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Date Posted: 12:46:06 11/10/09 Tue
Author: 
dea
Subject: inspired by an awaken dream
that's what came in answer to my call for a new story. is there anything there? in the reply.
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come inside -- dea, 12:48:19 11/10/09 Tue
all i know is, there'll be no happy ending this time, according to Diana, that makes a novel, right? ;-)
The Secret Journal of Victor Ruidh
By Dea Vianna - 2009 - for critique purposes only, does not constitute publication
Edinburgh, the 5th day of May, 1822
My name is not Victor Ruidh. Due to the delicate nature of the peculiar – at least as far as I am concerned – intricacy I might find myself irrevocably entangled in the near future, I shall never reveal my real name. If I endeavour now to expel these hesitant yet resolute words from my disturbed heart onto the soft cold surface of paper, I do so because my poor heart is not big enough for the amount of emotion it is now supposed to bear. In clear mind I do declare the sole purpose of shielding the identities of those otherwise unaware of their roles in this wicked piece the great puppeteer of the Universe has written for me. For I must confess, I am aware of the gravity of my sin. Yet, on one side I cannot bring myself to cast shame and pain on my beloved ones; on the other, I cannot confide with any of my dearest friends. Not because of lack of trust; in fact, I trust those I have come to the point of considering friends with my own life. The truth is I cannot in sane conscience lay such a burden on their trustworthy shoulders. This journal will be my inadvertent confidant. It will be secret, kept in a hidden chamber in the Tower. I reveal too much, perhaps? Well, if it’s never found, it’s never read; if found and read, the secret of its concealment will be then irrefragably unveiled.
But I digress. My fingers tremble and the colour rises to my face as I write that today I made the acquaintance of the woman I, in utter shock, realise is my perdition. I, the published author, find myself on the verge of being completely immersed in a melancholic “feuilleton” of questionable literary value. The irony…
She arrived this morning, accompanying my dearest friend, to whom I shall refer as Mrs K, in a visit of a fortnight to the City. I have the habit of scrutinising the eyes of the people I meet for the first time. A bad habit, some may say; one that has come in my assistance numerous times. The truth and the deceit we can perceive in that first look…
She kept her eyes low. Soon enough I was delighted to realise that her so composed attitude was less one of timidity or ignorance in the matters of co fraternisation than one of respect toward my dear friend Mrs K., her protector, and toward me, as I welcomed them into my home. For when I pierced her eyes with the straightest of mine, they received me with a wall of fire! Och, what a vision!
But I explain. It was not aggression, abundant in the face of ignorance. It was not the foolish defiance of the youth, especially that hollow air of coquettish silliness so common among the ladies in the so called society these days. For she is in her early-forties, and a widow – though that’s not any guarantee of matureness de per se; many a matron I have the misfortune of knowing seem to be able to retain “that hollow air of coquettish silliness” I mention above through the years, impervious to the valuable lessons life never ceases to teach.
So, I say, it was not aggression or defiance, and certainly not ignorance. On the contrary, it was the brightest light, comparable to the “electrical force” that John Robinson has measured almost twenty years ago. The movement and velocity of her thoughts as they crossed her mind could almost be seen in those eyes. I was lost in those eyes for one second that lasted millions of years, mesmerised.
‘I am delighted to finally meet you,’ she said with remarkable simplicity. I wondered if she could sing with that sweet, warm, low voice. She pronounced my name perfectly. That’s not often the case.
‘My dear Sir Victor, my lovely A___ – I shall not write her name. I shall not think it. I shall refer to her as… Aveline. – Aveline is a true admirer of your work, poetry and prose. And she is a very accomplished authoress herself!’ Mrs K. is evidently proud of her protégé.
An authoress! Somehow I knew. Such force of nature had to find a way to express itself; otherwise it might gather pressure and just explode, like a volcano.
The rest of the day remains in my memory as if involved in mist. The other guests arrived and we dined, drank. I read a little. One of the guests sang traditional songs. I felt like a man divided in two, one speaking and singing and laughing, the other that looked at her, eager to see the fire again, surprised by the sweet smile, the warm voice. Right after the last guest left, she ran to her chambers. It pleases my heart to think that she feels as disturbed as I do.
* * *
Last edited by author: Wed November 18, 2009 10:07:17
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-- dea, 12:49:20 11/10/09 Tue
Last edited by author: Tue November 10, 2009 12:50:54
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This is cool! -- Debi, 21:18:08 11/10/09 Tue
I love the flavor of the period language and the journal as this man's 'confessional'. Aveline seems like an intriguing character in her own right, one that has quite captured the author's attention. I really think this one has a lot of potential.
