitled royal concubines to this privilege: motherhood. The suppression of the capacity of royal wives to bear children is an example of the Ottoman policy of manipulating sexuality & reproduction as a means of controlling power. To deny these women access to motherhood, the source of female power within the dynastic family, was to diminish the status of the royal houses from which they came.”

Peirce gives the example of Sittişah (Sitti) Hatun, who married Mehmed the Conqueror. She describes Sitti’s wedding to Mehmed, an event surrounded by great pomp & circumstance. However, she neglects to inform the reader that Sitti’s marriage to Mehmed bore no children. Franz Babinger writes that although she had wed to the great conqueror himself, the childless Sitti was ultimately powerless & died lonely & forsaken. As Peirce explained in 1993, unions such as that of Sitti & Mehmed were largely symbolic & strictly political in nature: “Although their careers as consorts of the sultans often began with the ceremonial of elaborate weddings, royal brides were ciphers in these events. What counted was the ceremony itself & what it symbolized: less the union of male & female than a statement of the relationship between two states. The function of the bride, particularly in view of the non role that awaited her as the sultan’s wife, was to symbolize the subordinate status of the weaker state.”

There is no question that Hürrem & Süleyman’s marriage rattled Ottoman society. Nevertheless, it is alarming that Peirce, who once authored a seminal work on the structure & politics of the harem, omits the fact that it was motherhood & not marriage that empowered a woman in the dynastic family. Such gaps in knowledge might lead those previously unfamiliar with the Ottoman harem to believe that marriage made Hürrem a “queen” & gave her political power, going so far to describe her & Süleyman as a “reigning couple” at one point. (Bizarrely, she does discuss abortion in Empress, yet avoids writing about dynastic family politics beyond mentioning “political planning”.)

Far more perturbing is Peirce’s insistence that Hürrem did more than she actually did for the empire. She claims that it was Hürrem who played a pivotal role in “moving the Ottoman Empire into modern times” & allowed the sultanate to survive through reforms she introduced. While she certainly paved the way in some regards for the women who followed her, Peirce overestimates Hürrem’s impact on the history of the Ottoman empire. There are other influential figures who helped preserve the sultanate, other forces that allowed it to flourish. Furthermore, Peirce downplays external factors that allowed for Hürrem’s ascent in the first place - namely the absence of a valide after 1534, not to mention Süleyman’s lasting infatuation for her - in favor of emphasizing her purportedly “unique” qualities of endurance, intelligence, & being a survivor.

Peirce goes on to anachronistically frame Hürrem as a feminist figure. In one passage, she describes her as a “forward-thinking equal opportunity employer” who “challenged women’s etiquette” because she wanted a female scribe for her foundation. Peirce’s language suggests that it was Hürrem alone who bolstered women’s opportunities, yet she does not present any evidence that Hürrem introduced or influenced any social or political reforms for women of the time. Yet perhaps most erroneous is Peirce’s claim that credits Hürrem with the start of “a more peaceable system of identifying the next sultan”. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Following their Hürrem’s death, her sons Selim & Bayezid became entangled in a civil war that ultimately ended with the deaths of Bayezid & his children. Even in the absence of prolonged violence, subsequent secession crises of the sixteenth century were resolved through the execution of the new sultan’s brothers, including infants. It was only with the ascent of thirteen-year-old Ahmed in 1603 that this tradition was set aside for dynastic concerns, although the practice of fratricide did not cease entirely.

When Peirce isn’t falling over to frame Hürrem as a wonder woman, she dismisses those who stood in opposition to her ascent, such as Mahidevran, Süleyman’s previous consort & mother of his firstborn son, Mustafa. Peirce takes a dim view of Mahidevran, presenting her as a jealous woman who needed to be reminded of her duties as mother of a prince. She is depicted a woman worried about losing a man’s favor, rather than a woman who, by all historical accounts, was deeply concerned for her son’s future. Early in Süleyman’s reign, the ambassador Pietro Bragadin reported that Mustafa was his mother’s “whole joy” at their residence in Istanbul. Later, the crucial role Mahidevran played in supporting her son at his provincial governorships was detailed by visiting diplomats. In 1540, Bassano noted her guidance in “[making] himself loved by the people” at his court in Diyarbakır. Mahidevran’s efforts to protect Mustafa, as well as the bond between mother & son, were observed by Bernardo Navagero in 1553: “[Mustafa] has with him his mother, who exercises great diligence to guard him from poisoning & reminds him every day that he has nothing else but this to avoid, & it is said that he had boundless respect & reverence for her.”

Ibrahim Pasha is another figure disparaged by Peirce’s negative bias. A friend from Süleyman’s youth who quickly ascended to the rank Grand Vizier, Ibrahim was not only a skilled & cultured diplomat admired by his counterparts in Europe, but a talented administrator & commander. Eric R. Dursteler writes, “During this time, by all accounts, Ibrahim ruled the day-to-day affairs of the empire effectively. Süleyman seems to have been content to give Ibrahim nearly unlimited power & autonomy in running the Ottoman state, & all matters of any significance passed directly through his hands. […] If Ibrahim’s initial ascent was due to his personal ties to Süleyman, in his years as grand vizier, he proved himself a capable diplomat & an effective political & military leader. In 1524, Süleyman sent Ibrahim to Egypt to restore order following an uprising led by a rebellious Ottoman official sent to rule the earlier conquered province. Ibrahim reorganized legal & fiscal institutions, punished mutinous officials & subjects with severity, established schools, restored mosques, &, by all accounts, restored peace & order to the region.”

