Primus pilus
Magister Australis
They were so pretty ... View attachment 182540
It was so hot ! ... View attachment 182541
Such wonderful detail.
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Such wonderful detail.
P
Pia
Guest
pkin loves the disappointed Messa.... she is delightfully sweetly sad....pkin wants to scoop her up and kiss her!
P
Pia
Guest
No!Messa is ... disappointed ... ..........................................why? was it over?
also, both happy
P
Pia
Guest
Oooooooh - you know my tastes too well.... I think that they are quite lovely Messa! XXXXMmmmmm ! Pkin !!!!
P
Pia
Guest
I’m sitting alone in the sitting room. I’m trying to read, but I can’t concentrate. Brangane’s gone out for a walk. It’s a beautiful evening for a walk I suppose. There’s no wind at all. I can see the pink-striped sky through the trees outside. The sea will be flat calm. We’ll be going over to Markus’s later to play cards. It’s so hard. Do you remember me on my birthday? The tenth of January. It seems so long ago now, so far away. So much has happened, so much has changed since that night at the Opera when I first saw her. And at the ball, when I first opened my eyes. I feel so much older, but it’s barely half a year. And now she’s in Berlin, in her uncle’s townhouse in Charlottenburg. And I’m here, almost in another country. And everything’s changed. Do you remember me? The carefree happy girl you met? And now. And now.
P
Pia
Guest
Pfff - two "sittings" so let's call it the "drawing room" ... I think that would be better!
P
Pia
Guest
Nine of Spades. Is there a more useless card in the world? What can I do with that? He’s played a Diamond. Good. I have at least one nice card in my hand. Brangane… she plays a Jack… One more hand, his friend… a silent young man, a student in Heidelburg, an ascetic almost… He pauses… he’s got long, fine fingers. Blue eyes. Soft lashes, almost girl-like. He waits. Pulls on one of his cards then changes his mind. I wonder what he’s thinking. He looks at me and half-smiles. He plays a low number. I’m wondering why. It’s my hand! I’ve got the Queen! But someone didn’t play the Ace or the King. I don’t understand card games. I really don’t. It’s my lead and I play my best card, or I think it is. My King. Of Hearts, of course. And the next two throw away, then it’s Heidelberger again. Ace. Ace! My Heart has been killed again! Well, I’m no good at cards. Markus pours the wine, a lovely fruity wine from the Rheinland. German wine! It’s so rich and golden. It takes my mind from these silly cards. Brangane plays to win, I play to pass the time. But I think Heidelberger will take the honours. He’s thinking, all the time. And he seems not to drink. I’m going to drink. Tonight I may get very drunk indeed. Markus is laughing. He thinks I’m just being silly, but he loves me truly, I know that. And he thinks I’m beautiful. But I’m not. I don’t think I am. Only Tristana can tell me I’m beautiful. I’ll believe her, because she is beautiful too and she understands beauty. But she’s in Berlin. And I am here on the Baltic. Playing cards and drinking wine. I’m telling myself that it’s not so bad. And Markus is smoking a cigar and joking with Heidelberger and maybe this is how it will be. I’m eighteen. We’ll marry next year I suppose. In nineteen sixty three well, I’ll be almost seventy. Well, sixty-eight. I can’t imagine every being sixty-eight. I wonder what colour my hair will be then? And how wrinkled I’ll be and how many grand-children we will have and whether we’ll be living in Berlin or wherever and what will have become of my lovely Tristana. It seems so far away. But I suppose life just goes on… I’m a girl, I’ll get married, I’ll have children, I’ll grow old and they’ll call on me at some time or other. And we’ll just keep doing the same old things. Go to the opera. Go to the Philharmonic. Go out to restaurants. Celebrate the Kaiser’s next anniversary. And the one after that. I imagine that will be my life and yet every day I know I will dream of Tristana and our night by the Baltic Sea. I think she will too. Maybe we will be able to stay friends and become old ladies together. I think that would be nice. I hope so.
