-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
P
Pia
Guest
Grete Gulbransson neé Jehly
* 31st July 1882 in Bludenz, Vorarlberg
† 26th March 1934 in München
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grete_Gulbransson
Here's another picture of her with her bike (the woman on her left is her half-sister, Mary Douglass)
LittleSiss
Sorceress
5 and 9 in the first group and 5 and 9 in the second, also.
For the first ... they are the only two for me that show any real truth.
For the second ... 5 is just stunning and 9 she has a look of whimsy.
But the overwhelming thing that I see is, with the exception of 5 and 9 in the last set, not one of them look happy. It's almost as if they have told their lives are meaningless and they are resigned to it.
So sad !!!
For the first ... they are the only two for me that show any real truth.
For the second ... 5 is just stunning and 9 she has a look of whimsy.
But the overwhelming thing that I see is, with the exception of 5 and 9 in the last set, not one of them look happy. It's almost as if they have told their lives are meaningless and they are resigned to it.
So sad !!!
Last edited:
P
Pia
Guest
Part of it is that they had to stay very still for the photographs... But you are right about the fifth one in the second set... she is stunning.... Here are some more of her...
She was Princess Ileana of Romania (5 January 1909 – 21 January 1991)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Princess_Ileana_of_Romania
P
Pia
Guest
Blue eyes and red hair..... Isn't she lovely?
Part of it is that they had to stay very still for the photographs... But you are right about the fifth one in the second set... she is stunning.... Here are some more of her...
She was Princess Ileana of Romania (5 January 1909 – 21 January 1991)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Princess_Ileana_of_Romania
Certainly, she could inspire poets.
Maybe she already has
P
Pia
Guest
Oh how much I love this wonderful site and how we can wander off on our lovely flights of fancy!
P
Pia
Guest
It’s still January and Gisela is sitting on the window-cushions in the first-floor bedroom in the villa in Tettauastraße. She’s wearing a dress that really is too thin for a cold day like this and her legs are wrapped around Brangane’s. She’s rubbing the frost from the window that’s glowing soft orange, reflecting the flames from the cast-iron grate on the opposite side of the room. Her fingers make a sad sound as they ply round and round, creating a little porthole onto the monochromatic scene outside. Brangane’s chattering away about this boy and that and a book she’s been reading and how romantic love must be and how she is longing for the spring, but Gisela’s not really listening. She’s watching the bird’s dark silhouette on the white-draped branch as it knocks tiny dustings of snow from its perch. She’s dreaming about a boy too. He’s called Meyer and he goes to the gymnasium in the city. She’s seen him in his uniform and seen how his blonde hair which is just too long falls over his eyes and how he flicks it away with his fingers. She looks at Brangane and touches her gently on her open mouth and tells her about him and how she’d like to walk with him by the river in May and really how she dreams about him and thinks how it would be if she unbuttoned his shirt and if they were lying by the fire in the dark of winter and how he might kiss her on her cheek and feel how warm it was.
The bell rings for dinner and the sky has turned a deep purple and the wind is blowing the powder around in magical circles. The girls hold each other tight and talk about the ball and who will be going and the dances and what they will wear. It’s time to go. Gisela dances down the broad staircase into the panelled hall and thanks Brangane’s mother as she pulls on her warm furs and boots. She loves the sudden chill on her face as the door’s pulled open and skips across the snow to her home in Straße des Friedens.
It’s Saturday and it’s the first of February and this will be my first real ball! And here I am with my best friend Brangane and with Tristana. Tristana’s been to see me a few times since the opera and we’ve been shopping together and really I do like her, I’m sure. Father agreed we could all meet up here and dress for the ball and he’d arrange for our carriage. It hasn’t stopped snowing and it looks beautiful under the street lights, but it’s very cold and I’m glad we’re indoors. We’ve been trying things on and swapping our jewellery (well, really, it all belongs to our mothers apart from the few things we got for Christmas) and we’ve been telling stories and laughing a lot, and gossiping about the boys we like and what we will do in the summer. But now I am really angry and I can’t help but show it because Tristana has been talking about Meyer and how she met him at a party before Christmas and how they slipped away into the conservatory and that he kissed her! I can’t believe it! I’ve told her before that I really like him and now she’s making me upset! I thought she was my friend! How could she! I was the one who wanted to kiss him! I am sure my face is becoming bright red but Brangane wants me to calm down and not spoil everything - doesn’t she understand that it’s Tristana who’s spoiling everything! She gives Tristana a very bad look but Tristana just smiles. And then father’s calling and telling us we need to be ready to go in twenty minutes and my hair’s a real mess now and I need the maid to help me to pin it up properly and my face needs some powder too and I do want the ball to be fun and not spoiled. Tristana says she’s sorry but I really don’t think she is.
