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cto10121 · 3 years

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How old are Romeo and Paris, again?: On R&J’s Age Problem

So I was flipping through my Burton Raffel edition and came across this in an otherwise good Introduction:

Count Paris appears to be younger than Romeo, and to my knowledge, no one has ever suggested that his unreciprocated but apparently genuine love for Juliet is in any way immature.

My first gut reaction was to laugh, because of course Paris is not younger than Romeo!!!! He is the parents’ choice, he’s a count, he represents the conventional and socially respectable side of courtship, etc., so naturally he would be played by an older man!!!! Pretty much all productions agree on that…I mean, granted, he does get the “young” epithet as in Lady Capulet’s “young Paris” and “the gallant, young, and noble gentleman” a bit, but y’know, you figure young like 30 is still young, around LC’s age, in fact…and yes, Romeo does call him a “good gentle youth” and then “boy,” when he finally snaps and kills him…but that’s just Romeo being 200% done with Paris’ bullshit so he verbally hits where it hurts…right?

Right?

Okay. So we have to think about the question of ages some more, because this gets really tricky.

So Romeo’s age is not specified, despite the best efforts at the antis for their “problematic!!1!” spiel, nor are the ages of the other characters save Juliet and perhaps Lady Capulet, who did say that she did have Juliet around her age, which would make her 28 (Capulet reads as much older re: his conversation with his relative at the ball). In his first appearance Paris does present himself as eager to press his courtship of Juliet and when Capulet asks him if Thursday was a good day for his and Juliet’s wedding, and he answers with almost cute boyish eagerness: “My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow” (3.4.30). But Paris is also pretty self-possessed; no outbursts or overly strong emotion from him even in his sad lamenting of Juliet’s death. He takes his marriage to Juliet for granted even though he never properly wooed her. His high rank, approval from both Capulets, the Nurse calling him a “man of wax,” and saying “Romeo is a dishclout” compared to him, does point to his being a mature adult, at least twenty-five and up.

As for Romeo, while I still absolutely die at that awful tweet about R&J being a story about a thirteen-year-old and “a man of undeterminable age” (gag)…I’m not going to lie and say that calling him a man is too far-fetched. It is true that R&J do at times read older, and my ten-year-old self even kind of just took them as more mature than they were even though I knew Juliet was thirteen and Romeo couldn’t be more than a couple of years older at the most. Looking back, I think this was because I took them more seriously than the adults of the play, who were portrayed satirically and just…so dumb.

Then there is also the fact that R&J’s love arguably deepens and matures as the play goes along, their love language including the language of commitment, even material language—imagine a teen couple who call each other the modern equivalent of “wife” and “husband” even before they are actually married and calling their sexy times as buying “a mansion of a love.” -.- It really becomes thorny.

So is Romeo older than Paris? I guess I’m too stuck on the French musical canon of Paris being thirty, but it does feel right. Most productions have Romeo at 17 and the musical has him just under 20. Both are fine, though 20 feels a little more “right” somehow. My feeling is that as the play goes along and as circumstances narrow into inevitable tragedy that Shakespeare becomes less concerned about specific ages and more about the universal condition of being in romantic love, which applies at most any age. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just plain forgot that he made Juliet thirteen at some point; that feels more like a point made For the Social Commentary(tm) anyway. It would explain why Romeo feels free to call Paris a “boy” and why that hits so damn hard. I think something similar happened with Hamlet and the still-extant question of Hamlet’s age (Hamlet and Romeo are also the only Shakespearean characters to have been played almost exclusively by women in the Victorian era, which is *sips Coke can* quite interesting).

