DEN SPINDELVÄVSTUNNA SLÖJAN
En magisk höstsaga till Allhelgonaafton
För mycket, mycket länge sedan levde en drottning som var trollkunnig. Ur en fingerborg trollade hon fram en levande docka, Greta, så att hon skulle ha någon att leka med. Men eftersom drottningen var grym och nyckfull retade hon sin lilla docka och gav henne uppgifter som var omöjliga att klara av.
En vinterdag sa hon till Greta att hon måste väva en spindelvävstunn slöja som kunde göra henne osynlig. Den stackars flickan vandrade sorgset fram i den kalla natten och visste inte vad hon skulle ta sig till.
Plötsligt stod en vacker kronhjort framför henne.
"Berätta för mig vad är det som bekymrar dig, min lilla vän", sa han. När Greta berättade den sorgliga historien för honom ruskade han bara på huvudet och sa: "Oroa dig inte, allt kommer att ordna sig".
Sedan skakade han på sina horn och plötsligt töade snön bort och träden blev fulla av fruktblom. Då skakade han på hornen en gång till och träden blev fulla av frukt. Han skakade hornen en tredje gång: frukten mognade, löven började bli gula och spindelväv kom seglande genom luften. Flickan samlade överlyckligt ihop dem och vävde den magiska slöjan.
Men istället för att ta den till drottningen kastade hon den över sina egna axlar och blev genast osynlig. Sedan återvände hon till slottet. "Dina dagar är räknade, grymma drottning!" ropade hon med spöklik röst.
"Vem är det som talar till mig?" frågade häxdrottningen.
"Det är din syster, Döden", svarade Greta.
Drottningen blev så förskräckt att hennes elaka hjärta brast. På så sätt blev lilla Greta drottning och då och då kommer hjorten på besök till henne.
PS. I år är jag en kuchisake-meido med Hogwartsrygga!
martes, 31 de octubre de 2017
lunes, 30 de octubre de 2017
HOW DIFFICULT CAN GOING SHOPPING BE?
Kirakira Pretty Cure à la Mode
My Own Review - Episode 38
HOW DIFFICULT CAN GOING SHOPPING BE?
MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION:
This is the pet-centric episode when the pet changes form from animal to human. Pekorin obviously becomes an adorable toddler... and goes shopping for groceries...
As a 20-something, I think shopping for groceries isn't hard at all. But putting myself in a little child's shoes -and I was overprotected, sheltered, cooped up at home until my late teens-...
The absorption of Diaval into the Glaivemobile was something completely unexpected. I mean, the werewolf head looks as good an ornament as any Jaguar (smirk).
I also loved how Pekorin exhausted herself, but her kirakiraru manifested as these rings for the Precures to put Glaive to rout.
Also: next episode, the first part of the cour finale, is within a fortnight. The better to meet the demands of an oppressive education papa and the Gustavus Adolphus festivities... when is there any spare time for Shades of Dawning?
IN NEXT EPISODE (39):
My Own Review - Episode 38
HOW DIFFICULT CAN GOING SHOPPING BE?
Pekorin doughnuts, what else?
Human, animal, or yousei: all the denizens of Mt. Ichigo share an emotive picnic.
Pikalio's paw twitched in his comatose state... something interesting this way comes...
MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION:
This is the pet-centric episode when the pet changes form from animal to human. Pekorin obviously becomes an adorable toddler... and goes shopping for groceries...
As a 20-something, I think shopping for groceries isn't hard at all. But putting myself in a little child's shoes -and I was overprotected, sheltered, cooped up at home until my late teens-...
The absorption of Diaval into the Glaivemobile was something completely unexpected. I mean, the werewolf head looks as good an ornament as any Jaguar (smirk).
I also loved how Pekorin exhausted herself, but her kirakiraru manifested as these rings for the Precures to put Glaive to rout.
Also: next episode, the first part of the cour finale, is within a fortnight. The better to meet the demands of an oppressive education papa and the Gustavus Adolphus festivities... when is there any spare time for Shades of Dawning?
IN NEXT EPISODE (39):
jueves, 26 de octubre de 2017
JOHN DRYDEN'S TEN TRANSLATION COMMANDMENTS
The shifts in religious tolerance during the seventeenth century also proved fruitful for translation theory: for instance, Cavalier translators that had been exiled in France during Cromwell's Puritan republic brought French ideas on translation home with them to England after the Restoration. Sir John Denham and Abraham Cowley, in particular, who were especially influenced by Perrot d'Ablancourt's advocacy of free imitation, promoted the recreation of the spirit of the original, but in a form that would ensure the audience's reading pleasure. It was John Dryden though who made the first major contribution to English translation theory in his preface to Ovid's Epistles (1680). His views, which gave rise to the most stringent sets of conventional rules, were shaped by a desire to instill some form of rational order at the end of such a chaotic century. By the end of his career, he had supplied literary translators with ten rules (ten commandments if you will), according to which the literary translator must:
Moreover, Dryden classified translation into three categories: metaphrase (literal translation), paraphrase (translation with some latitudes), and imitation (entirely free translation). He advocated that paraphrasing was the ideal method of retaining the source text's entire meaning, without making the target text cumbersome. Alexander Pope, another translator who wrote in the same era, situated 'correct' translation between Dryden's metaphrase and paraphrase:
It is certain no literal Translation can be just to an excellent Original in a superior Language: but it is a great Mistake to imagine (as many have done) that a rash Paraphrase can make amends for this general Defect; which is no less in danger to lose the Spirit of an Ancient, by deviating into the Modern Manners of Expression.
Both Dryden and Pope agree, therefore, that the message of the source text is the sacred focal point in the translation process.
- be a poet
- be master of both the language of the original and one's own
- understand the characteristics that individuate the original author
- conform one's own genius to that of the original
- keep the sense "sacred and inviolable" and be literal where gracefulness can be maintained.
- make the author appear as "charming" as possible without violating the author's real character
- be attentive to the verse qualities of both the original and the translated poem
- make the author speak the contemporary target language that they would have spoken
- not improve the original
- not follow the original so closely that the spirit is lost.
Moreover, Dryden classified translation into three categories: metaphrase (literal translation), paraphrase (translation with some latitudes), and imitation (entirely free translation). He advocated that paraphrasing was the ideal method of retaining the source text's entire meaning, without making the target text cumbersome. Alexander Pope, another translator who wrote in the same era, situated 'correct' translation between Dryden's metaphrase and paraphrase:
It is certain no literal Translation can be just to an excellent Original in a superior Language: but it is a great Mistake to imagine (as many have done) that a rash Paraphrase can make amends for this general Defect; which is no less in danger to lose the Spirit of an Ancient, by deviating into the Modern Manners of Expression.
Both Dryden and Pope agree, therefore, that the message of the source text is the sacred focal point in the translation process.
FAVOURITE ROMANTIC LOVE STORIES
THE WASHERWOMAN'S HEN
Folktale -origins unknown, Catholic Europe-
The oldest crones in this land still tell that a certain washerwoman, more humble than miserable but nevertheless very poor, did nothing but pray to the Heavens for a child, since both wise women and doctors had told her that she could never have any offspring. But still she never resigned herself to accept that she was barren.
One day, while she was hanging costly clothes on the line, she saw a mother hen clucking by, followed by all of her chicks, and the sight made her so desperate that, en tête-à-tête with the Virgin Mary, she asked Our Lady to at least give her a hen, whom she would know to love and treat as a daughter of her own. "Holy Mary, if you gave me at least a hen for a daughter, then I would feel contented..."
Nine months later, she laid a chicken egg, which she, with all her love, hatched in her bosom. The chick grew within a matter of three days, and now it was a grown hen. The unfortunate washerwoman did not tarry in accepting how things were. At least she now had some company.
It was truly a beautiful hen, with a red plumage that shifted in colours like a flame, a majestic way of walking, and a cackle like the song of a primadonna soprano. Twelve years later, when the washerwoman already felt like the proud mother of a prized if not decent hen, her daughter began to increase in size, just like some maidens have growth spurts. At the same time, she began to do really strange things, like waltzing around her mother's ankles and singing:
One day that she was incessantly cackling this chant, the washerwoman gave her a dirty rag and threw it to her daughter, for the hen to leave her be in peace.
The hen caught the rag in her beak and took it as far from her mother's eyes as she could.
Then, she gave it a peck, and instantly from the rag sprouted a magnificent mansion, down whose staircase walked twelve damsels bearing dishes fit for a feast for the hen, which, of course, had become a damsel as fair and bright as the sun; one would dare to say a princess.
Thus it happened for several times, and once it came to pass by chance that the royals' eldest son was riding by, beheld the hen and her rags, and was witness to the wonderful events that transpired afterwards. The prince was smitten with the princess and decided to make her his bride.
And thus, one day, he showed up at the washerwoman's door, and the following conversation ensued:
"Would you please sell me that hen, madame?"
"She's not for sale! Not for all the gold in the world!" she replied.
"And how much is 'all the gold in the world'?"
"Let's say... five hundred sacks full."
"I shall give you one thousand," the Crown Prince replied.
"Then... who could refuse such an offer?" the washerwoman gave in.
And this was how the prince brought the hen to Court.
He was not that sure of what he was to do to succeed in marrying her, but at last he had an idea. One evening, the local lordship of the hen's home province hosted a grand ball at his castle. The prince tucked his "little" hen to sleep in her canopy bed, having made for her a round nest out of his own bedcovers, and left for the ballroom, for the dance, leaving her asleep with the curtains drawn. As soon as the door had been shut behind her, the hen pecked the rag, which she wore for a shawl, and instantly she was human and her handmaids appeared, dressing her in her very best ensemble to attend the same ball.
When the Crown Prince saw her arrive in the royal gardens, and all eyes were upon her, he understood that right then was the time to put his strategy into action. He stormed back to the palace, upstairs into her bedchamber, and found her canopy bed full of fire-red feathers; then he took all these feathers to throw them into the fire, along with the rag. Once he was sure that there was not a single feather left and the rag had been burned as well, he went himself to bed and awaited the return of his fiancée from the dance.
When he heard her steps walking upstairs, he pretended he was asleep. She tiptoed into the bedchamber, not to wake her fiancé up, but her surprise was enormour when she saw that, in her sleeping place, there was neither magical rag nor even a single hen feather.
Right then, she felt two strong, youthful arms clasping her waist.
"Now I've got you! And now, you shall marry me!" the elated prince startled her.