The ball is taking place in the Rathaus in the centre of the city. The three girls travel in the first carriage with Gisela’s and Brangane’s parents following together behind. The streets become narrower and the snow is falling in heavy damp flakes which stick to the windows of the carriages. Gisela and Tristana seem to have made up and are chatting animatedly about the night to come, Brangane rests her head on the glass, feeling the icy chill and gazing at her blurred reflection. Her eyes are the lightest blue and her hair a soft pale brown, teased into gentle waves over her brow. She can feel the rise and fall of her breasts and places her hand there, as if to sense her heart. She blows onto the glass and watches as a snowflake melts and vanishes. Outside there are more carriages now and the girls can hear the noise of the horses as they approach the Fischmarkt. The three great granite arches of the Rathaus portico are bathed in light from the flambeaux and the coach drivers rush to lower steps and open doors as their passengers step down onto the clean-swept pavement, gazing up at the warm light stealing from the six pointed gothic windows above and the swirl of flakes hovering in the air. The girls pause briefly in the portico and wait for the two sets of parents. Doktor Rohkrämer shakes the snow from his shoulders, kisses Gisela on her forehead and leads his wife to the wide stone staircase leading to the upper floor.
The bell rings for dinner and the sky has turned a deep purple and the wind is blowing the powder around in magical circles. The girls hold each other tight and talk about the ball and who will be going and the dances and what they will wear. It’s time to go. Gisela dances down the broad staircase into the panelled hall and thanks Brangane’s mother as she pulls on her warm furs and boots. She loves the sudden chill on her face as the door’s pulled open and skips across the snow to her home in Straße des Friedens.
Chapter 2
It’s Saturday and it’s the first of February and this will be my first real ball! And here I am with my best friend Brangane and with Tristana. Tristana’s been to see me a few times since the opera and we’ve been shopping together and really I do like her, I’m sure. Father agreed we could all meet up here and dress for the ball and he’d arrange for our carriage. It hasn’t stopped snowing and it looks beautiful under the street lights, but it’s very cold and I’m glad we’re indoors. We’ve been trying things on and swapping our jewellery (well, really, it all belongs to our mothers apart from the few things we got for Christmas) and we’ve been telling stories and laughing a lot, and gossiping about the boys we like and what we will do in the summer. But now I am really angry and I can’t help but show it because Tristana has been talking about Meyer and how she met him at a party before Christmas and how they slipped away into the conservatory and that he kissed her! I can’t believe it! I’ve told her before that I really like him and now she’s making me upset! I thought she was my friend! How could she! I was the one who wanted to kiss him! I am sure my face is becoming bright red but Brangane wants me to calm down and not spoil everything - doesn’t she understand that it’s Tristana who’s spoiling everything! She gives Tristana a very bad look but Tristana just smiles. And then father’s calling and telling us we need to be ready to go in twenty minutes and my hair’s a real mess now and I need the maid to help me to pin it up properly and my face needs some powder too and I do want the ball to be fun and not spoiled. Tristana says she’s sorry but I really don’t think she is.
The ball is taking place in the Rathaus in the centre of the city. The three girls travel in the first carriage with Gisela’s and Brangane’s parents following together behind. The streets become narrower and the snow is falling in heavy damp flakes which stick to the windows of the carriages. Gisela and Tristana seem to have made up and are chatting animatedly about the night to come, Brangane rests her head on the glass, feeling the icy chill and gazing at her blurred reflection. Her eyes are the lightest blue and her hair a soft pale brown, teased into gentle waves over her brow. She can feel the rise and fall of her breasts and places her hand there, as if to sense her heart. She blows onto the glass and watches as a snowflake melts and vanishes. Outside there are more carriages now and the girls can hear the noise of the horses as they approach the Fischmarkt. The three great granite arches of the Rathaus portico are bathed in light from the flambeaux and the coach drivers rush to lower steps and open doors as their passengers step down onto the clean-swept pavement, gazing up at the warm light stealing from the six pointed gothic windows above and the swirl of flakes hovering in the air. The girls pause briefly in the portico and wait for the two sets of parents. Doktor Rohkrämer shakes the snow from his shoulders, kisses Gisela on her forehead and leads his wife to the wide stone staircase leading to the upper floor.