Conversely, Peirce describes Ibrahim as “dispensable”, implies that he was holding Süleyman back from achieving his greatest accomplishments, & states “other minds were better suited” to administer the empire as Grand Vizier. When comparing her portrayal of Ibrahim to that of Rüstem Pasha, Mihrimah Sultan’s husband - & Hürrem’s son-in-law - Peirce’s bias becomes clear. She fawns over Rüstem while being completely dismissive of Ibrahim.

Finally, there is Mustafa: the son of Hürrem’s rival Mahidevran & Süleyman’s oldest living son. Empress paints Mustafa as a brat, calling him “a proud child whose sense of entitlement was apparently both acute & insecure.“ Peirce recounts an ambassadorial report describing the young prince’s jealousy over his father’s relationship with Ibrahim - a story she previously featured in Harem: ‘The sultan sent İbrahim the gift of a beautiful saddle for his horse with jewels & all; & Mustafa, aware of this, sent word to İbrahim to have one like it made for him ; [İbrahim] understood this & sent him the said saddle, & said to him, ‘now listen, if the sultan learns of this, he will make you send it back.”

Peirce’s two treatments of the same story is telling. In Harem, the account illustrates “İbrahim’s kindly patience in soothing the child Mustafa’s jealousy of his father’s affection for his favorite”, with Peirce noting that the relationship “seems to have consolidated” over time - particularly with the emergence of his half-brothers as a greater threat. In Empress, on the other hand, Peirce only concludes that such incidents “may simply reflect a jealousy on Mustafa’s part of anyone close to his father” without mention of the relationship improving, nor of Mustafa recognizing his true rivals to survival.

Whenever Peirce describes Mustafa’s intelligence & his worthiness, she emphasizes that these are the opinions of his contemporaries. It’s as though she wants to disagree, but can’t because historical evidence only points to Mustafa being how he is remembered to be: an intelligent & a worthy heir to the throne. Mustafa was the clear favorite among the people & the army. In Harem, Peirce notes that “Mustafa was universally desired to follow his father to the throne” according to Venetian reports in 1550 & again in 1552. He was more popular than Selim or Bayezid, Hürrem’s living sons who were contenders to the throne. Mehmed, Hürrem’s firstborn, could have been a match for Mustafa had he lived longer, but in the absence of evidence this is mere speculation.

Mustafa’s execution did indeed stain Hürrem’s name. She & Rüstem Pasha were blamed by contemporaries for orchestrating the downfall of the beloved heir apparent. Peirce predictably sets out to clear Hürrem’s name & exonerate her of involvement in the tragedy, but instead of focusing on a lack of hard evidence, she illogically places blame on Mustafa for his own demise. Writing that previous historians studying the topic “largely failed to consider Mustafa’s part in the affair”, Peirce points out the prince’s popularity & that people were already hailing him as “sultan” - something Süleyman would undoubtedly find threatening. Perhaps Mustafa was the victim of his own success, but it would be deeply unfair to blame him for meriting praise & adoration from others, which could only be earned through excelling in his princely duties.

Had Mustafa won the throne after Süleyman died, Ottoman tradition would dictate the deaths of Hürrem’s sons - even Cihangir, said to be fond of his eldest half-brother. According to Navagero, Süleyman reminded Cihangir of this reality, warning his son that “Mustafa will become the sultan & will deprive [you & your brothers] of your lives.” Per the Ottoman practice of institutionalized fratricide, someone would have to die.

Beyond the fact that her sons would face near-certain death had he ascended the throne, a victory for Mustafa would deprive Hürrem of power, leaving her to face the fate that had befallen Mahidevran after her son’s death: destitute & cast aside. As Thys-Senocak explained in [book:Ottoman Women Builders: The Architectural Patronage of Hadice Turhan Sultan|514467]: “Unlike her European counterparts, the prestige & political legitimacy that an Ottoman valide possessed was derived from her position as the mother of the reigning sultan, rather than through her position as the widow of the deceased sultan […] Once the father of her son was dead, the valide’s sole source of power & legitimation was through her son, the reigning sultan.” If Mustafa took the throne after Süleyman’s death, Hürrem would have lost not only her sons, but also her status.

The fate of a mother was thus closely bound to the survival of her son. It was not only a mother’s duty to ensure that her son was a contender to the throne, but through his mother’s influence that he survived. A prince’s mother was his mediator, his guardian, his most steadfast ally; it was she who sought to safeguard him from potentially hostile forces, including his own father. While imperial lalas (tutors) ensured that a prince was prepared to take the throne, it was the mother who acted as “an effective agent for her son through her connections with the imperial court, her wealth, & her status as a royal consort & as the most honored person at the provincial court after her son.”

Hürrem, however, did not accompany her sons to their provincial governorships to fulfill the principal role of a prince’s mother. Once again bucking established practice, she remained in Istanbul with Süleyman during this time save for the occasional visit.

Herein lies the irony of Peirce’s Hürrem. Only remotely involved with her sons’ provincial careers, painting Hürrem as an innocent flower who never intrigued at court would mean she did nothing to protect, promote, or prepare them at one of the most crucial points of their lives. If she did not have a hand in anything, whether at sanjak or in Istanbul – not even to eliminate their biggest competition – what did Peirce’s Hürrem do to ensure her sons’ success and survival? It is only in the epilogue of Empress that she briefly notes Hürrem’s involvement in ensuring one of her sons received aid he might need. Nevertheless, in the quest to exonerate her subject, Peirce inadvertently makes it seem Hürrem neglected her chief responsibility as mother of the sultanate’s heirs. Even with multiple sons and no precedent to follow, one would think she would’ve done anything to help or protect them – and by extension, herself. Yet Peirce provides no evidence or examples of Hürrem’s involvement in educating or preparing her sons for rulership.

