The Roaring Girl
(Inspiration from the original text by T. Dekker and T. Middleton)
rating: M (language and allusions)
Prologue
Don't think you'll get away
I will prove you wrong
I'll take you all the way
Boy, just come along
Hear me when I say, hey ...
When the days of the chrysanthemums had left behind only withered petals, and when the theaters had closed their doors on the opera of the Don Giovanni, when the summer of San Martino was dying in the early nights frozen, just as the mornings began to get darker and the fog descending thickly on a pale sun, Paris too began to prepare for the long winter.
The golden autumn, together with those last rays of light, between the rain and the fog, had again given way to the brown of the bare branches and the pavement covered with leaves, fallen in the rain and wind. Black and gray leaves, rotten by water under the bare branches, but still black, in autumn.
The air grew cold and the frost decorated the mornings with long crystals; while the snows, in a covered and white sky, were ready to arrive at any moment, to bring with them the white blanket that heralded the beginning of winter and its festivities. Meanwhile, those of wines and harvests were long over and, with them, the times of new wines, hunting and the roast of the last chestnuts.
In the darkness of a night that came too quickly for the inhabitants of the city, a smile grinned with satisfaction at the sound of the tinkling of coins and other objects falling to passersby.
Cutpurse in the Venetian fashion: so the criminal had quickly obtained his loot.
Just as he counted the coins and objects that had fallen to the ground, distracted by the few possessions snatched from his victim, a sharp dagger gripped his throat, as violent fingers scratched his back, through his robes, and a hand lifted him from the ground, caught for the neck of his own doublet.
"I have seen you. Thief! Who do you think you are cheating! Show the knife!"- the clear voice sounded like that of a young knight.
The criminal hesitated. His first instinct was to reach for pockets and pouch, to hide the booty, but the kick of a boot on his shin knocked him off balance, the blade of the dagger sank into the skin, while an elbow pushed his back forward, on the cold and inexorable metal.
The breath failed and the terror took over the diabolical vision: a musket!
"In the name of Louis XIII I declare you under arrest!".
Chapter 1
The road to hell
is paved with good intentions.
In my long life, I've seen too much.
And played too much.
I could stay here singing it and playing it for another four hundred years, but I'm tired, forgotten, tuned out. Leave me here, so to rest and sleep, I'm tired of wandering, pass on over me and leave me alone. Don't turn my keys, don't touch my strings, let go of my white hair. If you don't like how I sound, go touch something else, listen and observe something else.
Now they say I'm too complicated, they want less strings, they want more ears, more chairs in the room. I myself alone, calm and flat, boring, at most there are two like me at the same time, against four, furious and wild. Now they say that I can no longer do anything, that I have gone out of fashion.
However fashion, for me, has never existed: I am unique in my kind and in my appearance; individually forged by skilled hands and equally expert ears.
And I'll tell you more: in virtuosity, a quartet can still nothing against me. I am always the most virtuous, the most elegant.
Over time, many things have changed: audience, rooms and players.
Well I remained the same: older, weaker, but exactly who I was and who I still will be.
So, lock me up somewhere, or hang me on the wall, by the neck, in plain sight, show me as the predecessor of what you know and hear today, because people who know how to deal with me have little left in the world. They exist and are talented, but they can certainly be counted on the fingers of one hand. And they have to practice, they have to have patience and love.
Then cram me into any of your museums, let me rot.
I have played too many strange stories and have witnessed just as many, so you should leave me alone here, food for the wood worms, to collect the dust and forget my last notes...
What?!
Are you still here, listening to my moans out of tune? I have nothing more to offer to any of you. I was rich and noble in a past, where my worth still mattered. Then came the decline and the road. The incomprehensible chaos of the city.
And what about now? Forgotten is the right word.
If you really want to hear it all, this heavy serenade, I won't keep you on a string, I will play a story stranger and slower than the others: it tells the story of that rare character who gave me a new life, took me from noble hands and closed rooms on a snowy day.
And she took me over her shoulder and arrived in the streets of the city in the middle of the night, caught the love of some and the attention of many. She challenged curious, untrustworthy people to a duel and her words made her lords and servants shiver.
I am not singing to you about those ladies who pretend to be chaste and faithful wives and widows, who pose an enviable reputation, but are actually traitors of the past and the present. There is no sound for those presumed honest girls who, mad with desire, seek in every way the joy in the pleasures of dishonesty.
I sing and play to you, this story of the Roaring girl who, like me, found herself in the middle of a street, in the middle of the city. She was driven out of courts, ranks and shops, but in her heart she has always remained honest to herself and her men ...
Perhaps, however, I should start by the hat.
Black and of English fashion, I had already seen it in a dream, in an uncertain nightmare, lowered on a black mask, one night at the Noisy's castle.
