A BIRTHDAY SNOW MOON

 Today on Imbolc evening I turn 34, I go from being "the age of Jesus Christ" to "the age of Jesus Christ plus one."

I have received congratulations from all my friends and relatives, including such wonderful gifts as

A Gloria Vanderbilt perfume

Slip-on Skechers 

A strawberry necklace and watching ring

A USB Drive for all my ebooks

A wonderful lunch outside

But the BEST gift IS in the sky above Castellón. A Snow Moon that shines like a great silver coin.

I thank you all for all your gifts and wishes. And I thank the universe for a Snow Moon on such a special day

Cool Strategies / Reframing for Impulse Control (VERY IMPORTANT!)

In follow-up experiments of the Marshmallow Test, Mischel found that children were able to wait longer if they changed the way they thought about the marshmallow (focusing on its similarity to a cotton ball --tasteless, inedible--, rather than on its gooey, delectable taste).

You can chill a hot object of desire by representing it to yourself in Cool, abstract terms. Don’t think of the marshmallow as yummy and chewy; imagine it as round and white like a cotton ball. Or that it is literally a cotton ball. One little girl became patient by pretending she was looking at a picture of a marshmallow and “put a frame around it” in her head. “You can’t eat a picture,” she explained.

While coolly defusing a temptation, you can also make Hot the delayed consequences of yielding to it. Mischel was a three-pack-a-day smoker ignoring all warnings about cancer until one day he saw a cancer patient on a gurney in Stanford Hospital. “His head was shaved, with little green X’s, and his chest was bare, with little green X’s.” A nurse told him the X’s were for where the radiation for the patient's cancer would be targeted. “I couldn’t shake the image. It made hot the delayed consequences of my smoking.” Mischel kept that image alive in his mind while reframing his cigarettes as sources of poison instead of relief, and he quit. 

In one segment, Cookie Monster appears as a contestant on a game show and is presented with a single cookie on a plate. “This is The Waiting Game,” shouts the lantern-jawed Muppet host, “and if you wait to eat the cookie until I get back, you get two cookies.” As the host dashes away, Cookie Monster’s ordeal begins. He tries singing to himself. Then he pretends the cookie is only a picture. Next he distracts himself by playing with a toy, and finally imagines that the cookie is a smelly fish. “Me need new strategy,” he says as one mental trick gives out to another. A pair of back-up singers pops up every few seconds to croon that “good things come to those who wait.” Finally, the host returns with the second cookie. The exhausted monster’s patience has paid off.

Mischel himself served as a consultant to Sesame Street for last year’s season, and Cookie Monster’s self-mastering strategies bear the clear imprint of his thinking on this question. In Mischel’s view, emotions are the bane of self-control: These “hot” responses make us impatient and cloud our logical judgment of what’s valuable. And so in his experiments, Mischel had children try to override their emotional responses to the marshmallow by having them use “cool” strategies like singing to distract themselves, focusing solely on the treat’s colour, or pretending it was a cotton ball. When children tried these approaches, they demonstrated more willpower in resisting temptation.

Mischel is hardly alone in thinking of emotion as the villain in these scenarios. More than three centuries ago, the Jewish Dutch philosopher Spinoza (17th century) pretty well encapsulated what is still the conventional wisdom about emotions in human affairs: that “in their desires and judgments of what is beneficial, people are carried away by their passions, which take no account of the future or anything else.” As Ethan Kross, the director of the Emotion and Self-Control Lab at the University of Michigan, recently told me, suppressing emotion has pretty much always been advocated as a primary tool for resisting temptation. 

If people don’t rest between temptations, it puts them in something of a death spiral in which each willpower success perversely increases the likelihood of willpower failure when facing the next temptation. In fact, Vohs’s most recent work shows that the people who appear the best at maintaining self-control succeed not because their willpower is actually greater, but because they employ the simple strategy of avoiding coming into contact with temptation in the first place (precommitment).

Yes, there are emotions that can lead to vice (envy, lust, anger). But there are also emotions associated with virtue (gratitude, compassion, love). At the same time, while it’s true that reason and willpower can engender virtuous action—as when people adhere to a code of ethics or a long-range plan—they can just as easily be used to motivate and justify quite impulsive behavior. (More on this later.) The first step in understanding how self-control really works, then, is to give up the idea that emotions necessarily lead to impatience.

Here, to my mind, lies the key to understanding self-control’s true raison d’être. Evolutionarily speaking, the capacity for self-control didn’t arise because it increased success on standardized tests, dieting, or saving for retirement. None of those were relevant concerns for our progenitors. What did matter to one’s well-being for all of human history was the ability to navigate the social world successfully—the ability to be viewed as a virtuous, and therefore, desirable partner. A predilection to be fair, to be honest, to share, to be other-oriented to some degree, is what builds social capital. Avoid cheating on your spouse with a lover, and you will ensure long-term gains at the cost of immediate pleasure. These are the qualities people look for in friends and leaders; they’re also ones that require an ability to resist temptation.

With this view in mind, I began to design and conduct empirical research related to decision-making and impulse control about eight years ago. At the time, I was specifically interested in the dynamics of trust and cooperation, and my lab group had been accruing finding after finding showing that manipulations of specific morally toned emotions enhanced both these behaviors—behaviors that themselves directly involve delays of gratification. Take trustworthiness, for example. At heart, any decision to behave in a trustworthy manner usually pits a desire to ensure long-term cooperation against a desire for immediate selfish gain. If you loan me $200 for rent and I don’t pay you back, I’m ahead in the short term. Long term, though, I’m likely to lose much more. You probably won’t help me again, and if I were to aggregate the losses over the years from not having you as a supportive friend, the $200 I kept today will look small in comparison. Being trustworthy, then, requires that I don’t give in to a desire to keep money that wasn’t mine, but rather that I repay you at immediate cost to myself.

How did feelings of gratitude alter greedy, untrustworthy behavior? As we reported in an article published in the journal Emotion, the results were quite clear. On average, the people who received help—and expressed gratitude for it—following their computer crash gave 25 percent more tokens to their partners. Put simply, feelings of gratitude nudged people to restrain their greed; the more grateful they felt, the less selfishly they acted, and the more willing they were to cooperate with people they didn’t know from Adam and Eve. 

