Today's chapter has a certain piece of music. I know I usually don't do links but I like the song: watch?v=bERHoak63FA (You don't need to listen in time or anything, just enjoy if you like classical.)

Also, I use Kiev here not Kyiv. Not trying to be weird, but I figure it's what a Hungarian at the time would have called it.

So–though thou speed'st implacable, (like him,

Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,

As if each stride the nearer bring

Him to the grave)–when comes the time,

After the fall, he rises–king!

The party was abuzz with conversation and filled with a certain… optimism. Germany was master of the known world, and her allies gladly took the benefits, basking in the glory (and economic power) of the European colossus. The great and powerful of the new European order had come together to celebrate, especially their friends in Ukraine.

Szent István suspected that no small portion of the grain used in the party's food had come from Ukraine. Genuinely, 'Little Russia' had saved the Reichspakt from starvation at the tail end of the war, and their dominance of Mittleuropan tables certainly hadn't stopped with peace, despite the complaints of countries who saw their own agriculture wilting.

However, the leadership of Ukraine was not content with a country of simple peasant farmers, and so they cozied up to Germany and Austria-Hungary as they made to modernize. Well, that was one reason Ukraine was working closely with the Reichspakt, the other was a little further east. Russia. Who wouldn't cling tightly to their independence, after fighting for so long to finally clasp at it?

And because martial power was so thoroughly entangled with politics, shipgirls had been invited to the party as well. Szent and her sisters came, as Austria-Hungary's oldest and proudest, but there were others: Ukraine's own Volia was busy schmoozing, and a few German ships also drifted around. Eugen was laughing with one of those Bayern class girls.

All that didn't matter, though, not when Szent had her own business to handle: the piano. She supposed it was a rather fitting set: a horrendously expensive piano with ivory keys, a warship that cost many times that sum, and an expensive dress for said warship to wear. White with red accents, paired with her own white-green hair… it was the vague implication of Hungary, or at least her flag, because they wouldn't let her use traditional Hungarian clothing. Typical.

Perhaps that was just military business. They laid demands on her, and then she fulfilled them. Or else.

"And a special performance for our Ukrainian guests. Presenting Liszt's Transcendental Etude, Number Four: Mazeppa!"

Szent took a breath. Here goes. She had practiced it so many times for just this moment… she began to play, fingers dancing this way and that across the keys, crossing the whole span of the piano and then racing back a moment after.

This was the most tolerable of all the duties she was assigned, the one that didn't seem like an insult against her name. Liszt was a proud product of Hungary, a self-styled Magyar who enraptured Europe, a star who inspired 'Lisztomania' in his fans.

People were staring now, although only a few could really see the way her fingers shot across the keys, racing to keep up with the frantic gallop of the music. It brought to mind a wild, uncontrollable horse, and it was one of the most challenging of the Etudes. However, she didn't mind it too terribly. Was it a difficult song? Certainly. But it was Hungarian. It was theirs, in some sense, even if the subject was that infamous lord of the Cossacks.

(He was, curiously, also an honorary prince of the Holy Roman Empire for service in the alliance against the Turks in 1684. And now his name was attached to a song being played before Ottoman delegates. Was that Selim?)

The attention wasn't too bad, Szent would admit. Perhaps a woman named after a saint shouldn't have been the sort to seek flattery and attention… but Saint Stephen wasn't exactly a shrinking, humble person. He was the first true King of Hungary! Perhaps he didn't bear the title of Apostolic Majesty back in the day, but the lands of his crown were strong and mighty, even if they languished under Habsburg rule.

Despite her train of thought wandering, she managed to play the entire song– seven minutes– and smiled at her audience. There was cheering and some polite applause and Szent felt quite glad that she might get to play a bit more Liszt to such a grand audience…

She could have played a lot of Liszt, long enough to keep the part going very late, but she was eventually sidelined for a band that would play dancing music. This gave her a chance to socialize, huzzah!