Last edited by a moderator:
P
Pia
Guest
Sweet girls.... a few years after 1913 I think.... But they are really sweet!
P
Pia
Guest
It’s so cold I can see my breath as we three girls follow the parents up the broad steps. I’ve not been into the Rathaus before and it’s amazing! The walls are full of the most beautiful pictures. I know the story. It’s Tannhäuser. I think it is. We all know the saga. But the colours are so vivid it comes to life for me. I can’t take my eyes off the paintings and it’s a good thing that my arms are linked with Tristana’s or I would have fallen over! She smiles at me as she catches me. I like that. The staircase turns and now we’re on the first landing and the paintings are telling a different story but I’ve no idea what it’s about. It’s exotic and interesting. I want to stop and look and Tristana says she knows the story. My father looks around and shakes his head. He really doesn’t understand how girls think it seems to me. He’s going into the hall now, but Brangane is waiting with me to hear Tristana’s story. She is telling us about the Graf von Gleichen. In the first picture he’s leaving on a Crusade. His beautiful wife and two lovely children are waving goodbye. Now he’s in Egypt and the Sultan of Cairo has captured him and made him a slave. But now he’s with the Sultan’s daughter. If his wife in Gleichen was beautiful then this girl, Tristana says she was called Suleika, is utterly gorgeous. Her hair is long and dark and threaded with jewels. He was bound to fall in love with her and he does, of course! And the Sultan says he can marry her if he becomes a Muslim because they can have all the wives they want and he agrees and if I was him I would too! Now he’s in a ship and is arriving in Rome and the Pope is baptising him and as he too is probably bewitched by Suleika he says he can live with two wives! So now we’re back in gloomy Thuringia and the Graf is in bed with his two wives and they look so happy. Well, I never expected that! And Tristana is whispering to us about the things he learned about love making in the Orient and that she’s sure he would have taught his German wife about them and about how to make herself so specially smooth and beautiful for him and we giggle and rest our three heads together. And now it’s time to go into the ball!
Last edited by a moderator:
P
Pia
Guest
I'd love to put in some more pictures of the actual paintings, made by Eduard Kaempffer in 18189-96, but apart from the one above, the best I can do is one postcard of the first part of the story and another postcard that isn't his work but is fun! Oh, and a relief from the Dom in ******.
And here's a view of the staircase:
And here's a view of the staircase:
Last edited by a moderator:
P
Pia
Guest
Golden light from a thousand candles sparking in their chandeliers fills the great hall, flickering over the dark panelling and the richly-coloured images on the walls. The great, the good and the simply rich of the city shimmer in their uniforms and tails and ball-gowns in rainbow shades, drifting from group to group, greeting and kissing to Chopin’s Polonaise. Gisela’s gloved hand lifts the taselled dance card, its empty spaces inviting the offers of the gallant youths parading themselves across the room. Nine dances before the pause. Then a heady dash of waltzes, quadrilles, and polkas until the final and twelfth “Tirolala Waltz” would close the evening in the early hours of the next day: Strauss, Lehar, Ziehrer, Geisner and yet more Strauss! She’d be exhausted! The three girls stood together, wondering who their first partner would be, gladly accepting the tall flutes of champagne offered on their silver trays. And soon their cards were filling, their hands settling into other hands, their slippered feet spinning on the floor as they became wrapped in the swirl of music and laughter.
Time to rest, and Gisela finds herself with Brangane, catching her breath and fanning herself cool. They grin at each other and scan the floor for Tristana, but don’t see her. She creeps up behind and with a touch on their waists surprises them, before dragging Gisela off to dance with her cousin. Markus is leaning on a fluted column, a glass of cordial in his hand, looking splendid in his university uniform. Gisela finds herself reluctantly pulled into his presence, then deserted to small-talk she didn’t want and a polka that he struggles to dance. Whatever her father has in mind, she’s sure she doesn’t want Markus, especially as she spies Meyer flying effortlessly with flaxen-haired girl in the palest of blue gowns. She waits for the right moment, then retreats to another glass of champagne and her friends. Brangane passes her a drink with the faintest of frowns. Gisela looks around for Tristana and spies her across the room. She’s been with her all night but really hadn’t looked at her. She’s standing sideways on, listening to a handsome Ulan in his double-breasted kurta. She stares at her, swathed from the bosom down in flamingo silk; she is everything that is lovely. Her hair falls in an avalanche of black curls over one eyebrow. From her left ear drops a single black pearl, from her right a pearl as black as her unruly hair. She speaks, her lips a perfect cupid’s bow of red beneath the shapely tilt of her nose. She is utterly beautiful.