P
Pia
Guest
But you know, every so often, especially as I sip on my glass of wine, I can’t help but remember that girl. You know, the crazy one. The one who danced naked in the forest, on the sandy floor. She was like a reed, but not one that breaks. One that bends and twists and turns but one that stays strong. I remember staring at her. Her legs and the way her skin stretched over her ribs and how her arms flew into the sky. She didn’t care about anything. She knew what she wanted and she was so sure she’d take it. I think she will. I’m trying to remember her name. Oh dear. What was it? Hmmm. I have to throw in another card. I’ve lost all interest. I think Markus knows. So what? I ask him to fill my glass and of course he does. It’s a card game. Just a game. Why should I care about a silly game? Anita. Anita Berber. I remember now. She knew just what she wanted. She was so sure of herself, so sure. I should be like Anita. I know what I want too. Not to grow old with Markus. I really can’t possibly play cards for the rest of my life and go to concerts and be a good wife! I can’t. Oh dear. I think my face is becoming flushed. I’m afraid they can hear me thinking. They can’t can they? No. They can’t. It’s impossible. But my head is pounding. I can see Anita dancing. I can feel Tristana in my arms. I’m feeling different. And frightened. I know what I really truly want. I really know. Oh no, it’s my turn again. A two. Of Clubs. Does it matter?
P
Pia
Guest
The clock ticks slowly on. Tristana wanders the dark panelled corridors of the villa in Charlottenberg, her fingers aimlessly tracing over the polished surfaces of tables and plant holders. The lamps are on and a supper prepared, but she doesn’t want to eat. She looks out of the widows from the upper landing, down onto Ahornstraße, waiting for a glimpse of the carriage bringing Konstanze and the baggage from the late train. Her head rests, cooling, on the pane. Nothing is stirring; no wind; the linden trees hang dark and heavy in the street. She sighs and trails slowly towards her bedroom, sitting quietly in front of the dressing-table mirror, staring at her own reflection as she removes her ear-rings and places them into the little drawer. Pulling on the draw-strings of her loose-fitting travel dress and letting it slip from her shoulders. Wishing it was Gisela staring back from the glass. Tristana picks up a pen, holds it to her lips, to the letter-headed paper, but can’t bring herself to write. Not yet; not tonight. Tomorrow, she thinks to herself, tomorrow she will write. When Konstanze is here. Konstanze can be her messenger. The bed is cool and comforting; her hands stroke the cotton sheets flat, smooth out her night-dress as she pulls up the covers. She thinks about reading a little but her head settles onto the pillow, her dark curls a halo around her lovely face. “I’ll write tomorrow” she thinks again, her eyes shutting her away from the nighlight’s yellow glow.
P
Pia
Guest
Chapter 13
“Konstanze! Konstanze! Here you are! At last… I…will you take this to the post-office for me Konstanze? Please! I need you to. Will you?”
“Oh my poor girl, Tristana. I…I cannot… Master Markus…well, he’s said you’re not to contact her at all. You have to understand Tristana! He… He wants to make everything normal again. I…I’m sure it will be alright in the end Tristana. I’m sure it will be. He’ll come back with her and you’ll all be friends again and everything will be alright. I…”
“No! No! It can never be! I have to speak to her Konstanze! I need you to help me! You’re my only hope! I have to speak to her and I need her to come to me and I know she will want to! Konstanze! You can’t abandon me! You can’t! If you won’t help me then everything is hopeless! Please help me! You’ve known me forever! You know I’m dying without her. Really I am. I can’t be apart from her. I can’t let him do this Konstanze. I can’t. Help me Konstanze! Help me or… Or I will have to find a way. I have to see her. You know I have to be with her!”
She tries to stroke Tristana on the shoulder, her hand pushed violently away. Tristana turns, hair flying, eyes blurred by tears; throws the letter down in a crumpled ball; trembling with fear and anger rushes away, along the corridor and up the flight of stairs to her bedroom above, throwing herself in a sea of sobs onto the sunlit covers.
I love the way her minds flits along in this one!!! One thought after another in rapid succession...nice writing PK!!!
P
Pia
Guest
It’s noon. The clock in the hallway below has struck, echoing the bells of the city. Tristana sits at her dressing table, cheeks stained with sadness, her hair a dark confusion, twisted by anxious fingers. She wipes her eyes, sniffs away another tear. In front of her the paper-knife, waiting for a hand. She reaches out, taking it by the ivory handle, turning it before her eyes, the blade shimmering as it catches the light. It’s nothing, a small slender knife. She holds up and senses the cold of the blade on her lips.
“It can’t hurt that much. It will be done so quickly if I am brave.”
With her left hand she opens her dress, pushing the fabric back over her breast.
She breathes deeply, placing the point against her, then relents, lost in a confusion of thoughts.
Another sweetly salty bead runs into the corner of her mouth; she wipes it away.
“Be my friend…”
Holding herself steady against the edge of the table she takes the blade once more and feels the sharpness of its edge against her soft flesh.
A deep breath. She holds her breath.
She locks her teeth together.
And pushes; fast and hard.
She waits for the pain, but none seems to come.