Ultimately, Empress of the East only does Hürrem a disservice by presenting her as a proto-feminist, empowered heroine rather than a complex, controversial historical figure. Peirce embellishes and exaggerates when it suits her narrative, just as she painstakingly aims to clear her subject of alleged wrongdoings. But this approach backfires when one considers the book as a whole: rather than a mother and a politician who understood the importance of protecting her sons and readied them for the throne, Peirce gives the impression Hürrem did little to advance their interests – despite the allegedly large clout she had as “queen”.

#hurrem sultan #history #ottoman history #books #book review #*bookreviews #*long post for ts

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everythingtimeless · 7 years

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So the wounded knee massacre was Columbus’ fault?

Columbus wanted to prove that the earth was round and not flat as was believed at that time, so he planned to sail to india but he needed the necessary funds to get there. For years he applied to spain, portugal, france and england only to be turned down each time. Until in 1492 spain agreed to fund his expedition. He was an explorer, not a mass murderer. Don’t blame him for the for what the conquistadors and the english and not to mention the amerian white people did to the indigenous folk!!

Welp.

Well, you came here, my friend, so we’re gonna have to have a little talk.

First of all: no. The world was not believed to be flat at the time, and had not been for a while. It was believed to be smaller than it was, and the “mappa mundi” had placed Jerusalem at the center of the world and comprised parts of Africa, Asia, and Europe, which were all that they were aware of. The ideas of “terra australis” and “terra incognita,” while they became more developed in the 15th and 16th centuries, were not unknown to them – i.e. undiscovered southern land, or somewhere beyond the bounds of the known. The ancient Greeks were well aware that the earth was spherical, and in remote eighth-century Northumbria, the Venerable Bede, writing his Ecclesiastical History of the English People, is likewise well informed of astronomical details:

Because Britain lies almost under the North Pole, it has short nights in summer, so often at midnight it is hard for those to say whether evening twilight which still lingers, or morning dawn has come, since the sun at night returns to the east through the regions to the north without passing far below the horizon. For this reason the summer days are extremely long. On the other hand the winter nights are of great length, namely eighteen hours, doubtless because the sun has then departed to the region of Africa. In summer too the nights are extremely short; so are the days in winter, each consisting of six standard equinoctial hours, while in Armenia, Macedonia, Italy, and other countries in the same latitude the longest day or night consists of fifteen hours and the shortest of nine (p. 10).

Meanwhile, Portolan charts had first appeared in about the end of the thirteenth century, the first maps expressly intended for use in navigation, and were so accurate that they were considered a state secret for seafaring nations. This was before the Mercator projection, which appeared in 1569 – so yes, don’t come at me (a medievalist) and inform me that the Dark Ages People thought the world was flat and Columbus had to enlighten them and somehow had to valiantly Prove this to a bunch of backwards hicks. You are incorrect. Let us move on.

Next: … I’m sorry, there’s no other way to say this, but Columbus was both an explorer AND a mass murderer. The two are not incompatible. Let’s start with a primary source: the sixteenth-century Dominican friar Bartolome de las Casas’ Brevísima relación de la destrucción de las Indias, or A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies, or Mirror of the Cruel and Horrible Spanish Tyranny Perpetrated in the Netherlands [New World], by the Tyrant, the Duke of Alba, and Other Commanders of King Philip II. There are problems with Las Casas’ work, not least because he advocates enslaving blacks in place of Indians and because he believes the Indians are worthy of saving because they’re not Muslims, but he sailed to Hispaniola in 1502 and was an eyewitness to the ruthless colonial regime that Columbus had installed there as the first provincial governor. He wasn’t writing in the first instance about Spanish conquistadors following Columbus’ example; he was writing about the man himself.

Even the historian SamuelEliot Morison, writing an admiring biography of Columbus in 1942, could not entirelygloss over the details. Morison admits, “Everynative of fourteen years of age or upward who submitted (as the onlyalternative to being killed) was required to furnish every three months aFlanders hawk’s bell full of gold dust […] the system was irrational, mostburdensome, impossible, intolerable, says Las Casas.” (p. 491.) In 1955, Morison rephrased that estimate more strongly: “The cruel policy initiated by Columbus and pursued by his successors resulted in complete genocide.” Indians who could not meet gold quota had their hands cut off and were left to bleed to death. Brevísima relación exposes an extensive and unrepentant system of torture, murder, andmutilation employed against the native peoples by the Spanish invaders, and spearheaded by Columbus himself. All in all, thehistorically responsible estimates for the death toll during Columbus’ rule arriveat a figure of at least seven and a half million Indians. The number could wellbe much higher. (It has been subject to a sustained project of “recounting” and “revision” precisely because the reinvention of Columbus as a mythical American hero did not sit quite easily with the idea that he was a mass murderer).

So apparently, we shouldn’t blame Columbus for… the entire system he started and participated in at every opportunity? Between 1496 and 1500, the Taino population dropped from eight million to about three million (in! four! years! – see pp. 44-47) under Columbus’ rule. Las Casas, writingBrevísima relación in 1542, forwarded an estimate of at least twentymillion Indian deaths already. When the Spanish were challenged for relying solely on the religious andcanonical law of the Alexandrine papal bulls (which we discussed in the 1x11 post) to justify their political conquests andabuses, King Ferdinand appointed a pair of legal scholars to draft the Requierimiento, the document that laidout a so-called secular strategy for the justification and accomplishment ofthe colonial process. In this, nothing was changed but the varnish over thereligious rhetoric. Moreover, while this theoretically made it necessary for the Indians to consentto being dominated and enslaved by the Spaniards, it was the epitome of legalfiction. Not only was the proclamation read in an alien foreign language oftenfar away from actual Indians, any sign of resistance justified “[taking] you,your wives, and your children, and [making] slaves of them […] and we shalltake away your goods and shall do to you all the harm and damage that we can.” In addition, in a sad moment of the kind of linguistic games familiar toimperial projects everywhere, in 1573 the Spaniards outlawed the word“conquest” altogether as a description of what they were doing, and orderedthat it be replaced with “pacification” instead. (p.218)

In addition, Columbus faced censure and concern in his own day for the tyranny of his regime, was recalled back to Spain as a result, and a document unearthed from the Spanish archives in 2006 confirmed him as “a greedy and vindictive tyrant who saved some of his most violent punishments for his own followers.” It was written by Francisco de Bobadilla, his successor as governor of the Indies, and contained the testimony of 23 eyewitnesses against the cruelties instituted by Columbus and his brothers. Oh, and he started the transatlantic slave trade by sending mass numbers of Indian captives back to Spain.

