Moulin Rogue
Ode the Victorian short story; for an Impressionist painting – circa 1876
Amid the sunbathed Parisian cobblestone streets, I realize my fate is no more a product of my making. My own life, or the future of it anyway, was in process of decision. Scripted by my very mother, a mere puppeteer, a voyeur of any semblance of parental guidance. It is as though every aspect of my existence had been thought out long ago with great accord. Sadly, no, I am more than sad, I am bereft and emotionally bankrupt. Destitute of any hope whatsoever. Tomorrow promises only the certainty of disappointment as all I hold dear is a guarantee that joy holds no place for me now, nor can I count on recompense lurking on the horizon.
I feel stunted, shallow as a pearl's shell, although in delicious contrast the warm afternoon sunlight rays heat the meaty flesh on my bones. My world is dutifully opaque, devoid of color, where living things have no choice but to wither away anonymously as ashes do in the wind. What I am, all that I have, at this precise moment in time is all I will ever be, all that I will ever possess. The compromising admission burns deep within my core being, and yet all I can manage is a subtle smile toward the perpetrator of all my misgivings.
Mother has quite directly, unabashedly offered my hand in marriage. Surely no civilized lady has suffered such peculiar adverts before this day in the Montmartre. I alone face such incomprehensible actions from one that pledges their maternal love. A civil unromantic union is destined for me, Stella Saint Clair, the youngest and resiliently afforded daughter of the late Earl of Channing. Charles Berkshire, my eager, similar ex-pat suitor watches my expressions carefully, seemingly a questionable disrepute of my dowry his sole and primary concern, understandably.
Mr. Berkshire, or shall I call him, my inevitable future husband by his given name; Charles, possesses the bearing of a man of ordinance. My eyes are trained on his alabaster skin, tinged slightly olive, especially around his deep set eyes, no doubt the merits from a weekend reprieve at the coast. Broad shoulders fit snugly in a refinement coat, painstakingly tailored, of course by a decorum of regimen. Reared at Court, the mature Charles, the one sitting at the café table before me, dismissed royal protocols with a flair of unequal controversy, just as a stag sheds his horns for the Spring season. Whether he had just gotten bored with the idealist fashions of it all or was chased from his duties with a steward’s broom was a tidbit left in the hollers of the valley amidst snow capped mountain winters, where intelligence has no alternative but to remain frozen and therefore, the secrets remain politely unspoken.
Symphonies of laughter pervade my reluctant ears, as well as clinking of tea glasses from neighboring tables. Oblivious to my imputative thoughts lovers embrace in the spirit of dance, moving together with an air of familiarity, as if they are two halves of a whole, fused together by the unbreakable bond of a chosen love, a handpicked life of each’s own detriment. All in folly is how mother would describe those unions, albeit arguing, completely one-sided mind you, for I would have no tongue in the matter to garner indifference. Her way of betrothal presents no predicament, in her mind at least. Mother would make assurances there are no quaffs to bear ill repute, therefore no venerable opinions would be eligible to bear wager.
Charles and also his acquaintances, through the haze of dementia of the moment I forget their names, are silently unopposed as Mother rambles on endlessly with suggestive cognizance of what ceremonial attributes will pertain. Mother speaks of inconsequential matters, there is no other remedy but to marry in Church, Charles fervently colloquies. The acumen of incidentals will be at Mother’s sole discretion. Charles further interrupts, for he is overdue his sayings in the matter, but of which this duality of his pleases Mother immensely. He has agreed to her proposal.
It is decided, unequivocally, on this pleasant day in the Montmarte, that I will become the future Mrs. Charles Berkshire. The advantages will persuade my mind eventually, perhaps affection will suffice, if true love does evade my senses. This course of unions, this pairing of souls is arguably the only accepted paradigm. My dreams of romance, my hope for a life radiant with adventure is a distant and foggy memory, of chance, of reason, if it can't exist it must evaporate. Reluctant and reticent, I shall vow and take his name.
On the bench adjacent, an innocent daughter questions why she has to grow older, and do such mature things. Surely our admissions of the day have had an eavesdropper in the girl. As I impatiently wait for her mother’s prudent answer, I ponder and infinitely I ask myself the same perplexity.
