it's been raining for days

[monte_countess]

WHO: Haydée de Monte Cristo and her guests
Where: Haydée's Apartments
DATE: October 17th 1935
WARNINGS: Fanciness, drinking, social awkwardness
SUMMARY: The housewarming party of New York's new countess.
STATUS: Present your invitation at the door, metaphorically speaking.

[[ooc; (it's tomorrow now right? probably... going to sleep for a few

Comments

[monte_countess]

I watched over him with quiet amusement. Ali knew better than to betray his thoughts to the room, but I could see that he too had some sympathy for the man's discomfiture. Mr. Edgeworth didn't yet know who I was, and that was refreshing in its way. I had no real compunction to enlighten him and I settled back into the cushions more leisurely.

My dear Angelina had been right in suggesting he had skipped over the finer nuances of interaction. There was an ungainliness to his proud stoicism. The ugly gray little duckling who had not yet become a swan, though I was certain that particular comparison would irritate him into protesting his lack of avian features once more.

The thought brought a smile to my lips. "I don't think I've ever thought to have Dostoyevsky as my companion to a party," I said from behind my glass, my rings ringing quietly against the perfect crystal. "He's a dreary sort. As I recall, his Underground Man was rather abysmal in social settings."

I glanced at Ali tacitly and he bowed forward slightly, proffering both punch and lokum out before him. "You really must try them," I noted airily. "I hear both the sweets and the spices in the punch came all the way from Greece." I let my temple rest against the curl of my hand, gazed intently to brook no argument.

[mentis_reae]

"I, ah - " I cursed her generosity once again, despised her thoughtfulness, as I was obligated to put aside the protection of my book to accept the proffered refreshments. With the Turkish Delight in one hand and the glass in the other, I was unable to take the novel up again; without Dostoyevsky, I had nothing to use to avoid looking at her.

But to look at her was a distinctly discomfiting experience. How was it that she was able to make herself even more striking simply by tilting her head to the side? It bared her collarbone in the most remarkable fashion, and hers was so remarkably graceful, with a single strand of dark hair trailing down to not quite brush against it...Her skin from this distance was smooth and unblemished, and looked soft to the touch. Hers was an entirely different sort of beauty than Miss Delaunay's. Hers was more calculated, more sensual, more -

Good God. A futile and absurd and inappropriate line of thought. What on earth was wrong with me? She'd scarcely even spoken to me. I didn't even know her.

I dropped my gaze to the drink in my hand and took a decisive mouthful of it and deemed it to be a punch of some sort, laden with spices and quite good. There was a faint fascinating burn to it, and I wondered precisely which fruits had gone into the juice's composition - or perhaps those were the spices? In any case, it was quite thoroughly excellent.

"Quite a remarkable flavor," I agreed, and then studied the Turkish Delight. "Also quite excellent," I muttered upon trying that, and then was forced to turn my gaze back towards her face.

"Dreariness is hardly my primary concern," I answered, becoming distracted for a moment by the way she drank her wine and then gritting my jaw and fixing my eyes once more upon hers. "If an author is talented, then he is talented, and I've hardly a care for whether or not the content is dreary. Frankly, it provides for a more accurate picture of what life truly is than we may find - "

I had resolved not to be rude. I had resolved not to make enemies. I had resolved not to be a fool. I would not make scornful comments about this party and the futility of it and how frankly offensive it was when people were starving on the streets and I had goddamn work to do and all I wanted to be was at home.

"In more cheerful books," I finished weakly, and took another drink.

uhuhuhuhu 8]

[monte_countess]

Ah, the crusader had at last been forced to throw down his shield. I could, at last, meet his eye. They were a rather sorrowful gray, and with Dostoyevsky on my mind, my sense of poetics wandered through cold Russian streets and across bitter endless planes. There was an earnestness to them, despite tight pull of pain at their edges. Nervous then, an acceptable enough explanation for why a man would chose to shield himself from his peers in such an openly convivial environment. For all his protestations that he could not be trusted, I retained my opinions of him. Instead, it was my feelings about my observations which changed.