Time to rest, and Gisela finds herself with Brangane, catching her breath and fanning herself cool. They grin at each other and scan the floor for Tristana, but don’t see her. She creeps up behind and with a touch on their waists surprises them, before dragging Gisela off to dance with her cousin. Markus is leaning on a fluted column, a glass of cordial in his hand, looking splendid in his university uniform. Gisela finds herself reluctantly pulled into his presence, then deserted to small-talk she didn’t want and a polka that he struggles to dance. Whatever her father has in mind, she’s sure she doesn’t want Markus, especially as she spies Meyer flying effortlessly with flaxen-haired girl in the palest of blue gowns. She waits for the right moment, then retreats to another glass of champagne and her friends. Brangane passes her a drink with the faintest of frowns. Gisela looks around for Tristana and spies her across the room. She’s been with her all night but really hadn’t looked at her. She’s standing sideways on, listening to a handsome Ulan in his double-breasted kurta. She stares at her, swathed from the bosom down in flamingo silk; she is everything that is lovely. Her hair falls in an avalanche of black curls over one eyebrow. From her left ear drops a single black pearl, from her right a pearl as black as her unruly hair. She speaks, her lips a perfect cupid’s bow of red beneath the shapely tilt of her nose. She is utterly beautiful.
Last edited by a moderator:
P
Pia
Guest
Brangane’s fingers on her bare back draw Gisela from her reverie. She turns and laughs at the old major stumbling with his ancient wife, then turns again and Tristana is gone. Figures fly past her eyes, spinning through the final waltz, and then she sees her, her limbs entwined in the dance with Meyer’s, her cheek lying softly on his shoulder, his hand sliding to find her breast. Gisela spins on her heels, her face aflame and storms towards the open windows, the Fischmarkt obscured in the blizzard of snow.
The dance is over, the couples part. Tristana steps across the floor, her eyes alight with happiness. She reaches out to Gisela. With a howl she curls her body around, her mouth a tear across her face, her red curls uncontrolled. Gisela spits her curses at Tristana; she doesn’t respond. She picks up her drink and swallows deeply. Lifts her head slowly, parts her crimson lips, the pinkness of her tongue echoing the softness of her ear. Leans away so very slightly, the candle casting a deep shadow over her décolletage, and speaking quietly, purposefully, says:
“Then kill me if you want to”
Gisela stops. Her breasts rise and fall in her gown. She trembles. Slowly it dawns on her. Meyer means nothing. He’s just another boy. Another handsome boy. He means nothing, She drops her champagne glass onto the floor. She doesn’t notice it shattering. She just stares at Tristana.
“It’s better we kill ourselves together”
And oblivious to the scene around her, to the pushing, rushing guests departing the ball, she steps towards Tristana. Two slow, careful, measured steps. Until they are touching. She places her hands around Tristana’s neck, her fingers caressing her pearls; one black, one pink. They draw their faces together. They embrace. They kiss.
The dance is over, the couples part. Tristana steps across the floor, her eyes alight with happiness. She reaches out to Gisela. With a howl she curls her body around, her mouth a tear across her face, her red curls uncontrolled. Gisela spits her curses at Tristana; she doesn’t respond. She picks up her drink and swallows deeply. Lifts her head slowly, parts her crimson lips, the pinkness of her tongue echoing the softness of her ear. Leans away so very slightly, the candle casting a deep shadow over her décolletage, and speaking quietly, purposefully, says:
“Then kill me if you want to”
Gisela stops. Her breasts rise and fall in her gown. She trembles. Slowly it dawns on her. Meyer means nothing. He’s just another boy. Another handsome boy. He means nothing, She drops her champagne glass onto the floor. She doesn’t notice it shattering. She just stares at Tristana.
“It’s better we kill ourselves together”
And oblivious to the scene around her, to the pushing, rushing guests departing the ball, she steps towards Tristana. Two slow, careful, measured steps. Until they are touching. She places her hands around Tristana’s neck, her fingers caressing her pearls; one black, one pink. They draw their faces together. They embrace. They kiss.