(On a related note, I think this is also why R&J modern retellings are so difficult to do well (including mine, o heavy burden) and why most of them opt for the metaphor of gang warfare, even if that necessarily elides commentary on wider society and culture. The teens in R&J in some key ways have a lot more freedom than the teens now, at least the men—not that they are not subject to their parents’ censure, but they are allowed to roam the streets, they are armed, even the servants, the Friar himself thinks Romeo is out getting laid, and by all accounts are treated as adult men in the dispensation of justice. Juliet is still under her parents’ thumb, but she is no ignoramus; her mother may be nervous just even talking about marriage, but her nurse has no compulsion to censure her bawdy anecdotes about falling backwards. The modern public education system, as well as the strengthening of legal protections and rights to minors, the banning of child labor and child soldiers, did elongate childhood considerably. We have 30-year-olds who rewatch childhood cartoons and Marvel movies; 13-year-old Juliet talks about wanting to orgasm on her wedding night and buying love mansions. No wonder modern audience get into such a tizzy over ages, stupid antis get away with calling Romeo a pedophile, and people get so shocked at discovering, yet again, Juliet’s canonical age).

#romeo and juliet #shakespeare #cristina metas #i’m in such a meta mood #shakespeare meta #also i’m thinking of my own fantasy retelling and how difficult it was to translate it to even a fantastical modern setting #rj meta #r&j meta

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lunasong365 · 4 years

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February 17 - Ted Hughes

(cw: difficult animal birth)

A lamb could not get born. Ice wind Out of a downpour dishclout sunrise. The mother Lay on the mudded slope. Harried, she got up And the blackish lump bobbed at her back-end Under her tail. After some hard galloping, Some manoeuvring, much flapping of the backward Lump head of the lamb looking out, I caught her with a rope. Laid her, head uphill And examined the lamb. A blood-ball swollen Tight in its black felt, its mouth gap Squashed crooked, tongue stuck out, black-purple, Strangled by its mother. I felt inside, Past the noose of mother-flesh, into the slippery Muscled tunnel, fingering for a hoof, Right back to the port-hole of the pelvis. But there was no hoof. He had stuck his head out too early And his feet could not follow. He should have Felt his way, tip-toe, his toes Tucked up under his nose For a safe landing. So I kneeled wrestling With her groans. No hand could squeeze past The lamb’s neck into her interior To hook a knee. I roped that baby head And hauled till she cried out and tried To get up and I saw it was useless. I went Two miles for the injection and a razor. Sliced the lamb’s throat-strings, levered with a knife Between the vertebrae and brought the head off To stare at its mother, its pipes sitting in the mud With all earth for a body. Then pushed The neck-stump right back in, and as I pushed She pushed. She pushed crying and I pushed gasping, And the strength Of the birth push and the push of my thumb Against that wobbly vertebra were deadlock, A to-fro futility. Till I forced A hand past and got a knee. Then like Pulling myself to the ceiling with one finger Hooked in a loop, timing my effort To her birth push groans, I pulled against The corpse that would not come. Till it came. And after it the long, sudden, yolk-yellow Parcel of life In a smoking slather of oils and soups and syrups— And the body lay born, beside a hacked-off head.

#poetry #ted hughes #lambing #lambing season #sad

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tixnabusine · 3 years

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poem-today · 6 years

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A poem by Ted Hughes

February 17th

Ted Hughes

1930-1998

Ted Hughes discusses and reads the poem on YouTube here.

An interesting essay on the poem is available here.

#ted hughes #english poetry #lambing

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olaweisenberger · 5 years

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sissy-phus · 7 years

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Ted Hughes: February 17th

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refreshview · 4 years

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sdfghj548 · 5 years

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cto10121 · 3 years

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Why Does the Nurse Prefer Paris to Romeo?

After she returns from meeting Romeo, and Juliet desperately asks her what he said about their marriage, the Nurse goes into this humorous but very telling speech:

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice. You know not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench. Serve God.

I find this fascinating.

Notice how the Nurse doesn’t really say why Romeo is the dumb choice, or what her problem with him is, but goes into another one of her comic desultory ramblings, this time on Romeo’s hotness that seems to undermine her assertion. The only true criticism or justification she offers is merely that “He is not the flower of courtesy,” and even that is mitigated by a compliment to Romeo’s character (“as gentle as a lamb”). While this is obvious foreshadowing for the Nurse’s betrayal of Juliet and her “Romeo is a dishclout to [Paris]” line, she never offers a good explanation as to why she thinks Romeo isn’t good enough for Juliet, and that she could do better. By contrast, she praises Paris and tells Juliet no less than three times in that same speech that he is better than Romeo.