First, we asked participants to describe in writing one of three types of events: something that made them feel grateful, something that made them feel happy and laugh, or the events of their typical day. As you might guess, this task, which was couched as a memory experiment, really served to induce one of three emotional states: gratitude, happiness, or a relatively neutral feeling. Then, using what has become a standard method for assessing financial impulsivity, we had participants answer a series of 27 questions. Each question took the form, “Would you rather have $X now, or $Y in Z days?” In all 27 variations, Y was greater than X. So, for example, a participant might be asked if she’d rather have $55 now or $75 in 61 days—the adult analogue of one marshmallow now or two later. And just to ensure that people were motivated to tell us what they really desired, these weren’t hypothetical questions. The stakes were real. We told participants that, for some of them, one of the questions would be picked at random—and their answer honored. So, if we picked the question that had asked “Would you rather receive $55 now or $75 in 61 days?” we’d immediately give the participant $55 if she’d chosen “now,” or, 61 days later, we’d mail her a check for $75. 

Here again, the impact of gratitude on self-control became apparent. People who were feeling happy were just as impatient as those who were feeling neutral. Both groups significantly discounted the value of future rewards—meaning they sold their future selves short. On average, they exhibited an annual discount factor of 0.18, meaning that they’d give up the chance to receive $100 a year from now in order to receive $18 immediately. Those who had been induced to feel grateful, however, were significantly more future-oriented. They required $30 now before forgoing the future $100 reward—a 12 percent increase, resulting only from a simple and fleeting nudge toward feeling grateful.

AT THIS POINT, YOU might be wondering what’s so special about gratitude. In reality, it’s not gratitude per se that’s important, but rather the class of emotions to which it belongs. Much as Robert Frank theorized in the 1980s, the emotions that enhance self-control are indeed the ones that are positively related to social life, whose purpose is to grease the wheels of social interaction by fostering moral behavior. While you might feel disgusted at the sight of carrion, or happy in response to a sunny day, you feel grateful when someone does something for you. You feel shame when you’re worried someone will think less of you. You feel pride when you believe you’ve succeeded in a way people will value. These and similar emotions are the ones that have helped us build social relationships for millennia, by combating impulses to be self-centered or lazy through increasing the value we attach to long-term rewards.

A quick look at the published work coming from my research group over the past decade makes the point. Our work, for example, clearly shows that pride leads people to persevere on difficult tasks. When we give participants acclaim for their performance on any type of test, they’ll work longer and harder to hone the relevant skill, with the length of time they persevere deriving directly from the amount of pride they felt when receiving acclaim from those around them. Compassion—another morally toned emotion—also leads to behaviours that go against immediate gratification. For instance, when we increase the compassion individuals feel for another by highlighting the similarities they share with him or her, they’ll expend considerably more effort to help that other person when needed, even at immediate cost to themselves. In these and similar cases, socially oriented emotions automatically facilitate decisions and behaviours that foster the long-term gains that come from building bonds with others.

You might, for instance, resist the temptation to overeat by trying to cognitively re-frame treats as unhealthy rather than delicious. Alternatively, you can go the route of focusing on the pride you felt, or will feel, on losing those initial few pounds. You might prevent yourself from making an impulse purchase by placing your money in an account with stiff penalties for early withdrawal—a type of strategy known as precommitment, which, interestingly, in and of itself implicitly acknowledges the limits of willpower. Or you might do the same by taking a few minutes to stop and count your blessings.

Which route is the better one? For two reasons, I think the less frequently advocated path—the emotional one—might just prove superior for enhancing self-control.

The first is that, unlike strategies based on cultivating emotions, those based on cognitive mechanisms involving executive control are, as you’ll recall, easily exhausted. As work by Kathleen Vohs, Roy Baumeister, and their colleagues has demonstrated time and again, squelching desire quickly leaves willpower depleted. As if that were not problematic enough, the effects of relying on willpower to dampen emotional desires—a strategy recommended by many leading self-control theorists like Baumeister and Mischel—can be especially pernicious. Research by the Stanford psychologist James Gross, one of the nation’s leading experts on the science of emotion regulation, shows that suppressing emotions wreaks havoc on the mind and body. It hinders memory, increases physiological stress, and negatively impacts communication with others. Using this strategy, then, poses two hazards. Not only does it increase the odds that you’ll give in to temptation later; it can also debilitate thinking, learning, memory, social bonding, and communication.

SO WHAT’S THE ANSWER to the problem of self-control? Any strategy based solely on forcing adherence to a set of virtues through a bunch of cool-headed, cognitive strategies and a list of “thou shalt nots” is a fragile one. That’s not to say it won’t work at times, but it’s based on cognitive resources that can and do fail often. Of course, relying blindly on emotions would be just as foolish, as they, too, can certainly lead one astray. Rather, the answer is to cultivate the right emotions, the prosocial ones, in daily life. These emotions— gratitude, compassion, authentic pride, and even guilt—work from the bottom up, without requiring cognitive effort on our part, to shape decisions that favor the long-term. If we focus on instilling the capacity to experience these emotional states regularly, we’ll build resources that will automatically spring forth in reflexive and productive ways. In essence, we’ll be giving ourselves inoculations against temptation that, like antibodies in our bloodstream, will be ready and waiting to combat possible threats to our well-being.

We may also partially solve the question of how to instill grit. The concept of grit, which is sometimes defined as “perseverance and passion for long-term goals,” implicitly acknowledges that the capacity for self-control isn’t the only thing that matters when it comes to predicting success; the motivation to resist temptation and persist is equally important. As the University of Michigan’s Ethan Kross told me, “For self-control to work correctly, a person needs two things: ability and motivation.” One or the other alone just won’t cut it. Emotions, at base, are the motivating engines of behaviour. The beauty, then, of cultivating moral, socially oriented emotions is that they will serve not only to increase the value we attach to future gains, but also automatically and efficiently drive the behaviours in question. They provide the passion for success, irrespective of whether we consciously recognize it.

The lack of attention we as a society give to learning how to use emotions to reach goals is regrettable, because if we’re going to conquer the temptation to favor short-term pleasures—from relatively minor ones like overeating and cheating to global ones like favoring immediate profit over the long-term mitigation of climate change—we’re going to need every weapon at our disposal. And while willpower certainly offers assistance, we’ve been neglecting the weapon that comes straight from our nature as innately social beings, not just rational, calculating loners. We can’t just exert self-control by willing ourselves to resist the first marshmallow or averting our eyes from it; we have to be grateful that someone’s offering it to us in the first place.

If they focused on their abstract “cool” features (“The marshmallows are puffy and round like cotton balls”), they managed to wait longer than the researchers, watching them through a one-way observation window, could bear. And when they imagined that the treats facing them were “just a picture” and were cued to “put a frame around it in your head” they were able to wait for almost 18 minutes. When Mischel asked a child how she managed to wait so long, she replied: “well you can’t eat a picture.” 