And of course so it came to be, and there was much rejoicing, especially for the washerwoman, who became one of the most illustrious ladies of the Court, and even governess to the royal children of that happy marriage.
SER BYRTING OF BAYERLAND
-Scandinavian lore (the ballad exists in many forms), though set in Bavaria-
Ser Byrting was a noble knight born and bred, and dwelling, in Bayerland, the region he loved more than anything else in the wide world, so he said. He was a dashing young man, whose appearance showed no signs of manliness or harshness; and yet he was wise beyond his years, a skilful warrior upon the field of battle, and righteous towards his vassals. Some of which, precisely, thought that he had one single flaw marring all that perfection: that he was still single.
However, in spite of the love he held for his native land, he would die far from home, and not unmarried.
The tale tells, in fact, that on a dark and stormy night, with a veritable flood pouring down upon and around the castle, a great clash of thunder and lighting, and the whistling of the gale being sometimes even more ominous than the thunderstorm, Byrting arose startled from his canopy bed, awakened by a knocking at the door. In spite of the night being that stormy, he had slept an innocent and sound sleep, for his conscience was crystal clear. However, those knockings had the nearly miraculous power to wake him up.
"Who's there?" he asked, as he rose from his bed and parted the bed-curtains, his right hand instinctively clutching the hilt of his sword.
"Open, Ser Byrting," the stranger replied in a female voice, so fragile that the knight believed that he was haunted by a revenant.
Then, hearing that female voice, brave Ser Byrting was filled with dread. His shirt clung to his back, his heart raced, a shudder ran down his spine.... Outside, the storm had calmed in a strangely sudden fashion, and he saw the starry night sky crowned by a full moon. So he replied that he would not open the door; if the stranger were in need of shelter for the night, she might as well ask his vassals.
"And who are you?" Byrting asked in response.
"I am Nora, queen of the light elves. I have come to tell you that tomorrow you shall be with me, in the realm of my elders."
And Nora turned around, as if she did not care, and vanished from the spot. It was then that Byrting decided not to waste any time in her pursuit. He summoned a pair of valets and commanded them to gather a knapsack with provisions he might need for the long journey; he wrapped himself, without any aid, the cloak around his shoulders, placed the helmet on his own golden locks, girded the sheathed sword upon his left thigh; and he fled Bayerland as soon as the sun's first rays rose.
He galloped for many leagues and many days, always guided up north by the North Star, and, the further from home he came, the more his spirits were calmed and at ease.
Suddenly, upon crossing a certain stream at a bridge haunted by elves, his steed reared and the rider fell to the ground, the horse galloping away and leaving Byrting to his fate. Stunned with the fall, he began to call for help, but with a weakened voice that scarcely could be heard six feet around. He had fallen on his left side, and bloody foam sprang from his lips, as even breathing racked him with pain.
However, from the stream tinkling under the bridge, the elven queen Nora arose. In her hands she held a golden chalice.
"Who are you, and where do you come from?" she asked.
"I am Ser Byrting, a knight of Bayerland, the realm I love over anything else upon this wide world."
Nora gave him to drink from her chalice; thirsty as he was from both exertion and his injury, he drank a deep draught. It was a sweetly-scented and sweetly-flavoured liquor, far stronger than mead, that instantly filled the knight with a pleasant drowsiness.
"Of course..." he kept on speaking, his voice now slurred and wavering. "My beloved Bayerland, my native land, my father's land and my mother's... Bayerland..."
Nora gave him another drink, again he quaffed deeply, and then the young man felt that his shapely limbs, grown strong and hardened in many a hard-contested battle, were dissolving as if into thin air. Then she reached out her chalice again, as she asked the same question:
"Who are you, and where do you come from?"
"I do not know who I am. But I know that I am leaving for Alfheim, that is, Elfhome, to marry the queen of the elves, the fairest one that there is upon this world."
And thus, the pale knight shut his weary eyes, his head nestling in Nora's lap, from which he would nevermore rise.
THE SONG OF DISTANT LOVE
-Folklore about Southern French troubadours-
Joffrey Rudel was a troubadour, which means that by trade he wandered across the wide world thinking up songs and singing them, sometimes at the courts of powerful rulers, others for his equals, and not rarely to entertain himself as he rode from village to village in the evening, seeking room and board.
He had gained renown among all the others of his trade because, as they said, no one else had ever contrived to sing in such a lifelike or heartwarming way of a distant beloved. That was Joffrey's favourite theme: to express in the very words of someone madly in love the feelings inspired in him by a lady he had never seen, whose name he had never known, of whom he had never had any news. He had only confided in some friends that she lived in the Far East, in a magical palace where even the plumage of the songbirds was of such stuff that dreams were made of.
He held in his heart a special affection for one of these friends, one Bertrand, who, in exchange, loved Joffrey as the precious friend he was. One day, Joffrey fell ill with such a burning fever that the physicians tending to him despaired for his life. Bertrand, feeling sorry for him, assured his friend that he knew the lady of his dreams, and that it was none other than a certain Eastern princess by the name of Melisandre.
"Joffrey, dear friend, why should we not pay her a visit? I have acquired a ship waiting to set sail in Marseilles, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure!"
For a while Joffrey doubted, yet, in the end, not to disappoint his best friend, he finally accepted.
"We shall go forth to see that Melisandre, since you are so convinced that she is my lady... Yet, from now on, I tell you that you deceive yourself, for the will of my lady, to whom I owe all my heart and all my wit, is to shun me, to keep me always on tenterhooks, by night and day, keeping my eyes wide open by virtue of the beauty of her own eyes. Besides..." here Joffrey paused, smiling as a weary, exhausted young man does, "...you know that not even her real name can be guessed."
Bertrand nodded in response to every word Joffrey said, excited because what was interesting for him was that his friend had decided to join him on the quest, for he thought that some excitement might improve Joffrey's state of health.
For weeks they sailed the Mediterranean, towards the strait where Europe gives way to Asia. Joffrey, instead of admiring the shores where they docked or making friends with the strangers they found, usually stayed on deck, singing of his distant love.
At last they reached that Eastern country of dreams and Melisandre's palace. Joffrey confessed to Bertrand that he was not in the mood to appear before such a highborn royal lady, even if she were the one of his dreams. The troubadour was beginning to doubt. What if she was the one always on his mind and in his lyrics?
Bertrand presented himself first as a go-between to Melisandre, explaining the reason for their journey and their visit from so far away:
"Your Highness, much has been spoken to me about you, and the word of your generosity has reached me from far away; I pray you to please give respite to this unfortunate young man. He is wavering between life and death, and he needs to find what he always has sought..."
But chance would have it that Melisandre should become smitten with Bertrand, and Bertrand with Melisandre. The princess, who did not even want to be unfaithful for once to her love, rotundly denied to perform that charade of her tryst en tête-à-tête with Joffrey.
"I love you, Bertrand," those were her words, "which means that there can be no other man in my life."
One day, Bertrand received a visit from two sailors of his crew, who came to inform him that Joffrey Rudel's health had worsened. Only then was Bertrand able to soften Melisandre's heart.
The princess was left en tête-à-tête with Joffrey, who lay, breathing hardly, on his deathbed. She was unable to break the ice in any conversation with him, eagerly awaiting his words. But the troubadour could only gape shallowly, his lungs thirsting for air.
However, instantly a miracle occurred. Joffrey opened his eyes, looked at Melisandre, breathed deeply, arose, and, with the sweetest voice he had ever tuned, he sang his song of distant love.
Then, after singing the last verse, he breathed his last.
Melisandre approached Bertrand and gave him the sorrowful news. And it was twice a crushing blow for Bertrand; on one hand, because his best friend was no more; on the other hand, because of Melisandre's own words:
"We cannot be together anymore, Bertrand. Your friend Joffrey has put a wall between us, and that delicate melody is like a thick stone wall that will forever part us."
The next three or four days, Bertrand insisted to have a tryst en tête-à-tête with Melisandre, yet that tryst he was always denied. Finally, he decided to return home to Provence.
He was restored to life by the sea, the ports he visited, the new people he made the acquaintance of, and the image of his dear friend Joffrey, the troubadour, who had died in the same way he had lived.
Folktale -origins unknown, Catholic Europe-
The oldest crones in this land still tell that a certain washerwoman, more humble than miserable but nevertheless very poor, did nothing but pray to the Heavens for a child, since both wise women and doctors had told her that she could never have any offspring. But still she never resigned herself to accept that she was barren.
One day, while she was hanging costly clothes on the line, she saw a mother hen clucking by, followed by all of her chicks, and the sight made her so desperate that, en tête-à-tête with the Virgin Mary, she asked Our Lady to at least give her a hen, whom she would know to love and treat as a daughter of her own. "Holy Mary, if you gave me at least a hen for a daughter, then I would feel contented..."
Nine months later, she laid a chicken egg, which she, with all her love, hatched in her bosom. The chick grew within a matter of three days, and now it was a grown hen. The unfortunate washerwoman did not tarry in accepting how things were. At least she now had some company.
It was truly a beautiful hen, with a red plumage that shifted in colours like a flame, a majestic way of walking, and a cackle like the song of a primadonna soprano. Twelve years later, when the washerwoman already felt like the proud mother of a prized if not decent hen, her daughter began to increase in size, just like some maidens have growth spurts. At the same time, she began to do really strange things, like waltzing around her mother's ankles and singing:
"Cocorococo, cocorococo,
leave me, Mum,
to wash the clothes!"
leave me, Mum,
to wash the clothes!"
One day that she was incessantly cackling this chant, the washerwoman gave her a dirty rag and threw it to her daughter, for the hen to leave her be in peace.
The hen caught the rag in her beak and took it as far from her mother's eyes as she could.
Then, she gave it a peck, and instantly from the rag sprouted a magnificent mansion, down whose staircase walked twelve damsels bearing dishes fit for a feast for the hen, which, of course, had become a damsel as fair and bright as the sun; one would dare to say a princess.
Thus it happened for several times, and once it came to pass by chance that the royals' eldest son was riding by, beheld the hen and her rags, and was witness to the wonderful events that transpired afterwards. The prince was smitten with the princess and decided to make her his bride.
And thus, one day, he showed up at the washerwoman's door, and the following conversation ensued:
"Would you please sell me that hen, madame?"
"She's not for sale! Not for all the gold in the world!" she replied.
"And how much is 'all the gold in the world'?"