Long story short: Christopher Columbus was a monster, and we have learned a history that taught us otherwise for a sustained and extensive justification of a profoundly colonialist and imperialist framework that has ignored, overlooked, and whitewashed the deaths of Native people for centuries. He directly started the policy of Spanish genocide (side note: is anyone observing the violence of the Catalan referendum and actually being surprised that Spain The Original Colonial Power is doing this? Because I’m not), exploitation, extortion, slavery, and sadism that was replicated by his successors, by the English settlers in North America, and then by the independent American government throughout the 18th and then 19th centuries in particular. So yes.

Thank you, and have a good day.

#history #historical hour with hilary #anonymous #ask

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2700fstreet · 8 years

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OPERA / 2017-2018

DON CARLO

OPEN REHEARSAL

Washington National Opera

Music by Giuseppe Verdi Libretto by Joseph Méry and Camille Du Locle Translated into Italian by Achille de Lauzières and Angelo Zanardini Based on Friedrich von Schiller’s dramatic work Don Carlos

So, What’s Going On?

Spain, the mid-sixteenth century.

Our hero, Don Carlo isn’t doing well. The infante (een-FAHN-teh, basically a Spanish word for “prince”) can’t get along with his father, King Filippo II (fee-LEEP-poh), and, to top it off, Carlo has no real royal responsibilities to keep him busy.

Oh, and did we mention he’s in love with his stepmother?

Filippo had promised Carlo a beautiful French bride named Elisabetta (eh-leez-ah-BEHT-tah), but, at the last minute, the king swept in and married her himself. Not cool. Nope, definitely not cool.

Enter Rodrigo (ro-DREE-goh), a nobleman and Carlo’s best friend. Rodrigo tries to cheer Carlo up by getting him involved in a political cause (nothing says “distraction” like a revolution). Spanish-occupied Flanders, (present-day Belgium) Rodrigo explains, is badly oppressed and needs a leader ASAP. Having a lot of free time on his hands, Carlo agrees to act as “savior” to the Flemish (i.e., the folks from Flanders). Got it so far?

But there’s a catch. He’ll need his stepmom’s permission.

Rodrigo fires Carlo up for a Flemish fight.

Take a listen… In one of opera’s most famous duets, Rodrigo and Don Carlo take a vow of friendship and promise to work together to achieve freedom for Flanders. Listen for the sounds of the brass instruments, symbolizing war and aggression, as well as royalty.

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Back to the story…

Rodrigo arranges a meeting between Carlo and Elisabetta, telling the queen her heartbroken stepson needs a favor. But one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, the Princess of Eboli (EHB-oh-lee), overhears and takes Carlo’s heartbreak completely out of context—she thinks Carlo might be in love with her.

At the meeting set up by Rodrigo, Carlo tells Elisabetta he’s dying of love.

In other palace news, the king is highly suspicious of Elisabetta’s relationship with Carlo. He summons Rodrigo and asks him to spy on Carlo and Elisabetta’s extracurricular activities. Rodrigo unwisely uses this moment to plead for Flanders, claiming the king is applying unnecessary force to maintain peace in the Flemish territories. Though slightly moved, Filippo warns Rodrigo his rebellious ways may get him into trouble with the Spanish Inquisition (…bet you weren’t expecting that).

Sometime later, Carlo receives a mysterious letter. Thinking Elisabetta wishes to see him, he waits for her in a romantic spot, and she promptly arrives wearing a veil for cover.

(Yeah, just kidding: It’s not really Elisabetta, but Eboli in disguise.)

Carlo whispers sweet nothings to “Elisabetta,” but when the mix-up comes to light, he tries to take back his professions of love. The damage is done, however—Eboli figures out Carlo’s words were meant for someone else…and that the “someone else” must be the queen.

Rodrigo rushes in. Believing Eboli will go straight to the king for revenge, he asks Carlo to hand over any incriminating evidence pertaining to Flanders.

Eboli plots vengeance against Carlo for (accidentally) playing with her heart.

But tensions between Filippo and Carlo are about to boil over anyway. At an auto-da-fé (an execution led by the Inquisition and overseen by the king), Carlo interrupts the ceremony by bringing some Flemish citizens before Filippo to call the king out and beg for royal mercy. Things get heated, and Carlo draws his sword. Horrified by this treasonous act, Filippo calls for someone to arrest his son. To everyone’s surprise, Rodrigo steps forward and leads Carlo to jail.

A private family feud is put on public display.

Take a listen… In his aria, “Ella giammai m’amò” (“She never loved me”), Filippo contemplates the sad state of his marriage. Listen for the sorrowful string music, which repeats incessantly as if to reflect Filippo’s relentless thoughts.

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Filippo wants Carlo out of the way (like…completely out of the way), so the king appeals to the Grand Inquisitor to ask if the holy man will pardon Filippo for ordering Carlo’s execution. Convinced the uprising of the Protestant-leaning Flemish—and not Carlo—is the real threat to Spain and to the Catholic Church, the Inquisitor slyly suggests Filippo may be absolved if he hands over the traitorous Rodrigo in exchange. Yikes.