Last edited by a moderator:
P
Pia
Guest
hmmm.... played around a bit with a few lines in this during the boring bits of today and made a few changes that I like more than the original.... they will have to wait until I have finished the story I think.... then I will post up a full version.... Research a bit hampered by the lack of Google and a decent internet connection over the last few days.... pfffff
P
Pia
Guest
Chapter 3
The open ground between Gisela’s house and the villa where Brangane lives is laced with the last rotting remnants of snow; pale grey swirled and stained with brown and yellow, twigs sticking from the damp, sugary surface, the fading embarrassed traces of winter’s white coat. Gisela is sitting in her window with her book, her curls flopping into her eyes, her legs curled up into her chin. It’s been eight weeks since the ball. Eight long weeks since she was with Tristana. She lets her brow rest on the chill of the window pane, slides her nose down the glass, reading and re-reading line after line without connecting one to another, lost in her dreams.
She’s thinking about her. About that night in the Rathaus. About her lips. About her black, black hair and the feel of her breath on her neck.
Slowly lengthening days are filled with the usual winter things. Skating trips with Brangane. Shopping in the city. Musical evenings with foppish youths around the piano. Silent walks by the Gera. And as night falls she sits under the ochre glow of the lamp and writes another letter, as if by writing she will begin to understand herself. She takes a bath, swishing her hand through the deep warmth, the last light of the evening filtering through the high window. Slipping down under the surface, gazing up as her hair floats around her staining the water red, then sliding upwards, watching the silky surface break over her breasts, her fingers playing over the softness of her skin. Immersed in her own thoughts and loneliness. Her birthday seeming so long ago.
Well, I’m sad. I’m feeling sad. Can you blame me? I’m just longing to see her, to hear from her. Every day I hang on the ringing of the hall bell as the post boy arrives at the door. Every day I rush down the stairs to grab the letters and search for a Berlin postmark and her lovely hand. I live for her words. I dash to my room, hardly able to breathe. I tremble as I slit open the envelope, pull out the folded paper - sometimes lilac, sometimes white. Gaze at the lines her sweet fingers have made. Touching her touches, breathing her breath. Swallowing the words whole, swirling them around, consuming them, letting my tongue curl around them. Dissolving them. You can see I’ve been reading my book of Rilke, can’t you? And Heinrich Heine too. Tristana said I’d like him. Isn’t he wonderful? But I love her! I’m not some boy infatuated by a pretty country girl, carving my name on every stone and tree! I love her! I love her! I’m going to say it again, because I love the sound of the words. Well, I’m going to whisper it. I lover her!
Last edited by a moderator:
P
Pia
Guest
She’s sitting at her desk in her bedroom, running her fingers through her hair, comfortable in her soft cotton nightdress. She’s picked up her pen three times now and each time replaced it with a sigh on the holder. Her left hand is holding the letter-headed paper still, not that there’s a wind to move it. She can hear the clock ticking downstairs.
Dear, dearest Tristana
So, thank you for your letter - oh dear, that sounds so formal and business-like
doesn’t it, when I really mean to say that as soon as I rip your letter from the
envelope I just want to hold it to my bosom and kiss it a thousand times! Oh dear,
you’re thinking, what a soppy girl that Gisela is!
Anyway, it’s as dull as winter dull can be here. You can’t imagine how provincial
and boring it is. Really it is. I’ve been skating and shopping and I’ve been to the
cafes in the Anger with Brangane and we’ve gossiped and all that and talked and
talked about the night of the ball and about you and about Meyer (and I’m sorry
about all that and I really really don’t care about you kissing Meyer and really I don’t
care about Meyer anymore) and about your cousin Markus who I am sure my father
wants to have me married to. And really that’s it.
What else? Well, you should know that I endlessly sulk. I sit by my window and watch
the snow melting and the crows in the sky looking so gloomy (and the sky is always grey)
and I sulk. And I’m sulking because I am missing you so so much and I know you know
that. And I read. I do so like the poems you told me about. And I dream. And that is
of course the best bit because I am dreaming about you and your lovely black curls and
your sweet soft ears that I want to touch again. And why do you wear those earrings?
Why is one pink and one black? Anyway, I think they look perfect on you. Although
they’d look stupid on me. Only emeralds work with my crazy looks and crazy hair. Only
emeralds! I will need a rich husband, won’t I?