"Let's say... five hundred sacks full."
"I shall give you one thousand," the Crown Prince replied.
"Then... who could refuse such an offer?" the washerwoman gave in.
And this was how the prince brought the hen to Court.
He was not that sure of what he was to do to succeed in marrying her, but at last he had an idea. One evening, the local lordship of the hen's home province hosted a grand ball at his castle. The prince tucked his "little" hen to sleep in her canopy bed, having made for her a round nest out of his own bedcovers, and left for the ballroom, for the dance, leaving her asleep with the curtains drawn. As soon as the door had been shut behind her, the hen pecked the rag, which she wore for a shawl, and instantly she was human and her handmaids appeared, dressing her in her very best ensemble to attend the same ball.
When the Crown Prince saw her arrive in the royal gardens, and all eyes were upon her, he understood that right then was the time to put his strategy into action. He stormed back to the palace, upstairs into her bedchamber, and found her canopy bed full of fire-red feathers; then he took all these feathers to throw them into the fire, along with the rag. Once he was sure that there was not a single feather left and the rag had been burned as well, he went himself to bed and awaited the return of his fiancée from the dance.
When he heard her steps walking upstairs, he pretended he was asleep. She tiptoed into the bedchamber, not to wake her fiancé up, but her surprise was enormour when she saw that, in her sleeping place, there was neither magical rag nor even a single hen feather.
Right then, she felt two strong, youthful arms clasping her waist.
"Now I've got you! And now, you shall marry me!" the elated prince startled her.
And of course so it came to be, and there was much rejoicing, especially for the washerwoman, who became one of the most illustrious ladies of the Court, and even governess to the royal children of that happy marriage.
SER BYRTING OF BAYERLAND
-Scandinavian lore (the ballad exists in many forms), though set in Bavaria-
Ser Byrting was a noble knight born and bred, and dwelling, in Bayerland, the region he loved more than anything else in the wide world, so he said. He was a dashing young man, whose appearance showed no signs of manliness or harshness; and yet he was wise beyond his years, a skilful warrior upon the field of battle, and righteous towards his vassals. Some of which, precisely, thought that he had one single flaw marring all that perfection: that he was still single.
However, in spite of the love he held for his native land, he would die far from home, and not unmarried.
The tale tells, in fact, that on a dark and stormy night, with a veritable flood pouring down upon and around the castle, a great clash of thunder and lighting, and the whistling of the gale being sometimes even more ominous than the thunderstorm, Byrting arose startled from his canopy bed, awakened by a knocking at the door. In spite of the night being that stormy, he had slept an innocent and sound sleep, for his conscience was crystal clear. However, those knockings had the nearly miraculous power to wake him up.
"Who's there?" he asked, as he rose from his bed and parted the bed-curtains, his right hand instinctively clutching the hilt of his sword.
"Open, Ser Byrting," the stranger replied in a female voice, so fragile that the knight believed that he was haunted by a revenant.
Then, hearing that female voice, brave Ser Byrting was filled with dread. His shirt clung to his back, his heart raced, a shudder ran down his spine.... Outside, the storm had calmed in a strangely sudden fashion, and he saw the starry night sky crowned by a full moon. So he replied that he would not open the door; if the stranger were in need of shelter for the night, she might as well ask his vassals.
"And who are you?" Byrting asked in response.
"I am Nora, queen of the light elves. I have come to tell you that tomorrow you shall be with me, in the realm of my elders."
And Nora turned around, as if she did not care, and vanished from the spot. It was then that Byrting decided not to waste any time in her pursuit. He summoned a pair of valets and commanded them to gather a knapsack with provisions he might need for the long journey; he wrapped himself, without any aid, the cloak around his shoulders, placed the helmet on his own golden locks, girded the sheathed sword upon his left thigh; and he fled Bayerland as soon as the sun's first rays rose.
He galloped for many leagues and many days, always guided up north by the North Star, and, the further from home he came, the more his spirits were calmed and at ease.
Suddenly, upon crossing a certain stream at a bridge haunted by elves, his steed reared and the rider fell to the ground, the horse galloping away and leaving Byrting to his fate. Stunned with the fall, he began to call for help, but with a weakened voice that scarcely could be heard six feet around. He had fallen on his left side, and bloody foam sprang from his lips, as even breathing racked him with pain.
However, from the stream tinkling under the bridge, the elven queen Nora arose. In her hands she held a golden chalice.
"Who are you, and where do you come from?" she asked.
"I am Ser Byrting, a knight of Bayerland, the realm I love over anything else upon this wide world."
Nora gave him to drink from her chalice; thirsty as he was from both exertion and his injury, he drank a deep draught. It was a sweetly-scented and sweetly-flavoured liquor, far stronger than mead, that instantly filled the knight with a pleasant drowsiness.
"Of course..." he kept on speaking, his voice now slurred and wavering. "My beloved Bayerland, my native land, my father's land and my mother's... Bayerland..."
Nora gave him another drink, again he quaffed deeply, and then the young man felt that his shapely limbs, grown strong and hardened in many a hard-contested battle, were dissolving as if into thin air. Then she reached out her chalice again, as she asked the same question:
"Who are you, and where do you come from?"
"I do not know who I am. But I know that I am leaving for Alfheim, that is, Elfhome, to marry the queen of the elves, the fairest one that there is upon this world."
And thus, the pale knight shut his weary eyes, his head nestling in Nora's lap, from which he would nevermore rise.
THE SONG OF DISTANT LOVE
-Folklore about Southern French troubadours-
Joffrey Rudel was a troubadour, which means that by trade he wandered across the wide world thinking up songs and singing them, sometimes at the courts of powerful rulers, others for his equals, and not rarely to entertain himself as he rode from village to village in the evening, seeking room and board.
He had gained renown among all the others of his trade because, as they said, no one else had ever contrived to sing in such a lifelike or heartwarming way of a distant beloved. That was Joffrey's favourite theme: to express in the very words of someone madly in love the feelings inspired in him by a lady he had never seen, whose name he had never known, of whom he had never had any news. He had only confided in some friends that she lived in the Far East, in a magical palace where even the plumage of the songbirds was of such stuff that dreams were made of.
He held in his heart a special affection for one of these friends, one Bertrand, who, in exchange, loved Joffrey as the precious friend he was. One day, Joffrey fell ill with such a burning fever that the physicians tending to him despaired for his life. Bertrand, feeling sorry for him, assured his friend that he knew the lady of his dreams, and that it was none other than a certain Eastern princess by the name of Melisandre.
"Joffrey, dear friend, why should we not pay her a visit? I have acquired a ship waiting to set sail in Marseilles, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure!"
For a while Joffrey doubted, yet, in the end, not to disappoint his best friend, he finally accepted.
"We shall go forth to see that Melisandre, since you are so convinced that she is my lady... Yet, from now on, I tell you that you deceive yourself, for the will of my lady, to whom I owe all my heart and all my wit, is to shun me, to keep me always on tenterhooks, by night and day, keeping my eyes wide open by virtue of the beauty of her own eyes. Besides..." here Joffrey paused, smiling as a weary, exhausted young man does, "...you know that not even her real name can be guessed."
Bertrand nodded in response to every word Joffrey said, excited because what was interesting for him was that his friend had decided to join him on the quest, for he thought that some excitement might improve Joffrey's state of health.
For weeks they sailed the Mediterranean, towards the strait where Europe gives way to Asia. Joffrey, instead of admiring the shores where they docked or making friends with the strangers they found, usually stayed on deck, singing of his distant love.
At last they reached that Eastern country of dreams and Melisandre's palace. Joffrey confessed to Bertrand that he was not in the mood to appear before such a highborn royal lady, even if she were the one of his dreams. The troubadour was beginning to doubt. What if she was the one always on his mind and in his lyrics?
Bertrand presented himself first as a go-between to Melisandre, explaining the reason for their journey and their visit from so far away:
"Your Highness, much has been spoken to me about you, and the word of your generosity has reached me from far away; I pray you to please give respite to this unfortunate young man. He is wavering between life and death, and he needs to find what he always has sought..."
But chance would have it that Melisandre should become smitten with Bertrand, and Bertrand with Melisandre. The princess, who did not even want to be unfaithful for once to her love, rotundly denied to perform that charade of her tryst en tête-à-tête with Joffrey.
"I love you, Bertrand," those were her words, "which means that there can be no other man in my life."
One day, Bertrand received a visit from two sailors of his crew, who came to inform him that Joffrey Rudel's health had worsened. Only then was Bertrand able to soften Melisandre's heart.
The princess was left en tête-à-tête with Joffrey, who lay, breathing hardly, on his deathbed. She was unable to break the ice in any conversation with him, eagerly awaiting his words. But the troubadour could only gape shallowly, his lungs thirsting for air.
However, instantly a miracle occurred. Joffrey opened his eyes, looked at Melisandre, breathed deeply, arose, and, with the sweetest voice he had ever tuned, he sang his song of distant love.
Then, after singing the last verse, he breathed his last.
Melisandre approached Bertrand and gave him the sorrowful news. And it was twice a crushing blow for Bertrand; on one hand, because his best friend was no more; on the other hand, because of Melisandre's own words:
"We cannot be together anymore, Bertrand. Your friend Joffrey has put a wall between us, and that delicate melody is like a thick stone wall that will forever part us."
The next three or four days, Bertrand insisted to have a tryst en tête-à-tête with Melisandre, yet that tryst he was always denied. Finally, he decided to return home to Provence.
He was restored to life by the sea, the ports he visited, the new people he made the acquaintance of, and the image of his dear friend Joffrey, the troubadour, who had died in the same way he had lived.
THE CRAB PRINCE
-Folktale from the Mediterranean-
In that coastal realm, there were two people who knew practically everything about the fauna of the seas. On one hand, an old salt, a fisherman who had spent decades toiling in his trade; on the other hand, the royals' only daughter, the Crown Princess, who was fascinated by anything that came from the deep.
One day, the old fisherman brought to shore a crab so immensely large that human eyes were only able to see part of it. He returned home in the best of spirits, excited upon thinking of how much money he would make at the fish and seafood market in exchange for such an exceptional individual. Of course his wife wanted to eat it, for, even if she had never cast a hook into the water, she was a regular glutton. But, in the end, her husband's voice of reason prevailed.
"Listen," his wife nevertheless told him. "Since you have decided to sell it, don't take it to market. Offer this crab to the Royal Court itself."