She looks in the mirror, at the knife buried to its hilt in her breast, a line of crimson flowing down her body, soaking into the white folds of her dress.
She opens her mouth, as if to breathe. A red foam runs down her chin.
She stares at herself, her reflection growing dim, floating, blurring, becoming an enveloping darkness.
“It can’t hurt that much. It will be done so quickly if I am brave.”
With her left hand she opens her dress, pushing the fabric back over her breast.
She breathes deeply, placing the point against her, then relents, lost in a confusion of thoughts.
Another sweetly salty bead runs into the corner of her mouth; she wipes it away.
“Be my friend…”
Holding herself steady against the edge of the table she takes the blade once more and feels the sharpness of its edge against her soft flesh.
A deep breath. She holds her breath.
She locks her teeth together.
And pushes; fast and hard.
She waits for the pain, but none seems to come.
She looks in the mirror, at the knife buried to its hilt in her breast, a line of crimson flowing down her body, soaking into the white folds of her dress.
She opens her mouth, as if to breathe. A red foam runs down her chin.
She stares at herself, her reflection growing dim, floating, blurring, becoming an enveloping darkness.
yes, 'sitting room' is very suburban!
LittleSiss
Sorceress
To paraphrase Barb, this story has me flitting a bit, too! 
P
Pia
Guest
The explosion of the crystal lamp echoes around the room, through the open door, along the corridor, down the stairs!
Konstanze, taking a moment’s break from polishing the dining table, stops.
She races up the stairs, into Tristana’s room.
Sees her, slumped forward over the dressing table. Sees the shards of glass scattered over the dark wood floor.
Goes to her, lifts her and sees the redness soaking her clothes.
Sees the knife, half-plunged into her naked breast, her limp body, the blood running from her mouth.
Panics. For a moment. Looks again at the knife and thinks. Do not pull it out.
Rushes down the staircase, picks up the receiver, dials the family doctor.
“Come on, come on!! Come on!!!”
Taps her fingers against her side. Time is running.
“Yes, yes it’s... oh, quickly, come to us quickly! Number four Ahornstraße! Quickly! She’s dying!”
He does come, and half an hour later she’s lying in her bed. He’s carefully removed the knife. He says it wasn’t too deep, but it has perforated her lung. He’s placed a dressing carefully over the wound, not sealing it completely. He says she’ll be alright. But she mustn’t move. If she moves, she will increase the tear. He’s checked her lung and there is some bleeding, quite a lot. But she has two lungs, he says. She’ll be alright. She’s young and strong. He’s applied some disinfectant and he’ll check her again in a few hours. He’ll come back. For now she must rest. He will dress the wound again later, but for now she must stay still. It’s good she’s sleeping. He’ll leave something for the pain, if she wakes up; he explains the dosage. He’s reassuring. He’s a good doctor. Konstanze’s sure he’s a good doctor. She listens carefully to everything he says and notes it down in her little pad. She’s sure her Tristana is safe in his care. He’s a good doctor, after all.
Konstanze, taking a moment’s break from polishing the dining table, stops.
She races up the stairs, into Tristana’s room.
Sees her, slumped forward over the dressing table. Sees the shards of glass scattered over the dark wood floor.
Goes to her, lifts her and sees the redness soaking her clothes.
Sees the knife, half-plunged into her naked breast, her limp body, the blood running from her mouth.
Panics. For a moment. Looks again at the knife and thinks. Do not pull it out.
Rushes down the staircase, picks up the receiver, dials the family doctor.
“Come on, come on!! Come on!!!”
Taps her fingers against her side. Time is running.
“Yes, yes it’s... oh, quickly, come to us quickly! Number four Ahornstraße! Quickly! She’s dying!”
He does come, and half an hour later she’s lying in her bed. He’s carefully removed the knife. He says it wasn’t too deep, but it has perforated her lung. He’s placed a dressing carefully over the wound, not sealing it completely. He says she’ll be alright. But she mustn’t move. If she moves, she will increase the tear. He’s checked her lung and there is some bleeding, quite a lot. But she has two lungs, he says. She’ll be alright. She’s young and strong. He’s applied some disinfectant and he’ll check her again in a few hours. He’ll come back. For now she must rest. He will dress the wound again later, but for now she must stay still. It’s good she’s sleeping. He’ll leave something for the pain, if she wakes up; he explains the dosage. He’s reassuring. He’s a good doctor. Konstanze’s sure he’s a good doctor. She listens carefully to everything he says and notes it down in her little pad. She’s sure her Tristana is safe in his care. He’s a good doctor, after all.