Excellent first glimpse.
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thanks, Debi! let's see if they keep talking to me. -- dea, 11:15:41 11/11/09 Wed
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Oh, goody! A new story to love! >>>> -- Page, 23:12:28 11/13/09 Fri
That first sentence is brilliant! I love it!
It did take me a bit to get into the way Victor writes/speaks, although you nailed the period language perfectly. But once my mind caught up to it, I had no problems at all. The story is captivating right from the start, and I was sucked right into it. What a great start!
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another entry -- dea, 15:54:51 11/27/09 Fri
here is what Victor has been telling me about Aveline. i decided to suppress the reference to a place. if it's secret, he would write in code, right?
The Secret Journal of Victor Ruidh
By Dea Vianna - 2009 - for critique purposes only, does not constitute publication
* * *
In vain I lay on my bed hoping for the sweet embrace of the arms of Morpheus. Yet I am not worthy of either repose or slumber. I sit immobile whilst my eyes alternate from the exquisite mosaic carved on the oak bureau and the soft golden haze painting the matin hour. I write, then.
The things I know about Aveline: she’s in her early-forties and a widow. Mrs K informs me that Aveline’s spouse perished no more than a year ago in a tragic accident: the horse he was riding during some country race tripped and broke its leg and catapulted the unfortunate cavalier over a stockade and a hedge, to fall on his nape. The poor devil died instantly. Mrs K was very careful and asked of me the utmost secrecy when she revealed that Aveline was in bed for nearly a month after the catastrophic event. She remained confined to her chambers for the two months that followed, until Mrs K’s rather heroic Intervention – my friend described with an air of genuine modesty the day she, in the company of Aveline’s household maid and the game master of the estate, practically demolished the bedroom door and retrieved the mourning lady from her self-imposed seclusion. The poor thing hardly managed to sustain the weight of her body. It was then that Mrs K sequestered the pitiable victim of fate, along with her devoted but incompetent minion – who was unable to at the minimum feed her suffering employer!– to provide a safe haven at the manor.
And the most disturbing aspect of that sad tale is the fact that it happened less than a half year ago! Aveline returned to her own estate some time after her “abduction”. They are neighbours, Mrs K and Aveline, a fortunate happenstance. Nevertheless, Mrs K keeps her ever since protégé under strict surveillance, with the help of that maid I mentioned afore, who was at last of some use to her mistress, making sure that she received the naturally expected amount of nourishment necessary to recover her debilitated health.
After my already dear Aveline gathered some strength and the colour returned to her complexion, Mrs K convinced her to go on the present journey, enjoying a change in landscape during the warmer months of the year.
In such rapid and furtive conversation – which took place during the short minutes I was able to steal Mrs K from Aveline’s company, rather against her will, I did not fail to notice, though I did not have by that time the faintest idea why the novel mistress of my heart is so adamantly attached to my ancient friend – well, in such strained circumstances I learned about Aveline’s ordeal and the chain of unfortunate occurrences that culminated with her advent at my doorstep and into my life not yet four and twenty hours passed.
As I write, a disquieting thought blooms in my mind. My, in every aspect, “rapture” in Aveline’s presence may be not only futile, but shamefully, on my side, ill-founded. A furore such as described by Mrs K indicates that Aveline's heart already and still holds a Tenant.
At the very thought an invisible hand clasps my frail heart with an iron grip. I realise now that I have been subjected to a vile form of intoxication, whose fumes have certainly obliterated my reason. I should have kept a clear mind: the will of my maddened heart is nothing more than this, sheer madness!
For the first time I apprehend the cruel reality of my condition: I am an old man. I must be ten years her senior, I dare to reckon. I am not a free man. What shall I offer that might appeal to such a dear and fair lady? How am I supposed to cross swords with such a mighty and ghostly adversary?
My mind informs me that today will a bonnie day. Nevertheless, my shrinking heart gazes out of the window and sees only a plumbous sky.
* * *
Last edited by author: Mon November 30, 2009 10:28:26
Edited 3 times.
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Hooray, more story! -- Debi, 18:00:07 11/27/09 Fri
>here is what Victor has been telling me about Aveline.
>i decided to suppress the reference to a place. if
>it's secret, he would write in code, right?
>
>
>
>The Secret Journal of Victor Ruidh
>By Dea Vianna - 2009 - for critique purposes only,
>does not constitute publication
>
>
>* * *
>
>In vain I lay on my bed hoping for the sweet embrace
>of the arms of Morpheus. Yet I am not worthy of neither repose nor slumber.Little grammar boo-boo: You've made a double negative. It should read either "Yet I am worthy of neither repose nor slumber." or "Yet I am not worthy of repose or slumber." I sit immobile whilst my
>eyes alternate from the exquisite mosaic carved on the
>oak bureau and the soft golden haze painting the matin
>hour.The light through a window, I'm guessing? I write, then.