The old salt thought that this was not a bad idea, and thus he sauntered off to the royal palace, with the oversized animal in tow. Even though he was a middling fisherman, the royal guards and servants stood so agape before that beast, that they made way for its owner without even daring to ask who he was; some thought the King or the Queen might wish to own the monster; others thought, in dread, that it was a wicked monster carried in tow by one of the most evil among sorcerers.
However, the King was not as remarkably impressed by the crab as the fisherman had expected.
"The truth is that you have caught an exceptional beast, my good old salt, but what do I need such a crab for? Follow my advice: head for the fish and seafood market, and sell it there."
However, it came to pass that the princess, who was so fascinated by all things underwater, waltzed into the throne room. Upon seeing the mammoth decapod, she coaxed her father into buying it; thus she might keep it as a pet in her saltwater pond and be able to watch it anytime she wished.
The King, who obeyed his daughter's every whim, and even spoiled her (which came as no surprise, the girl being royalty and an only child!), bought the crab for a purse full of gold doubloons, and gave it as a pet to his girl.
As days went by, that animal gradually became the only object of the ocean-loving princess's cares, and the apple of her eye. However, the crustacean displayed rather strange behaviours: by midday, it hid in an underwater cave, not returning to the light until three hours later. At first, the princess thought that it must be because it was an exotic species. However, one day, she would find out, unravelling the whole mystery behind these absences.
That day around twelve, a beggar who skirted the palace grounds begged the princess, who was in her bedchamber, out loud for alms. So she took a bag of silver shillings and threw it out the window, for the poor sinner to catch it in his hands.
But the tower where she lived was so high that the purse fell into a stream that ran close by, right outside the garden walls. The beggar, determined to reach what to him was real treasure, plunged into the stream, following it down to sea, swimming for a time in both freshwater and saltwater to see if he could reach the gift he had received from royalty.
And thus had he swum for a while when, right when his lungs were ready to burst, he finally surfaced to breathe eagerly... Imagine his surprise upon realising that he stood on the shore of what appeared to be a little island, where there was a table set with golden plates and cutlery, flagons and cups of Bohemian glass, and many an exquisite dish served upon a silver platter! As it came to pass that he heard someone arrive right then, the beggar hid behind a rock, so he could witness it all.
The crab appeared, swimming like a boat with a fairy mounted upon its carapace. As they landed and approached the table, the fairy touched the crab with the tip of her wand, and the carapace opened to reveal a most lovely young man, who sat down by her side at the table, and both of them began to relish the feast. Once they had eaten and drunk their fill, the young man entered the crab's carapace once more, and he began to swim off, guided by the fairy on his back.
Needless to say, the crab was returning, by underground waterways, back to the princess's pond.
Marvelling at the sight his eyes beheld, the beggar stalked the couple from a prudent distance, seeing that the crab, with the prince inside and the fairy riding it, entered the princess's favourite place through an underwater grotto in the cliff, then through underground waterways.
Without further ado, their stalker entered the grotto himself, surfacing in the saltwater pond of the royal gardens, and told the princess of what he had seen.
The very next day, Her Royal Highness followed her pet crab and, upon seeing from the carapace come out that young prince (for of course the young man was royalty!), whom she immediately preferred to his decapod form, she sauntered close to him, telling him that she had fallen for his person at first sight.
"You're mad as a hatter!" he whispered to her. "If the fairy who cursed and keeps me finds out, it shall be the end of both of us..."
"But I want you to cease to hide inside that carapace, and for us to marry... and..."
"Now look," the prince replied. "There is a way to set me free, but it is no easy task. The fairy who keeps me loves violin music. If she enjoys your performance, ask her for the star she keeps around her neck for a pendant, because that is my human life."
"But I can't play the violin!" the princess sobbed.
"There is no other way out of this."
However, the princess was as stubborn as only a spoiled child can be, and thus, that very same day in the afternoon, she went to her parents and asked them if she could take any violin lessons, for she would like to learn to play the violin. Of course the King and Queen introduced their only daughter to the Court Conductor, whom they had chosen as her music teacher:
"Tomorrow, if it pleases Her Highness, her lessons shall commence. But remember, Your Majesties, that playing the violin takes not one day to master."
Three days later, however, the conductor could not believe his ears, for, in such a short lapse of time, the princess had learned every secret of such a difficult instrument, and she could play it perfectly, like a real virtuosa.
And thus, the next day, she seized the first chance to dive into the pond with her crab and her violin in its case, and, when they reached the island, she began to play the loveliest melodies which her warm feelings of love inspired. The fairy, entranced, approached the maiden and, after listening to her for some time, told her that never had such beautiful music reached her pointed ears. As a reward, she added, she would grant the virtuosa anything she could wish for.
Without further ado, the princess asked her for the star pendant. The fairy, who was no one's fool, took it from around her neck and, screaming "Catch it if you can!" she threw it over a hundred nautic miles away, for her faithful mermaid servants in the ocean to gather the star.
But, just like she had learned to master the violin within three days, the princess was able to swim so rapidly that soon she could reach the star right before it hit the water.
When she returned to the island with the star in her mouth, the fairy had vanished into thin air, the prince received her with open arms to press her to his chest, and the open crab carapace awaited to transport them to the palace pond.
A short while later, the royal wedding of the decade was celebrated: between the underwater-loving, stubborn Crown Princess and her no longer a crab prince.
TRISTAN AND ISOLDE
-Arthurian legend, immortalised by Richard Wagner-
King Mark of Cornwall was about to enter his winter years when he lost his first wife and decided to remarry Isolde, a young Irish princess. Since some time ago, his orphan nephew Tristan lived at the royal castle, for it was the custom in those days for young lads of rank to learn the skills of courtly life and the art of war among relatives, and the childless King's sister, Tristan's mother, had wished him to be fostered at Mark's court upon her deathbed. It was young Tristan who was given the quest to set sail for Ireland's foreign shore to bring the bride, after her parents had given the marriage their blessing.
Tristan didn't leave on that quest quite willingly; he knew that Isolde, whose face he had never seen, was decades younger than his uncle; and, even though the young man loved his guardian with all his heart, he thought that such an unequal marriage was against the laws of nature. He resolved to limit himself to performing his duty, and not meddling into any affairs which were none of his business.
Little did Tristan foresee that no affairs would be as much of his business as that one where he soon would find himself. In fact, as soon as he saw the fair Isolde, he fell head over heels in love with the maiden, and she fell head over heels for him as well.
The sailing trip back to Cornwall was a tranquil one, though the young hearts of both Tristan and Isolde were dangerously near shipwrecking. He courteously resisted any impulse he could harbour to get too close to his future aunt; while she, loving him with such a passion, began to despise him, for she thought the young man spurned her advances. Convinced of this, she asked one of her handmaids to prepare a lethal poison, which she would offer Tristan. Once it was ready, King Mark's fiancée handed the cup to her cavalier:
"Drink, fair Tristan. This draught shall refresh you and dispel that piercing stare with which you stroll about on deck, as if you were shunning me."
"I thank you for your kindness, Your Highness," he replied, bowing as he took the chalice.
He was not thirsty, but the decrees of courtesy forbade him to refuse such an offer. No sooner had he drunk the first drops that Tristan felt something take his soul by storm and produce a veritable earthquake within his heart. He looked at Isolde with a different look in his eyes. The princess, frightened because she thought that burning look was one of perpetual score, asked her female druid for advice. The wise woman, who knew a lot about spells and enchantment, had to admit that they had committed a fatal error: instead of having handed out a deadly draught, Her Highness had offered her cavalier a love potion. And then, Isolde, fascinated each and every time more by Tristan's shining eyes, poured herself a cup of that same potion, and drained it to the last drop.
When they landed on Cornwall, Tristan and Isolde had confessed their love for each other a thousand and one times with fire in their words, but both of them restrained themselves out of the respect that King Mark deserved.
The ruler received them with great pomp and circumstance. Upon seeing Isolde --so fresh, so graceful, so lovely, so young--, he felt his heart break with sadness, for he knew that his blood was running cold as he descended into the vale of years, and that it was an injustice to chain to his desire a maiden like the bride who had just arrived for his sake. And thus, since that very first day, Mark let her stay at the castle, yet, day after day, he delayed the wedding.
One afternoon, Tristan and Isolde met by chance in the royal gardens. Neither one attempted to flee. Both of them felt that, in that instant, they were alone with one another in the wide world and neither one would dare to repeat his or her life. They shared a passionate kiss and swore eternal love to one another.
Yet chance would have it that, at the same time their tryst took place, a certain courtier knight was passing by; this courtier, Melot by name, hated Tristan with a passion since the latter, as a young boy, had entered the King's service. Drawing steel and uttering his loudest warcry, the jealous Melot lunged at Tristan and, without giving the young man any time to defend himself, stabbed him in the right arm. Instantly, people arrived from the castle, including King Mark himself. As Melot told the ruler of what he had seen, thinking of how this revelation might make him rise in royal favour, Isolde was sobbing and wailing, her face buried in her hands.
"Bring Tristan in, for his wound to be cleaned and tended to," the King said in a shaky voice. "As for you, Isolde, you may stay at our court until my men-at-arms escort you back to your native shore."
Then, casting a glance of reproach upon Melot, he headed for his own royal bedchamber. Once alone with himself, he burst into tears: he loved both young people, and now he understood that he should have never asked for the hand of the fair Isolde.
As the days went by, Tristan's wound got worse and worse. As a matter of fact, his real wound was not in the arm, but in the heart: far from Isolde, bedridden and febrile as he was, life had no longer any meaning. Until, one early morning, he awoke with a start, burning with a high fever; the blade had been poisoned as well. He called Isolde's name the loudest he could, but one could say that she was right there by his side, talking to him.
"My lord is delirious," Kurwenal, Tristan's faithful squire and confidant, told the King. "Your Majesty, I may ask that you please visit him; I am sure that your presence will restore him to health."
"Call for Queen Isolde," Mark commanded.
As it was said, so it was done; and, when his young bride was in his presence, the aged ruler took her delicate hands in his callused own, and, choking back and fighting his sobs of pain, he told her to go unto Tristan and stay by his bedside until the wound had healed.
In the nighttime, he was told that Tristan lay on his deathbed. The King stood up, took up his sword, and went to see his bedridden nephew.