A third way to boost self-control is to remove the emotional components (or the “hot” attributes) of the tempting object. This sounds way more complicated than it is! As a passionate tea collector, finding new flavors gives me thrills, and every addition to my tea cupboard is exciting. In order to strip tea (or any collector’s item) of its emotional component, try to think of it in an abstract way. At the end of the day, every tea is just a mix of dried leaves used to flavour water. What is so exciting about that? And you can apply the same analytic approach to other tempting items: What is wine but fermented grape juice? What is beer but fermented hop water? What are doughnuts but pieces of deep-fried dough? 

In a Japanese Zen story, a monk visits a politician who has a pretty wife, who wears fine silks and jewels, and the best perfume - moreover, the lady is rather frisky and makes advances on the monk: a serious temptation, considering his vow of chastity. That evening, while the politician is away, the wife makes advances on the monk, and nearly gets into bed with him - but then the monk imagines the lady as a corpse, foul-smelling, with brittle greenish skin full of bubbles, and maggots in her mouth and eye sockets. Obviously, this causes him to resist the temptation and preserve his chastity.

************************+

Treat desire as something temporary - don't act on it instantly. Set a timer (the New Personality Self-Portrait advises this exercise for the Mercurial personality - similar to the 7w6 or Sexual Seven) and distract yourself or "urge surf;" don't act on the urge, but watch it rise and fall and give way to disappointment if there is any - but NOT all desires lead to disappointment. The interesting thing is that desires are temporary and they change - what I want now, whether I get it or not, will be different to what I will want in another time.

THE MERCURIAL PERSONALITY - Exercise 7
To help prevent overindulging, time it. If you want one
cookie (or one sweater) but you usually eat the whole box
(or buy up the whole shop), carry a stopwatch or other
watch that has a timer. Take one cookie (purchase one
sweater). Now set your timer to go off in one hour (or half an hour, if you can't wait). 

You can have another cookie (make another purchase) one
hour/half an hour from now. Usually the urge will have passed by that
time. If not, take one more cookie (make one more
purchase) and set the timer to go off in another hour...

 

 

 

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS, AND TO A MOUSE

Once more, Burns Supper comes along and we take another peek at a literary haggis (and at a literary mouse), Surprising how many cognates Scots has with other Germanic languages, such as thairm for large intestine (se. tarm, de. Darm), or nieve for fist (se. näve). 

Address to a Haggis

Robert Burns

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

(we salute your honest, smiling face)

Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!

(puddin: here, savoury pudding)
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:

(stomach, small, or large intestine)
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang ‘s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

(trencher: platter)
Your hurdies like a distant hill,

(hurdies: hips)
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,

(dight: sharpen)
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,

(slight: here, skill)
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;

(like any ditch)
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

(reeking: here, steaming)

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:

(horn for horn: spoonful by spoonful, spoons were made of horn)
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

(deil: devil)
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

(kytes: guts)
Are bent like drums;

(till all their well-swollen guts are tight as drums)
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

(then the old Master, most likely to explode)
Bethankit hums.

(bethankit: thank the LORD, bless this meal)

Is there that owre his French ragoût,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

(or olla that would sicken a sow, a female pig)
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,

(sconner: disgust)
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

(his spindly leg a good whiplash)

His nieve a nit;

(his fist a louse's egg)
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

(walie nieve: mighty fist)
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

(sned: sever, amputate)
Like taps o’ thrissle.

(like tops of thistle - the national flower)

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

(bill of fare: menu)
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

(skinking ware: liquid fare)
That jaups in luggies;

(that splashes in bowls)
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

***************************

To a Mouse

Robert Burns

On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough,

(her: is the mouse female? Did Burns sex her?)
November, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,

(wee: little. Sleekit: sly, shrewd. Cowrin: cowering)
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

(breastie: little chest - of the mouse)
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!

(brattle: rush, haste)
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

(laith: loathe)
Wi’ murdering pattle!

(pattle: plowshare)

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

(whiles: sometimes)
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave

(an odd ear of wheat in 24 sheaves)
‘S a sma’ requet;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,

(lave: reminder)
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!

(wa's: walls. Win's: winds)
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!

(foggage: foliage)
An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuing,
Baith snell an’ keen!

(both bitter and sharp)

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past

(coulter: here, another word for plowshare)
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble,

(stibble: stubble)
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

(monie: many)
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,

(house or hald: homeless)
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,

(to thole: to suffer)
An’ cranreuch cauld!

(and cold frost)

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

(thy lane: alone)
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,

(agley: wrong -  the best schemes of mice and men/people often go wrong)
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

(lea'e: leave)
For promis’d joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

(e'e: eye)
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I cannot see,
I guess an’ fear!

SHATTERED FABLES: BOY'S CLOTHES, PAGE'S COSTUME (MANDSDRAGT)

Let's return to that prince, that handsome, oblivious man. When the mermaid first arrives, he is delighted by his new toy. He has clothes made for her, a boy's clothes, a page's costume, so she can ride with him and attend him. She is desexualized, made into a companion, a mascot. He loves her, yes, but in the way a man loves his horse. He does not see her as a woman. He does not see the depths of her sacrifice. He sees a beautiful mute creature who dances for his pleasure.

(Shattered Fables sees the mandsdragt, here called "boy's clothes" and "page's costume," as a token of desexualization, a defense mechanism by which the prince, who is straight, ceases to see the Little Foundling --mermaid as a human-- as an erotic temptation. I will not cease to state, like Maria Tatar, that it would have given her much more freedom, Andersen describes the couple riding astride their horses and mountaineering, not to mention the controversy that would rise at a Victorian royal court that a girl, moreover a castaway/foundling who caught the prince's eye, would crossdress - this was intentional on the queer Andersen's part!)

SHATTERED FABLES - TSQ-IV (AND FROZEN AND OTHELLO)

Since The Midnight Archives is on hiatus, I have moved to another podcast in the same genre: Shattered Fables. Notably, the Fourth Story/Clever Princess subplot is centre stage and COMPLETELY GUTTED here, as a critique of courtly/intellectual society and analyzing this character's strengths and flaws, hinting that she may be neurodivergent (like Yours Truly) being a collection of data, but not integrated or experienced... and adding the what if...? her silver-tongued prince were actually a dishonest psychopath ready to betray her once he won her over - like Hans in Frozen - or mind-controlled by such a psychopath - like Othello, by Iago -, Andersen gives his subplot a happy ending, but peel the paint and discover what could have been!

the world of intellect and society represented by the prince, and the princess. 