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Comments (20)
I love the way you crafted Stella's voice. I could feel her young torment. 👏👏👏
Could very clearly feel her feelings. Seemed as if it was written in the period of the painting
I could see this fleshed out into a great historical fiction novel. Something about the last paragraph had me thinking about Rose on the movie Titanic, watching the little girl in the diner learning to be dainty and lady-like. This is a grat story! Good luck!!
This was stunning, Dana!! The pairing of your words with this painting was sublime. I loved how the tone was resigned and somber quite a contrast to liveliness of the scene, yet it speaks to never knowing what's going on under the surface in people's lives. And the language felt like it belonged in this time period. Loved it!! Bravo!!
Absolutely amazing. The brush strokes of your words bring this painting to life. Masterful writing. Love it 🥰
I could see and hear this narrative play out. I was immersed in the words throughout! Very well done. Took a scene and brought it to life ♥️
The narrative in this was breathtaking. Your prose was definitely living within the realm of Literary fiction. I can not tell you how impressed I am. This was a poem written in sentences and paragraphs. Bravo Bravo
Dana, wow! You did an absolutely incredible job with this. I'm actually mesmerized. 😍 I feel like you NAILED the essence of this picture not only with the story, but with your gorgeous, sophisticated and eloquent prose. Honestly, this was poetry. Renoir has always been one of my favorite artists because one of his paintings (not this one) hung in my parents' house all during my childhood. My parents now rearranged that part of the house and the painting hangs in my apartment. 🤗 I've been thinking about using the painting for a story, but after reading this, I'm not sure I'll be able to. 😅 You've owned Renoir with this story! 😍❤️❤️❤️
Arranged marriages. How ever did women do it. Pretend, bow and curtsy and marry old farts. I admire the tenacity and patience. I would have poisoned a few, made it look like accidents. Sorry, your story was wonderfully done.
Wow! First of all, Renoir is my favorite artist. I feel he was very different from the other French Impressionist painters. I can’t explain it, but I feel like even with the soft blur style, his paintings had so much depth. I feel like he saw the world differently than most people, noticing things they didn’t. Your text matches the painting perfectly. Not only did you nail the antiquated tone (and I feel like you had fun doing that, because I had fun reading it)—but you managed to see an entire story within this painting, like no one else would. This painting always seemed so lively, sunny, and celebratory to me. But you brought in some dark shadows. You brought depth. So much depth of emotion in this, thinking about how hard women have worked for freedom.
Awe, this reminds me of Austen's works! A great story and now when I see this painting I know what's going on! Love it!
Wow, Dana, you brought the picture to vivid life! The images you painted with your words are so evocative of those periods where arranged marriages and marrying for money were too commonplace. It reminds me of Rose in Titanic, feeling suffocated and powerless. Love it! 💕🙂
Now this, is literature. I can see this being taught and studied in school. The theme of oppression, freedom, and power. Your words seemed to have a poetic touch to them as well. Very well done!
Wow!! You really nailed the tone, here. And the art you chose was a perfect selection. The painting has so much vitality, bustle, and life while your story details the process of a young woman being slowly suffocated in her own lack of freedom. The juxtaposition makes this vivid painting feel dark; you really get the feeling of "being alone in a crowded room." And then, of course, I had to go back and look for the little girl. You truly brought every piece of this painting to life, Dana, and then added a whole other layer to appreciate. I can't say enough; there is simply so much to love in this. Brilliantly done. Bravo ❤️
This is fabulous!!! Love it!!!♥️♥️💕
Gurl you slamdunked this one oh so elegantly! So gorgeously written with an intriguing narrator and plot! Hi Fives to you! This was flawless! 😍
Good grief does Stella like to talk! The plight of a woman whose life is over before it begins deserves attention, however. Nicely done, Dana!
Dear Ms. Dana; aka fellow 'Klicker-Kid' - Remembering: When Dad Barked for a 'Changer' ~ I remember grunts going around the room, "Hey I did it last time" - fun memories. *I've subscribed as I'm scrolling through your carefully selected and unique headings with awe. Renoir has nothing on my 'Schtick-Stick-Art' ~ Dana this is such a lovely piece ~ and this new 'Art' category gives us, your readers, such a new "Fervent" Learnin' experience, from your in depth description of times past. *Thank you for your lovely comment from 'Dear Dad' Jay Jay Kantor, Chatsworth, California 'Senior' Vocal Author - Vocal Author Community -
Sweet and vivid!
This is great, Dana. Your words fused so well with the pic. I found myself going back to take another look as I imagined how it would be to live in the time. Really well done.