He found Tristan with his head cradled, nestled, in Isolde's lap. The young man was breathing painfully, and he could barely open his eyes; yet, as soon as he recognised the silhouette of his uncle and guardian, he slurred some words of forgiveness that no one was able to understand. In response, Mark lifted his sword and touched, with the blade, his ward on the shoulders and on the crown of the head: he had just knighted Ser Tristan.
Within instants, however, the newly-made knight died, falling peacefully asleep as he breathed his last. Throwing herself in despair upon his form, unable to bear the pain of separation and feeling eternally united with her lover, Isolde gave up the ghost as well.
Mark, his eyes shut, thought about true love, and that so many decades of a long lifetime as his own had little to teach about that feeling that unites human beings according to its whims.
Then, bending the knee, he said a prayer for the afterlife fate of Tristan and Isolde.
-Folktale from the Mediterranean-
In that coastal realm, there were two people who knew practically everything about the fauna of the seas. On one hand, an old salt, a fisherman who had spent decades toiling in his trade; on the other hand, the royals' only daughter, the Crown Princess, who was fascinated by anything that came from the deep.
One day, the old fisherman brought to shore a crab so immensely large that human eyes were only able to see part of it. He returned home in the best of spirits, excited upon thinking of how much money he would make at the fish and seafood market in exchange for such an exceptional individual. Of course his wife wanted to eat it, for, even if she had never cast a hook into the water, she was a regular glutton. But, in the end, her husband's voice of reason prevailed.
"Listen," his wife nevertheless told him. "Since you have decided to sell it, don't take it to market. Offer this crab to the Royal Court itself."
The old salt thought that this was not a bad idea, and thus he sauntered off to the royal palace, with the oversized animal in tow. Even though he was a middling fisherman, the royal guards and servants stood so agape before that beast, that they made way for its owner without even daring to ask who he was; some thought the King or the Queen might wish to own the monster; others thought, in dread, that it was a wicked monster carried in tow by one of the most evil among sorcerers.
However, the King was not as remarkably impressed by the crab as the fisherman had expected.
"The truth is that you have caught an exceptional beast, my good old salt, but what do I need such a crab for? Follow my advice: head for the fish and seafood market, and sell it there."
However, it came to pass that the princess, who was so fascinated by all things underwater, waltzed into the throne room. Upon seeing the mammoth decapod, she coaxed her father into buying it; thus she might keep it as a pet in her saltwater pond and be able to watch it anytime she wished.
The King, who obeyed his daughter's every whim, and even spoiled her (which came as no surprise, the girl being royalty and an only child!), bought the crab for a purse full of gold doubloons, and gave it as a pet to his girl.
As days went by, that animal gradually became the only object of the ocean-loving princess's cares, and the apple of her eye. However, the crustacean displayed rather strange behaviours: by midday, it hid in an underwater cave, not returning to the light until three hours later. At first, the princess thought that it must be because it was an exotic species. However, one day, she would find out, unravelling the whole mystery behind these absences.
That day around twelve, a beggar who skirted the palace grounds begged the princess, who was in her bedchamber, out loud for alms. So she took a bag of silver shillings and threw it out the window, for the poor sinner to catch it in his hands.
But the tower where she lived was so high that the purse fell into a stream that ran close by, right outside the garden walls. The beggar, determined to reach what to him was real treasure, plunged into the stream, following it down to sea, swimming for a time in both freshwater and saltwater to see if he could reach the gift he had received from royalty.
And thus had he swum for a while when, right when his lungs were ready to burst, he finally surfaced to breathe eagerly... Imagine his surprise upon realising that he stood on the shore of what appeared to be a little island, where there was a table set with golden plates and cutlery, flagons and cups of Bohemian glass, and many an exquisite dish served upon a silver platter! As it came to pass that he heard someone arrive right then, the beggar hid behind a rock, so he could witness it all.
The crab appeared, swimming like a boat with a fairy mounted upon its carapace. As they landed and approached the table, the fairy touched the crab with the tip of her wand, and the carapace opened to reveal a most lovely young man, who sat down by her side at the table, and both of them began to relish the feast. Once they had eaten and drunk their fill, the young man entered the crab's carapace once more, and he began to swim off, guided by the fairy on his back.
Needless to say, the crab was returning, by underground waterways, back to the princess's pond.
Marvelling at the sight his eyes beheld, the beggar stalked the couple from a prudent distance, seeing that the crab, with the prince inside and the fairy riding it, entered the princess's favourite place through an underwater grotto in the cliff, then through underground waterways.
Without further ado, their stalker entered the grotto himself, surfacing in the saltwater pond of the royal gardens, and told the princess of what he had seen.
The very next day, Her Royal Highness followed her pet crab and, upon seeing from the carapace come out that young prince (for of course the young man was royalty!), whom she immediately preferred to his decapod form, she sauntered close to him, telling him that she had fallen for his person at first sight.
"You're mad as a hatter!" he whispered to her. "If the fairy who cursed and keeps me finds out, it shall be the end of both of us..."
"But I want you to cease to hide inside that carapace, and for us to marry... and..."
"Now look," the prince replied. "There is a way to set me free, but it is no easy task. The fairy who keeps me loves violin music. If she enjoys your performance, ask her for the star she keeps around her neck for a pendant, because that is my human life."
"But I can't play the violin!" the princess sobbed.
"There is no other way out of this."
However, the princess was as stubborn as only a spoiled child can be, and thus, that very same day in the afternoon, she went to her parents and asked them if she could take any violin lessons, for she would like to learn to play the violin. Of course the King and Queen introduced their only daughter to the Court Conductor, whom they had chosen as her music teacher:
"Tomorrow, if it pleases Her Highness, her lessons shall commence. But remember, Your Majesties, that playing the violin takes not one day to master."
Three days later, however, the conductor could not believe his ears, for, in such a short lapse of time, the princess had learned every secret of such a difficult instrument, and she could play it perfectly, like a real virtuosa.
And thus, the next day, she seized the first chance to dive into the pond with her crab and her violin in its case, and, when they reached the island, she began to play the loveliest melodies which her warm feelings of love inspired. The fairy, entranced, approached the maiden and, after listening to her for some time, told her that never had such beautiful music reached her pointed ears. As a reward, she added, she would grant the virtuosa anything she could wish for.
Without further ado, the princess asked her for the star pendant. The fairy, who was no one's fool, took it from around her neck and, screaming "Catch it if you can!" she threw it over a hundred nautic miles away, for her faithful mermaid servants in the ocean to gather the star.
But, just like she had learned to master the violin within three days, the princess was able to swim so rapidly that soon she could reach the star right before it hit the water.
When she returned to the island with the star in her mouth, the fairy had vanished into thin air, the prince received her with open arms to press her to his chest, and the open crab carapace awaited to transport them to the palace pond.
A short while later, the royal wedding of the decade was celebrated: between the underwater-loving, stubborn Crown Princess and her no longer a crab prince.
TRISTAN AND ISOLDE
-Arthurian legend, immortalised by Richard Wagner-
King Mark of Cornwall was about to enter his winter years when he lost his first wife and decided to remarry Isolde, a young Irish princess. Since some time ago, his orphan nephew Tristan lived at the royal castle, for it was the custom in those days for young lads of rank to learn the skills of courtly life and the art of war among relatives, and the childless King's sister, Tristan's mother, had wished him to be fostered at Mark's court upon her deathbed. It was young Tristan who was given the quest to set sail for Ireland's foreign shore to bring the bride, after her parents had given the marriage their blessing.
Tristan didn't leave on that quest quite willingly; he knew that Isolde, whose face he had never seen, was decades younger than his uncle; and, even though the young man loved his guardian with all his heart, he thought that such an unequal marriage was against the laws of nature. He resolved to limit himself to performing his duty, and not meddling into any affairs which were none of his business.
Little did Tristan foresee that no affairs would be as much of his business as that one where he soon would find himself. In fact, as soon as he saw the fair Isolde, he fell head over heels in love with the maiden, and she fell head over heels for him as well.
The sailing trip back to Cornwall was a tranquil one, though the young hearts of both Tristan and Isolde were dangerously near shipwrecking. He courteously resisted any impulse he could harbour to get too close to his future aunt; while she, loving him with such a passion, began to despise him, for she thought the young man spurned her advances. Convinced of this, she asked one of her handmaids to prepare a lethal poison, which she would offer Tristan. Once it was ready, King Mark's fiancée handed the cup to her cavalier:
"Drink, fair Tristan. This draught shall refresh you and dispel that piercing stare with which you stroll about on deck, as if you were shunning me."
"I thank you for your kindness, Your Highness," he replied, bowing as he took the chalice.
He was not thirsty, but the decrees of courtesy forbade him to refuse such an offer. No sooner had he drunk the first drops that Tristan felt something take his soul by storm and produce a veritable earthquake within his heart. He looked at Isolde with a different look in his eyes. The princess, frightened because she thought that burning look was one of perpetual score, asked her female druid for advice. The wise woman, who knew a lot about spells and enchantment, had to admit that they had committed a fatal error: instead of having handed out a deadly draught, Her Highness had offered her cavalier a love potion. And then, Isolde, fascinated each and every time more by Tristan's shining eyes, poured herself a cup of that same potion, and drained it to the last drop.
When they landed on Cornwall, Tristan and Isolde had confessed their love for each other a thousand and one times with fire in their words, but both of them restrained themselves out of the respect that King Mark deserved.
The ruler received them with great pomp and circumstance. Upon seeing Isolde --so fresh, so graceful, so lovely, so young--, he felt his heart break with sadness, for he knew that his blood was running cold as he descended into the vale of years, and that it was an injustice to chain to his desire a maiden like the bride who had just arrived for his sake. And thus, since that very first day, Mark let her stay at the castle, yet, day after day, he delayed the wedding.
One afternoon, Tristan and Isolde met by chance in the royal gardens. Neither one attempted to flee. Both of them felt that, in that instant, they were alone with one another in the wide world and neither one would dare to repeat his or her life. They shared a passionate kiss and swore eternal love to one another.
Yet chance would have it that, at the same time their tryst took place, a certain courtier knight was passing by; this courtier, Melot by name, hated Tristan with a passion since the latter, as a young boy, had entered the King's service. Drawing steel and uttering his loudest warcry, the jealous Melot lunged at Tristan and, without giving the young man any time to defend himself, stabbed him in the right arm. Instantly, people arrived from the castle, including King Mark himself. As Melot told the ruler of what he had seen, thinking of how this revelation might make him rise in royal favour, Isolde was sobbing and wailing, her face buried in her hands.