The Grand Inquisitor offers a terrible bargain: Religious blessing in exchange for Rodrigo’s demise.

Take a listen… In this intentionally frightening scene, the Grand Inquisitor’s deep and forceful voice, along with the quivering strings and percussion, remind the audience (and Filippo) that the church wields power in sixteenth-century Spain.

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Suddenly, Elisabetta bursts in claiming she’s been robbed. She asks her husband to take action against the culprit, but Filippo quickly admits to the crime himself. He then confronts Elisabetta about a portrait of Carlo she keeps hidden in her stolen jewelry box. Elisabetta maintains her innocence, however. She may love Carlo, but she’s never been unfaithful.

And yet here’s a twist: Filippo has.

Filippo tries to shame Elisabetta.

While comforting the queen after Filippo’s accusation, Eboli confesses she’s been having an affair with the king and that jealousy (for both Carlo and Filippo) led her to steal Elisabetta’s box and throw some serious shade at the queen. Shocked, Elisabetta orders Eboli to head to a convent. Eboli searches for a way to make things right—and finds one. She stumbles onto Carlo’s death warrant and resolves to intervene before it’s too late.

Take a listen… Eboli curses her own vanity for inspiring her to betray her queen in the aria “O don fatale” (“Oh fatal gift”). Check out how the mezzo-soprano uses both high and low notes to convey her sense of frustration and despair in the musical sample below. Also: Listen for the outbursts from the trumpets, trombones, and horns at the opening. Can you tell things have gotten pretty serious?

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But can Eboli alert Carlo in time? Can Rodrigo escape the watchful eye of the Inquisition? And, most importantly, will Elisabetta and Carlo be allowed to ride off into the Spanish sunset?

Who’s Who

(Italian version of the original Spanish names listed; English version names in parentheses)

Don Carlo (Don Carlos) infante of Spain (tenor—the highest male voice) Filippo (King Philip II) Carlo’s father and king of Spain (bass—the lowest male voice) Elisabetta (Elizabeth of Valois) queen of Spain (soprano—the highest female voice) The Princess of Eboli (known as “Eboli”) (mezzo-soprano—a middle-range female voice) Rodrigo marquis of Posa and Carlo’s friend (baritone—a middle-range male voice) The Grand Inquisitor (bass)

Good to Know

You’ve heard of the Spanish Inquisition before, right? No?

Okay, well, just in case you haven’t, you might want to keep in mind that the Spanish Inquisition was a Catholic branch of the Spanish government whose task was to find and “question” anyone who wasn’t loyal to the Catholic church, particularly Jews and Protestants. These “interviews” were often literal torture, as the Spanish monarchy was known to use the Inquisition as an excuse to enslave innocents in order to get free labor.

Now that you’re familiar with the Inquisition: Did you know King Philip II, his wife Elizabeth, his son Carlos, and the Princess of Eboli were also real? Philip II was a sixteenth-century Spanish monarch who did indeed marry a French woman (Elizabeth of Valois) whom he had initially intended for his son. Turns out Philip and Elizabeth actually had a reportedly happy marriage, and the love story between Elizabeth and her stepson was invented by writer Friedrich von Schiller in the eighteenth century and exploited by Verdi in the nineteenth century for maximum dramatic impact.

The Princess of Eboli was likewise a genuine attendant at court and the wife of King Philip’s right-hand man. Rodrigo, however, never actually existed; he’s more of an ideal representation of compassion and progressive thinking created by Schiller at a time when the Enlightenment ideals of reason and rationality swept across Europe.

And Carlos? Sadly the historical Carlos wasn’t quite the romantic hero he is in the opera. Rowdy, and unpredictable, the real-life Carlos was decidedly not in love with his stepmom. Yet, as in the opera, Carlos wasn’t given much power by his father and eventually grew fed up with life in Spain. The infante then demanded control over Flanders, which was being ruled by a brutal cardinal of the Catholic Inquisition.

Just like in the opera, Flanders was a place of political (and religious) unrest in the mid-sixteenth century. Absorbed into Spain’s considerable empire via a political marriage, Flanders was somewhat content to be ruled by Philip’s father, Charles V, who had been born in Flanders and was well respected there. Things changed when Philip assumed the throne, however: Philip was more Catholic than his father and the new king had no trouble sending clerical and military forces to keep the Protestant-friendly Flemish in line—often using violent methods of persuasion.

Philip ultimately deemed his son unfit to serve as ambassador to such an unstable region and had Carlos put in jail to prevent a political catastrophe (thanks, dad). Carlos died while under arrest, but the Flemish controversy continued, and uprisings followed soon after.

Check This Out…

Don Carlo features many melodies that repeat themselves to help the audience recall a particular scene or emotion from earlier in the story. Listen up for tunes that come back to haunt these characters again and again (especially the themes from Carlo and Rodrigo’s Act I duet, Carlo’s first lovesick solo, and the choir of horns that opens the opera).

Though Carlo is the title character, all the leading roles in the opera are given at least one aria (solo song) in which to express their feelings, and each character has their own unique musical and vocal style. Can you identify some of the ways in which Verdi gives each character his or her own spin? Is there a type of note (high, low, stretched out, cut short, etc.) or rhythm (slow, fast, galloping, etc.) that sticks out as being a specific character’s “signature sound”?

The finale of Don Carlo is notoriously open-ended, leaving much of the interpretation up to the performers and production team. Pay close attention during those final moments. What do you think the director and designers of this particular version wanted the audience to believe about the characters’ fates? Do you feel this explanation of the ending is correct? What do you think actually went down in the Spanish court?