The night I was taken and taken away was not the same night, but a night of many years later.
We were no longer in Noisy and we had recently left Switzerland, the hat was not worn by anyone and it was not a mysterious dream, nor a ghostly vision: it was held in the hand by a young man, standing in the living room of my new home.
This fellow, of questionable fashion, ear and rank, with sure footedness, showed up at my mistress's house without invitation and without bowing, as if he had always known her and as if he were one of her peers.
A familiar face. Where had I seen him before? In Switzerland! During the terrible journey that brought me here. Did he have a name?
A certain son of a Count, grandson of important people, my owner called him D'Artagnan.
I hadn't let him in and, if it had been for me, he would have gladly stayed outside the door.
But someone else, as usual, had not given me any power about it: distracted by the knock on the door, she had leaned me in a corner, neglected as usual, completely ignoring my wishes and had given me no choice, but to attend the outrage of the sacred home and of the hour dedicated to music rehearsals.
"The treaty was burned" - said my new owner, facing him.
"How do you feel now?"
"Very well! I have gone up in rank! Rather, what about you? I heard of your latest venture! How did you manage to capture that man alone, in the middle of the night and off duty?"
My mistress had her reasons, she had business not to disclose to this son of Counts.
"Who? The bag cutter? A pure chance!"- she whispered between her teeth.
"Thank you so much for saving my life on our trip to Joules. If it weren't for you and your dagger, I wouldn't be here today!"- he said.
My mistress nodded in gratitude, as if she too were her debtor, in a way.
"What became of Milady?"- asked D'Artagnan.
"She was buried under the avalanche for some time, but there is a suspicion that she is still alive... Have you seen her nearby? Be sincere!"
"No!"- he replied, and seemed to really say it honestly.
This Milady de Winter and her men had come as far as Switzerland. I had noticed them running from one room to another in Joules' Castle, but I don't know exactly why.
She and my new Mistress, in fact, fought right under my eyes! A duel to the death, torture and stabs, for a... For that ...
A padded chair.
Oh! Beautiful, very soft!
Still a chair.
Maybe I'm just a little jealous, no one has ever fought for me with the vehemence with which these ladies of marriageable age have raged for that piece of furniture.
Maybe it's a sign: I should pay more respect to chairs.
"It's been some time since our trip to Switzerland, maybe ..." - my mistress looked at that corner of the room where she had placed me. There was something in her thoughts, a memory, a distant memory. I was that reference for her. Her voice broke into a heavy silence.
"It's already been two years since I returned from Gascony"- said the guy, my mistress nodded silently, but she was thinking about something else.
"Aramis? Do you think maybe I should ask for Constance's hand?"- asked the young man again, turning to her.
I don't think my mistress, the one he called Aramis, had the same idea in mind. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Sure! If you are in love, Monsieur Bonacieux would be delighted! Only…"
The young man knew what Aramis was referring to: something was still missing.
"Do you think Bonacieux might not have enough money for your godfather's dowry?"- he asked.
This was not what Aramis was really thinking about, her breathing stopped and she made a guttural sound, as if all of this was a jarring note to her ears.
"I do not know. Maybe you should really talk about this problem with Constance, but also with your family..."
"I thought you knew how these things work, what rules to apply, how to solve these kinds of problems... Haven't you already been engaged?"
"In my situation... Eh..."- my mistress's voice stopped.
The air stopped. The way Aramis looked at me made me want to get up and leave... But...
"It doesn't matter" - corrected the young man. My mistress nodded.
"Anyway, I'm here to bring you this. As a token of thanks. I decided that maybe you should keep it"- he said.
"Thank you, I will keep it as a reminder of past times"- she replied, her voice calmed and a bitter smile crossed her face.
It was that infamous hat, symbol of a terrible event that has passed, but was then past. A man is nobody without his hat, so goes for women. Well maybe this meant that the old owner of that hat, the subject of my distant nightmares, was gone.
Should I have thanked these people and their long rapiers for his disappearance from my life?
I do not know. Of course, even my mistress seemed satisfied at the thought of how, the subject in question, could no longer strike terror and do more harm.
My kidnapper, or say new owner, had a familiar face that I also remembered. Renée? I think that was her name once, in Noisy, but no one called her by that name anymore.
She smiled at the guest, her friend, and donned the headdress confidently.
Under its brim there was no longer a dark man in an iron mask, mighty and mysterious, but a young and strange woman, tall and with fair eyes and hair, ready to show everyone her courage and determination.
She lowered her hat confidently over her head and looked at me, as if a crazier idea had come into her mind: that was the moment, perhaps the beginning of the end.
I should have understood, but my head is made of wood, I do not light up with ideas, I fear any form of illumination too close to my splendid body, only the vibrations of my strings resonate any sense, in me.