"Bring Tristan in, for his wound to be cleaned and tended to," the King said in a shaky voice. "As for you, Isolde, you may stay at our court until my men-at-arms escort you back to your native shore."
Then, casting a glance of reproach upon Melot, he headed for his own royal bedchamber. Once alone with himself, he burst into tears: he loved both young people, and now he understood that he should have never asked for the hand of the fair Isolde.
As the days went by, Tristan's wound got worse and worse. As a matter of fact, his real wound was not in the arm, but in the heart: far from Isolde, bedridden and febrile as he was, life had no longer any meaning. Until, one early morning, he awoke with a start, burning with a high fever; the blade had been poisoned as well. He called Isolde's name the loudest he could, but one could say that she was right there by his side, talking to him.
"My lord is delirious," Kurwenal, Tristan's faithful squire and confidant, told the King. "Your Majesty, I may ask that you please visit him; I am sure that your presence will restore him to health."
"Call for Queen Isolde," Mark commanded.
As it was said, so it was done; and, when his young bride was in his presence, the aged ruler took her delicate hands in his callused own, and, choking back and fighting his sobs of pain, he told her to go unto Tristan and stay by his bedside until the wound had healed.
In the nighttime, he was told that Tristan lay on his deathbed. The King stood up, took up his sword, and went to see his bedridden nephew.
He found Tristan with his head cradled, nestled, in Isolde's lap. The young man was breathing painfully, and he could barely open his eyes; yet, as soon as he recognised the silhouette of his uncle and guardian, he slurred some words of forgiveness that no one was able to understand. In response, Mark lifted his sword and touched, with the blade, his ward on the shoulders and on the crown of the head: he had just knighted Ser Tristan.
Within instants, however, the newly-made knight died, falling peacefully asleep as he breathed his last. Throwing herself in despair upon his form, unable to bear the pain of separation and feeling eternally united with her lover, Isolde gave up the ghost as well.
Mark, his eyes shut, thought about true love, and that so many decades of a long lifetime as his own had little to teach about that feeling that unites human beings according to its whims.
Then, bending the knee, he said a prayer for the afterlife fate of Tristan and Isolde.
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA
-Retelling of the tale by H.C. Andersen, inspired by Norse folk motifs-
Once upon a time, there was a prince who wanted to marry. He was dashing, charming, and courteous, and besides heir to a great power, so that every blue-blooded maiden in the land and in foreign realms dreamt of becoming his bride. Yet he had sworn by his sacred honour that he should only take to wife one who turned out to be a "real princess;" and by that he meant that the candidates had to fulfil a lot of conditions for him to even dare to take a glance at them. So demanding was the test that, naturally, the years went by and he remained single. His crowned father and especially his crowned mother, fearing their only child and heir should die childless and put an end to the dynasty, launched a proclamation across the continent that the gates of the royal palace were open to every maiden who could prove herself as a "real princess."
Young noblewomen came by the score from far and wide, but one seemed too fussy in the prince's eyes, another one too rude, a third one could not play the concert flute, a fourth one limped -although imperceptibly- on her left foot, and many provincial ladies knew not how to take off their gloves according to the customs of the court. His parents were desperate until, on a dark and stormy evening, a knock at the door led the guards to open, and into the hall entered a young girl with a humble look on her face and the sweetest voice. She was none other than the adopted daughter of the royal gardeners, living in a cottage at the edge of the palace grounds, but she really was a child of foreign royalty, dethroned long time ago by revolutionaries.
The Queen, seeing that the maiden was soaked to the bone, offered her a seat by the fireplace, where a great provision of wood burned and crackled. The cupbearer served her a cup of hot chocolate to warm herself, and even the maids brought a set of dry clothes fit for royalty, into which the maiden could change. Once the sumptuous brocade gown had been donned, the hot chocolate had been drunk to the last drop, and a now delightfully warm and dry visitor exchanged some words with the Queen, she went into the bedchamber of his son and heir to warn him that she had found a "real princess."
The young man, though still as perfectionistic and mistrusting as usual, paid a lot of attention to his mother's description of every gesture the newcomer had made, of every word the newcomer had said, and, little by little, he was soon convinced that this was the person that he sought to tie the knot with. However, he wished the maiden to submit to one final test. His crowned mother should ask her to spend the night at the palace, and the guest should have a bed made with nineteen eiderdown covers and twenty mattresses, but under the bottommost mattress there had to be placed a dried pea: if, the next morning, the guest realised that she had spent a most dreadful night, only then would he take her to wife.
And the Queen arranged it all exactly as her only son had planned.
At the crack of dawn the next day, she rushed into the maiden's bedchamber.
"Good morning, my dear. Have you spent a good night's rest?"
"Oh... please do not speak of it, Your Majesty! Something hard has been hurting my back all the time! I have not even been able to get a blink of an eye...!"
And, as the maids took the guest's négligée off, a little dark blue spot on her lower back came to view.
The Queen, mad with elation, made haste to tell her son and heir of the test's glorious success.
In the end, the prince had to admit that he had finally found the "real princess" he had sought for so long.
They married and, to live happy ever after, they only needed a single mattress.
The pea wound up at the Court Museum, where anyone may see it displayed in a glass case as an ancestral heirloom and proof of the events described in this tale being real.
Provided that one can find that kingdom, and that the pea has not been misplaced, of course!
THE FLOWER OF LOVE
-Legend from the Guaraní tribe of the Amazon-
All the men and women in the village were dreadfully desperate; that tragedy had occurred because of Moratí. She was to blame. If only she could set everything right, to the way it was before!
The village sage explained, out loud, what had occurred.
"Pitá has been taken prisoner by the beautiful Cuyá Payé, the leader of all Yaras, or freshwater spirits. The Yara has dragged him to the bottom of the river and taken him to her underwater palace. There, she has bespelled him and made him forget, in her arms, the love that bound him to the lovely Moratí. I am seeing both of them in one another's arms, in the gold and diamond bedchamber of the siren's palace, sunken into the depths of the Amazon. He will nevermore return, unless someone goes forth to seek him out.
"He took that plunge for my sake, and I must free him, and bring him back to life," Moratí volunteered.
The sage found it was a righteous decision, and he accepted:
"Only you can rescue him from the cold love of the Yara. Only you, if he really loves you in return, can tear him away from her sinister attraction..."
The maiden plunged into the stream, with a stone tied to her ankles in order to sink all the way down to the bottom. Her tribespeople accompanied her with their chants to encourage her success.
At the break of day, upon the waters of the Amazon there floated the rounded leaves of a plant which was unknown. Later on, it would be known that the flower was called irupé, for upon these leaves came floating downstream a lovely and sweetly-scented flower. The central petals were white, just like the face of the maiden; and the outer ones were red, just like the lips of the warrior.
The strange flower seemed to emit a sigh, and then it sank once more into the waters. The warriors and the women looked at one another, without knowing how to react. It was then that the sage intervened once more:
"Moratí has succeeded in rescuing Pitá with the force of her love. This time, the terrible Yara, who has spirited so many warriors away, has not attained her purpose. The white and crimson petals floating on the stream were the two lovers, who were embracing one another.
Ever since, whenever, upon the turbid waters of the immense Amazon, the beautiful irupé water-lilies appear, the inhabitants of the riverbanks remember the valiant warrior and the lovely maiden, both of them Guaraní, who still continue loving one another in the depths. The flower called irupé is so lovely and so fragrant because it is born from the true love and the unmeasurable regrets of the lovely Moratí, who wistfully forced a young warrior to sacrifice himself for her sake.
-Retelling of the tale by H.C. Andersen, inspired by Norse folk motifs-
Once upon a time, there was a prince who wanted to marry. He was dashing, charming, and courteous, and besides heir to a great power, so that every blue-blooded maiden in the land and in foreign realms dreamt of becoming his bride. Yet he had sworn by his sacred honour that he should only take to wife one who turned out to be a "real princess;" and by that he meant that the candidates had to fulfil a lot of conditions for him to even dare to take a glance at them. So demanding was the test that, naturally, the years went by and he remained single. His crowned father and especially his crowned mother, fearing their only child and heir should die childless and put an end to the dynasty, launched a proclamation across the continent that the gates of the royal palace were open to every maiden who could prove herself as a "real princess."
Young noblewomen came by the score from far and wide, but one seemed too fussy in the prince's eyes, another one too rude, a third one could not play the concert flute, a fourth one limped -although imperceptibly- on her left foot, and many provincial ladies knew not how to take off their gloves according to the customs of the court. His parents were desperate until, on a dark and stormy evening, a knock at the door led the guards to open, and into the hall entered a young girl with a humble look on her face and the sweetest voice. She was none other than the adopted daughter of the royal gardeners, living in a cottage at the edge of the palace grounds, but she really was a child of foreign royalty, dethroned long time ago by revolutionaries.
The Queen, seeing that the maiden was soaked to the bone, offered her a seat by the fireplace, where a great provision of wood burned and crackled. The cupbearer served her a cup of hot chocolate to warm herself, and even the maids brought a set of dry clothes fit for royalty, into which the maiden could change. Once the sumptuous brocade gown had been donned, the hot chocolate had been drunk to the last drop, and a now delightfully warm and dry visitor exchanged some words with the Queen, she went into the bedchamber of his son and heir to warn him that she had found a "real princess."
The young man, though still as perfectionistic and mistrusting as usual, paid a lot of attention to his mother's description of every gesture the newcomer had made, of every word the newcomer had said, and, little by little, he was soon convinced that this was the person that he sought to tie the knot with. However, he wished the maiden to submit to one final test. His crowned mother should ask her to spend the night at the palace, and the guest should have a bed made with nineteen eiderdown covers and twenty mattresses, but under the bottommost mattress there had to be placed a dried pea: if, the next morning, the guest realised that she had spent a most dreadful night, only then would he take her to wife.
And the Queen arranged it all exactly as her only son had planned.
At the crack of dawn the next day, she rushed into the maiden's bedchamber.
"Good morning, my dear. Have you spent a good night's rest?"
"Oh... please do not speak of it, Your Majesty! Something hard has been hurting my back all the time! I have not even been able to get a blink of an eye...!"
And, as the maids took the guest's négligée off, a little dark blue spot on her lower back came to view.
The Queen, mad with elation, made haste to tell her son and heir of the test's glorious success.
In the end, the prince had to admit that he had finally found the "real princess" he had sought for so long.