A new prince has just come to the kingdom, and this prince has married a princess who is terribly clever. She had read all the newspapers in the world and forgotten them again. She was that clever. She announced that she would marry any man who could speak well for himself. Not just someone who looked important. Suitors came in droves, but they were all intimidated by her intelligence and the grandeur of the court, but one young man, a poor boy, came along who was not intimidated. He was witty and charming, and he spoke as well as the princess. They fell in love and were married. And ... this clever young prince might be Kai. He had arrived alone in simple clothes just as Kai might have.

This seems promising, but look at the subtext. This is a story about social climbing through intellect. The princess is not valued for her goodness, but for her cleverness. The prince is not valued for his character, but for his wit. This is Andersen commenting on the world of the salons and the courts that he had so desperately wanted to join. A world where cleverness was a currency, where a sharp silver tongue could win you a princess. He is also subtly continuing the theme of the cold heart. The princess's defining trait is that she has read everything and forgotten it. Her knowledge is vast, but it is not integrated. It is a collection of data, not wisdom from experience (could she be autistic, being a human Wikipedia?). It is another form of the flawless snowflake. 

 ... to help ... sneak into the palace to see if the prince is Kai... has a position at court and can get them in through a back door. They sneak in at night. The palace is grand and imposing. They creep through the halls, up the grand staircase. They finally reach the royal bedchamber. The prince and princess are asleep. Gerda creeps closer. She holds up her lamp. She sees the prince's neck. And it is not Kai. Her hope is utterly crushed. She lets out a little cry. 

The prince and princess wake up. They are not angry. They are kind (DK: gode). They listen to her story. They are moved by her loyalty and her courage. They represent the best of the civilized world. They are intelligent, compassionate, and generous. They give Gerda new clothes, warm boots, a muff, and a magnificent golden coach to help her on her journey. 

They are good people, but they are part of a system. They are insulated by their wealth and their status. They can offer charity, but they cannot truly understand the brutal world that Gerda must travel through. The golden coach is a perfect symbol of this. It is a wonderful gift, a piece of their gilded world. But in the wilderness, in the lawless places Gerda is heading, a golden coach is not a help. It is a target. And so Gerda leaves the palace dressed like a little lady riding in a golden coach with a postillion and footman. She is leaving the realm of civilized society and she is about to enter the third and most terrifying stage of her journey, the world of the robbers. 

The coach drives into a dark forest. The gold glitters in the gloom and it attracts attention. Robbers see it. 

"Gold, gold," they cry. They attack the coach. They kill the postillion, the coachman, and the footmen.  

... into the robbers's den. This is the absolute antithesis of the princess's palace. The robbers's castle is a ruin, full of smoke and grime. Ravens and crows fly out of the holes in the walls. Great bulldogs leap around a fire where deer are roasting on a spit. The little robber girl has a menagerie (a zoo) of captive animals, a hundred pigeons and a reindeer all tied up. She and Gerda lie down to sleep on a bed of straw. 

The civilized world of the prince and princess for all its kindness could not help her. Their knowledge derived from newspapers was useless. True knowledge, the knowledge of the wild places and the hidden things comes from the outcasts, the victims, the captive animals who see things from a different perspective. 

This section of the story (Fifth Story, Robber Maiden) is a brutal refutation of the Romantic idea of the noble savage. The robbers are not Romantic rebels. They are damaged, dangerous people. Criminals. Their world is not free. It is a prison of violence. Andersen is showing his readers the real cost of poverty and social collapse. He is rubbing their noses in the ugliness that their comfortable Victorian homes were designed to ignore. Imagine being a wealthy Copenhagen (or Gothenburg) mother in 1844 (when The Snow Queen was released), reading this story to your children by the fire. You have just read about the kind prince and princess, a world you understand. Now you are confronted with the robber maiden, a child who sleeps with a Bowie knife, a child who expresses love by biting. This is not escapism. This is social commentary disguised as a fairy tale. 

... the distraction of worldly society, the palace, and the horror of worldly violence, the robbers's den. ... the limitations of civilized society, the palace, ... the casual murder of the coachman, ...

The danger of a society that values cleverness over kindness.

(Nothing said about the honeymoon of the prince and princess in the finale in this version!)

(Mind blown! The Fourth Story subplot, this "world of intellect and high society," - a satire of social climbing? Is the prince lying? When he wins her through his clever liveliness, is he being honest or not? --Think of Hans in Frozen! Disney split the prince in half; the dashing and charming, witty and extraverted Hans --a psychopath-- and the modest and sincere Kristoff in worn deerskins, more introverted but a diamond in the rough. Or if he is sincere, he could be mind-controlled by a psychopath, a court being a nest of snakes --Othello, Iago, I am looking at you!--)

Also the fact that she has read a lot but has not integrated anything, all vast theory and no wisdom, a vast collection of data but no experience (she's not only a human Wikipedia, but a female Cassio --another favourite character-- "mere prattle without practice"), resounds with me... both due to this (neurodivergence?) and other factors (youth, wealth, isolationism), they are both intelligent, altruistic, generous, and compassionate, but insulated, out of touch with the outside world ("ivory tower" syndrome) - though they have the best intentions, their knowledge gleaned from newspapers, for all its kindness, is useless in the criminal underworld - that Rococo carriage is a TARGET, it attracts the robbers' attention, they massacre the entourage.

This subplot is called "the world of intellect and society," "the distraction of worldly society," and "the limitations of civilized society..." beyond the adventure story's romantic (with a lower-case r, related to love) subplot, there is a critique of a society that distracts and that is detached from the outside world, an ivory tower, a collection of data and vast knowledge ("mere prattle without practice") but not integrated and bereft of experience, and therefore useless in a hostile outside world, despite its best intentions. There are connections to both Othello and Frozen, to the dark side of this high society that values cleverness over both kindness (something negative) and appearances (something positive), cleverness above all, where cleverness is a currency, a commodity, and where a little silver-tongued clever liveliness can win you a mate who may be your intellectual equal... but peel the paint and have your mind blown - the Clever Princess was lucky, but she could have been, like Anna her Disney counterpart, deceived by a snake in the grass! Or, like Desdemona, murdered by a husband who is sincere, but mind-controlled by a snake in the grass! Read between the lines...

THE NANTUCKET TRILOGY (LIMERICKS)

 There was an old man from Nantucket

Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
    But his daughter, named Nan,
    Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket. (Nan took it)

But he followed the pair to Pawtucket,
The young man and the girl with the bucket;
    And he said to the man,
    He was welcome to Nan,
But as for the bucket, Pawtucket. (Pa --Dad-- took it)

Followed later by:

Then the pair followed Pa to Manhasset,
Where he still held the cash as an asset,
    But Nan and the man
    Stole the money and ran,
And as for the bucket, Manhasset. (Man --the lover-- has it)

THE JEWEL-ENCRUSTED GLOBE (OTHELLO RETELLING)

 THE JEWEL-ENCRUSTED GLOBE (Othello with a happy ending, Victorian setting)

Summary:

“Good sir, I am in love!”