Verdi wanted to immerse his audience in the culture and atmosphere of his operas. One of the ways he achieved this effect in Don Carlo was to include music that plays just off stage, giving the illusion of “surround sound” and extending the action of Don Carlo beyond the borders of the proscenium. Listen for the organ, church bells, brass band, choirs, and solo soprano voice coming from the wings of the theater. Do these help you feel like you’re at the heart of the story?

Think About This…

The dialogue between Filippo and the Grand Inquisitor—which was purposely added to the original story by Verdi and his librettists—includes some heavy musical clues regarding the evil subtext of the scene. In fact, Verdi uses ominous-sounding instruments to make it abundantly clear that some devilish plots are being hatched. What instruments stick out for you in this moment? What do you think Verdi’s position was regarding organized religion? What do you think he felt about monarchies like the one in Spain?

Eboli sings a song about a woman who hides her appearance and discovers a terrible secret. And…surprise! Later in the opera, the princess herself actually wears a veil and uncovers something about Don Carlo she wishes she hadn’t. Do you think the creators were making a specific point about disguises or about women who mask their identity?

Don Carlo is a mixture of big, crowded scenes for huge choruses and smaller, more intimate moments for four people or fewer. This contrast between public life and personal drama is something that continues to fascinate audiences in the twenty-first century. Can you name some recent films or TV shows in which the private struggles of a handful of characters are set against the backdrop of an overarching story that packs an epic and/or historical punch (hint: think The Crown or Game of Thrones minus the dragons)? Do they parallel Don Carlo in some way? Why do you think viewers are still drawn to these types of dramas?

Filippo, though tyrannical and misguided, is ultimately portrayed as a sad and lonely figure in the opera—thanks in large part to Verdi’s sympathetic music and also to the made-up love triangle between Filippo, his son, and his wife. Do you think Filippo’s desperate attempts to govern the lives of his family and his subjects are a response to his own feelings of helplessness? How do you think the other characters handle forces beyond their control (e.g., love, war, religious duty, honor, etc.)? Do you think anyone in the opera is more successful than Filippo at facing down these seemingly insurmountable challenges?

Take Action

As hinted above, the private actions in Don Carlo often have public consequences. Toward the end of the opera, Rodrigo, whose personal loyalties to the king and to Carlo are severely tested, ultimately chooses a path he feels will do the most good for the most people. In his beautiful final aria, he considers the type of legacy he wants to leave behind and asks that Carlo never forget him and never abandon the Flemish people. “Non ti scordar’” (“Do not forget”), he sings.

Take some time to think about how your own personal actions can affect public discourse or change. Research a group of people facing adversity like those in the Flemish territories mentioned in the opera (this could be a group you consider yourself a part of and/or strongly identify with, or it could also be a community you simply wish to help). Next, come up with a plan to spread the word and jumpstart a campaign to make a positive difference. Concerned for the people devastated by recent hurricanes, fires, and other natural disasters? Organize an afterschool meeting to educate your fellow students and to brainstorm fundraising ideas. Want to throw your support behind victims of abuse in a foreign nation? Set up a crowdsourced relief fund and ask family and friends to donate.

Want a wider audience for your social justice campaign? Use social media platforms like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or tumblr to get people talking about your cause and to post news and pictures of outreach events. If you decide to post, let us know by using the hashtag #donotforget.

Explore More

Go even deeper with the Don Carlo Extras.

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Major support for WNO is provided by Jacqueline Badger Mars.

David M. Rubenstein is the Presenting Underwriter of WNO.

WNO acknowledges the longstanding generosity of Life Chairman Mrs. Eugene B. Casey.

WNO's Presenting Sponsor

Don Carlo is a production of the Clarice Smith Opera Series.

Additional support for Don Carlo is provided by The Dallas Morse Coors Foundation for the Performing Arts.

The Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program is made possible through the generous support of The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation, with additional funding provided by Judy and Billy Cox, Robert and Lynn Downing, Carl M. Freeman Foundation, Virginia McGehee Friend, Susan Carmel Lehrman, John & Mary Lee Malcolm, Michael F. and Noémi K. Neidorff and The Centene Charitable Foundation, Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey P. Pohanka, Dr. Arthur and Mrs. Robin Sagoskin, Mr. Alan J. Savada and Mr. Will Stevenson, Dr. and Mrs. Guillermo Schultz, Mr. and Mrs. Michael R. Sonnenreich, Washington National Opera Council, and The Women’s Committee of Washington National Opera.

This performance is made possible by the Kimsey Endowment; The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation and the U.S. Department of Education.

Major support for educational programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by David M. Rubenstein through the Rubenstein Arts Access Program.

Kennedy Center education and related artistic programming is made possible through the generosity of the National Committee for the Performing Arts and the President's Advisory Committee on the Arts.

#opera #doncarloat2700F

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thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog · 7 years

Text

LAW # 7 : GET OTHERS TO DO THE WORK FOR YOU, BUT ALWAYS TAKE THE CREDIT

JUDGEMENT

Use the wisdom, knowledge, and legwork of other people to further your own cause. Not only will such assistance save you valuable time and energy, it will give you a godlike aura of efficiency and speed. In the end your helpers will be forgotten and you will be remembered. Never do yourself what others can do for you.

TRANSGRESSION AND OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

In 1883 a young Serbian scientist named Nikola Tesla was working for the European division of the Continental Edison Company. He was a brilliant inventor, and Charles Batchelor, a plant manager and a personal friend of Thomas Edison, persuaded him he should seek his fortune in America, giving him a letter of introduction to Edison himself. So began a life of woe and tribulation that lasted until Tesla’s death.