I wondered if, perhaps, he were merely inexperienced at dealing with the oft ridiculous and convoluted rules of the upper echelons, for he was quite a bit younger than I had anticipated. That in and of itself, however, was likely only a product of my assumptions and had little basis. For truly, only young men were so foolishly and blindly passionate. Elders were more prone to keep to their ruts and to their tired old grumblings.

His commendation of my punch pleased me greatly. It was a recipe I had acquired many years ago, and as I had very little occasion or desire to cook, it was my one small pride in that arena. The base was a mixture of things: rye, tea, rum, cognac, and lemon. The punch itself was mixed with fresh citrus, champagne, and seltzer and a secret mixture of fresh spices that I had altered to my tastes. It had yet to fail me in my hosting, it's bright fruity flavors and tantalizing spices had won over more than a few.

Yet this was not to be the focus of our conversation. I'm sure he had exhausted himself on the topic of refreshments in summoning up 'excellent' and 'remarkable.'

"There is a beauty in suffering that I find Master Dostoyevsky does not quite capture," I observed, raising an eyebrow delicately at his assertion that dreariness should be the stuff of life. I had lived through too much suffering to believe that. My dear Edmond had lived through several of Fyodor's experiences himself, and he had emerged with a philosophy that intersected with his in many places, but took wing from in others. There was a vibrancy to my lord that could not be compared.

"But I believe that is the influence of the very peculiar Russian brand of Christianity he practiced and the cultural influences of his life that I am simply ill-equipped to truly appreciate. I will not, however, argue he is a master of words." It was a gentle concession, I cared nothing for the man's works myself.

hay haydee i like ur boobs uh books idk why i said boobs

[mentis_reae]

I looked up from my drink and met her eyes, genuinely startled by her words. I had been to enough of these events to be accustomed to those who populated them. The men who spent their time in pursuit of social diversions were, almost to a man, overly hearty and overly presumptive, given to cheerfully making sweeping statements about me and my career and how much I would or would not accomplish and how long it would take before I turned just as crooked as the rest of them, assuming I was not all ready. The topic of corruption within the government was to them a grand jape, something that was to be snickered over rather than mourned.

The women who accompanied them were vapid and agreeable. They were educated, all of them, well-spoken and witty, but they wore that education and wit as they did the pearls about their shapely necks. Their intelligence was not to be used for the betterment of mankind, but only for the flattery of themselves and their husbands or paramours, or to ensnare a husband or paramour. And so they discussed literature, yes, but their knowledge was usually superficial, and they discussed books that were light and pleasant, and they always agreed with what I was saying, and they giggled. They would never stop goddamn giggling.

But this woman - I blinked. She was actually addressing the book itself, rather than simply my opinion of it. She wasn't just parroting what I thought back at me. She was disagreeing. For a moment, I wasn't even certain how to respond, so unprepared was I for this disagreement.

"Well, ah - " I took a breath and blinked at her. "That's a rather subjective assessment on your part. You don't believe that the content of his writing is beautiful, merely because you're unacquainted with his cultural background? I should call that short-sighted in the extreme." I took another drink as I pondered a moment, thought back to my experiences in Paris. I'd attended the midnight Mass of the Orthodox Easter celebrations only once, concealed in the back, self-conscious among the Revolution's refugees, but the experience had struck me. I did not believe in God, and I knew that there was no divine power guiding that ceremony, but the solemn, united procession, the heavy smell of incense, the bold glisten of the icon through the misty low light...I was experiencing no sort of divinity, no magic, but I was seeing mystery and beauty. Even if it came wrapped in religion's contemptible trappings.

"I do not hold with his philosophy, either, I assure you," I said. "Yet I think there is a strange sort of nobility in it nevertheless. The Russian emphasis on passivity, on acceptance, is something to which I do not hold, and yet I see the beauty in it. You surrender yourself into the hands of your fellow man, as Boris and Gleb once suffered death rather than turning to warfare. It's an act of the most remarkable trust. I think there is a certain beauty in that."