Well, that sounded a bit strong. She didn't mind people too terribly, she liked her sisters despite their occasional disagreements, she had fun with her officers, but being a perfect little bubbly showpiece for the Habsburgs? Urgh. She had hoped playing the piano might get her out of having to bring a date, but there was some endlessly patient officer…

There were times when she almost envied Tegetthoff's easy-going, free nature. Those times were counterbalanced by the periods where Szent could only marvel at how oblivious her sister was, how unwilling she was to even consider that the status quo might change. Still, she appreciated the simplicity, the forthright unambiguity. Viri cared about politics, Eugen cared for politics as much as Horthy cared for politics, doing things for some outsider agenda…

Well, she supposed Horthy wasn't totally insufferable, but he wasn't really a fellow traveler. He was devoted to the empire, not to Hungary, despite it being the land of his birth. She wondered if there was a breaking point, a certain number of indignities inflicted on Hungary that would be too much.

Those were grim thoughts for a party, weren't they? She walked among the people, looking for an interesting way to pass the time. (She loved her country, but she loved people too. If getting along with the latter could help the former…)

As she meandered, she heard a few murmurs, with one particular word being notable: Bathory. The name of that infamous countess and alleged serial killer, the one who became associated with the world's conception of vampires. Nevermind that Dracula took no inspiration from the countess, nevermind that the lurid tales of her bathing in blood were fabrications, nevermind that Szent read the whole scenario as a grand conspiracy against a powerful, Protestant, Hungarian woman…

Perhaps the nickname was fitting in another way: Sevastopol/Katharina die Große had been arrested by a German (Holy Roman, whatever) Emperor and spent the rest of her life in captivity and was surrounded by a series of unpleasant, bloody rumors. Where her sisters hadn't made it, she had. Despite horrific damage to the ship and an exploding shell that killed her officers, leaving her splattered with blood in the middle of a ruined bridge.

Her young looks contrasted with the liver of a legendarily hard drinker, and perhaps lent a bit more credence to that Bathory comparison. Hadn't Bathory bathed in blood to stay looking young? (No, she hadn't, but that was the rumor she was forever saddled with. Even if she committed the murders, she probably hadn't bathed in the blood!)

Some time with Sevastopol didn't sound like too bad of a way to spend the night. In addition to learning more about shipgirl combat, which was always interesting, Szent couldn't help but wonder what Sevastopol really thought about her place in the German navy.

Thankfully, it was pretty hard to miss shipgirls, especially one with an infamous reputation like Sevastopol. Everyone gave her a wide berth… well, Sevastopol and her drinking partner.

Despite both being built Russian, there was a strong contrast between Sevastopol and Volia. The former had snow-white locks while the latter had shockingly normal brown hair, and the contrast was strengthened by their builds. Sevastopol was slight… or perhaps svelte? Almost elfin. Volia, previously Emperor Alexander III, was about a thousand tons over her designed displacement, and it showed in her broad shoulders and strong build.

(Perhaps that was what she was trying to put into words regarding Sevastopol. She was lovely in a sort of… girl you could clasp against you way. Volia looked like she could clasp a grown man against her.)

Volia seemed to have an imperial look about her as well, if that made sense. Strong features, a certain self-confidence… well, perhaps it would be more fitting to say she had a Russian-imperial look about her. That was an autocrat's face, even when she smiled. "István."

"Volia, Katharina. May I join you?"

"Certainly, if you don't mind us scaring the boys away."

"I think I'll survive," Szent replied. "Really, it seems like their loss."

"None of them can keep pace with us," Sevastopol sniffed. "Are you more of a vodka or a wine gal?"

"Brandy, if we're not doing aperitifs."

"Who says you can't have a digestif a few hours after a meal?" Sevastopol asked.

"Digestion can't be aided if it's already over and done with."

"I suppose. Brandy it is, then!" Sevastopol approached one of the servants, leaving Szent alone with Volia. Her name meant… Freedom. Ironic, considering her circumstances, and how similar her journey was to Sevastopol's.

"That was a magnificent performance," Voila said.

"Thank you. I'd like to think I did Liszt proud."

"I am curious, though. How did a Hungarian end up writing a song about a Ukranian?"