THE TORTOISE, THE ELEPHANT AND THE HIPPOPOTAMUS

One day the tortoise met the elephant, who trumpeted, “Out of my way, you weakling—I might step on you!” The tortoise was not afraid and stayed where he was, so the elephant stepped on him, but could not crush him. “Do not boast, Mr. Elephant, I am as strong as you are!” said the tortoise, but the elephant just laughed. So the tortoise asked him to come to his hill the next morning. The next day, before sunrise, the tortoise ran down the hill to the river, where he met the hippopotamus, who was just on his way back into the water after his nocturnal feeding. “Mr Hippo! Shall we have a tug-of-war? I bet I’m as strong as you are!” said the tortoise. The hippopotamus laughed at this ridiculous idea, but agreed. The tortoise produced a long rope and told the hippo to hold it in his mouth until the tortoise shouted “Hey!” Then the tortoise ran back up the hill where he found the elephant, who was getting impatient. He gave the elephant the other end of the rope and said, “When I say ‘Hey!’ pull, and you’ll.see which of us is the strongest. ”Then he ran halfway back down the hill, to a place where he couldn’t be seen, and shouted, “Hey!” The elephant and the hippopotamus pulled and pulled, but neither could budge the other-they were of equal strength. They both agreed that the tortoise was as strong as they were. Never do what others can do for you. The tortoise let others do the work for him while he got the credit.

ZAIREAN FABLE

When Tesla met Edison in New York, the famous inventor hired him on the spot. Tesla worked eighteen-hour days, finding ways to improve the primitive Edison dynamos. Finally he offered to redesign them completely. To Edison this seemed a monumental task that could last years without paying off, but he told Tesla, “There’s fifty thousand dollars in it for you—if you can do it.” Tesla labored day and night on the project and after only a year he produced a greatly improved version of the dynamo, complete with automatic controls. He went to Edison to break the good news and receive his $50,000. Edison was pleased with the improvement, for which he and his company would take credit, but when it came to the issue of the money he told the young Serb, “Tesla, you don’t understand our American humor!,” and offered a small raise instead.

Tesla’s obsession was to create an alternating-current system (AC) of electricity. Edison believed in the direct-current system (DC), and not only refused to support Tesla’s research but later did all he could to sabotage him. Tesla turned to the great Pittsburgh magnate George Westinghouse, who had started his own electricity company. Westinghouse completely funded Tesla’s research and offered him a generous royalty agreement on future profits. The AC system Tesla developed is still the standard today—but after patents were filed in his name, other scientists came forward to take credit for the invention, claiming that they had laid the groundwork for him. His name was lost in the shuffle, and the public came to associate the invention with Westinghouse himself.

A year later, Westinghouse was caught in a takeover bid from J. Pierpont Morgan, who made him rescind the generous royalty contract he had signed with Tesla. Westinghouse explained to the scientist that his company would not survive if it had to pay him his full royalties; he persuaded Tesla to accept a buyout of his patents for $216,000—a large sum, no doubt, but far less than the $12 million they were worth at the time. The financiers had divested Tesla of the riches, the patents, and essentially the credit for the greatest invention of his career.

The name of Guglielmo Marconi is forever linked with the invention of radio. But few know that in producing his invention—he broadcast a signal across the English Channel in 1899—Marconi made use of a patent Tesla had filed in 1897, and that his work depended on Tesla’s research. Once again Tesla received no money and no credit. Tesla invented an induction motor as well as the AC power system, and he is the real “father of radio.” Yet none of these discoveries bear his name. As an old man, he lived in poverty.

In 1917, during his later impoverished years, Tesla was told he was to receive the Edison Medal of the American Institute of Electrical Engineers. He turned the medal down. “You propose,” he said, “to honor me with a medal which I could pin upon my coat and strut for a vain hour before the members of your Institute. You would decorate my body and continue to let starve, for failure to supply recognition, my mind and its creative products, which have supplied the foundation upon which the major portion of your Institute exists.”

Interpretation

Many harbor the illusion that science, dealing with facts as it does, is beyond the petty rivalries that trouble the rest of the world. Nikola Tesla was one of those. He believed science had nothing to do with politics, and claimed not to care for fame and riches. As he grew older, though, this ruined his scientific work. Not associated with any particular discovery, he could attract no investors to his many ideas. While he pondered great inventions for the future, others stole the patents he had already developed and got the glory for themselves.

He wanted to do everything on his own, but merely exhausted and impoverished himself in the process.

Edison was Tesla’s polar opposite. He wasn’t actually much of a scientific thinker or inventor; he once said that he had no need to be a mathematician because he could always hire one. That was Edison’s main method. He was really a businessman and publicist, spotting the trends and the opportunities that were out there, then hiring the best in the field to do the work for him. If he had to he would steal from his competitors. Yet his name is much better known than Tesla’s, and is associated with more inventions.

To be sure, if the hunter relies on the security of the carriage, utilizes the legs of the six horses, and makes Wang Liang hold their reins, then he will not tire himself and will find it easy to overtake swift animals. Now supposing he discarded the advantage of the carriage, gave up the useful legs of the horses and the skill of Wang Liang, and alighted to run after the animals, then even though his legs were as quick as Lou Chi’s, he would not be in time to overtake the animals. In fact, if good horses and strong carriages are taken into use, then mere bond-men and bondwomen will be good enough to catch the animals.

HAN-FEI-TZU, CHINESE PHILOSOPHER, THIRD CENTURY B.C.

The lesson is twofold: First, the credit for an invention or creation is as important, if not more important, than the invention itself. You must secure the credit for yourself and keep others from stealing it away, or from piggy-backing on your hard work. To accomplish this you must always be vigilant and ruthless, keeping your creation quiet until you can be sure there are no vultures circling overhead. Second, learn to take advantage of other people’s work to further your own cause. Time is precious and life is short. If you try to do it all on your own, you run yourself ragged, waste energy, and burn yourself out. It is far better to conserve your forces, pounce on the work others have done, and find a way to make it your own.