I realized belatedly I was babbling and took another drink. "But I am glad you don't argue that last point," I said, wondering at my sudden tendency towards garrulousness. "If you were to do so, you should be quite simply incorrect."

my bosom is also lovely, yes, thank you

[monte_countess]

I smiled at him slyly in response to his startled gaze. As if it were some great secret that I should dare to deviate from the insipidity of my 'peeresses.' A worthless title that they alone gave meaning, for I hardly considered them as such. My father had taught me long ago that peerage was born of love and respect. This game that the rest of society played with each other led only to ruin. This was a fact my beloved had taken great advantage of in ensuring that selfsame ruin to those who left him buried alive in the depths of their jealousy. I was not his wife for my beauty, nor even for my intellect, though he should never have had me without the latter. I was his companion for love--the deepest and truest love, I believe, the likes of which only men who have caught falling stars can ever comprehend--and for respect.

I was no piece of jewelry, though I had been many times compared to a jewel, and perhaps this claim was unique to me.

I understood where his assumptions had come from, but this did not prevent Angelina's descriptions of chauvinism from entering into my mind. I could see that as well. It was a carefully cultivated mindset, not just here in America, but around the world, though I would admit that the Americans had made almost an art of it. They preformed a strange hypocritical dance around the billowing skirts of their Lady who so espoused freedoms and equality. It mattered little. They could have their unintended chauvinism, I would have my pride and my peace regardless.

I listened to him speak, did not pressure or interrupt. To hear his voice behind the words did not, precisely, change the experience, but it certainly illuminated something within him.

"Subjectively," I began, to humor is affection for semantics. "I believe it is not beautiful for exactly the passivity you describe. The futility such a philosophy paints upon life is repellent to me. Life seems more like the burning out of sun and each cry of anguish is the same as a flare of euphoria, to be witnessed in awe and not prostrated before." I had been born in Greece, the land of fickle and vengeful gods, and raised upon all the classic tales of magic and wonderment. While I knew the difference between fact and fiction, my spirituality would not be relinquished. My own phoenix-like rebirth from the ashes of my slavery could hardly allow me to appreciate anything less than an ardent love for my life of freedom.

"It is merely a difference between recognizing beauty and appreciating it." My smile widened at his final note. "And what a shame it should be if I were wrong." While they were abrading, I was impressed by a man who gave opinions so decidedly. Though perhaps too freely, in the end.

i didn't notice what stop laughing i didn't what goddammit

[mentis_reae]

"Hardly," I said, bending my head once again toward my drink, away from her gaze. Usually, even I would have the discretion to sidestep the topic of death, but - my thoughts had been bent that way all day. Her brushing against morbidity seemed to me quite meet. "Life is nothing of the sort. It's not grand. It's more akin to a candle than a sun; we may come in with a cry, but we go out with a whisper."

(Or with a sudden creak, a thump, a crack, and a low gurgle, the brief spasmodic kicking of legs and then silence. I could picture this end for every man save one. What had his last words been? Had he deigned to give any at all? I would not ever be able to ask. I was quite certain of that.)

(Or with the crack of a gunshot, but that was an external force. Because the dead man had made no noise at all.)

I swallowed, then took another drink from my glass. Only then did I turn my attention to the confection in my hand and tried to think of something to say, tried to tear myself from my dark thoughts.

"It's nothing so grand," I repeated. It seemed my dark thoughts would linger after all. "To my way of thinking, life is an aberration from the norm - simply a strange happenstance, matter made quick. A rock, thrown through the air, will return to earth; so too will we return to death, and it will be natural, a coming-back to the usual state of being, at rest. So perhaps you are right. Perhaps life is indeed something remarkable, something that is met with such - grand words as you used - " I gestured uncertainly with the glass - "but death is natural.