"It was based off of a Victor Hugo poem about the man, but I suspect it's a fiction. Was he actually tied to a horse for cuckolding a noble?"

Volia guffawed. "I certainly haven't heard that one. There are more efficient means of killing."

"Ah, but where's the drama in that? From what I've read, this Mazepa character seems almost mythical."

"He's intriguing, at the very least. Have you heard of Mazepa's Duma?" Volia asked.

"No. What is it?"

"A duma is a sort of… sung poem," Volia said. "Mazepa's is a cry for unification in the face of crisis. Ukraine was being tugged three ways at the time, between Poland, Russia, and Ukranian nationalists. Mazepa supported the nationalists, of course."

"Perhaps I'll have to read it."

"I'll see if something can be sent to you."

It was at that point that Sevastopol returned from her journey, some unfortunate man in tow. "Ladies, I have acquired some genuine Hungarian palinka!"

Sevastopol turned out to be quite the lover of that particular Hungarian brandy, to the point of not really managing to make it out of the building on her own two feet. Fortunately for her, Voila was willing to escort her to… wherever she needed to be.

(Szent wouldn't know it, but as they walked back, Sevastopol crooned to her guard in clumsy Russian, while the latter grumbled to herself in Ukranian.)

Admittedly, Szent had a bit too much too drink as well, and she also had to help manage a hysterically drunk Tegetthoff, so she wasn't really capable of much deep thinking that night. The next morning, however? She woke early for breakfast to find that Volia had made good on her promise: a letter had been sent, complete with the entire text of Mazepa's duma.

Would it have been better sung? She couldn't say, but she tried to savor it over her morning coffee. There was a certain romance to the sunrise and poetry…

Even a bee boasts a mother,

Whom it obeys, and no other.

Have mercy, God, for Ukraine,

Whose sons are scattered over the plain.

Some still are mired in pagan days,

Beseeching others to follow their hasty ways:

"Our Motherland, to defend, to cherish!

Let us not permit her to perish!"

Pagan days… was that referring to the old Kievan Rus? That was the only strongly Ukranian state she could think of, and it was dominated by Slavic paganism before the baptism of the Rus. Strange, for a Ukrainian patriot to recommend against following the example of a previous state whose beating heart was at Kiev, but the Rus did stretch into Russia proper. Perhaps he was calling for them to make a new Ukraine, completely divorced from the Russians who ruled over them? Or perhaps he agreed with their ideals– barring the paganism?– and and just lamented that they weren't the only camp.

Another the Poles for silver serves,

The while he grievingly observes:

"Aged mother, if Thou but will,

Tell why Thou art so deathly ill!"

What was the motherland's sickness? Was it as simple as being besieged on all sides? No. The issue was something more: the lack of unity that made her defenses flag, the disunity that let her be picked apart piecemeal.

A third gives Moscow loquacious praise,

Serving her faithfully in divers ways.

Another the mother does berate,

And damns his own unhappy fate:

"T'were best not to have sampled life,

Than to live in the midst of all this strife."

Frankly, between the two, Szent would trust the former, an imperial stooge, before the latter. You had to believe in something. She might have disagreed with those who wished to see Habsburg power wax, but ironclad belief in a principle was worth more than laying down and dying, not living for anything at all.

The Weltkrieg was traumatizing and horrific, certainly, but it was a wake-up call. What were you willing to die for when the cards were down? What stood above the mud and blood, the absurdity and the violence? She had infinitely more respect for anyone who could lift up something instead of wallowing in petty nihilism.

The last section of the poem was marked up, a single line of ink under the last words:

Stand by your faith, to the bitter end.

Your liberty too, you must defend.

And immortalize in glory bright,

That with our sword we protect our right!

Szent grinned. She thought she rather liked that Volia…

The epigraph is Hugo's Mazeppa form Les Orientales, a collection I have never heard of. Still, it was the one that Liszt's music was based on, not the massive Byron poem.

I love Byron's Mazeppa, maybe because I wasn't forced to read it. The rhymes and everything…. My obsession with Mazepa as a figure might just be because Byron used him to show me that poetry could be good.