“In love!” His instinct he rejected
as too good to be true.
“With whom?” Her voice with tears affected
was as she said, “With you!”

Notes:

Shortly after having read Othello for the first time, I had a vivid dream reimagining the play in a new setting, with a revised ending. I then wrote this poem on the Notes app on my phone, in every spare moment, during a four-day frenzy. The poem is written in imperfect ballad meter, with an ABAB rhyme scheme; I occasionally alter character names, in true Shakespearean fashion, in order to fit the meter. Characters’ name and personality changes and other odd particulars of the piece come mostly from the details of the dream.
I am white and have never experienced racism, so I apologize and accept criticism if the racist views of the antagonistic characters are portrayed in an offensive way.

Work Text:

That day in ‘s office, her shy look
deflected his eyes’ probe.
They traded gifts: from her, a book;
from him, a jeweled globe.

When she’d been first told he would come,
her youthful ignorance
created her first instincts, some
she swore she’d cast off since.

On Costa Rica’s richest coast,
he first had met her dad.
His skills the latter longed to boast;
his service must be had.

The young man yearned (who can know why?)
to move to England, where
one couldn’t separate — when sky
was smoggy — ground from air.

In Ethiopia the proud
and free man had been born,
but soon as he had been allowed,
absconded — not from scorn;

he loved the soil and the tongue
in which he had been raised;
but still he longed to walk among
diversity; amazed

by Persian silks and spices, or
Italian winery;
he dreamed of many things, but more
than most, of finery.

But how this rich Amharic lord
completely changed his mind,
when in a foreign market, stored
away, he chanced to find

a jewel-encrusted model of
The Earth he longed to plunder.
If one with objects fall in love,
so feel internal thunder,

can possibly, he did; forgot
his sense of place. The village
dissolved around him as he thought,
“So what I’d longed to pillage

is this! A trinket, made by chance
or unknown artist’s work,
enraptures me at random glance!”
The man who used to smirk;

to scoff at smeared, imperfect pearls;
to think the sunset common
and therefore cheap; to bow at girls
with noble names; this lawman

who thought, or knew, that he controlled
the Earth of looms and mines,
now held it in his hands. He rolled
it on its palms; its lines

he traced; and suddenly he knew.
Good Reader, let’s not ask
how from this jewel he outgrew
his greed; that’s not our task.

It could have been that in his youth
he needed only Time
to find what he could call his truth —
a young man in his prime,

as we could call with flattery
a teenaged boy, can change
on sensing that his battery
is empty, that the range

of new experience prevents
his continuation of
a youthful vileness. Events
that universal love

create could therefore come whenever
subconsciously one feels
that such a change is needed. Never
assume that since one kneels

in newly-found humility,
that this specific clime
inspired affability;
it could have just been time

to change. It could have been the place;
a new environment
could have de-centered him, and grace
did possibly imprint

on him by accident. Perhaps
he semi-consciously
was looking for internal maps,
and when he chanced to see

a map, the perfect symbol found.
Howe’er we speculate,
we know he from this object round
himself did recreate.

He vowed that after buying it
from riches he would fast;
this relatively little bit
of luxury was the last

indeed that he in avarice bought;
instinctive self-promotion
quite disappeared, and as he’d thought,
his passion and devotion

were redirected. So his course
to learning then did steer;
unprecedented mental force
he gathered. In a year,

he’d learned quite well the Persian tongue,
geography, its arts,
its history; so he among
its charms exchangèd hearts.

To Costa Rica he set sail;
why? Well, it made a change.
Since he was still a stubborn male,
he chose a place quite strange

but still uniquely pleasing. When
he left, he brought a friend,
and closer grew these two young men.
Until the journey’s end,

they talked incessantly. As churned
the waves, as paths unknown
they charted, from his friend he learned
the language Francophone.

In that same market they had met;
their similarities
in parallel directions set
them. Joyfully, with ease,

they voyaged. He, from “Indo-Chine”
(he did not like the name)
to markets, then to jungles green,
with not-quite-realized aim

arrived. His name was Casimir,
and his companion’s age,
like his, was twenty-two. Of fear,
disgust, disturbance, rage,

he little knew. Once they did land,
these two young scholars grew
in learning, culture, wisdom, and
esteem. ‘Fore long, all knew

these brave expatriates. Our chap,
though gentle, calm, and mellow,
for his great skill with book and map
was monikered Othello.

His well-sketched plan did follow well
his pattern: to learn Spanish,
learn all he could, then not to dwell
but suddenly to vanish

and sail to England. To his aid,
came his prospective boss,
a lord who quite discreetly played
diplomacy across

the months, successfully convinced
our man to come with him,
in his employment, and evinced
that such a country grim

was truly full of great delights.
Of these, three were his daughters,
a triangle of radiant lights.
So as they crossed the waters,

Othello and Lord Meadowglen,
the former learned to speak
exactly like the Englishmen
of lineage antique.

Lord Meadowglen’s dear family met
the man in his employ;
descriptions of whom you now get —
three daughters and a boy.

The eldest, Emily, he met first;
her age was twenty-one;
demeanor: vain, but not the worst;
reserved, no sense of fun.

The middle child, born abroad,
in quaint Tuscan villetta,
was therefore named (this may seem odd)
quite Ita-ly, Chiaretta.

Chiaretta’s loveliness was great,
her liveliness still greater.
For more description you must wait;
we’ll focus on her later.

Last, Margaret, the youngest child,
a charming girl of nine;
her juvenile demeanor wild
nobody could refine.

An orphan, Uncle Henry’s son,
by name Justinian,
a somber ward of twenty-one
did live most welcome in

the family and their estate.
Most welcome, too, Othello
received a library grand and great
with gilding gleaming yellow.

A year passed by. The time arrived
for Emily’s betrothal,
so from her cousin she received
a formal, planned proposal.

I promise that this fact anon
quite relevant will be,
but let us turn our focus on
Chiaretta. Why? You’ll see.

Natasha Rostov never was
more lively in her passion,
than dear Chiaretta, who because
of age and sex, loved fashion,

loved blooming gardens, ribbons, bows —
but deeper still loved books
in which she buried oft her nose.
One’d often find, in nooks

our nineteen-year-old heroine.
Her favorite place, however:
his library — she’d sit within
all afternoon and never

grow bored or want to leave. Of course,
she didn’t only read;
she’d talk until her voice grew hoarse
whene’er she felt the need.