It’s particularly noteworthy since in the Act 2, Scene 4 scene when they meet, it’s clear that the Nurse likes Romeo. She laughs at and appreciates his roasting Mercutio (“Marry, well said!”). Despite the fact that he is clearly friends with Mercutio et al. who mock her shamelessly, she is unfailingly polite (“Pray you, sir, a word”) and nice, as if she considers him different from the rest. Her warning to him not to toy with Juliet’s feelings is clearly a pre-made speech she would have given anyway. She feels comfortable enough to go on her ramblings—even telling him about Paris and how Juliet hates him and how she ~mysteriously blanches when she tells her Paris is better! So what’s with the sudden Team Paris stuff?

Well, I have my theories, and they may even shed some light not only as to the purpose of this little speech, but what it reveals about the Nurse’s character and her role, ultimately, as Juliet’s foil, in similar ways Mercutio acts as Romeo’s. So let’s speculate.

Theory 1: The Nurse Thinks Romeo Is Too Callow/Immature

While the Nurse clearly doesn’t hold the mockery of hi Romeo’s wily friends against him, she still caught Romeo in his male camaraderie and may have concluded that Romeo, while better than those “scurvy knaves,” is still a callow youth, wet behind the ears. That would explain the use of “simple” (meaning dumb) instead of just “wrong.” She is shocked that he was capable of killing Tybalt (although to her view she would have assumed it had been in cold blood). She isn’t all surprised to see him weeping disconsolately on the floor of the Friar’s cell (although that is because Juliet is doing the exact same thing, and she says so). She also—tellingly—tells him to stand up and “be a man,” so she obviously has bought into the cultural notion of masculinity that does not allow the free expression of excessive emotion from men. Paris is much more self-possessed and composed, even while he’s mourning Juliet, and older besides; that may be enough to prefer him for Juliet, especially if the Nurse thinks a mature man can help Juliet adjust through the trials of marriage and motherhood better.

Against this, however, is the Nurse’s description of Romeo as a dishclout (dishrag) to Paris’ “eagle.” If Romeo’s supposed immaturity was her main objection to him, then she would have said a baby eagle or some equivalent animal or object associated with youth—small, weak, and mewling. Also, Juliet may be smart, but she is still 13. The Nurse no doubt lowkey sees her as still a little girl herself, one she personally raised, so thinking Romeo is too immature for her makes little sense. They both behave in similar ways. Romeo also consistently reads older by at least 3-4 years and his behavior in his play does not mark him as any less mature than his friends or Tybalt—or, frankly, most of the adults in this play.

Theory 2: The Nurse Prefers Paris Because He Is of a Higher Social Rank/Wealthier Than Romeo

Paris is kinsman to the Prince, and Romeo is the heir of Montague; it’s a no-brainer which one has the higher rank. Paris also reads as an older man, though he too dies with the rest of the youths of the play (there is some ambiguity definitely re: his age). The Nurse seems to have some materialistic leanings, as when she rather gleefully tells Romeo at the Capulet ball: “I tell you, he that can lay a hold of her / Shall have the chinks” and social climbing tendencies as when she gives herself airs in front of Mercutio et al. and tells Peter to hand over her fan. She makes only a token resistance to Romeo’s coin offer and accepts it immediately at his mild insistence. There are definite classist vibes in her “Romeo’s a dishclout compared to [Paris]” line. A rag is a low, plain/ugly, used, faded, common item; an eagle is a noble animal that soars the skies. It may emphasize the Nurse’s belief that Romeo is dime-a-dozen in terms of youths go, and that Paris is “rare.”