"Have you ever read The Hollow Men? It's by Eliot. He's one of the modernists. Rather dense, it's not for everyone, but, ah..."

I took another bite of the sweet. It really was quite good.

"In any case. So perhaps that is the true virtue of the Russian view. Perhaps that is how they are correct. They've simply accepted that life honestly is something difficult, so they surrender themselves to rest and the more natural order. Commend their spirit - such as it is - to what it should be. And they surround themselves in beauty. Because when faced with such a truth, one must name it Mystery and drape it in gold. Otherwise, it's utterly unbearable."

I paused.

"This truly is a quite delectable drink."

[monte_countess]

It was a curious transformation, I would admit. I was confident in my conversation abilities, but not to quite such an extent. For a man who had a moment before hidden behind the dense and tiresome Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and before that behind my washroom door, to become such a font of speech was... I glanced at Ali quietly. He ducked his head in his customary silence and left his place in attending over us.

"I knew you would enjoy it," I noted archly from behind my own glass, lips leaving a faint smear of color in my wake, as would every other woman in this room. "More than I enjoy Mr. Eliot, at least. The modernists hold little in the way of charm for me. That, however, is a fault all my own. While I, of course, appreciate progress, the Romantics are forever in the language of my soul."

I had not expected him to cite poetry to me, however. I wondered at it. It had slowly begun to reveal itself to me that he was more complex than the boorish intellectual I had first painted, but he was so dismissive of my poetics I had assumed he had very little appreciation for the art. Even his description of my fair Greece had seemed very rooted, lacking in the spirit and whimsy that I had come to expect of the throne of my birthright. Was it simply that I did not understand this man? Or was it Americans? Was it the insinuations inherent to English which struggled with? A unusual and perplexing little puzzle, that.

"There is plenty enough in life that is unbearable, with death inescapable I see no reason to dwell over its influence unduly, certainly not enough lie down before it. Live life in nobility and celebration and... die as such."

I paused for a moment. Remembered my father's head on a pike in the streets of Constantinople. "Except in such cases as dignity is robbed from you, but even then you can be left with the hope your loved ones will set your memory to right."

God, this is almost embarrassing. Let's say it was a big glass of punch.

[mentis_reae]

"I fail to understand how you could find Eliot any less than remarkable," I said, looking down to find my glass empty. "Indeed, life-changing. I recall the first time I read The Waste Land. I was sixteen, sitting in a cafe just a bit away from the Sorbonne, when I found a copy of it discarded...It was a strange experience. For all that the poem itself is phenomenally personal to the author himself, I felt as though it was universal, in a way, as well - as though Eliot had somehow looked inside of me and taken my thoughts, as well, to incorporate into his poem. Which is an odd thought, since I was only eleven when it was written, but that's neither here nor there. In any case. It's just - certain lines, you must understand. I don't know if it's the effect of the words, or the sentiments, but, ah -

"'After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience.'

"It's a beautiful set of lines."

I paused, realizing I had digressed terribly. Honestly, what had gotten into me? I despised idle chatter, despised the garrulous, and yet here I was, garrulous, chattering idly. I held strongly to the principle of parsimony of words. They were to be sent out decisively, thrown with perfect aim, not scattered in great handfuls in the hope that one among them would strike the target. I set aside my glass, trying through a strange sort of disorientation to make my babbling relevant in some way.

"Though I think that's rather the point. In the end, we are all dying with a bit of patience. What is the point of celebrating life? What is the point of even living it? What is the point of nobility, celebration? And what is the point of dignity? Dignity will not matter to us when we pass from this earth; we all die scrabbling besides, in blood and in stench, utterly devoid of any sort of dignity at all. The mere fact of life robs us of dignity. And we will not remember anything. Death is oblivion and forgetfulness. It's, ah...We won't care about our memories," I said, and then, struck by a sudden and inexplicable melancholy, "and for that, we're fortunate."

lol Edgeworth. Lol.