>
>The things I know about Aveline: she’s in her
>early-forties and a widow. Mrs K informs me that
>Aveline’s spouse perished no more than a year ago in a
>tragic accident: the horse he was riding during some
>country race tripped and broke its leg and catapulted
>the unfortunate cavalier over a stockade and a hedge,
>to fall on his nape. The poor devil died instantly.
>Mrs K was very careful and asked of me the utmost
>secrecy when she revealed that Aveline was in bed for
>nearly a month after the catastrophic event. She
>remained confined to her chambers for the two months
>that followed, until Mrs K’s rather heroic
>Intervention – my friend described with an air of
>genuine modesty the day she, in the company of
>Aveline’s household maid and the game master of the
>estate, practically demolished the bedroom door and
>retrieved the mourning lady from her self-imposed
>seclusion. The poor thing hardly managed to sustain
>the weight of her body. It was then that Mrs KeyDid you mean to not use just her intial here?
>sequestered the pitiable victim of fate, along with
>her devoted but incompetent minion – who was unable to
>at the minimum feed her suffering employer!– to
>provide a safe haven at the manor.
>
>And the most disturbing aspect of that sad tale is the
>fact that it happened less than a half year ago!
>Aveline returned to her own estate some time after her
>“abduction”. They are neighbours, Mrs K and Aveline, a
>fortunate happenstance. Nevertheless, Mrs K keeps her
>ever since protégé under strict surveillance, with the
>help of that maid I mentioned afore, who was at last
>of some use to her mistress, making sure that she
>received the naturally expected amount of nourishment
>necessary to recover her debilitated health.
>
>After my already dear Aveline gathered some strength
>and the colour returned to her complexion, Mrs K
>convinced her to go on the present journey, enjoying a
>change in landscape during the warmer months of the
>year.
>
>In such rapid and furtive conversation – which took
>place during the short minutes I was able to steal Mrs
>K from Aveline’s company, rather against her will, I
>did not fail to notice, though I did not have by that
>time the faintest idea why the novel mistress of my
>heart is so adamantly attached to my ancient friend –
>well, in such strained circumstances I learned about
>Aveline’s ordeal and the chain of unfortunate
>occurrences that culminated with her advent at my
>doorstep and into my life not yet four and twenty
>hours passed.
>
>As I write, a disquieting thought blooms in my mind.
>My, in every aspect, “rapture” in Aveline’s presence
>may be not only futile, but shamefully, on my side,
>ill-founded. A furore such as described by Mrs K
>indicates that Aveline’ heart already and still holds
>a Tennant. tenant? Tennant is a brand of lager in Scotland, if I recall correctly
>
>At the very thought an invisible hand clasps my frail
>heart with an iron grip. I realise now that I have
>been subjected to a vile form of intoxication, whose
>fumes have certainly obliterated my reason. I should
>have kept a clear mind: the will of my maddened heart
>is nothing more than this, sheer madness!
>
>For the first time I apprehend the cruel reality of my
>condition: I am an old man. I must be ten years her
>senior, I dare to reckon. I am not a free man. What
>shall I offer that might appeal to such adear and fair
>lady? How am I supposed to cross swords with such a
>mighty and ghostly adversary?
>
>My mind informs me that today will a bonnie day.
>Nevertheless, my shrinking heart gazes out of the
>window and sees only a plumbous sky.
>
>* * *
I love it! Aside from just a few little things here and there, I think this is brilliant. I reminds me so much of the early novels I read for literature classes, Like Pamela. The language really puts me in the time period, the use of the single initial to preserve anonymity of other parties, very Victorian! And that this older man finds himself smitten, not with some fair and lovely maiden, but a real woman, more of his own generation, well that's a breath of fresh air unto itself. I'm very excited to see more of this and I hope Victor Ruidh keeps talking to you!
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[> [> [>
thank you, Debi! -- dea, 10:22:55 11/30/09 Mon
>>here is what Victor has been telling me about Aveline.
>>i decided to suppress the reference to a place. if
>>it's secret, he would write in code, right?
>>
>>
>>
>>The Secret Journal of Victor Ruidh
>>By Dea Vianna - 2009 - for critique purposes only,
>>does not constitute publication
>>
>>
>>* * *
>>
>>In vain I lay on my bed hoping for the sweet embrace
>>of the arms of Morpheus. Yet I am not worthy of
>neither repose nor slumber.Little grammar boo-boo:
>You've made a double negative. It should read either
>"Yet I am worthy of neither repose nor slumber." or
>"Yet I am not worthy of repose or slumber." yes!