Against this, however, is the fact that the Nurse doesn’t bring up materialistic or mercenary considerations in her marry-Paris speech even though it would have been apropos. Also, the social difference between Romeo and Paris is probably not even significant; Romeo was able to be friends with Mercutio, also PE’s kinsman, with no trouble, after all. Romeo is the heir of Montague, a family of the same social class with Juliet’s; while the family’s fortunes would not drastically improve, there would be no social shame in a match, and in fact the Friar counts on it in his plans. Paris would be a much nicer match, of course, but not one to overthrow all consideration of Juliet’s feelings. If the Nurse did have class considerations, they must have been unconscious ones. This is an English play, after all, by an English writer writing a lower class character; class is never far behind.

Theory 3: The Nurse Thinks Paris Is Hotter Than Romeo (and Hotter=Better)

The first half at least is definitely canon. The Nurse consistently raises up the question of Romeo’s hotness vis-à-vis Paris. On one side, Paris is consistently her favorite, the one that “excels” Romeo, the one she has stated more than once that she prefers. “An eagle” doesn’t have “so fair an eye” as Paris, and Romeo’s the “dishclout.” Paris is the flower of Verona, Paris is a man of wax, etc. The very first thing she says after telling Juliet that she thinks it’s best to marry Paris is that he is a “lovely gentleman” (although that could also easily refer to his personality).

On the other hand, the Nurse explicitly says that Romeo’s face “be better than any man’s.” (Even better than Paris’? ~Surely not). It is the Nurse, not Juliet, who lewdly blazons Romeo’s body parts; Juliet, even at her most horny in “Gallop apace,” never talks about Romeo in this way. It’s as if the Nurse views the Romeo-Juliet-Paris drama as a YA novel and she is the fangirl resolutely on #TeamParis, writing steadily long meta rants on Tumblr about how Paris is the sophisticated/more mature/nicer option and Romeo is the mediocre/basic/nice guy—all the while writing R/J fanfic because hey, Romeo is super hot too.

Considering the Nurse’s obsession with these men’s looks and physical beauty, she would prefer the one who is most handsome for Juliet or who she thinks is the most handsome. How she eventually did settle firmly on the Team Paris camp is uncertain, since a furious Juliet rages on how she hypocritically trashed Romeo even when she had “praised him with above compare / So many thousand times?” Juliet may have been exaggerating the number in her hurt and betrayal, but we literally do see the Nurse liking Romeo physically—explicitly so in ways she doesn’t do with Paris—and personally. Perhaps her likening Romeo to a dishclout compared to Paris was an exaggerated, blunt way to persuade Juliet to drop him. Conversely, she could have just been humoring Juliet when she praised Romeo “with above compare,” just as she might have been hastily placating Juliet when, in her marry-Paris speech, she says, “O he [Paris] is a lovely gentleman!”

In any case, the Nurse’s valuing physical beauty shows her shallowness, which is part-and-parcel to her role as Juliet’s foil. Notice how Juliet doesn’t go into detail as to Romeo’s appearance and neither does Romeo for Juliet. This is partially logistical, as Shakespeare, being trained for the theater, learned to avoid specifying character appearance. But the absence also indicates that R&J’s love are not based on trivial details such as hair or eye color, much less body type. They obviously find each other physically attractive, but it’s more what they mean to each other. The Nurse doesn’t understand that, and Juliet’s irritation and impatience when she goes on a tangent on Romeo’s excelling leg: “But all of this I have known before.” Yes, my Romeo is hot and the sky is blue, can we move on?

Which Theory?

Barring more information from the text, I feel Theory 3 is the most supported and the most likely, although 1 and 2 have their strong points. A little bit of all three wouldn’t be out of the question. The main problem is that the Nurse doesn’t bring up potential valid objections, like Romeo’s killing Tybalt (!!), which Presgurvic’s RetJ did, only the logistical difficulty of Romeo being in Mantua and Juliet in Verona “and [her] no use of him” in the sense that Juliet can’t enjoy Romeo sexually. The emotional callousness the Nurse displays here is part-and-parcel with the Capulets’ overall emotional callousness and shallowness, especially towards Tybalt’s death (see Capulet’s “Well, we are all born to die”—compare that to Romeo’s genuinely regretful, “Forgive me, cousin” speech to Tybalt’s tomb).