They married and, to live happy ever after, they only needed a single mattress.
The pea wound up at the Court Museum, where anyone may see it displayed in a glass case as an ancestral heirloom and proof of the events described in this tale being real.
Provided that one can find that kingdom, and that the pea has not been misplaced, of course!
THE FLOWER OF LOVE
-Legend from the Guaraní tribe of the Amazon-
Pitá was the most valiant warrior in the village. Moratí was the loveliest among maidens. The two young people loved each other and they could not live without one another.
But it was not written in the decrees of the gods that they would be happy.
Moratí was haughty and she felt proud of her charms. She knew she was the prettiest one, the most attractive one, and she wanted to be recognised as such by her female friends, who walked by her side along the riverbank.
"You can't even imagine what the brave Pitá is able to do for my love's sake. Now you'll see!" she told them.
She took off one of her bracelets, which her beloved had given her for a present, and, with a resolute gesture, she tossed it into the water. Then, she turned her gaze to the young Guaraní warrior and defiantly commanded him:
"Bring me this bracelet that has wound up at the bottom of the river."
Pitá, without thinking twice, plunged immediately, head-first, into the stream. He spent a long while underwater... and did not resurface. All of Moratí's female friends remained there, awaiting him impatiently. No one doubted his courage, his skill, nor his strength, but a long time passed by and the brave swimmer did not reappear on the surface.All the men and women in the village were dreadfully desperate; that tragedy had occurred because of Moratí. She was to blame. If only she could set everything right, to the way it was before!
The village sage explained, out loud, what had occurred.
"Pitá has been taken prisoner by the beautiful Cuyá Payé, the leader of all Yaras, or freshwater spirits. The Yara has dragged him to the bottom of the river and taken him to her underwater palace. There, she has bespelled him and made him forget, in her arms, the love that bound him to the lovely Moratí. I am seeing both of them in one another's arms, in the gold and diamond bedchamber of the siren's palace, sunken into the depths of the Amazon. He will nevermore return, unless someone goes forth to seek him out.
"He took that plunge for my sake, and I must free him, and bring him back to life," Moratí volunteered.
The sage found it was a righteous decision, and he accepted:
"Only you can rescue him from the cold love of the Yara. Only you, if he really loves you in return, can tear him away from her sinister attraction..."
The maiden plunged into the stream, with a stone tied to her ankles in order to sink all the way down to the bottom. Her tribespeople accompanied her with their chants to encourage her success.
At the break of day, upon the waters of the Amazon there floated the rounded leaves of a plant which was unknown. Later on, it would be known that the flower was called irupé, for upon these leaves came floating downstream a lovely and sweetly-scented flower. The central petals were white, just like the face of the maiden; and the outer ones were red, just like the lips of the warrior.
The strange flower seemed to emit a sigh, and then it sank once more into the waters. The warriors and the women looked at one another, without knowing how to react. It was then that the sage intervened once more:
"Moratí has succeeded in rescuing Pitá with the force of her love. This time, the terrible Yara, who has spirited so many warriors away, has not attained her purpose. The white and crimson petals floating on the stream were the two lovers, who were embracing one another.
Ever since, whenever, upon the turbid waters of the immense Amazon, the beautiful irupé water-lilies appear, the inhabitants of the riverbanks remember the valiant warrior and the lovely maiden, both of them Guaraní, who still continue loving one another in the depths. The flower called irupé is so lovely and so fragrant because it is born from the true love and the unmeasurable regrets of the lovely Moratí, who wistfully forced a young warrior to sacrifice himself for her sake.
martes, 24 de octubre de 2017
TAROT - HORSESHOE SPREAD - RENTRÉE UV
Horseshoe Spread
24th of October, MMXVII
On the Eve of:
Rentrée - Master's Degree in Creative Translation - University of Valencia
1) Forces In Favour: XIII Transfiguration (Death). Change, of the life-changing kind. Metamorphosis: Coming of age, passage from Castellón to Valencia and from Bachelor's to Master's Degree.
2) Forces Against: King of Swords. Authority on the Intellectual Plane. The UV establishment? Surely. A centuries-old, renowned, illustrious institution with whose establishment my stubborn self may clash.
3) Resources to Encourage Forces in Favour: Six of Swords. The passage of the Styx (Charon, Urshanabi) - transition. Murky waters astern, but calm waters ahead. Keep looking forwards, instead of over your shoulder. It will be all right on the other shore.
4) Resources to Overcome Forces Against: XVI The Tower. Revolution. Downfall that brings about something good, overturning the old order. Razing the established structures. The fall of the Bastille... Right, this is the big leagues, so the rules of young adulthood of the past lustrum are becoming obsolete. Time to storm the inner Bastille and get serious.
5) Turning Point: Eight of Cups. Turning one's back to the old and setting off on a quest for the new, for what is missing. Into the great unknown where there are dragons and where angels fear to tread.
Conclusion:
Great changes straight ahead. Keep moving forwards and never look back as you tread this new uncharted region. You're not in Castellón anymore...
24th of October, MMXVII
On the Eve of:
Rentrée - Master's Degree in Creative Translation - University of Valencia
1) Forces In Favour: XIII Transfiguration (Death). Change, of the life-changing kind. Metamorphosis: Coming of age, passage from Castellón to Valencia and from Bachelor's to Master's Degree.
2) Forces Against: King of Swords. Authority on the Intellectual Plane. The UV establishment? Surely. A centuries-old, renowned, illustrious institution with whose establishment my stubborn self may clash.
3) Resources to Encourage Forces in Favour: Six of Swords. The passage of the Styx (Charon, Urshanabi) - transition. Murky waters astern, but calm waters ahead. Keep looking forwards, instead of over your shoulder. It will be all right on the other shore.
4) Resources to Overcome Forces Against: XVI The Tower. Revolution. Downfall that brings about something good, overturning the old order. Razing the established structures. The fall of the Bastille... Right, this is the big leagues, so the rules of young adulthood of the past lustrum are becoming obsolete. Time to storm the inner Bastille and get serious.
5) Turning Point: Eight of Cups. Turning one's back to the old and setting off on a quest for the new, for what is missing. Into the great unknown where there are dragons and where angels fear to tread.
Conclusion:
Great changes straight ahead. Keep moving forwards and never look back as you tread this new uncharted region. You're not in Castellón anymore...
CIEL RENTRE À PARIS?
Kirakira Precure à la Mode
My Own Review - Episode 37
CIEL RENTRE À PARIS?
The thorough Samhain decoraitons even feature a vampire garçon (though I think, IMOHO, that Akira should don some make-up to appear far paler).
Ciel has just made this pumpkin cream... the best part is the sugar thread lace...
doesn't it look really professional?
The apple in the middle is a jack o'lantern!
BILBERRY: You don't need to act like a goody-two-shoes. You're free to do as you please.
CIEL: Thank you, Bilberry!!
BILBERRY: I... am not encouraging you...!! It's so foolish...
Tsundere attitude confirmed. And she's also that flustered for a good reason.
PARFAIT ÉTOILE!
Following which, Macaron Julienne is used to break Parfait's ties.
In true Proust style (also, Ratatouille the Pixar film revisits the same scene from À la recherche du temps perdu), Solène's first spoonful of pumpkin pudding...
...triggers memories of her youth in the Rhône Valley countryside.
SOLÈNE: Oh la vache! Have you even used French butter?
All Elysio can do is look on and wait, and bid his time.
Unlike his partner, Elysio is all sang-froid.
EPILOGUE: BACKSTORY / RETURN TO PARIS (FROM THE FILM)
Jean-Pierre lecturing the twins
Kirarin and Pikalio
When Kirarin became Ciel for the first time.
That attire Yukari and Akira are donning as they stroll along the Left Bank.
They look like straight out of a classic film...
Really cements the fact that my OTP is canon.
MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION:
That wraps up episode 37, and it was certainly predictable – but it’s a pretty common thing you’ll see in anime. A character looks like they’ll have to leave, but they don’t in the end. A bit like when Ami was to leave for Berlin in Sailor Moon R...
The main plot itself is nothing new since we have seen it in so many shows, of how one character got an offering to chase their dream in a foreign land but because of his/her commitment to her friends (nakama), s/he can't go and the others questioned themselves are they holding that person back.
It's a dead horse plot. But still interesting especially with Solène's dynamics with the KiraPâti staff. A bit like when Fawlty Towers gets visits from psychoanalysts/Germans/Yanks/Lord Melbury... or a guest dies, or the health inspector comes. The way the dead horse premise was carried out is refreshing and reminds me of Fawlty Towers, especially with a tsundere Bilberry in the role of Mr. Fawlty (another refreshing note). Another thing that makes this episode interesting is how the highschoolers questioned hanging around with our prodigy. But especially the battle and how it goes from the Cures -especially the highschoolers- shouldering the weight of it all à la Atlas... to a succession of left and right hooks so powerful and so impressive that a Smashing Pumpkins pun was definitely mandatory. #AoiApproved reference!
Also, the Proust moment. THE PROUST MOMENT. Most people who have seen Ratatouille don't recognise the same memory-triggering flavour experience as a literary allusion. To one of the most iconic opening scenes in French literary history:
Next time, we get the pet-centric episode... Pekorin finally becomes human, though she's only a toddler (obviously), and the Cures have to sit her. Hope something more interesting happens across enemy lines, since Glaive has practically drained Diaval like a shot of dark werewolf liquor... Elysio has a reason to worry, definitely... is there some struggle for power, and will it come through after the introduction of human Pekorin?
IN NEXT EPISODE (38):
My Own Review - Episode 37
CIEL RENTRE À PARIS?
The thorough Samhain decoraitons even feature a vampire garçon (though I think, IMOHO, that Akira should don some make-up to appear far paler).
Ciel has just made this pumpkin cream... the best part is the sugar thread lace...
doesn't it look really professional?
The apple in the middle is a jack o'lantern!
Having criticised Ciel’s sweets without even trying them, Madame Solène then takes a look around Ciel’s shop. She isn’t exactly filled with praise for it, either.
In my headcanon, Solène is a portmanteau of her full name, Solange-Hélène.
She has come to take Ciel back to Paris... wondering why she has chosen this provincial town in the hinterland of an Asian island nation...
But if she wants to take Ciel back to la Ville Lumière,
Solène will first have to pass over a dead Bilberry.
Luckily, our bifauxnen leader and our hardcore rocker are right there to restrain a warp-spasming reformed PFM in the nick of time.