In fact, shortly after, I was already with my head somewhere else.
That name: Constance. Mademoiselle Bonacieux, that name was not new to me at all.
I perfectly remembered her horrible chariot and the long journey I traveled in it, months before. Certainly not an adequate place for someone like me! I could have scratched myself every time a wheel hit a pothole! Look here, what a terrible dent!
Not to mention my beloved rest! Constantly disturbed by every stone, hay and even some hens!
Little did my owner know of the other businesses that the girl and her housekeeper carried on in secret.
Well, before I was carried away by the terrible anguish that was just to exist in that infernal vehicle, open to all the elements of heaven and earth, I made acquaintance with a completely normal woman, with an apparently impeccable bearing and reputation.
Her name was Martha and she spoke in a double tone: very kind and polite. Servant of the Bonacieux family for more than twenty years, the woman looked at my mistress with a narrow eye and an almost imperceptible suspicion. Wide were the smiles she offered to the other men at the table, the generosity with which she filled their plates, as well as the hateful gaze turned in secrecy towards her.
"Whore!" - she said between her teeth, in secret, to Constance.
...Oh, music to my wooden ears! Martha was truly a kind and polite servant: only when it suited her. How did I already know and how can I tell with all this certainty? In terms of tones and vibrations in the room, nobody beats me! I found immediate attraction for a woman with such pretty tones.
"What?"- asked the girl, in complete amazement and without understanding what had happened, what her servant was referring to.
"A woman who dresses as a man, alone, unaccompanied... Even worse, in the company of other men. What would you call her?"- the servant knew her place very well.
"Who? Aramis? A woman?"- Constance turned to the cheerful table. She had never asked herself those kinds of questions and D'Artagnan had never revealed her anything, openly, about it.
"A whore! And may this be the last time that woman enters your house!"
"Martha... Are you sure of what you are saying?"
"Sure! And don't you dare bring her here anymore, without a husband for sure, and without honor, I don't want her in my house! That she finally decides to choose one husband and go clean up! I only serve honest women. And may this be a lesson to you too! Do not dare to end up like him, her!"
"But, Martha, are you serious?"- Constance still couldn't believe her ears.
"By now you are an adult and we can deal with these discussions!"
"You yourself, Martha, don't honor your poor husband's mourning and, from what I know, you and grandfather have been together. It has been several years..."
"That's not the point! I don't show myself around like this, Monsieur Bonacieux and I go our separate ways, in public. This is what matters. Everything that happens in private is just between the two of us!"
"But this filthy and disgusting one, shakes anyone's hand! She hugs them all as if she were one of them! Indeed, tell me, you too for some time have not believed her to be just one of the other men!"
"And with Count D'Artagnan? Such a woman at home, alone, together with your beloved! How can you be sure there hasn't been something else?"
Constance shook her head and left the room.
And then I noticed it too. A tall man, with a rich cape and hair the same color as me, had everything but the look of a family man, nor an elderly man of the house.
He took Martha by the hips, turned her around and kissed her, the way wives, friends and sisters usually don't kiss.
For the moment that was the last time I entered the Bonacieux house, after that dialogue, just one more voice and one hand, carelessly took my neck.
"Here, here, this is yours"- said a very tall and robust man, with beautiful brown hair, facing my mistress.
She smiled at me, but now that the two were alone, she became more serious and raised her head towards him. In all his height and strength, the man's brown eyes showed a brief embarrassment towards hers.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I let myself be taken by..."- he said, almost in a whisper.
"It doesn't matter, Porthos. The important thing is that things have cleared up and that you understand the reason for my behavior..."- she explained.
"And that's why I intend to apologize! You didn't deserve my reaction! I acted on impulse and I regret it. But next time, remember to tell Athos and me everything! We cannot help you without knowing your plans too! "- said the man in front of her, taking her shoulders and looking her straight in the eyes with sincerity, but also with some concern.
"I'll try. Pass me the bow too, please"- added that young woman, Aramis: violent and rude thief. I meant my new owner.
I, without my beautiful hair, and do not serve anything at all. Don't pinch me!
Why that character, also armed, seemed to take the affairs of my new mistress to heart, what was he really worried about?
Porthos and Athos, two characters who then called themselves that, that I should have kept in mind, as they would have come in handy in the future, but I immediately forgot their nicknames. Not their faces.
Faces that, during this particular story, that of the Roaring Girl, I will often find...
N / A:
Inspiration for this story
-Original poster from which I got the main idea, from the SSM website (it is posted in the SSM Pintrest board and the SSM website, under the section "posters").
Thanks to Joelle to re-post to the board!
-The prologue song: "Murder On The Dance floor" Sophie Ellis-Bextor
-Johanna Rose (Viola da gamba performer)