In that sense the Nurse’s emotional shallowness is obviously meant to contrast with Juliet’s love and commitment to Romeo and even her lewd praise of him contrast with Juliet’s rapturous praise.

In sum: While the Nurse is much more supportive of R&J than the Friar, she prefers Paris and not only doesn’t hesitate to tell Juliet of it, it also informs her advising Juliet to marry Paris. This creates a bit of a mystery since she never goes into any explanation as to why she prefers Paris or even why Romeo would make a poor choice. Most likely she is just playing YA love triangle games and going back and forth as to which one is hotter/which one Juliet should date (the verdict? Team Paris).

(P.S. Another, slightly nerdy addition—on the Nurse’s “He is not the flower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as a gentle as a lamb.” Gentle in Shakespeare is almost always used in the sense of being well-regarded, honorable, virtuous, or simply having the qualities of a gentleman. The Nurse’s use of it to mean “soft or sweet” is the first time I’ve seen Shakespeare employ the word in the modern sense. To make absolutely sure, I checked David and Ben Crystal’s Shakespeare’s Words: A Glossary and Language Companion, and sure enough there was no definition close to “soft/kind/sweet” under the gentle entries (noun, verb, adjective). It could be that this was a small oversight and the dictionary has been updated since then, but the entries looked comprehensive enough. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Shakespeare employed a word in what we would recognize as its modern sense. (Any Shakespearean nut remembers any other time Shakespeare uses gentle in the modern sense? Hit me up if you find anything.)

Anyway, my personal headcanon is that the modern sense of the word could have been extant, if not widely used, a sort of slang that a lower-class character like the Nurse, when she is not putting on airs, would employ. If so, perhaps Shakespeare could have intended a small malapropism (the Nurse commits many of them) his mainstream audience would find amusing. Because of course, if Romeo were gentle, lamblike or not, then he would de facto be courteous—a key part of gentility is courtesy! So it would seem, to Elizabethan audiences, that the Nurse, in employing some peasant slang, accidentally employs a ridiculous contradiction. Cue laughter—oh that Nurse!

As for “gentle as a lamb”…Romeo is indeed lovely and sweet to Juliet and even his Mercutio roasts are more fond than cutting, but while he is patient and considerate with the Nurse—he insists on giving her some coin for her trouble—he reads mostly bemused by her. Not so much “gentle” in the modern sense of the word. But the Nurse herself is not very observant nor very emotionally perceptive, so it lends a little more credence to Theory 1 in that she thinks of Romeo as just a kid, nothing more.)

#romeo and juliet #rj meta #r&j meta #cristina metas #i just can’t help thinking about juliet listening to her nurse thirsting after romeo #only for the nurse to say she should marry paris and that paris is better #the top ten anime betrayals for sure