Because of these two predilections,
she fast became the friend
of young Othello. Her misdirections
charmed him to no end —

her unperfected manners, yes,
but most of all, her mind.
She’d question him, then try to guess
the answer, then would find

that whether she’d been wrong or right,
her friend would always smile.
She puzzled at his visage bright,
but after a short while,

grew used to it and with her dear
friend did associate it.
Whenever life to her was drear,
whenever she did hate it,

to him she always did retreat.
He’d patiently pause work
to speak with her, and solace sweet
they both found. Our young clerk

did teach her everything he’d learned
from tutors and from travels;
she read him passages she yearned
to share. So, as unravels

a skein but given entropy,
all walls between them fell.
They felt themselves to equals be,
and dearest friends as well.

One day she knocked upon his door
more bashfully than ever;
she longed to sink into the floor
and hide now from her clever

companion, but she had to speak.
The urgent reason of
her visit, said she in voice weak:
“Good sir, I am in love!”

“In love!” His instinct he rejected
as too good to be true.
“With whom?” Her voice with tears affected
was as she said, “With you!”

Upon his desk she hit her head;
in shame she hid her face.
At her display he laughed and said,
“my dear, ‘tis no disgrace.

I’m flattered, and you know I care
for you — but think this through!
Although there’s much affection there,
I’m not the match for you.”

To her he’d pushed back all attraction
until her firm consent
to even thought as well as action
of his, expressly went.

But now as soon as she’d expressed
her own secret affections,
they no more in him were repressed —
but still he held objections.

“But I’m too old for you”, he said.
“You’re only twenty-three.”
“And you’re too young.” “When Mother wed,
she’d aged no more than me.”

“Were we to ask him, or elope,
what would your father say?”
“Why wouldn’t he approve?” “I hope
he would, but still, the way

of all the world is stubborn still.
His Lordship might believe
I’d taken you against your will.”
“He wouldn’t!” “You’re naive.”

“And what if he disowned you? Gone
your wealth — what of your life?”
“Through anything I’d suffer on
if but to be your wife.”

She probably could not have done
without some wealth, in truth.
Her thought, though, was a noble one,
despite her stubborn youth.

“Your father thinks me little but
exotic specimen,
thinks noble savagery of what
I deem my soul within.

“I’m useful and intelligent,
but only an exception,
a curiosity — no hint
of wisdom or perception.

“He’s never seen my native land,
and there, he does not know,
is culture rich, abundant and
as fruitful ‘s trees that grow

in orchards on his own estate.
He thinks it strange I can
decipher, write orations great,
and read. The only man

of learning with my shade of skin,
I must be in his view.
I must know if these thoughts within
him have occurred to you.

I beg you, love not as one does
to shock or to excite.
You cannot marry me because,
nor marry me despite,

my origins. It’s not a game.
I’m always thus perceived,
subject to ire, stares, sneers, shame;
conspicuous, preconceived.

These stares to you will soon extend
if you should take my hand,
I beg you, dearest soul, amend
your choice; do not withstand

such suffering for my humble sake.”
“Are your objections done?
My lord, my dearest, only take
my hand. I want but one

existence — that with you. My heart,
my body, mind, my soul,
belong to you. A life apart
from you could not be whole.

I know my temperament and age;
I know that you are wise.
So guided by you, dearest sage,
who patiently advise,

I know I could become the wife
that you deserve — I hope.
I beg you, take me all your life!”
“I want to, but —” “The scope

of your objection’s grave and grand,
but stubborn I refuse
because of’t not to give my hand
to you. If you should use

or hurt me, or should be the man
the world believes you are,
I’d leave this moment. But I can
see past the way they mar

your image. If at first I’d seen,
in ignorance and folly,
an unfair blot, it’s now wiped clean.
So look not melancholy.

I should not be the one to say,
but if you will accept,
I’m yours.” And in the gentlest way,
he sighed, and softly swept

her hand up to his lips. She blushed,
exuberant, excited,
yet unprepared. Her whole face flushed,
and, visibly delighted,

she asked, “Does that mean yes?” “It does.
You’ve done it; I’m convinced.
My love I need not state, because
it’s easily evinced,

but nonetheless you do deserve
to hear explicitly
my plans to love, to cherish, serve,
respect in chivalry.

The future—” “Oh, who needs to hear
of that right now? Please, first,
I’m dying for a kiss — right here!”
Her lips, as parched from thirst,

as in their way they really were,
she pointed to. He stopped
his sentence, smiled down at her,
and cautiously he dropped

his head to hers, and on her lips
he sealed the marriage pact.
Their mutual feelings did eclipse
all else; if not for tact

and honor, they would then have gladly
prolonged the kiss, and more,
but quite reluctantly and sadly,
he moved away now, for

his breath was short, and it was time
to turn to conversation.
Chiaretta thought this paradigm
of blissfullest sensation

their kiss, the first of millions,
she hoped. Naïve no longer,
but one of those civilians,
she’d be, she thought, and stronger

than ever, with him at her side.
But now the supper-bell
her reverie interrupted; cried
incessantly its knell.

He watched her in excitement bounce
her heels and take his hands.
“Tonight at supper let’s announce —
why not? — our marriage plans.

Must this be secret? I may burst!”
He sighed and said, “All right,
although I’m worried. Wait — but first,
a gift for you tonight.

“This globe was once the symbol of
my turn from fool to wise,
but now our bond of precious love
it comes to symbolize.”

It didn’t stand out physically —
she’d seen such jewels before —
but looking at it whimsically,
believing it meant more,

she thought it much more fitting than
the richest diamond ring.
It’d lend him needed courage when
she’d say the shocking thing

tonight. They ended their embrace —
for both, regretfully —
and turned with newfound strength to face
Chiaretta’s family.

The pudding cleared, Chiaretta glanced
around, then softly tapped
her wine-glass with her fork. Entranced,
the family turned, enrapt

as always by Chiaretta’s charm.
What jolliness, they thought,
can she now bring? But to alarm
they instantly were brought

when her engagement she revealed.
The dining-room all stunned;
but Margaret, who ne’er concealed
her thoughts, would not be shunned,

but cried, “that’s wonderful!”, and ran
her sister to embrace.
The silence ended, now began
at a chaotic pace,

objections, screams, sobs, scowls, fainting,
and all kinds of commotion.
One guest, who had been reacquainting
with Meadowglen, in motion

as swift as graceful, quit th’ estate.
Though slowly settled down
reactions, Emily, with great
repose and subtle frown,

commenced, “Oh sweet Chiaretta, dear,
our father’s more insightful
than we rash little girls. Let’s hear
his thoughts.” “Why it’s delightful!”

her father said, to Emily’s scorn
and everyone’s surprise.
“A better match could scarce be born.
How practical, how wise!”

