Srs bsns tiemz.
Sep. 24th, 2008 10:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lesmisloonyHey people, can I get your opinion on something? It's an assignment for creative writing, but apparently I'm vague and the point I was trying to make has gone over, um, EVERYONE'S head. So can you read this and tell me what you think? It's under 700 words and peppered with random LM shoutouts...
Sophie shifted in her seat. She knew that if she moved too often rumours that la Baronne de Blomet couldn’t sit through a simple Mozart vaudeville would spread through certain drawing rooms before next week’s masquerade, and gossip like that would easily dissuade the count from asking her for a dance. She aligned her panniers so that they drooped evenly over each side of her chair and glanced uneasily around the opera house. None of the inhabitants of the other boxes seemed to be looking in her direction, but she didn’t want to take too many chances.
“Can you believe the cheek of that beggar?” she heard. Marguerite de Blacheville was leaning toward her, whispering from behind her fan. “How dare he confront us like that?”
“Oh, I know!” replied Sophie, her face behind her own fan. The crinkling paper still smelled faintly of paint; she moved it further away from her nose. “But it was a bit of a sad story, wasn’t it? His wife being ill and that. We’re in the middle of an epidemic, aren’t we? Especially at our estate. It’s got so bad even the help are sick, can you imagine? I had to do everything for myself at first, back when I was stuck there. If it wasn’t for you letting me stay in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire I’d have gone mad.”
“How do you know the beggar’s wife was ill?” Marguerite asked, wrinkling her nose. “He wasn’t speaking a word of French.”
“He— wasn’t he? I understood him. I thought I did.”
“Do you speak Spanish? I think it was Spanish. Plenty of beggars are Spanish.”
“I was never taught Spanish, no.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “I do hate languages. My governess insisted on teaching me German when I was small. German, can you imagine? It’s such a horrible sounding thing, and the rules make no sense! Years of German lessons, and here I am at a Mozart all sung in proper German and I can’t understand a word.”
Sophie half-nodded, her eyes back on the stage. No one was expected to watch the entire opera in silence, not even the count, but she felt she had been looking away for long enough now. She tried to pick up the thread of the story again, but the fantastical world of this opera required a little more concentration than she had been giving it. The man dressed in feathers was talking to an old woman in a mask about love. She leaned forward to listen.
“Do you know any German?” Marguerite asked. Sophie shook her head. “What language did you learn, then?”
“Latin,” said Sophie. “I did pick it right up. It’s practically identical to French, isn’t it? It’s odd; I understood it right away.”
“Latin?” Marguerite repeated incredulously. “No! It’s very different! But I’d rather have learned Latin than German.”
Sophie glanced at her, then back at the stage. “This isn’t that confusing,” she murmured. “They’re explaining everything, you just have to listen. The crone is telling Papageno that she is eighteen years old, and in love with a man ten years older than her.”
“How is she eighteen years old?”
“It’s a mask. All she has to do is drop it and you’ll see who she really is.”
“Who is she really?” Marguerite asked. “I can’t stand this stuff. I only go because they told me the count would be here, but he isn’t.”
Sophie gave her a sharp look. “What do you want with the count?”
“Oh, please, it’s not as if he’s your property,” she said, falling back into her chair and smirking. “And anyway, he’d hardly want to be seen with a foundling, now would he?”
“I carry my father’s title. What do you have to offer, Mademoiselle de Blacheville?”
“Your father’s title? Your father was probably a Spanish beggar himself. And your mother was probably a streetwalker. Only God knows who you really are.”
Sophie’s nostrils flared and she straightened her shoulders, drumming her fingers furiously against her skirts. It would not do to scratch out her friend’s eyes in the middle of the opera.
So? Are my rl friends just kind of dense or am I too vague?
Sophie shifted in her seat. She knew that if she moved too often rumours that la Baronne de Blomet couldn’t sit through a simple Mozart vaudeville would spread through certain drawing rooms before next week’s masquerade, and gossip like that would easily dissuade the count from asking her for a dance. She aligned her panniers so that they drooped evenly over each side of her chair and glanced uneasily around the opera house. None of the inhabitants of the other boxes seemed to be looking in her direction, but she didn’t want to take too many chances.
“Can you believe the cheek of that beggar?” she heard. Marguerite de Blacheville was leaning toward her, whispering from behind her fan. “How dare he confront us like that?”
“Oh, I know!” replied Sophie, her face behind her own fan. The crinkling paper still smelled faintly of paint; she moved it further away from her nose. “But it was a bit of a sad story, wasn’t it? His wife being ill and that. We’re in the middle of an epidemic, aren’t we? Especially at our estate. It’s got so bad even the help are sick, can you imagine? I had to do everything for myself at first, back when I was stuck there. If it wasn’t for you letting me stay in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire I’d have gone mad.”
“How do you know the beggar’s wife was ill?” Marguerite asked, wrinkling her nose. “He wasn’t speaking a word of French.”
“He— wasn’t he? I understood him. I thought I did.”
“Do you speak Spanish? I think it was Spanish. Plenty of beggars are Spanish.”
“I was never taught Spanish, no.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “I do hate languages. My governess insisted on teaching me German when I was small. German, can you imagine? It’s such a horrible sounding thing, and the rules make no sense! Years of German lessons, and here I am at a Mozart all sung in proper German and I can’t understand a word.”
Sophie half-nodded, her eyes back on the stage. No one was expected to watch the entire opera in silence, not even the count, but she felt she had been looking away for long enough now. She tried to pick up the thread of the story again, but the fantastical world of this opera required a little more concentration than she had been giving it. The man dressed in feathers was talking to an old woman in a mask about love. She leaned forward to listen.
“Do you know any German?” Marguerite asked. Sophie shook her head. “What language did you learn, then?”
“Latin,” said Sophie. “I did pick it right up. It’s practically identical to French, isn’t it? It’s odd; I understood it right away.”
“Latin?” Marguerite repeated incredulously. “No! It’s very different! But I’d rather have learned Latin than German.”
Sophie glanced at her, then back at the stage. “This isn’t that confusing,” she murmured. “They’re explaining everything, you just have to listen. The crone is telling Papageno that she is eighteen years old, and in love with a man ten years older than her.”
“How is she eighteen years old?”
“It’s a mask. All she has to do is drop it and you’ll see who she really is.”
“Who is she really?” Marguerite asked. “I can’t stand this stuff. I only go because they told me the count would be here, but he isn’t.”
Sophie gave her a sharp look. “What do you want with the count?”
“Oh, please, it’s not as if he’s your property,” she said, falling back into her chair and smirking. “And anyway, he’d hardly want to be seen with a foundling, now would he?”
“I carry my father’s title. What do you have to offer, Mademoiselle de Blacheville?”
“Your father’s title? Your father was probably a Spanish beggar himself. And your mother was probably a streetwalker. Only God knows who you really are.”
Sophie’s nostrils flared and she straightened her shoulders, drumming her fingers furiously against her skirts. It would not do to scratch out her friend’s eyes in the middle of the opera.
So? Are my rl friends just kind of dense or am I too vague?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-24 04:12 pm (UTC)