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nevedimkaua · 7 years

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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"Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart .... Is it possible, is it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself? Evidently habit does wonders! God knows what habit can do with anyone. Can you seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be goodlooking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here .... Though let me tell you this about it - about your present life, I mean; here though you are young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you! One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else, living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you, let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your wishes, but you mine. The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman, but he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have no right to dispose of! You give your love to be outraged by every drunkard! Love! But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love - why, a man would be ready to give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no need to strive for love when you can have everything without love. And you know there is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you understand? To be sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools, they let you have lovers of your own here. But you know that's simply a farce, that's simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are taken in by it! Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did! Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with him? He laughs at you and robs you - that is all his love amounts to! You are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too. Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow - though maybe he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself. And for what have you ruined your life, if you come to think of it? For the coffee they give you to drink and the plentiful meals? But with what object are they feeding you up? An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know what she was being fed for. You are in debt here, and, of course, you will always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the visitors here begin to scorn you. And that will soon happen, don't rely upon your youth - all that flies by express train here, you know. You will be kicked out. And not simply kicked out; long before that she'll begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you had not sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth and your soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her, beggared her, robbed her. And don't expect anyone to take your part: the others, your companions, will attack you, too, win her favour, for all are in slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome, and more insulting than their abuse. And you are laying down everything here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that! No doubt you are thinking now that you have a gay time and no work to do! Yet there is no work harder or more dreadful in the world or ever has been. One would think that the heart alone would be worn out with tears. And you won't dare to say a word, not half a word when they drive you away from here; you will go away as though you were to blame. You will change to another house, then to a third, then somewhere else, till you come down at last to the Haymarket. There you will be beaten at every turn; that is good manners there, the visitors don't know how to be friendly without beating you. You don't believe that it is so hateful there? Go and look for yourself some time, you can see with your own eyes. Once, one New Year's Day, I saw a woman at a door. They had turned her out as a joke, to give her a taste of the frost because she had been crying so much, and they shut the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she was already quite drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises, her face was powdered, but she had a black-eye, blood was trickling from her nose and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing. She was sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her hand; she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with the fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in the doorway taunting her. You don't believe that you will ever be like that? I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness was in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love. Do you see how it ended? And what if at that very minute when she was beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and dishevelled - what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they were grown up! No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to die soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman just now. In the hospital, do you say? You will be lucky if they take you, but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is a queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till the last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself And that just suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold your soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word. But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you, for then there will be nothing to get from you. What's more, they will reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over dying. However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse: 'Whenever are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep with your moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.' That's true, I have heard such things said myself. They will thrust you dying into the filthiest corner in the cellar - in the damp and darkness; what will your thoughts be, lying there alone? When you die, strange hands will lay you out, with grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no one will sigh for you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may be; they will buy a coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor woman today, and celebrate your memory at the tavern. In the grave, sleet, filth, wet snow-no need to put themselves out for you - 'Let her down, Vanuha; it's just like her luck - even here, she is head-foremost, the hussy. Shorten the cord, you rascal.' 'It's all right as it is.' 'All right, is it? Why, she's on her side! She was a fellow-creature, after all! But, never mind, throw the earth on her.' And they won't care to waste much time quarrelling over you. They will scatter the wet blue clay as quick as they can and go off to the tavern ... and there your memory on earth will end; other women have children to go to their graves, fathers, husbands. While for you neither tear, nor sigh, nor remembrance; no one in the whole world will ever come to you, your name will vanish from the face of the earth - as though you had never existed, never been born at all! Nothing but filth and mud, however you knock at your coffin lid at night, when the dead arise, however you cry: 'Let me out, kind people, to live in the light of day! My life was no life at all; my life has been thrown away like a dishclout; it was drunk away in the tavern at the Haymarket; let me out, kind people, to live in the world again.'" And I worked myself up to such a pitch that I began to have a lump in my throat myself, and ... and all at once I stopped, sat up in dismay and, bending over apprehensively, began to listen with a beating heart. I had reason to be troubled. I had felt for some time that I was turning her soul upside down and rending her heart, and - and the more I was convinced of it, the more eagerly I desired to gain my object as quickly and as effectually as possible. It was the exercise of my skill that carried me away; yet it was not merely sport .... I knew I was speaking stiffly, artificially, even bookishly, in fact, I could not speak except "like a book." But that did not trouble me: I knew, I felt that I should be understood and that this very bookishness might be an assistance. But now, having attained my effect, I was suddenly panic-stricken. Never before had I witnessed such despair! She was lying on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and clutching it in both hands. Her heart was being torn. Her youthful body was shuddering all over as though in convulsions. Suppressed sobs rent her bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she pressed closer into the pillow: she did not want anyone here, not a living soul, to know of her anguish and her tears. She bit the pillow, bit her hand till it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her fingers into her dishevelled hair, seemed rigid with the effort of restraint, holding her breath and clenching her teeth. I began saying something, begging her to calm herself, but felt that I did not dare; and all at once, in a sort of cold shiver, almost in terror, began fumbling in the dark, trying hurriedly to get dressed to go. It was dark; though I tried my best I could not finish dressing quickly. Suddenly I felt a box of matches and a candlestick with a whole candle in it. As soon as the room was lighted up, Liza sprang up, sat up in bed, and with a contorted face, with a half insane smile, looked at me almost senselessly. I sat down beside her and took her hands; she came to herself, made an impulsive movement towards me, would have caught hold of me, but did not dare, and slowly bowed her head before me. "Liza, my dear, I was wrong ... forgive me, my dear," I began, but she squeezed my hand in her fingers so tightly that I felt I was saying the wrong thing and stopped. "This is my address, Liza, come to me." "I will come," she answered resolutely, her head still bowed. "But now I am going, good-bye ... till we meet again." I got up; she, too, stood up and suddenly flushed all over, gave a shudder, snatched up a shawl that was lying on a chair and muffled herself in it to her chin. As she did this she gave another sickly smile, blushed and looked at me strangely. I felt wretched; I was in haste to get away - to disappear. "Wait a minute," she said suddenly, in the passage just at the doorway, stopping me with her hand on my overcoat. She put down the candle in hot haste and ran off; evidently she had thought of something or wanted to show me something. As she ran away she flushed, her eyes shone, and there was a smile on her lips - what was the meaning of it? Against my will I waited: she came back a minute later with an expression that seemed to ask forgiveness for something. In fact, it was not the same face, not the same look as the evening before: sullen, mistrustful and obstinate. Her eyes now were imploring, soft, and at the same time trustful, caressing, timid. The expression with which children look at people they are very fond of, of whom they are asking a favour. Her eyes were a light hazel, they were lovely eyes, full of life, and capable of expressing love as well as sullen hatred. Making no explanation, as though I, as a sort of higher being, must understand everything without explanations, she held out a piece of paper to me. Her whole face was positively beaming at that instant with naive, almost childish, triumph. I unfolded it. It was a letter to her from a medical student or someone of that sort - a very high-flown and flowery, but extremely respectful, love-letter. I don't recall the words now, but I remember well that through the high-flown phrases there was apparent a genuine feeling, which cannot be feigned. When I had finished reading it I met her glowing, questioning, and childishly impatient eyes fixed upon me. She fastened her eyes upon my face and waited impatiently for what I should say. In a few words, hurriedly, but with a sort of joy and pride, she explained to me that she had been to a dance somewhere in a private house, a family of "very nice people, WHO KNEW NOTHING, absolutely nothing, for she had only come here so lately and it had all happened ... and she hadn't made up her mind to stay and was certainly going away as soon as she had paid her debt..." and at that party there had been the student who had danced with her all the evening. He had talked to her, and it turned out that he had known her in old days at Riga when he was a child, they had played together, but a very long time ago - and he knew her parents, but ABOUT THIS he knew nothing, nothing whatever, and had no suspicion! And the day after the dance (three days ago) he had sent her that letter through the friend with whom she had gone to the party ... and ... well, that was all." She dropped her shining eyes with a sort of bashfulness as she finished. The poor girl was keeping that student's letter as a precious treasure, and had run to fetch it, her only treasure, because she did not want me to go away without knowing that she, too, was honestly and genuinely loved; that she, too, was addressed respectfully. No doubt that letter was destined to lie in her box and lead to nothing. But none the less, I am certain that she would keep it all her life as a precious treasure, as her pride and justification, and now at such a minute she had thought of that letter and brought it with naive pride to raise herself in my eyes that I might see, that I, too, might think well of her. I said nothing, pressed her hand and went out. I so longed to get away ... I walked all the way home, in spite of the fact that the melting snow was still falling in heavy flakes. I was exhausted, shattered, in bewilderment. But behind the bewilderment the truth was already gleaming. The loathsome truth.

#NotesfromUnderground

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