“Othello is the richest king
in all the ‘Afric’ land.”
This wasn’t quite a truthful thing,
but he’d not understand

the country whence arrived our lord,
nor that he wasn’t royal;
at this he’d grow confused and bored.
Still, Meadowglen was loyal,

and said, “With lineage as old
and as refined as ours,
he’ll make the perfect match. I’m sold!”
He hummed and thought of flowers,

of gowns and suits and wedding-cake.
Said Emily, “Are you blind?
I mean” (more softly) “Prithee, take
considerations — find

that all may not be well, perhaps,
as each wise man predicts.
Our lineage should soon collapse
if she and he should mix.”

“My equal,” (squeezed her cousin’s wrist),
“I’ll wed, so we inherit.
Should not Chiaretta end her tryst
and find someone with merit?”

Chiaretta had been silent through
these thinly-veiled remarks,
but at this latter phrase, she flew,
in passion, into sparks.

“With merit! Were Othello king
of all the earth, I would
esteem think him no more sweet a thing
to give my maidenhood.

“At first I liked most, I admit,
his handsome, charming looks;
his welcome, too. He’d let me sit
within his office nooks,

and talk, distract, perhaps annoy
him as he worked. He’d spoil
me like a child, but I’m no toy
to him. My passions boil,

while his are cool; a balance shared
between us; we are equals.
Though you don’t like it, we’re prepared
to face injustice’s evils

together. We’d like your assent,
but without your blessing sweet,
we’ll live still. My intelligent,
my gentle and discreet,

reserved, but passionate and bold
fiancé, I shall wed.
If you should make objections cold,
we’ll just elope instead.”

Chiaretta to her chamber flew,
Othello close behind,
while Emily sighed and soft withdrew,
reservèd and resigned.

She thought, “I can’t say I approve
of her engagement’s fashion,
but still I wish she did not move
me with her fiery passion.

“Why is it she’s allowed to wed
a bold, exotic lord,
while I am here, stuck with instead
a cold, neurotic ward!

“Her beau, she claims, is kind and smart,
distinguished and intrepid,
while mine is of the kind of heart
extinguished, meek, and tepid.

“Perfection, graceful manners, poise,
I’ve practiced every day,
while graceless she, spontaneous joys
encounters anyway.

“I’ve realized I must fill a role
if I should live among
my family. Be still, my soul;
it’s time to hold my tongue.”

To Chiaretta she apologized,
and begged to be reprieved,
but soon a carefully disguised
and dreadful plan conceived.

She brought into her confidence
Justinian, with care;
with sly persuasion did convince
him. “Think of it, she’ll share

the family’s wealth, which we’ve preserved
so carefully, with him!
Our sacrifices to him served
because Chiaretta’s whim

deems proper that the dreadful Moor
should take what we’re denied!
Your childhood here — what was it for?
You’ve always just complied

with orders. You’ve been second-best
to her — and now to him!
To him, who’s wrapped her round his chest!
Imagine every hymn

of praise she’ll sing, for she does worship
him as her god and idol.
Upon his savage, brutal warship
he’ll make the threshold bridal.

I know that she seems blithe and free,
but he has all the power —
o’er her, still more o’er us. So we
must strive to salvage our

estate and family. Your turn
will come as lord and master,
if our salvation we can earn.
We must be stronger, faster,

still slyer than he, still more clever.
If you be only bold,
the golden fruits of our endeavor
I promise shall unfold.”

Justinian was filled now less
with courage than with hate;
on him her words did quick impress
manipulation great.

It wasn’t usual, nor ‘twas nice,
for younger girls to wed
the first, but in self-sacrifice
Emily proposed instead

to let her have first (as she’d asked)
her day of matrimony,
while Lady Emily softly masked
her simmering acrimony.

Justinian and she attended
the wedding, which was swift
and simple, and before it ended,
they brought a costly gift.

But what of Casimir? Have you
forgotten his existence?
I have neglected him, it’s true,
and left him at a distance,

but now he finds himself in France
(the south of France, near Spain),
where he will meet, by fate or chance,
our heroes soon again.

For there, one quiet day in June,
in Casimir’s very town,
for an extended honeymoon
our heroes settled down.

With his old friend to reconnect
Othello was excited,
and on his wife this friend’s effect
made her just as delighted.

So Casimir, and Blanche, his wife,
a sweet mademoiselle,
grew, as they swore, dear friends for life
with our Chiarette as well.

She spoke with them unpolished French,
(she’d learned it from her tutor);
linguistic thirst she couldn’t quench,
though seldom did it suit her.

When she’d been wed more than a year,
Chiaretta got a letter:
“My family is coming here!
Could life be any better?”

Her sister’s wedding, with regret,
Chiaretta had to miss,
but now she felt she’d finally get
a chance t’ atone for this.

So she prepared quite readily
and busily to host
Justinian and Emily
and (whom she’d missed the most)

young Margaret, who swiftly leaped
into Chiarette’s embrace
at their reunion. All except
their Lord, who couldn’t face

the voyage, due to failing health,
together came by boat.
And Emily, in perfect stealth,
pretended to devote

herself, as if a maid, to “dear
Chiaretta”, who, when given
her sister’s manner, lost all fear
and sensed all was forgiven.

Justinian, though far less sly
and subtle than his wife,
with sycophantic charms did pry
into Othello’s life.

Othello and good Casimir
one evening had some wine,
and one did scoff, the other jeer
and somehow cross a line

and though forgetting now the cause,
they got into a fight.
Though ire was seldom one ‘f their flaws,
it, deep-hid, did alight —

though further damage was prevented
by Justin’s intervention.
He led away his host, who vented
his rambling wrath, attention

and manner clearly indicating
unwont intoxication.
Justinian only listened, stating
naught, no conversation

disrupting thus Othello’s speech,
until he fell asleep.
Justinian, who could almost reach
a plan, did softly creep

to Emily, to whom he spoke
most of the night and more.
Late morning, when Othello woke,
he knocked upon his door.

“Justinian,” he, half-awake,
with burning headache, asked,
“Last night — my friend — did something break?”
Justinian, heart masked,

responded, “What do you recall?”
“I only know we were
in conflict — don’t know why at all.”
“I know why — over her.”

“My wife?” “Your little angel, yes.”
“But why?” “You want to know?”
“Did she—” “Please, sir, don’t try to guess.
I’d fain not say, although—”

“Just tell me, please!” A pause so long,
he thought would never end —
“You haven’t noticed something wrong
between her and your friend?”

“With Casimir — you couldn’t mean —
you don’t insinuate—”
“I’m only saying what I’ve seen.
If I’m inaccurate,

I do apologize.” He bowed,
then silently withdrew;
alone, Othello spoke aloud,
“My love! It can’t be true!”

That night, Chiaretta softly stole
into her friends’ abode,
with making peace her only goal.
Determinedly she strode,

and thought “I must now have a word
with him, lest things should first
still worsen.” But Othello heard
her step, and feared the worst.

Chiaretta’s candle-light grew dim
as icy road she crossed.
The candelabra frail and slim,
it vanished when, wind-tossed,

she tripped upon a snowy bank
a mile from her friend.
Without good Casimir to thank,
she would have met her end,

but he, surveying his estate,
did hear her moan and shiver.
Discovering her worsening state,
at once he did deliver

Chiaretta to his home, in which
she had to stay a week.
From falling in the frigid ditch,
she indisposed and weak

became, so Casimir and Blanche,
untiring and courageous
did tend to her. These nurses’ staunch
concern she was contagious

inspired them to write a note
in Casimir’s swift hand.
“Your wife’s here. You can’t come,” he wrote;
Othello’d understand.

Justinian received the letter;
he showed it Emily,
who cried, “Things just keep getting better!
Now, listen carefully…”

Othello through Justinian sent
Chiaretta kindly mail,
with no response. Each letter went,
more desperate — no avail.

Chiaretta, fever still uncooled,
sent all those miles’ length
a note to Emily. The jeweled
old globe, to bring her strength

she timidly of her requested.
Good Emily was eager
t’ oblige. To her goal so invested
was she, that they seemed meager

the miles between. So she instructed
Justinian with care;
he from Othello’s room abducted
the jeweled globe sitting there.

For every night Justinian crept
into Othello’s room,
the minutes ‘fore the good man slept.
First, rather than assume

an indecorous explanation,
he trusted she was ill.
But subtlest kind of conversation
disintegrates all will,

a lonely man’s especially.
Justinian thus sowed
the seeds of doubt o’ fidelity.
The rough and snowy road

felt longer, and the distance sparked
an aching for Chiaretta.
And every night, Justinian remarked,
“Should not she now feel better?”

And every night, Justinian stepped,
in his words, slightly bolder.
Eventually, ‘s Othello slept,
he dreamed he got to hold her

as usual, but his face transformed
to Casimir’s. His fear
exacerbated as she warmed
to him — “Sweet Casimir!

How much more handsome you are now!”
With kisses she anointed
his face. When he transformed somehow
again, she ‘s disappointed.

The dream dissolved; another sound
disturbed Othello’s rest,
for something loud had hit the ground.
So, fearful and distressed,

he rose. His fiery candle-light
directed to the door;
and there — Chiaretta froze in fright;
the jeweled globe on the floor.

“What’s this? Our globe — a stolen gift!
You’d brought it to your lover?”
“My what?” “Good wife, don’t try to shift
the blame, or hide, recover

your innocence, or yet rehearse
excuses. What d’ you say?”
She only said with laugh perverse,
“Why, it’s just like the play!”

“You don’t recall your namesake?” “Yes —”
“We read it once together.”
“That’s not my real name.” “Nevertheless,
I’d thought that we could weather

our grievances with strength and trust.
And now, what’s this? You doubt
my faithfulness?” “It’s only just —”
“Oh yes, let’s hear about

your reasons.” “But you tried to hide
your sneaking out, and more,
what we did guard you’ve cast aside:
the globe upon the floor.”

“Who put these thoughts into your head?
My sister? Or my cousin?
Excuses!” “But Justinian said —”
“Excuses by the dozen!”

“I went to Casimir that night
to ask him why you’d fought;
he didn’t know.” The candle-light
revealed her face as wrought

in melancholy, pained, frustrated.
“I went in secret since
you’d argued; I anticipated
you’d disapprove. Convince

me all you can you’re in the right;
I shall not take your side.
I’ve never seen before tonight
your anger, but abide

a second longer with a spouse
who treats me thus, I shan’t,
but leave at once this vile house.”
Concluding thus her rant,

she knew not how he would respond,
but into sobs collapsed.
“But — what of th’ globe?” He did despond
more than ire. Time elapsed.

“Did you not know? Good Emily
did bring it in my aid.
Afraid I was in malady,
as far from you I stayed —”

“I thought it stolen!” “It was borrowed —
Did Justinian convince
you that—” He whispered, bitter, sorrowed,
“It was his evidence.

My letters, too —” “You wrote to me?”
“What, did you not receive —”
“Justinian and Emily!
Betrayed! I can’t believe —”

Before Othello’s chance to swear,
he heard a sob like song
of wounded bird. Now Margaret there:
“But what did they do wrong?”

Chiaretta started, “Well —”, but found
that she could not explain.
Then, Margaret’s voice, with haunted sound —
“Will you be friends again?”

A pause. “We shall,” Chiaretta said,
bent down and softly kissed her.
She whispered, noting Margaret’s eyes so red,
“Could you please fetch our sister?”

They both came. “What you’ve done behind us,
earns more than controversy.
But this good child did remind us
the quality of mercy.”

Chiaretta said no more, but watched
the looks upon their faces.
Said Emily, at least debauched
ostensibly, “Our place is,

perhaps, in England. If our time
we here did overstay,
apologies. Tomorrow, I’m —
we both are — gone away.”

Upon this half-apology,
Othello felt some fire,
but luckily, than his namesake he
was much less marked by ire.

With few more words except goodbyes,
they absconded, un-invited.
And no more the good spouses’ eyes,
the sorry couple blighted.

As she grew, Margaret returned
there once a year at least,
and, carefully guarded, never learned
the nature of the beast,

but always secretly preferred
one sister to the other.
Chiarette and Emily would send word
polite to one another,

the latter loving now her spouse
much more now than when bitter,
and quietly, as sprawling house
and shady gardens hid her,

repenting, and Justinian, too,
in similar way affected.
The wrongèd couple never knew
this, but they did suspect it.

Othell’ immediately was
as sorry as could be,
and his sweet wife, perhaps because
she knew that really he

was not the person he had been
that night, and ne’er again
would be, accepted him within
sweet mercy’s gentle rain.

Their love unwavering increased
for sixty years and more,
and shone the jewelled globe at least
as brightly as before.