Everybody steals in commerce and industry. I’ve stolen a lot myself. But I know how to steal. Thomas Edison, 1847-1931

KEYS TO POWER

The world of power has the dynamics of the jungle: There are those who live by hunting and killing, and there are also vast numbers of creatures (hyenas, vultures) who live off the hunting of others. These latter, less imaginative types are often incapable of doing the work that is essential for the creation of power. They understand early on, though, that if they wait long enough, they can always find another animal to do the work for them. Do not be naive: At this very moment, while you are slaving away on some project, there are vultures circling above trying to figure out a way to survive and even thrive off your creativity. It is useless to complain about this, or to wear yourself ragged with bitterness, as Tesla did. Better to protect yourself and join the game. Once you have established a power base, become a vulture yourself, and save yourself a lot of time and energy.

A hen who had lost her sight, and was accustomed to scratching up the earth in search of food, although blind, still continued to scratch away most diligently. Of what use was it to the industrious fool? Another sharp-sighted hen who spared her tender feet never moved from her side, and enjoyed, without scratching, the fruit of the other’s labor. For as often as the blind hen scratched up a barley-corn, her watchful companion devoured it.

FABLES, GOITCHOLD LESSING, 1729-1781

Of the two poles of this game, one can be illustrated by the example of the explorer Vasco Núñez de Balboa. Balboa had an obsession—the discovery of El Dorado, a legendary city of vast riches.

Early in the sixteenth century, after countless hardships and brushes with death, he found evidence of a great and wealthy empire to the south of Mexico, in present-day Peru. By conquering this empire, the Incan, and seizing its gold, he would make himself the next Cortés. The problem was that even as he made this discovery, word of it spread among hundreds of other conquistadors. He did not understand that half the game was keeping it quiet, and carefully watching those around him. A few years after he discovered the location of the Incan empire, a soldier in his own army, Francisco Pizarro, helped to get him beheaded for treason. Pizarro went on to take what Balboa had spent so many years trying to find.

The other pole is that of the artist Peter Paul Rubens, who, late in his career, found himself deluged with requests for paintings. He created a system: In his large studio he employed dozens of outstanding painters, one specializing in robes, another in backgrounds, and so on. He created a vast production line in which a large number of canvases would be worked on at the same time. When an important client visited the studio, Rubens would shoo his hired painters out for the day. While the client watched from a balcony, Rubens would work at an incredible pace, with unbelievable energy. The client would leave in awe of this prodigious man, who could paint so many masterpieces in so short a time.

This is the essence of the Law: Learn to get others to do the work for you while you take the credit, and you appear to be of godlike strength and power. If you think it important to do all the work yourself, you will never get far, and you will suffer the fate of the Balboas and Teslas of the world. Find people with the skills and creativity you lack. Either hire them, while putting your own name on top of theirs, or find a way to take their work and make it your own. Their creativity thus becomes yours, and you seem a genius to the world.

There is another application of this law that does not require the parasitic use of your contemporaries’ labor: Use the past, a vast storehouse of knowledge and wisdom. Isaac Newton called this “standing on the shoulders of giants.” He meant that in making his discoveries he had built on the achievements of others. A great part of his aura of genius, he knew, was attributable to his shrewd ability to make the most of the insights of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance scientists. Shakespeare borrowed plots, characterizations, and even dialogue from Plutarch, among other writers, for he knew that nobody surpassed Plutarch in the writing of subtle psychology and witty quotes. How many later writers have in their turn borrowed from—plagiarized—Shakespeare ?

We all know how few of today’s politicians write their own speeches. Their own words would not win them a single vote; their eloquence and wit, whatever there is of it, they owe to a speech writer. Other people do the work, they take the credit. The upside of this is that it is a kind of power that is available to everyone. Learn to use the knowledge of the past and you will look like a genius, even when you are really just a clever borrower.

Writers who have delved into human nature, ancient masters of strategy, historians of human stupidity and folly, kings and queens who have learned the hard way how to handle the burdens of power—their knowledge is gathering dust, waiting for you to come and stand on their shoulders. Their wit can be your wit, their skill can be your skill, and they will never come around to tell people how unoriginal you really are. You can slog through life, making endless mistakes, wasting time and energy trying to do things from your own experience. Or you can use the armies of the past. As Bismarck once said, “Fools say that they learn by experience. I prefer to profit by others’ experience.”

Image: The Vulture. Of all the creatures in the jungle, he has it the easiest. The hard work of others becomes his work; their failure to survive becomes his nourishment. Keep an eye on the Vulture—while you are hard at work, he is cir cling above. Do not fight him, join him.

Authority: There is much to be known, life is short, and life is not life without knowledge. It is therefore an excellent device to acquire knowledge from everybody. Thus, by the sweat of another’s brow, you win the reputation of being an oracle. (Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

There are times when taking the credit for work that others have done is not the wise course: If your power is not firmly enough established, you will seem to be pushing people out of the limelight. To be a brilliant ex ploiter of talent your position must be unshakeable, or you will be accused of deception.

Be sure you know when letting other people share the credit serves your purpose. It is especially important to not be greedy when you have a master above you. President Richard Nixon’s historic visit to the People’s Republic of China was originally his idea, but it might never have come off but for the deft diplomacy of Henry Kissinger. Nor would it have been as successful without Kissinger’s skills. Still, when the time came to take credit, Kissinger adroitly let Nixon take the lion’s share. Knowing that the truth would come out later, he was careful not to jeopardize his standing in the short term by hogging the limelight. Kissinger played the game expertly: He took credit for the work of those below him while graciously giving credit for his own labors to those above. That is the way to play the game.

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