Aoi's duh face. Even more with Solène's and the highschoolers'.
Luckily, our bifauxnen leader and our hardcore rocker are right there to restrain a warp-spasming reformed PFM in the nick of time.
Aoi's duh face. Even more with Solène's and the highschoolers'.
Ciel does some martial arts to prove Ichigozaka local colour.
Solène is not amused.
Maybe the sight of her ward drenched in perspiration has set her off.
The shopping district of Ichigozaka is not even second to the Champs-Élysées.
Well, Solène: la calle Enmedio in Castellón is not even second to the Champs-Élysées either.
AKIRA: ...but the people here are warm-hearted and kind!!
(Akira taking a stand for the fruit and veg shop, and for all of Ichigozaka... that's my leader...)
YUKARI: Pourquoi Paris? For the cosmopolitanism, or some other good reason?
SOLÈNE: If she stops here in Ichigozaka, her dreams, her hopes, will never come true.
Maybe the sight of her ward drenched in perspiration has set her off.
The shopping district of Ichigozaka is not even second to the Champs-Élysées.
Well, Solène: la calle Enmedio in Castellón is not even second to the Champs-Élysées either.
AKIRA: ...but the people here are warm-hearted and kind!!
(Akira taking a stand for the fruit and veg shop, and for all of Ichigozaka... that's my leader...)
YUKARI: Pourquoi Paris? For the cosmopolitanism, or some other good reason?
SOLÈNE: If she stops here in Ichigozaka, her dreams, her hopes, will never come true.
Yukari inquires as to why it has to be Paris. The reason is that Paris will provide a world-class stage for Ciel. We then get a flashback showing us when Madame Solène first discovered Ciel’s talents.
Mon Trésor (Poe reference!), the Left Bank pâtisserie where Ciel once worked.
The queue outside Mon Trésor is outright called "la Seine!"
***Flashback to Paris a few years before***
Solène initially asked Jean-Pierre, but he turned her down
Solène et Jean-Pierre
Ciel just happened to be present at that time, and that was when Solène invited her to come along with her. Ciel accepted.
Sometime after that, Ciel just disappeared from Paris, from France, from Europe – that was when she arrived in Ichigozaka, right across the globe. Solène has sought her out because the World Pâtisserie Contest will be held in Paris. Hearing that has the girls start feeling down, and even question why Ciel chose to be with them.
Sometime after that, Ciel just disappeared from Paris, from France, from Europe – that was when she arrived in Ichigozaka, right across the globe. Solène has sought her out because the World Pâtisserie Contest will be held in Paris. Hearing that has the girls start feeling down, and even question why Ciel chose to be with them.
BILBERRY: You don't need to act like a goody-two-shoes. You're free to do as you please.
CIEL: Thank you, Bilberry!!
All of the girls seem to be worried about what Ciel’s future holds, including Ciel herself. Fortunately, Ciel has someone to give her some advice – which is to simply do what she wants. To follow her heart.
BILBERRY: I... am not encouraging you...!! It's so foolish...
Tsundere attitude confirmed. And she's also that flustered for a good reason.
Anyways, Ciel cheers up and she makes it clear that she doesn’t intend to go to Paris.
Just in time for Elysio to show up and stain a jack o'lantern in darkness...
PARFAIT ÉTOILE!
The battle plays out as you’d expect, except this pumpkin monster is able to split apart. Its lower half (torso) crashes down on Custard, Gelato, and --most relevantly-- Macaron and Chocolat, which distracts Parfait.
Like Atlas, our OTP now has to shoulder the weight of the heavenly vault -or the more mundane Samhain counterpart thereof-.
Elysio binds Parfait down while her attention is elsewhere.
Parfait falls to the ground, where Elysio stares and glares for a while – it cuts back and forth between the two opposing sides. Turns out the other Cures aren’t defeated yet, either.
GO CHOCOLAT!! ALLEZ ALLEZ!! Look at how much of a strain... the younger teens appear to take it far worse... not to mention Macaron... GO CHOCOLAT!! IT'S JUST A HOLLOW PUMPKIN, NO MATCH FOR YOUR STRENGTH AT ALL!
Following which, Macaron Julienne is used to break Parfait's ties.
Cure Gelato plays some Smashing Pumpkins with those radass ice boxing gloves, and then the finishing move is deployed as usual. With the monster of the week defeated, Elysio retreats. After that, the girls get back to making sweets.
In true Proust style (also, Ratatouille the Pixar film revisits the same scene from À la recherche du temps perdu), Solène's first spoonful of pumpkin pudding...
...triggers memories of her youth in the Rhône Valley countryside.
SOLÈNE: Oh la vache! Have you even used French butter?
Madame Solène tries the pumpkin pudding, and she loves it. Ciel then tells her that she learned consideration for the people she makes sweets for, and that she shows Solène the heights she can fly to as a pâtissière.
Madame Solène accepts that answer, though she suggests that Ciel should participate in the contest with the KiraPâti.
All Elysio can do is look on and wait, and bid his time.
Unlike his partner, Elysio is all sang-froid.
We end with a glimpse of the pitiable state Glaive has reduced Diaval to.
The plot definitely thickens...
Especially with the Glaivemobile becoming a Werewolf (better than a Jaguar, right)?
Especially with the Glaivemobile becoming a Werewolf (better than a Jaguar, right)?
EPILOGUE: BACKSTORY / RETURN TO PARIS (FROM THE FILM)
Jean-Pierre lecturing the twins
Kirarin and Pikalio
When Kirarin became Ciel for the first time.
That attire Yukari and Akira are donning as they stroll along the Left Bank.
They look like straight out of a classic film...
Really cements the fact that my OTP is canon.
MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION:
That wraps up episode 37, and it was certainly predictable – but it’s a pretty common thing you’ll see in anime. A character looks like they’ll have to leave, but they don’t in the end. A bit like when Ami was to leave for Berlin in Sailor Moon R...
The main plot itself is nothing new since we have seen it in so many shows, of how one character got an offering to chase their dream in a foreign land but because of his/her commitment to her friends (nakama), s/he can't go and the others questioned themselves are they holding that person back.
It's a dead horse plot. But still interesting especially with Solène's dynamics with the KiraPâti staff. A bit like when Fawlty Towers gets visits from psychoanalysts/Germans/Yanks/Lord Melbury... or a guest dies, or the health inspector comes. The way the dead horse premise was carried out is refreshing and reminds me of Fawlty Towers, especially with a tsundere Bilberry in the role of Mr. Fawlty (another refreshing note). Another thing that makes this episode interesting is how the highschoolers questioned hanging around with our prodigy. But especially the battle and how it goes from the Cures -especially the highschoolers- shouldering the weight of it all à la Atlas... to a succession of left and right hooks so powerful and so impressive that a Smashing Pumpkins pun was definitely mandatory. #AoiApproved reference!
Also, the Proust moment. THE PROUST MOMENT. Most people who have seen Ratatouille don't recognise the same memory-triggering flavour experience as a literary allusion. To one of the most iconic opening scenes in French literary history:
Et tout d’un coup le souvenir m’est apparu. Ce goût, c’était celui du petit morceau de madeleine que le dimanche matin à Combray (parce que ce jour-là je ne sortais pas avant l’heure de la messe), quand j’allais lui dire bonjour dans sa chambre, ma tante Léonie m’offrait après l’avoir trempé dans son infusion de thé ou de tilleul. La vue de la petite madeleine ne m’avait rien rappelé avant que je n’y eusse goûté ; peut-être parce que, en ayant souvent aperçu depuis, sans en manger, sur les tablettes des pâtissiers, leur image avait quitté ces jours de Combray pour se lier à d’autres plus récents ; peut-être parce que, de ces souvenirs abandonnés si longtemps hors de la mémoire, rien ne survivait, tout s’était désagrégé ; les formes — et celle aussi du petit coquillage de pâtisserie, si grassement sensuel sous son plissage sévère et dévot — s’étaient abolies, ou, ensommeillées, avaient perdu la force d’expansion qui leur eût permis de rejoindre la conscience. Mais, quand d’un passé ancien rien ne subsiste, après la mort des êtres, après la destruction des choses, seules, plus frêles mais plus vivaces, plus immatérielles, plus persistantes, plus fidèles, l’odeur et la saveur restent encore longtemps, comme des âmes, à se rappeler, à attendre, à espérer, sur la ruine de tout le reste, à porter sans fléchir, sur leur gouttelette presque impalpable, l’édifice immense du souvenir.
Et dès que j’eus reconnu le goût du morceau de madeleine trempé dans le tilleul que me donnait ma tante (quoique je ne susse pas encore et dusse remettre à bien plus tard de découvrir pourquoi ce souvenir me rendait si heureux), aussitôt la vieille maison grise sur la rue, où était sa chambre, vint comme un décor de théâtre s’appliquer au petit pavillon donnant sur le jardin, qu’on avait construit pour mes parents sur ses derrières (ce pan tronqué que seul j’avais revu jusque-là) ; et avec la maison, la ville, la Place où on m’envoyait avant déjeuner, les rues où j’allais faire des courses depuis le matin jusqu’au soir et par tous les temps, les chemins qu’on prenait si le temps était beau. Et comme dans ce jeu où les Japonais s’amusent à tremper dans un bol de porcelaine rempli d’eau de petits morceaux de papier jusque-là indistincts qui, à peine y sont-ils plongés s’étirent, se contournent, se colorent, se différencient, deviennent des fleurs, des maisons, des personnages consistants et reconnaissables, de même maintenant toutes les fleurs de notre jardin et celles du parc de M. Swann, et les nymphéas de la Vivonne, et les bonnes gens du village et leurs petits logis et l’église et tout Combray et ses environs, tout cela qui prend forme et solidité, est sorti, ville et jardins, de ma tasse de thé.
Next time, we get the pet-centric episode... Pekorin finally becomes human, though she's only a toddler (obviously), and the Cures have to sit her. Hope something more interesting happens across enemy lines, since Glaive has practically drained Diaval like a shot of dark werewolf liquor... Elysio has a reason to worry, definitely... is there some struggle for power, and will it come through after the introduction of human Pekorin?
IN NEXT EPISODE (38):
The spotlight falls on Pekorin; we see new plots unfurl
as our team pet becomes a most adorable li'l girl...
The Cures will have to sit her for a while, but what's exciting
is how this subplot on Glaive's power-up will uplift the fighting...
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