And I keep thinking about that princess in far away Arabia called Suleika and the story
you told. I wonder what it was like for her in her harem? Who came to her and soaped and
smoothed her skin? Who painted her eyes and took the bottles of precious perfumes and
made her perfect for the German Graf? What did she do all those long, dull days in the heat
of the Eastern sun? Did she lie with her servants? Did they touch her and stroke her? I am
sure they did. I think of her all the time.
Oh Tristana! I want to be in that far-away country just with you (oh, I think we should ask
Brangane too, if that’s alright with you?). I want to kiss you so so much!
I hope you don’t think I’m just infatuated, or a silly girl with a crush on you, or a girl who
is so desperate for attention she will do anything for a kiss with anyone she meets! No, I
know you don’t think that. Otherwise you wouldn’t write to me like you do, would you?
You know that for me you are so special. I hope you do.
But here I am in my dull little town in the hills, by my dull little Gera. Not even with you
in Berlin, where the electric lights shine all night long. Just me and Brangane and nothing
to do!
Please, please, please find a way for us to meet again soon! It will be Easter and I am
sure we will go away somewhere - we always do. To some lake or mountain or spa or
something! Make any excuse! Please! I need to see you again Tristana! If I don’t
I will surely just fade away and vanish like a tiny little brook into the Gera and disappear
into the Elbe and they will find me drifting pale and dead between the ships in the harbour
in Hamburg and they will say she’s just another lost girl who drowned herself for love!
Find a way, Tristana! Or I will find away!
A thousand million kisses
Your Gisela.
She hears her father calling her from downstairs. It’s breakfast time and the pale sun is just stroking the first tiny green buds on the trees outside the windows. The table is laid and her mother is sitting down waiting. Gisela stumbles in to the dining-room, her hair falling around her shoulders. She slumps into her seat and waits for the maid to bring her morning eggs. Her father folds the paper and places it by the silver mat in front of him, and says:
“So, we thought we’d take a few days away. A break for me from the factory and for mother too. A few days to relax in the country. What do you think Gisela?”
She stops slicing the top from her egg and pouts.
“But it will be so boring daddy. Can’t we go to Berlin? I’d love to see Tristana again...”
“Hmmm. Well, I don’t really need the big city Gisela. I need a rest. But I’ve already thought about your friends. Of course, we will ask Brangane along, but I thought that indeed we might invite Tristana and Markus too. I think you got on well with him at the ball, didn’t you”
Gisela looks down at the half-opened egg, at the yellow of the yoke as it slid down the perfect shell. She looks around the panelled room, at her father and at her mother. She looks at herself, at her beautiful shoulders and her pretty legs. Are they just something to be traded for her father’s business? Is she just a sweet body to give for an alliance on the stock exchange? She takes a slow, delicate breath, then she smiles.
“That would be really wonderful father! I would so love to see Tristana again, and, of course, I’d love to see Markus too...”
“Excellent, because I’ve already written to Dr Topf and he has agreed. They will come! Now, let’s finish breakfast. What are you planning to do today Gisela? Tell me!”
PS. Tristana! Father’s just told me!!!! I am so excited! I don’t know where it is we’re
going (some dull spa with old ladies and pale young consumptives I suppose! And lots
of boys who think that they are going to be poets too maybe! Anyway! You’re coming!
I’m really going to see you again! I can’t believe it! So now I am going to rush to the
post-office and kiss this letter three times and put on a stamp and send it to you and you
MUST REPLY! And you must tell me all your news and we must make some plans! I
am literally jumping up and down with excitement and I am kissing you a billion times!
Your sweetest, most loving and dearest friend ever in the whole wide world!
Gisela
Dear, dearest Tristana
So, thank you for your letter - oh dear, that sounds so formal and business-like
doesn’t it, when I really mean to say that as soon as I rip your letter from the
envelope I just want to hold it to my bosom and kiss it a thousand times! Oh dear,
you’re thinking, what a soppy girl that Gisela is!
Anyway, it’s as dull as winter dull can be here. You can’t imagine how provincial
and boring it is. Really it is. I’ve been skating and shopping and I’ve been to the
cafes in the Anger with Brangane and we’ve gossiped and all that and talked and
talked about the night of the ball and about you and about Meyer (and I’m sorry
about all that and I really really don’t care about you kissing Meyer and really I don’t
care about Meyer anymore) and about your cousin Markus who I am sure my father
wants to have me married to. And really that’s it.