I sit
>immobile whilst my
>>eyes alternate from the exquisite mosaic carved on the
>>oak bureau and the soft golden haze painting the matin
>>hour.The light through a window, I'm guessing? yes!
>I write, then.
>>
>>The things I know about Aveline: she’s in her
>>early-forties and a widow. Mrs K informs me that
>>Aveline’s spouse perished no more than a year ago in a
>>tragic accident: the horse he was riding during some
>>country race tripped and broke its leg and catapulted
>>the unfortunate cavalier over a stockade and a hedge,
>>to fall on his nape. The poor devil died instantly.
>>Mrs K was very careful and asked of me the utmost
>>secrecy when she revealed that Aveline was in bed for
>>nearly a month after the catastrophic event. She
>>remained confined to her chambers for the two months
>>that followed, until Mrs K’s rather heroic
>>Intervention – my friend described with an air of
>>genuine modesty the day she, in the company of
>>Aveline’s household maid and the game master of the
>>estate, practically demolished the bedroom door and
>>retrieved the mourning lady from her self-imposed
>>seclusion. The poor thing hardly managed to sustain
>>the weight of her body. It was then that Mrs
>KeyDid you mean to not use just her intial
>here? sure!
>>sequestered the pitiable victim of fate, along with
>>her devoted but incompetent minion – who was unable to
>>at the minimum feed her suffering employer!– to
>>provide a safe haven at the manor.
>>
>>And the most disturbing aspect of that sad tale is the
>>fact that it happened less than a half year ago!
>>Aveline returned to her own estate some time after her
>>“abduction”. They are neighbours, Mrs K and Aveline, a
>>fortunate happenstance. Nevertheless, Mrs K keeps her
>>ever since protégé under strict surveillance, with the
>>help of that maid I mentioned afore, who was at last
>>of some use to her mistress, making sure that she
>>received the naturally expected amount of nourishment
>>necessary to recover her debilitated health.
>>
>>After my already dear Aveline gathered some strength
>>and the colour returned to her complexion, Mrs K
>>convinced her to go on the present journey, enjoying a
>>change in landscape during the warmer months of the
>>year.
>>
>>In such rapid and furtive conversation – which took
>>place during the short minutes I was able to steal Mrs
>>K from Aveline’s company, rather against her will, I
>>did not fail to notice, though I did not have by that
>>time the faintest idea why the novel mistress of my
>>heart is so adamantly attached to my ancient friend –
>>well, in such strained circumstances I learned about
>>Aveline’s ordeal and the chain of unfortunate
>>occurrences that culminated with her advent at my
>>doorstep and into my life not yet four and twenty
>>hours passed.
>>
>>As I write, a disquieting thought blooms in my mind.
>>My, in every aspect, “rapture” in Aveline’s presence
>>may be not only futile, but shamefully, on my side,
>>ill-founded. A furore such as described by Mrs K
>>indicates that Aveline’ heart already and still holds
>>a Tennant. tenant? Tennant is a brand of lager in
>Scotland, if I recall correctly ooops!
>>
>>At the very thought an invisible hand clasps my frail
>>heart with an iron grip. I realise now that I have
>>been subjected to a vile form of intoxication, whose
>>fumes have certainly obliterated my reason. I should
>>have kept a clear mind: the will of my maddened heart
>>is nothing more than this, sheer madness!
>>
>>For the first time I apprehend the cruel reality of my
>>condition: I am an old man. I must be ten years her
>>senior, I dare to reckon. I am not a free man. What
>>shall I offer that might appeal to such adear
>and fair
>>lady? How am I supposed to cross swords with such
>a
>>mighty and ghostly adversary?
>>
>>My mind informs me that today will a bonnie day.
>>Nevertheless, my shrinking heart gazes out of the
>>window and sees only a plumbous sky.
>>
>>* * *
>
>
>I love it! Aside from just a few little things here
>and there, I think this is brilliant. I reminds me so
>much of the early novels I read for literature
>classes, Like Pamela. The language really puts
>me in the time period, the use of the single initial
>to preserve anonymity of other parties, very
>Victorian! And that this older man finds himself
>smitten, not with some fair and lovely maiden, but a
>real woman, more of his own generation, well that's a
>breath of fresh air unto itself. I'm very excited to
>see more of this and I hope Victor Ruidh keeps talking
>to you!
thanks! he's talking everyday, intensily, faster than i can type!
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