[monte_countess]

He was quoting poetry now? I smiled at him fully, listening to his ramblings. He seemed rather confused by the empty glass and I supposed I had been right to send Ali to get the poor man a glass of water and something to eat. I wondered if I should feel more guilty for pushing the drink on him when he so clearly had not anticipated the effects and yet... He was recounting a rather sweet but personal experience from France. He had traveled as a child, it was an interesting little piece of information. When else would I have the chance to hear from him so openly and unguarded?

"It seems more beautiful with your feelings to liven them," I observed breezily.

He was good about evading personal questions in that journal and here he was offering freely. I glanced up as Ali returned, two glasses and a small plate balanced in his hands. I traded him my lipstick stained glass for a fresh one of champagne and motioned him forward to attend to Mr. Edgeworth. The empty punch glass and my colored glass were taken off by a servant hired for this event while Ali offered forth the water and the small sampling of the meze. Grilled octopus, eggplant salad and a little bread. The salty little octopus slices would do well by his slight inebriation so long as he didn't notice them enough to balk.

"Did you spend much time in Paris?" I asked him curiously, twirling the slender stem of my glass in my fingers. Perhaps he was simply a melancholy drunk, but I would see what could be done to raise him his spirits. Death was truly no topic for such a gathering in the first place. After a moment's consideration, I leaned forward and plucked up one of the little cephalopods daintily between my nails and slipped it between my lips. Perhaps he would follow suit.

"I lived there for some time, I should be pleased to know how you liked it."

God, THAT'S JUST EMBARRASSING.

[mentis_reae]

"I grew up there." I frowned slightly when I realized I'd been given another glass of something, as I frankly didn't remember taking anything at all. It revealed itself as water when I sipped at it. Rather a pity; that punch truly was delectable. Quite remarkably so. "I was ten when I moved there and, ah, seventeen when I left. Seven years," I said, and then frowned slightly, rotating the glass between my hands.

Had I truly been gone eight years now? Perhaps. It seemed so distant. Yet at the same time - I had been gone from the city for longer than I had lived there. And in the interim, I'd become a vastly different person. When I'd left, I'd been cruel and bloody-minded, full of arrogance, set on revenge. There had been no one in the world for whom I had cared. Even then, even before I knew the full extent of his cruelty, I think I had despised von Karma, and I had mistrusted Franziska, and I had wished to forget the foolish friends who I'd known when I was so young and who understood so very little of the world. And I, bloody-minded and arrogant and weary already of the world, perhaps stood ashamed before them.

"Those were not precisely the, ah, best years of my life," I confessed, then winced at my own uncomfortable honesty. I tried to cover by following her lead and taking a piece of octopus. I found, rather to my surprise, that it was tender and delectable, well-spiced and rather smoky. I took another piece and said, "Paris, though - Paris was, ah, beautiful." I struggled a moment to remember the woman sitting across from me. "How did you find it?"

uhuhu

[monte_countess]

He grew up in Paris? Perhaps that's where he had learned that brusque nature of his, but shouldn't it have then be tempered with more grace and poetic appreciation? But there was worry in his brow, pinched by his frown. He hid it passably well, even in his nervous state. I watched him intently as he kept himself distracted with the gleam of his glass and the food. A poor insufferable thing.

"Beautiful," I agreed. "Though, strangely enough, those were not precisely the best years of my life either." I had lived with Edmond, yes, but with Mondego so near and yet just beyond my reach had been maddening. It had been many months of isolation, only venturing out for the opera, waiting for the day Edmond would tell me it was time to destroy that animal.

I began to continue, to perhaps extol the beauty of our home on the Champs-Élysées or the opera houses, but over his shoulder I saw Angelina smiling at Bertuccio, shedding her jacket as she entered. I smiled brightly, rising.

"If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll be right back," I said, brushing a hand over his shoulder as I went. I meant it too of course, I truly would feel guilty for pushing that drink on him if I left him to his own devices afterward.

[[ooc; -points doooown to doctors.- they want to love you Edgey 8<]]