What else? Well, you should know that I endlessly sulk. I sit by my window and watch
the snow melting and the crows in the sky looking so gloomy (and the sky is always grey)
and I sulk. And I’m sulking because I am missing you so so much and I know you know
that. And I read. I do so like the poems you told me about. And I dream. And that is
of course the best bit because I am dreaming about you and your lovely black curls and
your sweet soft ears that I want to touch again. And why do you wear those earrings?
Why is one pink and one black? Anyway, I think they look perfect on you. Although
they’d look stupid on me. Only emeralds work with my crazy looks and crazy hair. Only
emeralds! I will need a rich husband, won’t I?
And I keep thinking about that princess in far away Arabia called Suleika and the story
you told. I wonder what it was like for her in her harem? Who came to her and soaped and
smoothed her skin? Who painted her eyes and took the bottles of precious perfumes and
made her perfect for the German Graf? What did she do all those long, dull days in the heat
of the Eastern sun? Did she lie with her servants? Did they touch her and stroke her? I am
sure they did. I think of her all the time.
Oh Tristana! I want to be in that far-away country just with you (oh, I think we should ask
Brangane too, if that’s alright with you?). I want to kiss you so so much!
I hope you don’t think I’m just infatuated, or a silly girl with a crush on you, or a girl who
is so desperate for attention she will do anything for a kiss with anyone she meets! No, I
know you don’t think that. Otherwise you wouldn’t write to me like you do, would you?
You know that for me you are so special. I hope you do.
But here I am in my dull little town in the hills, by my dull little Gera. Not even with you
in Berlin, where the electric lights shine all night long. Just me and Brangane and nothing
to do!
Please, please, please find a way for us to meet again soon! It will be Easter and I am
sure we will go away somewhere - we always do. To some lake or mountain or spa or
something! Make any excuse! Please! I need to see you again Tristana! If I don’t
I will surely just fade away and vanish like a tiny little brook into the Gera and disappear
into the Elbe and they will find me drifting pale and dead between the ships in the harbour
in Hamburg and they will say she’s just another lost girl who drowned herself for love!
Find a way, Tristana! Or I will find away!
A thousand million kisses
Your Gisela.
She hears her father calling her from downstairs. It’s breakfast time and the pale sun is just stroking the first tiny green buds on the trees outside the windows. The table is laid and her mother is sitting down waiting. Gisela stumbles in to the dining-room, her hair falling around her shoulders. She slumps into her seat and waits for the maid to bring her morning eggs. Her father folds the paper and places it by the silver mat in front of him, and says:
“So, we thought we’d take a few days away. A break for me from the factory and for mother too. A few days to relax in the country. What do you think Gisela?”
She stops slicing the top from her egg and pouts.
“But it will be so boring daddy. Can’t we go to Berlin? I’d love to see Tristana again...”
“Hmmm. Well, I don’t really need the big city Gisela. I need a rest. But I’ve already thought about your friends. Of course, we will ask Brangane along, but I thought that indeed we might invite Tristana and Markus too. I think you got on well with him at the ball, didn’t you”
Gisela looks down at the half-opened egg, at the yellow of the yoke as it slid down the perfect shell. She looks around the panelled room, at her father and at her mother. She looks at herself, at her beautiful shoulders and her pretty legs. Are they just something to be traded for her father’s business? Is she just a sweet body to give for an alliance on the stock exchange? She takes a slow, delicate breath, then she smiles.
“That would be really wonderful father! I would so love to see Tristana again, and, of course, I’d love to see Markus too...”
“Excellent, because I’ve already written to Dr Topf and he has agreed. They will come! Now, let’s finish breakfast. What are you planning to do today Gisela? Tell me!”
PS. Tristana! Father’s just told me!!!! I am so excited! I don’t know where it is we’re
going (some dull spa with old ladies and pale young consumptives I suppose! And lots
of boys who think that they are going to be poets too maybe! Anyway! You’re coming!
I’m really going to see you again! I can’t believe it! So now I am going to rush to the
post-office and kiss this letter three times and put on a stamp and send it to you and you
MUST REPLY! And you must tell me all your news and we must make some plans! I
am literally jumping up and down with excitement and I am kissing you a billion times!
Your sweetest, most loving and dearest friend ever in the whole wide world!
Gisela
Last edited by a moderator: