Je T'aime. - Chapter 13: Chapter 13
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Sunday afternoons were always the calmest around the palace. Everyone was tired after a three-hour long royal Mass, and the taste of Christ's blood on everyone's lips meant there was little to no courtly drama. On Sunday afternoons I usually relaxed with my sisters, but on this day I went off on my own.
I was still wearing my church clothes as I silently strolled the palace. I liked my church-going dresses almost more than my court gowns or day dresses, second only to my riding habit. My favorite church dress, one of three, was made of dark green silk, decorated with eggshell-colored lace. Like all Catholic women, I wore a mantilla loosely over my hair of a matching lace. The mantilla was one of the few traditions that still lingered from the two centuries past when Spain ruled the world. But ever since the defeat of the Spanish Armada, Spain had faded into the background. The Dutch took over, then the French. But in modernity, one nation reigned supreme as the power of the world. My Hapsburg heart strained to say Austria, but that was wrong. The master of the world was Britannia. And we were at war with her.
Nevertheless, I still walked the halls of the palace of the Holy Roman Empress. I reached a door on the east side of the palace, located just behind the ballroom. This little door was rarely touched. The east side of the palace was more for court affairs than personal meddling, making this location awkwardly placed, but I loved it all the same. Especially on a Sunday afternoon, I knew I would be the only one to enjoy it.
I carefully opened the door and stepped inside the room. It was a library, the walls and furniture made of a shiny, dark cherry wood. A large landscape painting from Japan hung on the far wall. Underneath the diamond muntin window was a bust, much like that of Albert's Greek deities, of my grandmother, Empress Elisabeth Christine. I remembered her scarcely; she was always a bitter old widow when she lived, and my mother made sure our visits were always very formal and brief. She died ten or so years ago when I was just a child. The short moments that I do remember of her, she was so fat that she almost could not stand, and her face was always flushed. And, beside her on a table next to her near-permanent chair, as always a glass or two of brandy that she swallowed without haste. She usually accompanied these swigs with some kind of short prayer to good health, which with her image was almost comical.
I lit a few candles, filling the library with flickering amber light. The place smelled like old leather, stale paper, and mothballs. The air was stuffy and stiff, like the mindset of the long-gone scholars who used to pace these shelves. The shelves themselves were full of books of all colors, shapes, and sizes. At one point there must have been organization to it all, but now it was just academic madness. The library itself was not very large; in fact, my chamber was larger. The tightness of it all could have easily made anyone claustrophobic. But it was a beautiful little place, with the knowledge and academia of the greatest university tucked into my own half-year home. Women could not attend university, but this was almost as good as the real thing, as far as I was concerned.
I had time to burn. I ran my fingers along the books, glancing over the titles written on the spines. Though, I didn't take much care to digest their titles- I was following the books until my heart told me to stop. Some of these books were rather aged, their leather covers flaking under my fingertips. I wondered how long these books had been neglected. A layer of grayish dust began to build on my fingertips.
On the third shelf from the bottom, just before the end of the shelf, my fingers lingered on a single book. It was a rather small book, only about as long as my hand. It was about an inch thick, bound in a burnt orange leather. It was tucked between a large black Bible and a copy of The Iliad. I smiled, remembering the play that my family and I performed, The Apple of Discord.
My character's greatest line replayed in my head. "Helen, will you leave your husband behind and come back with me to Troy?" I whispered to myself with a smile. I pulled the little orange book out from between its neighbors, blowing the layer of dust from the cover. Stitched onto the cover was a word in a script that I could not even try to read.
Ψάπφω
I spoke German, Latin, French, and a little English, but I knew nothing about these letters. They were alien to me. I opened the book's cover. The pages were certainly old- their edges were rough and beginning to yellow. Randomly throughout the book a page was torn or dog-eared, illustrating its long, tireless service as literature. The inside cover, however, was written in German, and I could properly read it.
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF SAPPHO: THE POETESS OF LESBOS
Sappho? In all of my years of education I had never heard of such a poet. And a woman poet, at that, distinguished enough to have her works immortalized into the very book that I held in my hand. I had thought I had a pretty widespread knowledge of literature, but I had never heard of Sappho of Lesbos. I didn't even know where Lesbos was.
There was a globe in the corner of the library near the bust of my grandmother. It was nearly a half-century old, and many of the hand-painted nations were now mislabeled. I scanned the globe until I found it, a little island in the sea between Greece and Turkey. I assumed the unintelligible language was Greek. I sat in a noble wooden chair near the window and propped my feet up on a nearby step-stool. I opened the book and began to read.
Sappho was an influential Greek poet who lived during a blossoming of Ancient Greek culture. Not much is known about her, but she was most likely born in or around 620 BCE to an aristocratic family on the Isle of Lesbos in the Aegean Sea. While her life remains unclear, she was an influential poet who received praise from many of her male contemporaries, including Homer and Plato. Sappho's poetry is emotional, moving, and beautiful, and includes notions of Hellenistic life. Because of this outright paganism, many of her works were burned by Christians during the Dark Ages. But luckily, some of her poetry has survived. She invented the Sapphic Meter, a method of poetic rhythm that is still used today in many works of modern poetry. My colleagues and I at the University of Berlin have translated and compiled these poems for you, our reader, to read with the same emotion that pulsed through Sappho the Poetess over a thousand years ago.
Adam Peter Schuster, Professor of Literature at the University of Berlin
Sappho. Maybe it was because of the destruction of her works that I had never heard of her. I was educated by a Jesuit, after all. Although I found it extremely interesting, Father Lachner didn't really appreciate Hellenistic religion. Father Lachner taught me many things, but secular literature was not one of them.
It was also strange that a book from Berlin was contained between these walls. Berlin was the capital of the Kingdom of Prussia, a nation we were bitterly at war with. It wasn't just war that struck our two nations, there was a flaming hatred between the royal courts. The Prussians, under the direct orders from King Frederick, had murdered Maria Josepha, my mother's cousin and Albert's mother. My own mother called King Frederick a monster and a beast. God only knew what he said of her. Prussian blood was on the hands of the Austrians, and Austrian blood on the Prussians. As our armies and those of the Russians surrounded Berlin, forcing Queen Elisabeth to flee, I stood in a delightful summer palace holding a Prussian book in my hands.
Trying to shake the thoughts of war from my mind, opened the book and flipped to a random page. Maybe this ancient poetess would have some inspirational words to tell me. The poem I had selected was called "Ode to Aphrodite". I read it to myself, my fingertip gently following each word on the delicate page.
Deathless Aphrodite, throned in flowers,
Daughter of Zeus, O terrible enchantress,
With this sorrow, with this anguish, break my spirit
Lady, not longer!
Hear anew the voice! O hear and listen!
Come, as in that island dawn thou camest,
Billowing in thy yoked chariot to Sappho
Forth from thy father's
Golden house in pity! ... I remember:
Fleet and fair thy sparrows drew thee, beating
Fast their wings above the dusky harvests,
Down the pale heavens,
Lightning anon! And thou, O blest and brightest,
Smiling with immortal eyelids, asked me:
'Maiden, what betideth thee? Or wherefore
Callest upon me?
'What is here the longing more than other,
Here in this mad heart? And who the lovely
One beloved that wouldst lure to loving?
Sappho, who wrongs thee?
'See, if now she flies, she soon must follow;
Yes, if spurning gifts, she soon must offer;
Yes, if loving not, she soon must love thee,
Howso unwilling...'
Come again to me! O now! Release me!
End the great pang! And all my heart desireth
Now of fulfillment, fulfill! O Aphrodite,
Fight by my shoulder!
I finished the poem and tossed the open book onto my lap. I was not mad. I was not delusional. This feeling was ancient. I was not alone. This poetess was in love with a woman the way I was. Desperately, but quietly, under a fabric of common society. I began to weep. For so long I had felt crazy, misunderstood, and alone. But this poetess had validated me through a page. How many woman-loving women had lived between Sappho's life and mine? Were there women living amongst me who also had to suffer in silence? My tears fell upon the dusty pages, clouding the ink of a woman who was just like me. I wonder what had happened to the recipient of Sappho's affections. Was she also married to a man? Was she married to her admirer's brother?
But unlike the Hellenistic poetess, I could not call upon Aphrodite to win the affections of my beloved. Aphrodite was not real. And since the Christians had the works of this woman burned, could I even call upon the guidance of my own Catholic church? Would I have to spare my love for the confession booth, to whisper it into the ear of a priest as if it were such an awful sin? There was no lust within me, no violent cravings for sex or for impurity. I was in the gentle, fairy-tale kind of love. I wanted to hold her hand and kiss her cheek, and play with her hair as she slept. I wanted to see that smile of hers every day of my life. I wanted to comfort her and support her in her darkest moments. I wanted to discuss every aspect of life with her, from philosophy to botany to politics. I wanted my gowns to smell like rose and sandalwood after a day with her.
I wiped the tears from my face. I had done more weeping in the last few days than I did as a toddler. How pathetic, to cry over such things! I had cried over both woman and man. I was such a pitiful wreck. I closed the little orange book and stood, tucking it under my arm. I made my way back to my apartments with the little book, hiding it behind my bed, where all of the letters were hidden. This, I decided, was going to be the place where I hid all items of my Sapphic affections. Hidden from Isabella, hidden from the world, hidden from myself.
I was still wearing my church clothes as I silently strolled the palace. I liked my church-going dresses almost more than my court gowns or day dresses, second only to my riding habit. My favorite church dress, one of three, was made of dark green silk, decorated with eggshell-colored lace. Like all Catholic women, I wore a mantilla loosely over my hair of a matching lace. The mantilla was one of the few traditions that still lingered from the two centuries past when Spain ruled the world. But ever since the defeat of the Spanish Armada, Spain had faded into the background. The Dutch took over, then the French. But in modernity, one nation reigned supreme as the power of the world. My Hapsburg heart strained to say Austria, but that was wrong. The master of the world was Britannia. And we were at war with her.
Nevertheless, I still walked the halls of the palace of the Holy Roman Empress. I reached a door on the east side of the palace, located just behind the ballroom. This little door was rarely touched. The east side of the palace was more for court affairs than personal meddling, making this location awkwardly placed, but I loved it all the same. Especially on a Sunday afternoon, I knew I would be the only one to enjoy it.
I carefully opened the door and stepped inside the room. It was a library, the walls and furniture made of a shiny, dark cherry wood. A large landscape painting from Japan hung on the far wall. Underneath the diamond muntin window was a bust, much like that of Albert's Greek deities, of my grandmother, Empress Elisabeth Christine. I remembered her scarcely; she was always a bitter old widow when she lived, and my mother made sure our visits were always very formal and brief. She died ten or so years ago when I was just a child. The short moments that I do remember of her, she was so fat that she almost could not stand, and her face was always flushed. And, beside her on a table next to her near-permanent chair, as always a glass or two of brandy that she swallowed without haste. She usually accompanied these swigs with some kind of short prayer to good health, which with her image was almost comical.
I lit a few candles, filling the library with flickering amber light. The place smelled like old leather, stale paper, and mothballs. The air was stuffy and stiff, like the mindset of the long-gone scholars who used to pace these shelves. The shelves themselves were full of books of all colors, shapes, and sizes. At one point there must have been organization to it all, but now it was just academic madness. The library itself was not very large; in fact, my chamber was larger. The tightness of it all could have easily made anyone claustrophobic. But it was a beautiful little place, with the knowledge and academia of the greatest university tucked into my own half-year home. Women could not attend university, but this was almost as good as the real thing, as far as I was concerned.
I had time to burn. I ran my fingers along the books, glancing over the titles written on the spines. Though, I didn't take much care to digest their titles- I was following the books until my heart told me to stop. Some of these books were rather aged, their leather covers flaking under my fingertips. I wondered how long these books had been neglected. A layer of grayish dust began to build on my fingertips.
On the third shelf from the bottom, just before the end of the shelf, my fingers lingered on a single book. It was a rather small book, only about as long as my hand. It was about an inch thick, bound in a burnt orange leather. It was tucked between a large black Bible and a copy of The Iliad. I smiled, remembering the play that my family and I performed, The Apple of Discord.
My character's greatest line replayed in my head. "Helen, will you leave your husband behind and come back with me to Troy?" I whispered to myself with a smile. I pulled the little orange book out from between its neighbors, blowing the layer of dust from the cover. Stitched onto the cover was a word in a script that I could not even try to read.
Ψάπφω
I spoke German, Latin, French, and a little English, but I knew nothing about these letters. They were alien to me. I opened the book's cover. The pages were certainly old- their edges were rough and beginning to yellow. Randomly throughout the book a page was torn or dog-eared, illustrating its long, tireless service as literature. The inside cover, however, was written in German, and I could properly read it.
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF SAPPHO: THE POETESS OF LESBOS
Sappho? In all of my years of education I had never heard of such a poet. And a woman poet, at that, distinguished enough to have her works immortalized into the very book that I held in my hand. I had thought I had a pretty widespread knowledge of literature, but I had never heard of Sappho of Lesbos. I didn't even know where Lesbos was.
There was a globe in the corner of the library near the bust of my grandmother. It was nearly a half-century old, and many of the hand-painted nations were now mislabeled. I scanned the globe until I found it, a little island in the sea between Greece and Turkey. I assumed the unintelligible language was Greek. I sat in a noble wooden chair near the window and propped my feet up on a nearby step-stool. I opened the book and began to read.
Sappho was an influential Greek poet who lived during a blossoming of Ancient Greek culture. Not much is known about her, but she was most likely born in or around 620 BCE to an aristocratic family on the Isle of Lesbos in the Aegean Sea. While her life remains unclear, she was an influential poet who received praise from many of her male contemporaries, including Homer and Plato. Sappho's poetry is emotional, moving, and beautiful, and includes notions of Hellenistic life. Because of this outright paganism, many of her works were burned by Christians during the Dark Ages. But luckily, some of her poetry has survived. She invented the Sapphic Meter, a method of poetic rhythm that is still used today in many works of modern poetry. My colleagues and I at the University of Berlin have translated and compiled these poems for you, our reader, to read with the same emotion that pulsed through Sappho the Poetess over a thousand years ago.
Adam Peter Schuster, Professor of Literature at the University of Berlin
Sappho. Maybe it was because of the destruction of her works that I had never heard of her. I was educated by a Jesuit, after all. Although I found it extremely interesting, Father Lachner didn't really appreciate Hellenistic religion. Father Lachner taught me many things, but secular literature was not one of them.
It was also strange that a book from Berlin was contained between these walls. Berlin was the capital of the Kingdom of Prussia, a nation we were bitterly at war with. It wasn't just war that struck our two nations, there was a flaming hatred between the royal courts. The Prussians, under the direct orders from King Frederick, had murdered Maria Josepha, my mother's cousin and Albert's mother. My own mother called King Frederick a monster and a beast. God only knew what he said of her. Prussian blood was on the hands of the Austrians, and Austrian blood on the Prussians. As our armies and those of the Russians surrounded Berlin, forcing Queen Elisabeth to flee, I stood in a delightful summer palace holding a Prussian book in my hands.
Trying to shake the thoughts of war from my mind, opened the book and flipped to a random page. Maybe this ancient poetess would have some inspirational words to tell me. The poem I had selected was called "Ode to Aphrodite". I read it to myself, my fingertip gently following each word on the delicate page.
Deathless Aphrodite, throned in flowers,
Daughter of Zeus, O terrible enchantress,
With this sorrow, with this anguish, break my spirit
Lady, not longer!
Hear anew the voice! O hear and listen!
Come, as in that island dawn thou camest,
Billowing in thy yoked chariot to Sappho
Forth from thy father's
Golden house in pity! ... I remember:
Fleet and fair thy sparrows drew thee, beating
Fast their wings above the dusky harvests,
Down the pale heavens,
Lightning anon! And thou, O blest and brightest,
Smiling with immortal eyelids, asked me:
'Maiden, what betideth thee? Or wherefore
Callest upon me?
'What is here the longing more than other,
Here in this mad heart? And who the lovely
One beloved that wouldst lure to loving?
Sappho, who wrongs thee?
'See, if now she flies, she soon must follow;
Yes, if spurning gifts, she soon must offer;
Yes, if loving not, she soon must love thee,
Howso unwilling...'
Come again to me! O now! Release me!
End the great pang! And all my heart desireth
Now of fulfillment, fulfill! O Aphrodite,
Fight by my shoulder!
I finished the poem and tossed the open book onto my lap. I was not mad. I was not delusional. This feeling was ancient. I was not alone. This poetess was in love with a woman the way I was. Desperately, but quietly, under a fabric of common society. I began to weep. For so long I had felt crazy, misunderstood, and alone. But this poetess had validated me through a page. How many woman-loving women had lived between Sappho's life and mine? Were there women living amongst me who also had to suffer in silence? My tears fell upon the dusty pages, clouding the ink of a woman who was just like me. I wonder what had happened to the recipient of Sappho's affections. Was she also married to a man? Was she married to her admirer's brother?
But unlike the Hellenistic poetess, I could not call upon Aphrodite to win the affections of my beloved. Aphrodite was not real. And since the Christians had the works of this woman burned, could I even call upon the guidance of my own Catholic church? Would I have to spare my love for the confession booth, to whisper it into the ear of a priest as if it were such an awful sin? There was no lust within me, no violent cravings for sex or for impurity. I was in the gentle, fairy-tale kind of love. I wanted to hold her hand and kiss her cheek, and play with her hair as she slept. I wanted to see that smile of hers every day of my life. I wanted to comfort her and support her in her darkest moments. I wanted to discuss every aspect of life with her, from philosophy to botany to politics. I wanted my gowns to smell like rose and sandalwood after a day with her.
I wiped the tears from my face. I had done more weeping in the last few days than I did as a toddler. How pathetic, to cry over such things! I had cried over both woman and man. I was such a pitiful wreck. I closed the little orange book and stood, tucking it under my arm. I made my way back to my apartments with the little book, hiding it behind my bed, where all of the letters were hidden. This, I decided, was going to be the place where I hid all items of my Sapphic affections. Hidden from Isabella, hidden from the world, hidden from myself.
End of Je T'aime. Chapter 13. Continue reading Chapter 14 or return to Je T'aime. book page.