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daechwitatamic · 2 years

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Chapter 2: Pride || KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Title: What Was Hidden (Masterpost)

Rating: explicit, minors DNI pls

Genre: college!au, angst, eventual smut, strangers -> friends -> lovers -> idiots -> lovers

Pairings: Taehyung x female reader, MYG x OC

Summary: This is how it all starts: Taehyung is flunking Western Lit. You’re assigned to tutor him. His paper on Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata could pass or fail him for the semester. As you and Taehyung slowly become friends, then more, you learn that there’s a lot more to him than you originally assumed. Together, you navigate your own experiences with the play’s themes: one’s “true self” versus one’s “shown self”, darkness behind the facade, and how people can be quite literally haunted - and it has nothing to do with ghosts.

In which you get assigned to tutor Taehyung twice a week.

Chapter Warnings: language, probably

Word Count: 4.6k

I saw the sun and thought I saw

what was hidden

The Ghost Sonata | Scene III August Strindberg

Chapter 2 - Pride

Sunday, November 4th

Nina’s train home is midmorning, which means you’re woken by the alarm on her phone much earlier than you would have liked.

“I’m going to die,” you groan into the mattress, as she stirs beside you.

“Not if I die first,” she answers, eyes still closed.

Once you’re upright, you pull on jeans and a hoodie, pulling a beanie low on your head to hide how messy your hair is after partying last night.

You and Nina don’t talk much as you walk back down the paved trail to the train station, her little suitcase clacking musically as it rolls along; you’re hungover and exhausted, just counting down the minutes until she’s gone and you can go back to bed for a while. You’re also not thrilled that she ditched you at a party on your own campus to go spend time with Erin.

You hug quickly when the train appears down the tracks, but when she climbs the steps and disappears from sight, you just feel… relieved. It feels a little bit like getting off-duty at work, the weight off your shoulders as you clock out.

You walk back to campus in silence, running through your previous day in your head. It had hurt to see Davis and Erin together, as it always did when you ran into either of them on campus. It wasn’t a very big school. You should be glad it didn’t happen more often. You should be glad that neither of them was stupid enough to try and be friendly with you when they saw you. At least you didn’t have to pretend to be civil.

You knew it was childish, but Nina’s friendship with Erin hurt too. The one time you’d brought it up, telling Nina it felt like she wasn’t on your side, she’d told you there weren’t sides. But how could there not be, in a situation like this?

The day is cold and grey, and you’re reminded of Bridget’s request for a party trick last night. It definitely isn’t warm and sunny like your phone had said. The wind picks up around you, carrying a few dead leaves with it, and you pick up the pace. Your head is pounding, your eyes feel swollen, and you decide a hot coffee would be beyond helpful - perhaps life-saving. Instead of taking the stairs up to your dorm, you head left to the student center.

Inside, a few groups of students are clustered here and there at the couches. You pass a table where some girls are asking for signatures on a petition, and an open conference room door where it looks like a group of students are rehearsing a presentation together. At the end of the building, there’s a small cafe tucked in the corner. The line is almost out the door and you sigh, standing behind a trio of guys in sweatpants and hoodies. The wall of windows show that it has gotten impossibly darker outside.

“I’ll probably be in the library until dinner,” one of the guys in front of you says. “This paper for Professor Watanabe is killing me.”

“I finished that one,” another one of the guys says back, and something about his voice - light and lilting - is familiar. “Did you reference Ibsen or did you go with Strindberg?”

“Is it bad that neither of those names sound even remotely familiar?” Now that voice you absolutely know - it’s Taehyung. He doesn’t seem hurt - whatever happened on the stairs last night must not have been that serious. You try to scrunch further into your oversized hoodie, tugging your beanie more firmly onto your head, praying they don’t turn around and you can make it out of here unnoticed. You look and feel like shit; you do not want to have social hour with Jin’s frat bros right now.

“Yes. Yes it is. Tae, did you even open the assigned reading?” This is the guy that Taehyung asked you to get last night - Jimin. He’s looking sideways at Taehyung, disapproving.

“You know what happens when I try to read,” Taehyung whines. “I fall asleep.”

“Then at least look up the synopsis, for fuck’s sake!” Jimin mutters.

The line moves and the guys order their coffees, pay, and move to a small table to wait for their order. You shuffle up to the cashier and order your own coffee, trying to keep your voice down to not draw attention to yourself. But after you pay and turn to stand near the counter where the orders are placed, you feel the weight of eyes on you. You glance over as surreptitiously as possible, and catch Taehyung nudging Jimin and nodding in your direction. The fuck is that about?

Your single coffee is ready before the guys’ order, so you grab it and prepare to book it out of there, but Taehyung catches your eye. He raises a hand in a friendly wave, smiling easily. Jimin and the other friend, the one with the piercings, watch this interaction eagerly.

“Hey,” he says, eyes crinkling like something is very funny.

Your instinct is to give a tight smile and walk faster, but you’re still feeling a little guilty that you ran him over while he was hurt on the stairs, guilty that he had stopped you from breaking your head open after you’d acted like an ice queen all night. So you slow down, give a small smile and say, “Hi. You seem better today.”

“Oh,” he says, smile fading. “Yeah. I am. Thanks.”

“That’s good,” you say, the awkwardness almost deafening. “See you around, I guess.”

“See you,” he echoes.

As you walk towards the door, you hear Taehyung’s friends snickering behind you.

The coffee cup is hot against your hands, and you hurry up the concrete steps that lead to your dorm. You swipe your card to gain entry, and take the stairs up to the third floor. You enter your room quietly - Kiko and Bridget had both been asleep when you’d left to walk Nina to the train station.

However, as the door swings open, it’s clear that everyone is up. The lights and the tv are on, and there are clothes strewn across the middle of the floor that weren’t there when you left. Bridget is sitting at her desk with her laptop open, music playing, a textbook open beside it. Kiko is on her bed, but she seems to be watching whatever is on that tv.

“Hello,” you say. “Are we all alive today?”

“You didn’t bring us coffee? Rude,” Bridget deadpans, flipping a page of the textbook.

“I didn’t know you were up,” you say. “Otherwise I would have.”

“Hungover?” Kiko asks, looking at the size of the coffee cup in your hand.

“A little,” you admit. “But mostly tired. I think I might go into Fortress Mode and try to nap.”

Fortress Mode is your favorite part of having the bottom bunk. You hang a blanket from the bottom of Bridget’s bed and it creates a wall between you and the rest of the room, leaving you in a dark little cave. You’ve wrapped twinkly lights around the bedframe just for these moments. You set it up meticulously now, tucking the blanket into the frame of Bridget’s top bunk, leaning over to turn on the twinkle lights, and grabbing your laptop.

Once in your little cave, you breathe a sigh of happiness and lay back against your pillows, closing your eyes. After resting for a few seconds, you finish getting situated - you pop in airpods to block out the tv and Bridget’s music, set your coffee down on the mattress between your thighs so it doesn’t spill, and open your laptop.

It’s only a few minutes of peace and quiet later that your phone lights up.

[10:37 AM] Kiko✌️: hiiii i need help

[10:38 AM] You: gasp! you can’t break Fortress Mode rules!

[10:39 AM] Kiko ✌️: it’s a loophole. I’m not technically talking 💁‍♀️

[10:40 AM] Kiko ✌️: should i add Yoongi on insta???

[10:42 AM] You: hmmm i mean u two talked all night so i dont see y not?

[10:43 AM] Kiko ✌️: that isn’t like… too much? help me idk what i’m doingggg

[10:46 AM] You: Kiks idk i haven’t had to play this game with a guy since Davis and we didn’t even have insta yet back then. I think you should ask Brig

[10:47 AM] Kiko ✌️: omfg no if i ask B she’ll start naming our babies. I can’t.

[10:50 AM] You: ok fair. idk babe, i guess do it? what’s the worst that can happen?

[10:52 AM] Kiko ✌️: lmfao how could u even ask me that, i have a detailed list of every possible negative outcome and i am happy to read them to you one by one

[10:53 AM] Kiko ✌️: 🤡

[10:55 AM] You: ok well Brig said that she’s never seen him talk to a girl at a party before, let alone like ALL NIGHT so i stand by my original answer

Kiko doesn’t answer, so you open a text to Nina.

[10:59 AM] You: how’s the train? [11:01 AM] Nina💕: im trying to sleep hdu wake me

[11:02 AM] You: lol so sorry

[11:03 AM] You: did u get that guys number? Hoseok?

[11:04 AM] Nina💕: ……..can i pretend idk what you’re talking about?

[11:05 AM] You: small campus lol no secrets here

[11:07 AM] Nina💕: wbu? werent u talking to someone?

[11:09 AM] You: eh. major fuckboi vibes. i’ll pass.

You set your phone down and pull up your school email. You’ve got a few emails from professors returning papers, and you move them to a folder to look at more closely when your head isn’t pounding. You also have an email from your boss at the student services center, the subject line reading “Upcoming Schedule”. You open it and scan it quickly. The gist is that your hours are set, and she’ll be sending a more concrete schedule with the names of the students you’ll be tutoring later that day. You mark down the hours on your calendar - for now, she has you slotted for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday evening, and one hour on Wednesday mornings, starting this upcoming week.

Your phone buzzes again -

[11:23 AM] Kiko ✌️: he accepted 😱

You tap back “!!” and go back to your emails. When you’re caught up, you turn your laptop off and move it to the end of your bed, rolling onto your side. You close your eyes, trying to feel out if you’ll be able to nap or if you’ll just lay there with your mind racing, when your phone buzzes next to your head again.

It’s not a text this time, but a social media notification - someone has requested to follow you. You frown, swiping to open the app. You don’t even need to click the profile to see who it was - the picture is clear enough. Taehyung.

You chew on your lip, and then close the app, neither accepting nor deleting the request.

Outside, it begins to pour with such ferocity that it sounds like a roar, overpowering the television.

“Holy shit,” Bridget says loudly, her voice muffled by your hanging blanket wall. “Didn’t Taehyung say it would rain like hell today?”

Monday, November 5th

Monday brings the sunshine you’d expected the day before. You have two classes in the morning, so by the time you meet Kiko and Bridget in the cafeteria for lunch, you feel like you’ve lived a whole day already.

“We doing anything tonight?” Bridget asks over a plate of chicken nuggets.

“I already have a ton of homework,” you lament. “And I need to get it at least started today, because I start tutoring this week.”

“Yikes.” Bridget gives you a sympathetic look. “How’s the caseload?”

You laugh a little. “You make it sound so official. Five hours a week, so it’s really not bad. I’m not sure how many students yet - probably three or four? I’ll check my email later.”

“I was going to the library after this if you want to join,” Kiko tells you.

“That sounds good,” you tell her, then you turn to Bridget. “You coming?”

“I have class at one,” she says mournfully. “I’ll text you when I’m out.”

You and Kiko find a secluded table in the corner of the library and get situated, laptops and notebooks spread across the table.

You pull up your emails, and as expected you have your official schedule from your boss, Bianca.

Tuesday

5:00 - 6:00: Rebecca P.

6:00 - 7:00: Carter E.

Wednesday

11:00 - 12:00: Davis H.

Thursday

5:00 - 6:00: Rebecca P.

6:00 - 7:00: Davis H.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. Kiko gives an inquisitive, “hm?” without looking up from her textbook.

Your thumbs itch to reach for your phone and text Nina, but you stop yourself. She’ll tell you to suck it up, you’re sure.

“I have to go talk to Bianca,” you tell Kiko. “Do you think you’ll still be here? Can I leave my stuff?”

“I’ll be here until dinner,” she deadpans, highlighter flying across the open page in front of her.

“Okay. I’ll be back pretty soon,” you tell her, and you grab your phone and your jacket and head out the library’s entrance and back towards the student center, where Bianca’s tiny office is located.

Luckily, she’s there when you show up. You knock on the door tentatively, and she looks up in surprise.

“Y/N!” she says, shuffling some papers from her cluttered desk. “What’s up?”

Bianca is young, probably in her early thirties at the oldest, and you’ve always gotten a kind of older-sister vibe from her.

“Hey,” you say, feeling weird despite your good relationship. “I have an embarrassing request. I wanted to talk to you about it in person.”

She puts the papers down, facing you, concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell her, and take a deep breath. “It’s just… I wanted to ask if we could change the assignments? Can I switch with someone?”

Her mouth makes an O, and she blinks at you. “Oh, Y/N, it’s a lot of work to make everything fit…”

“I know,” you say quickly, and you can hear how desperate you sound. “But you assigned me to Davis twice a week? And, um… that’s my ex. Who cheated on me last year. So I would really appreciate it if I didn’t have to... y’know… spend two hours a week alone with him.”

Silence falls on the room like an anvil.

“Oh, my god,” Bianca says, letting out a little laugh. “Oh my god, okay. Yes, we’ll switch it. I’m so sorry.” She immediately opens her laptop and starts clicking around, brow furrowed and mouth moving silently as she works out logistics.

“Okay,” she says finally, looking up at you. “Your hours are the same, and I moved him out to work with Rodrigo instead.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Bianca, thank you. And I’m sorry. Like I said… embarrassing. But… I couldn’t have done that. I think I would have quit.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says gently. “I’m glad you told me. I’m always happy to try and work things out for you kids.”

You thank her again, face burning, and head back to Kiko in the library. She looks up when you return, smiling.

“All good?” she asks, pulling out one earphone so she can hear your answer.

“Yep, all sorted,” you tell her, and sure enough you have a fresh email from Bianca titled “Updated Assignments”.

You open it just for the relief of seeing Davis’s name gone… only to find that it has been replaced with Taehyung K.

Of fucking course. You drop your head to your arms in complete defeat.

Somehow, this feels worse.

Wednesday, November 7th

At roughly 10:15 on Wednesday morning, you find yourself standing in the bathroom with a curling iron in your hand. Bridget passes behind you, laptop bag hanging off her shoulder, and pauses, blinking at you.

“Are you…” she says slowly, and you feel your face heat up before she can even get the accusation out. “Are you getting cute for tutoring?”

“Nope,” you say curtly, avoiding her gaze in the mirror.

“Oh my god,” she says, eyes wide. “Kiko. She’s primping. For tutoring.”

“I am not!” you shout.

Kiko appears in the doorway. “I’ve never seen you curl your hair for anything except parties.”

“Traitor,” you tell her. Your face is flaming.

“I have to leave for class,” Bridget says, extremely seriously, “so I cannot continue to interrogate you right now. But just so you know… this isn’t over.” She points a finger at you to drive this point home, and leaves. Kiko looks at you silently.

“What?” you demand.

“Nothing,” she says lightly, tapping the doorframe a few times before leaving you in peace. You hadn’t really planned this when you got up that morning, the curling iron had just been calling to you.

With a heavy sigh, you finish getting ready and pack up the materials you need for tutoring and for the class you have in the afternoon. You check your phone, decide you have enough time to grab a coffee, and head out, calling goodbye to Kiko as you go. She waves, not looking up from her phone, where she’s typing swiftly, a tiny smile on her face.

You make it to the library with about five minutes to spare. You head into the large inner room and scan for a table that will work well. To your surprise, Taehyung is already sitting there - you recognize his mess of black hair even from the back.

You approach his table and set your bag down on one of the empty chairs. Taehyung turns to face you, and a smile breaks across his face, big and boxy.

“I thought it might be you when I saw the name on the email,” he says, still smiling, like this is just great.

You give him a tight smile that feels more like a grimace and take your seat, pulling your laptop out of your bag.

“Okay,” you say, cutting all small-talk or preamble off. “We’re supposed to start by talking about your goals for the semester. If you can’t think of any, I usually suggest starting with getting yourself off of academic probation as a first goal.”

He stares at you blankly, as if he completely forgot that you were there to do a job and not to hang out and shoot the shit with him.

You look at him with an eyebrow raise, fingers poised and ready to type in his official document. “Well? Any additional goals beyond that?”

“Um,” he says, disappointment flickering across his face, “no, I guess that’s the big one. I’m really only having trouble with one class, but it’s tanking my average.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding - this is productive. “So we can turn that into two goals: one, to get you as close to passing that one class as possible, and two, to raise your overall GPA enough that one class can’t fail you.”

“That sounds good,” he says slowly, watching you carefully.

“What’s the class that’s giving you the most trouble?” you ask as you type.

“Western Lit,” he says glumly. The conversation you overheard the other day makes a lot of sense, suddenly.

“Watanabe is a tough grader,” you say, and Taehyung looks at you sharply.

“You’ve taken her class?”

“I’ve had her twice,” you tell him. “Once for Medieval Lit, too.”

He looks at you blankly. “That class sounds like my personal circle of hell.”

You shrug. “It was actually pretty interesting. So, what’s the problem with the lit class? Are you understanding the lectures and struggling with papers? Getting stuck on homework assignments? All of the above?”

Taehyung sighs. Then he leans forward, lowering his voice as he says, “Listen, I’m not stupid. I don’t want you to think that - I mean - I just don’t want you thinking I’m here because I’m dumb.”

“No one thinks you’re dumb,” you assure him. You’re used to this. Students on academic probation are required by the university to attend tutoring - they aren’t there by choice, and they usually have some strong feelings about it. “People have lots of reasons for needing a little help with a class. I’m not making any judgments, I promise you. But part of what I’m getting paid to do is to figure out what your obstacles are, so I can give you strategies to work more efficiently.”

“You make it sound so clinical,” he mutters, but he sits back, dropping his intense gaze from your face.

“Can you tell me a little about your problems with Watanabe’s class?” you ask again, a little more gently.

“All of it,” he mumbles, eyes still on the table. “I mean, I understand the lectures just fine. It’s just that I get home to do the homework assignments and I can’t remember well what she said. Then, the reading just doesn't come easily for me, books make me sleepy.”

You nod. “Okay, one problem at a time. Do you take notes during lectures?”

He grimaces. “I try,” he admits. “I just… sometimes have trouble keeping up.” He gives a heavy sigh, and then says, “Sometimes my hand hurts and I have to stop.”

Baffled, you follow his gaze down to his left hand, where you notice - for the first time - an ugly, raised, purple scar that starts in the middle of the back of his hand and disappears under the cuff of his long sleeve.

“Taehyung,” you gasp, unable to stop yourself. You actually cover your mouth with your hand in horror.

He gives you a strange smile, looking almost defeated. “Yeah,” he says flatly.

You blink rapidly, trying to recalibrate. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Have you ever looked into getting a medical accommodation?”

He blinks at you; you bet he thought you’d ask what the scar was from, but you don’t ask people personal questions as a general rule. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.

“You can get assigned a note-taker for lectures,” you press. “It happens all the time. You might also get extra time on assignments and papers if your doctor can -.”

He cuts you off. “I don’t want all that.”

Pride. A lot of things suddenly make a lot more sense about Kim Taehyung.

“That’s fine,” you say slowly, because it’s not your job to argue with him. It’s your job to give him options and strategies. “Have you considered asking Watanabe if you can record the lecture on your phone? Then you can play it back at your own pace to get the important parts.”

He doesn’t reply to this, eyes still on his hands.

“Taehyung,” you prod.

“No, I have not considered that,” he says rotely.

“Would you?” you press.

He shrugs. “I really don’t want to do all that extra shit,” he says, a little apologetically.

You lean forward, making eye contact. “Your injury doesn’t care about your pride,” you tell him seriously. It’s something you would never say to someone you barely know if it wasn’t your professional duty, as it were. The fact that you’re just doing your job makes you bolder. “It sounds very much like you’re so intent on doing things normally that you’re sabotaging your own success.”

He frowns at you. “Are you always this blunt?” he asks.

“If I’m convinced that I’m helping, yes,” you tell him evenly. “Your way isn’t working, or you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. When do you have Watanabe’s class?”

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles.

“You’re going to ask if you can record the lecture. Catch her before class, tell her you have no official accommodations but flash the scar. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow night at six - I’m going to ask you if you did it.”

He pouts adorably. “You’re bossy.”

“I’m doing my job,” you say flatly, but then you soften. “And I’m trying to help you.”

“Okay,” he sighs, eyeing the ceiling. “I’ll ask about recording the lecture.”

“Good,” you say briskly, all business again. A glance at the time tells you that you have about twenty more minutes before you can leave and get lunch. “Now, the paper. You didn’t read the texts?”

He’s still leaning back in his chair, facing the ceiling, but he cuts his eyes at you.

“I’ll take that as a no,” you say, typing away. He frowns. “So I need to officially tell you that… that’s my biggest piece of advice? Like… you can’t write a paper about a book that you didn’t read.”

“Sure I can,” he says.

You wave your hands around the table wordlessly, as if to say which one of us is failing? Then you tell him, “My strategy for Watanabe was this - I’d always read the essay prompt first, and then I’d read the synopsis online and look for an answer to the prompt. For example, if Watanabe wants you writing about symbolism, someone on the great, wide internet will have written about what symbols are in the book, right?”

You pause to see if he’s following. He nods, so you continue, “So from that, you can make a list of what symbols to look for. Then I’d read the text, and I’d highlight as I read whenever I saw the symbol. When it’s time to write the paper, all of my textual evidence is already marked.”

He stares at you like you have eighteen heads.

“Seriously,” you tell him. “I got an A on every paper.”

“I fall asleep when I read,” he complains. He’s back to looking at the ceiling instead of at you.

“Work with a partner, then,” you suggest. “Even if you’re working on different things - make someone responsible for waking your ass up.”

He glances at you sideways.

“We’ll start that tomorrow,” you say, typing this onto his document on your laptop. “So tonight I want you to look up the essay prompt and research your topic, and tomorrow at our session I’ll help you stay awake while you work on the text.”

“You’re going to sit and watch me read,” he repeats flatly.

“If that’s what it takes!” you say cheerfully, clicking around on your laptop. “Okay, our time for today is up. I just sent you a copy of what we discussed today, and I’ll see you tomorrow at six!”

When you stand and head out of the library, he walks beside you silently. You think nothing of it until he turns towards the student center when you do, taking the stairs in step with you.

“I’m not following you!” he laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender when you wheel around to face him. “I’m going to eat lunch!”

You accept this with a grumble, walking in silence up the last few steps and into the cafeteria. You pay and grab a plate, Taehyung in line behind you.

You spy Kiko at a table near the back and you wave to indicate that you’ll be over in a few.

“See you tomorrow,” you tell him as you part ways. He smiles at you, his mouth twisting a little ruefully, and gives you a tiny wave goodbye.

Okay, I'd say we are officially through the set-up chapters and now things will get moving! I'll update again in another 4-5 days. :) Thank you so much for being here! I appreciate every little interaction! I am happy to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined :)

Thank you, as always, to @kookstempo for being sooooo cute and maybe also for beta-ing this bad boy.

#taehyung x reader #dailydaegu #taehyung fic #taehyung fanfic #s2l #taehyung angst #college au #f2l #bts fanfic #bts fic #fic: what was hidden #taehyung smut #(but not in this chapter for full disclosure)

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minayuri · 10 months

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Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag, Gertrude Welcker! ❤️

(July 16, 1896 – August 1, 1988)

Gertrude Welcker was a stage and silent film actress; her film career was short lived, lasting from 1917 to 1925. The role she’s best known as, the alluring and enigmatic Countess Dusy Told of Fritz Lang’s 1922 epic crime thriller masterpiece, Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler.

Below is a summary of her life and career, with the people she had collaborated with as an actress.

She was born in Dresden, Saxony, Germany on July 16, 1896. Her younger brother Herbert was born in 1898. Gertrude’s father worked as editor-in-chief and general manager of the Posener Tageblatt, he died in 1909.

During the First World War, she visited Max Reinhardt’s acting school in Berlin. In 1915-16, she had starred in productions at the Albert Theatre in her hometown. During the years of 1916-19, Welcker performed at Deutsches, Kammerspiele, and Volksbühne theatres. Her stage roles include portraying a prostitute in August Strindberg’s Meister Olaf, Lesbia in Friedrich Hebbel's Gyges and His Ring, Recha in Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s Nathan the Wise, Sister Martha in Gerhart Hauptmann's The Ascension of Little Hannele, and Desdemona and Jessica in William Shakespeare’s Othello and Merchant of Venice respectively.

Her film debut in 1917 was in Felix Basch’s Eine Nacht in der Stahlkammer as Jane Kendall, starring Harry Liedtke as her husband. Her next film was as an angel in Hans Trutz in the Land of Plenty, starring and directed by her stage collaborator Paul Wegener. The film also featured film director Ernst Lubitsch who portrayed Satan.

In 1918, she was in Lupu Pick’s Der Weltspielgel with Bernd Aldor and Reinhold Schünzel. She also starred in Viggo Larsen's The Adventure of a Ball Night with Paul Bildt and Paul Biensfeldt.

Welcker was also in Carl Froelich’s Der Tänzer with Walter Janssen.

She was the lead in the low-budget films, Die Geisha und der Samurai in 1919 and Eine Frau mit Vergangenheit in 1920.

Gertrude Welcker acted in films alongside Conrad Veidt, but those films are sadly considered lost. They portrayed siblings in F.W. Murnau’s Evening – Night – Morning and in Carl Boese’s Nocturne of Love, with Veidt as Frederic Chopin. (I, for one, would’ve loved for her to have been in a film as one of his leading ladies!)

In Hans Werckmeister’s 1920 sci-fi film, Algol: Tragedy of Power, she portrayed Leonore Nissen opposite Emil Jannings. It also starred Hanna Ralph, Hans Adalbert Schlettow (whom Welcker would appear with in Part II of Dr. Mabuse), and John Gottowt. The sets of the film were designed by The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari’s Walter Reimann.

She also appeared in Richard Oswald’s Lady Hamilton in 1921 as Arabella Kelly, in her first scene she is seen with Theodor Loos.

In 1922, Welcker portrayed her most infamous role as Countess Told in Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler starring Rudolf Klein-Rogge, with Aud Egede-Nissen, Alfred Abel, and Bernhard Goetzke. Also, in that same year - Welcker was in Carl Froelich’s Luise Millerin, an adaptation of Friedrich Schiller's Intrigue and Love as Lady Emilie Milford, another of her noteworthy roles. Previously, she was in a stage production portraying the role of Lady Milford's maid, Sophie. The film's all-star cast featured Lil Dagover as the title character, Paul Hartmann, Walter Janssen, Friedrich Kühne, Fritz Kortner, Werner Krauss, and Reinhold Schünzel.

She portrayed the villainess Gesine von Orlamünde of Arthur von Gerlach’s 1925 period drama film, Chronicles of the Grey House. It stars Lil Dagover, Paul Hartmann, Rudolf Forster, and Rudolf Rittner. Thea von Harbou was the film’s screenwriter with music composed by Gottfried Huppertz.

Her final film role was in Goetz von Berlichingen of the Iron Hand as Adelheid von Walldorf. She continued to act on stage until 1930. She has a total of 64 film credits to her name.

Around July 1930, Welcker married the Swedish painter Otto Gustaf Carlsund. She met him while on a trip to Paris. Their marriage lasted until August of 1937 and had no children. Before WWII broke out, she worked as an editor for UFA and by 1941, was active for the Red Cross. Some time before the war's end, she managed to leave for Sweden, and lived the rest of her life there.

It’s a great loss that so many of the films Gertrude Welcker did are considered lost and that her career as a film actress was as short as it was. Certainly, that many of those lost films showcased her great versatility. Gertude Welcker carried a remarkable set of talent, grace, beauty, charisma, and wit and is one of my most favorite actresses of the silent era I love.

Her filmography can be viewed here and here.

#gertrude welcker #1910s #1920s #german actresses #silent era #silent film stars #birthday remembrance #botd #vintage #she's a great actress #and I absolutely ADORE her <333 #I was captivated by her ever since I first watched Dr. Mabuse #dr. mabuse the gambler #countess dusy told #happy birthday!#my post

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usunezukoinezu · 1 year

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- What was the worst thing about being down here? - Just existing. Knowing my sight was blurred by my eyes, my hearing dulled by my ears, and my bright thought trapped in the grey maze of a brain. Have you seen a brain? - And you’re telling me that’s what’s wrong with us? How else can we be?

August Strindberg, A Dream Play (adapted by Caryl Churchill)

#August Strindberg #Caryl Churchill

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manwalksintobar · 10 months

Text

Look For You Yesterday, Here You Come Today // LeRoi Jones [Amiri Baraka]

Part of my charm: envious blues feeling separation of church & state grim calls from drunk debutantes

Morning never aids me in my quest. I have to trim my beard in solitude. I try to hum lines from "The Poet In New York".

People saw metal all around the house on Saturdays. The Phone rings.

terrible poems come in the mail. Descriptions of celibate parties torn trousers: Great Poets dying with their strophes on. & me incapable of a simple straightforward anger. It's so diffuse being alive. Suddenly one is aware that nobody really gives a damn. My wife is pregnant with her child. "It means nothing to me", sez Strindberg.

An avalanche of words could cheer me up. Words from Great Sages. Was James Karolis a great sage?? Why did I let Ora Matthews beat him up in the bathroom? Haven't I learned my lesson.

I would take up painting if I cd think of a way to do it better than Leonardo. Than Bosch Than Hogarth. Than Kline.

Frank walked off the stage, singing "My silence is as important as Jack's incessant yatter."

I am a mean hungry sorehead. Do I have the capacity for grace??

To arise one smoking spring & find one's youth has taken off for greener parts.

A sudden blankness in the day as if there were no afternoon. & all my piddling joys retreated to their own dopey mythic worlds.

The hours of the atmosphere grind their teeth like hags.

(When will world war two be over?)

I stood up on a mailbox waving my yellow tee-shirt watching the grey tanks stream up Central Ave. All these thots are Flowers Of Evil cold & lifeless as subway rails

the sun like a huge cobblestone flaking its brown slow rays primititi once, twice, . My life seems over & done with. Each morning I rise like a sleep walker & rot a little more.

All the lovely things I've known have disappeared. I have all my pubic hair & am lonely. There is probably no such place as BattleCreek, Michigan!

Tom Mix dead in a Boston Nightclub before I realized what happened.

People laugh when I tell them about Dickie Dare!

What is one to do in an alien planet where the people breath New Ports? Where is my space helmet, I sent for it 3 lives ago ... when there were box tops.

What has happened to box tops??

O, God ... I must have a belt that glows green in the dark. Where is my Captain Midnight decoder?? I can't understand what Superman is saying!

THERE MUST BE A LONE RANGER!!!

****

but this also is part of my charm. A maudlin nostalgia that comes on like terrible thoughts about death.

How dumb to be sentimental about anything To cal it love & cry pathetically into the long black handkerchief of the years.

"Look for you yesterday Here you come today Your mouth wide open But what you got to say?"

-part of my charm

old envious blues feeling ticking like a big cobblestone clock.

I hear the reel running out . . . the spectators are impatient for popcorn: It was only a selected short subject

F. Scott Charon will soon be glad-handing me like a legionaire

My silver bullets all gone My black mask trampled in the dust

& Tonto way off in the hills moaning like Bessie Smith.

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adrainea-writes · 4 months

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Hello everyone!! In a desperate attempt to regain joy in my life, I have decided to create a side blog specific to my interest in literature. To start off this New Year and new blog, I have created a

2024 Reading List

That I will be attempting to follow. Books may be added, and I may not get to everything on this list. I basically just took everything I was somewhat interested in and stuck it here to remind myself. I’ll gladly take suggestions for additional books to read!

I have very eclectic taste, so there is no theme to the books I’ve put on this list other than I would like to read them (and some of them have been sitting on my shelf so I should really get to it).

- [ ] Boundless

- [ ] Relentless

- [ ] Starlight Enclave

- [ ] Ariadne

- [ ] Princess Bride

- [ ] The Last Unicorn

- [ ] Six of Crows

- [ ] Overlord 1 (light novel)

- [ ] Animal Farm

- [ ] The Art of War

- [ ] Journey to the West

- [ ] The Comedy of Errors

- [ ] Henry VIII

- [ ] Antony and Cleopatra

- [ ] Nineteen Eighty-Four

- [ ] Frankenstein

- [ ] Dracula

- [ ] Maus

- [ ] The Iliad

- [ ] Pride and Prejudice

- [ ] The Portrait of Dorian Grey

- [ ] The Cherry Orchard

- [ ] The Glass Menagerie

- [ ] My August Strindberg Collected Works

- [ ] Our Town

- [ ] Doctor Faustus

- [ ] Long Day’s Journey Into Night

- [ ] Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

- [ ] No Exit

- [ ] The Handmaid’s Tale

- [ ] Dante’s Inferno

- [ ] Killers of the Flower Moon

- [ ] Galatea

- [ ] A Court of Thorns and Roses

- [ ] The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

- [ ] Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

- [ ] The Monk

- [ ] American Psycho

- [ ] Lunar Park

- [ ] The Wasp Factory

- [ ] Tender is the Flesh

- [ ] Geek Love

- [ ] The Terror

- [ ] The Haunting of Hill House

- [ ] House of Leaves

- [ ] The Colour of Magic

- [ ] A Wizard of Earthsea

- [ ] The Eye of the World

- [ ] Dune

- [ ] The Sword of Shannara

- [ ] The Poppy War

- [ ] The Priory of the Orange Tree

- [ ] Ranma

- [ ] The Rose of Versailles

- [ ] Ghost in the Shell

- [ ] Fist of the North Star

- [ ] Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind

- [ ] Neon Genesis Evangelion

#reading list for 2024

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letheatreofmusic · 5 years

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Theatre Bucket List

Plays to Read/See:

Agamemnon (Aeschylus)

American Buffalo (David Mamet)

Angels in America (Tony Kushner)

Antigone (Sophocles)

Arms and the Man (George Bernard Shaw)

As You Like It (Shakespeare)

August: Osage County (Tracy Letts)

The Bacchae (Euripides)

The Birthday Party (Harold Pinter)

Betrayal (Harold Pinter)

Blackbird (David Harrower)

Buried Child (Sam Shepard)

The Caucasian Chalk Circle (Bertolt Brecht)

The Cherry Orchard (Anton Chekhov)

The Clean House (Sarah Ruhl)

Clybourne Park (Bruce Norris)

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime

Cyclops (Euripides)

Death of a Salesman (Arthur Miller)

Disgraced (Ayad Akhtar)

Doctor Faustus (Christopher Marlowe)

A Doll’s House (Henrik Ibsen)

Doubt (John Patrick Stanley)

Eclipsed (Dunai Gurira)

Electra (Sophocles)

Equus (Peter Shaffer)

A Free Man of Color (John Guare)

The Glass Menagerie (Tennessee Williams)

Glengarry Glen Ross (David Mamet)

Hamlet (Shakespeare)

The Heidi Chronicles (Wendy Wasserstein)

Hir (Taylor Mac)

The Humans (Stephen Karam)

The Iceman Cometh (Eugene O’Neill)

The Importance of Being Earnest (Oscar Wilde)

Indecent (Paula Vogel)

In the Blood (Suzan-Lori Parks)

Jitney (August Wilson)

The Killer (Eugene Ionesco)

King Lear (Shakespeare)

Long Day’s Journey Into Night (Eugene O’Neil)

Lysistrata (Aristophenes)

Macbeth (Shakespeare)

Machinal (Sophie Treadwell)

The Mandrake (Nicolo Macchiavelli)

Medea (Euripides)

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Shakespeare)

Miss Julie (August Strindberg)

The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail (Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee)

Noises Off (Michael Frayn)

The Normal Heart (Larry Kramer)

Oedipus the King (Sophocles)

Othello (Shakespeare)

Our Town (Thornoton Wilder)

The Playboy of the Western World (J.M. Synge)

Private Lives (Noel Coward)

Pygmalion (George Bernard Shaw)

A Raisin in the Sun (Lorraine Hansbury)

Richard III (Shakespeare)

Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare)

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (Tom Stoppard)

Ruined (Lynn Nottage)

The School for Scandal (Richard Brinsley Sheridan)

The Seagull (Anton Chekhov)

Significant Other (Joshua Harmon)

Small Mouth Sounds (Beth Wohl)

Speed-the-Plow (David Mamet)

Spreading the News (Lady Augusta Gregory)

A Streetcar Named Desire (Tennessee Williams)

The Taming of the Shrew (Shakespeare)

Tartuffe (Moliere)

The Tempest (Shakespeare)

The Threepenny Opera (Bertolt Brecht)

The Tracking Satyrs (Sophocles)

The Trojan Woman (Euripides)

Topdog/Underdog (Suzan Lori-Parks)

Twelfth Night (Shakespeare)

Ubu Roi (Alfred Jarry)

Uncle Vanya (Anton Chekhov)

The Vagina Monologues (Eve Ensler)

A View from the Bridge (Arthur Miller)

Waiting for Godot (Samuel Beckett)

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Edward Albee)

Gypsy

My Fair Lady

Sweeney Todd

Fiddler on the Roof

Guys and Dolls

Oklahoma!

Cabaret

West Side Story

The Music Man

A Chorus Line

Chicago

The Fantasticks

Carousel

Company

Show Boat

The King and I

Little Shop of Horrors

Sunday in the Park with George

How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying

A Little Night Music

She Loves Me

Nine

Follies

Falsettos

Ragtime

Kiss Me, Kate

1776

Into the Woods

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Urinetown

The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

Wicked

Hair

Evita

Hello, Dolly!

La Cage aux Folles

110 in the Shade

The Producers

Lady in the Dark

City of Angels

Dreamgirls

Avenue Q

The Book of Mormon

42nd Street

Brigadoon

The Cradle Will Rock

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas

Jesus Christ Superstar

Once on this Island

Adding Machine

On the Town

Les Miserables

Bat Boy

Caroline, or Change

South Pacific

The Pajama Game

The Sound of Music

Hairspray

The Phantom of the Opera

Damn Yankees

Rent

Grey Gardens

Assassins

Mame

Man of La Mancha

A Man of No Importance

You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown

Sweet Charity

Camelot

Anything Goes

Wonderful Town

The Light in the Piazza

The Drowsy Chaperone

The Full Monty

Romance/Romance

Godspell

Of Thee I Sing

The Secret Garden

Pippin

Kiss of the Spider Woman

Finian’s Rainbow

Pal Joey

Annie Get Your Gun

Pacific Overtures

Hedwig and the Angry Inch

On Your Toes

Candide

Annie

Beauty and the Beast

Ain’t Misbehavin’

Bye Bye Birdie

Jelly’s Last Jam

A New Brain

Floyd Collins

Grand Hotel

Violet

A Day in Hollywood, A Night in Ukraine

The Scottsboro Boys

Next to Normal

Hadestown

Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812

The Band’s Visit

Hamilton

Dear Evan Hansen

Heathers

Dream Roles (plays):

Laura in The Glass Menagerie

Nora in A Doll’s House

Regina in The Little Foxes

Harper in Angels in America

Daisy in The Great Gatsby

Lady MacBeth in Macbeth

Catherine in Proof

Ashlee in Dance Nation

Emma in People, Places, & Things

Nina in The Seagull

Dream Roles (Musicals):

Johanna in Sweeney Todd

Fantine in Les Miserables

Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors

Cinderella in Into the Woods

Wendla in Spring Awakening

Amalia in She Loves Me

Sonya in Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812

Princess Mary in Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812

Sibella in Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder

Clara in The Light in the Piazza

Cathy in The Last Five Years

Margo in Bright Star

Rosa Bud in The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Tony in West Side Story (Anyone looking for a female Tony?)

Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ Superstar

To Be Continued as I Discover More Things...

#theatre bucket list #dream roles #plays #musicals #about me

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caprano · 3 years

Text

Fundstück

Köpfe von Maximilian Harden

Johanna Bismarck.

An einem grau verhängten Novembermorgen des Jahres 1894 war der varziner Gutsherr früher als sonst je auf den Beinen. Viel Schlaf hatten die letzten Nächte ihm nicht beschert. Seit Wochen siechte die Frau neben ihm hin. Ein altes Leiden, dessen erste Mahnung schon vor Jahrzehnten hörbar geworden war, ein hagerer Körper, der längst nur noch aus Sehnen und Nerven zu bestehen schien und dem schleichenden Übel zwar zähen Widerstand leisten, doch dem dorrenden Leben nicht neue Kraftquellen erschließen konnte: da blieb dem Angreifer nicht viel mehr zu zerstören. So lange es irgend ging, hielt die Tapfere sich aufrecht; der Mann durfte nicht geängstet werden. Bald aber versagte die mutigste Heuchelei selbst die Wirkung. Der kurzsichtige, nicht nur ein zärtlich wägender Blick mußte das Schwinden der Kräfte merken. Eine unruhvolle Woche, deren Schluß die vom Arzt gefürchtete Verschlimmerung brachte. Ein dunkler, banger Sonntag. Ist noch Hoffnung? Auch für die kürzeste Zeitspanne nur? Dem Frager ward traurige Gewißheit. Als dann der zweite Wochentag dämmerte, war aus der schmalen Brust der Fürstin Johanna von Bismarck der Atem entflohen. Und neben dem schlichten Bette der toten Frau saß der Mann und weinte bitterlich. Den dünnen Schlafrock nur über dem Nachthemd, die nackten Füße in Halbschuhen; saß und schluchzte wie ein verwaistes Kind. Nur die Rücksicht auf sie, hatte er in den letzten Jahren oft gesagt, binde ihn noch an das entwertete Leben. »Ich möchte meiner Frau nicht wegsterben; sonst ... Der utizensische Cato war ein vornehmer Mensch und sein Tod, nach der Phaedralecture, ist mir immer höchst anständig vorgekommen. Caesars Gnade hätte ich an seiner Stelle auch nicht angerufen. Diese Leute, auch Seneca, hatten doch mehr Selbstachtung, als heute der Modezuschnitt verlangt.« Nun war die Gefährtin ihm weggestorben. Auf pommerscher Erde; in ihrem geliebten Varzin. Als sie, schon Gräfin und die Frau eines von der Glorie zweier glücklichen Kriege umleuchteten Ministerpräsidenten, zum ersten Mal hingekommen war, hatte sie an Herrn Robert von Keudell, den Civiladjutanten des Eheherrn, geschrieben: »Das arme Pommern!« Wenn Regen und Nebelschleier drüber hängen, möchte man rein verzagen. Anderthalb Stunden vor Varzin wirds erträglich; und Varzin selbst ist reizend. Richtige Oase in der langweiligen Wüste. Das Haus ist ziemlich scheußlich, ein altes, verwohntes Ungetüm; aber der Park so wunderreizend, wie man selten findet. Gott gebe, daß wir ungestört drei Wochen hier bleiben können (Louis wird doch vernünftig sein?) und Bismarck sich recht erholen und ausruhen kann in dieser wunderlieblichen grünen Stille!« Louis (Napoleon) blieb wirklich noch ein Weilchen vernünftig; aber Bismarck kam nicht zu rechter Ruhe.

Johanna klagte über die »tägliche Depeschenüberschwemmung«, über die »babyartige Ängstlichkeit« der berliner Herren, »die Alles, jeden Quark, herschicken zum Begutachten oder Entscheiden«. Der Getreue soll helfen. »Sie kennen ja unseren großen Staatsschiffer hinlänglich und wissen, was ihn peinigt und was ihm Wurscht ist. Himmelhoch bitte ich: stop it! Überhaupt hat Varzin trotz aller Schönheit gar nicht so geholfen, wie ich gehofft. Mir und den Kindern gewaltig; aber was liegt an uns? Er ist doch die Hauptsache.« Auch ihm hat Varzin dann siebenundzwanzig Jahre lang oft noch geholfen. Nach und nach fand seine Jägerlist »depeschensichere Plätze«, wo die Boten ihn nicht leicht aufzuspüren vermochten. Siebenundzwanzig Jahre lang verlebte das Paar in dem »ziemlich scheußlichen Haus« die Stunden seines stillsten Glückes. Dann legte der Nebelschleier sich übers arme Pommerland. Kahl, mit spärlichen gelbbraunen Herbstprachtresten nur, erwacht heute der Park; die mächtigen Buchen und Eichen stehen entlaubt. Und im halbdunklen Sterbezimmer sitzt der einsame Greis. Wie im Wintersturm durch die Äste eines entkrönten Stammes, geht durch die Glieder des Riesenleibes ein Beben. Nach einem halben Säkulum treuer Gemeinschaft verwaist. Mit achtzig Jahren genötigt, sich in neue Lebensart zu schicken. Als Bräutigam schrieb er einst der Liebsten: »Wenn Bäume im Sturm Risse erleiden, so quillt das Harz wie lindernde Tränen aus ihnen und heilt.« Heute erlebt ers. Noch sah er von den Nächsten nie Einen sterben. Jetzt ist die einzige Juanita, Königin Giovanna, Jeanne la Sage ihm gestorben. Wie wird ers tragen? Sorgend hattens die Kinder, die Freunde gefragt. Hart am Bettrand sitzt er in seiner stolzen Blöße und weint. Heilt der linde Strom auch diesen Riß, der nicht die Rinde nur traf, der bis ins Herz ging? ... Alten Menschen gab die gütige Natur als Gnadengeschenk die Fähigkeit, schnell zu verschmerzen. Auch dieser heiße Greis hat den Schlag verwunden. Doch wie Schillers Rebellengenie, als ihm der reine Gefährte entrissen war, konnte Otto Bismarck an diesem Novembertag sprechen: »Die Blume ist hinweg aus meinem Leben.«

Des Lebens Blume? War diese Frau wirklich diesem Manne so viel? Du übertreibst gewiß. Wir Alle kannten sie ja. Eine unschöne, kleine, unansehnliche Frau. Dürr, gelblich, fast immer kränkelnd. Eine rechtschaffene Hausfrau und Mutter. Gesunder Menschenverstand. Nordostdeutsche Junkerhärte. Oft bis zur Grobheit schroff und lutherisch fromm bis zu blindem Aberglauben. Die Grazien schienen ausgeblieben. Kein Glanz der Persönlichkeit. Keine von den alternden, alten Damen, neben denen der frischeste Reiz unserem Auge welkt. Ein kümmerliches Zimmerpflänzchen ohne Duft. Nichts für solchen Mann. Ein Irrtum junger Sinne, mit dem die Vernunft später rechnen lehrt, den Gewohnheit allmählich heiligt. Nie kann sie Diesen verstanden haben. Hat ihm nie auch das glanzvolle Glück bereitet, das er fordern durfte. Er wuchs ins Heroenmaß und sie blieb stets die pommersche Herrenhaustochter. Das alte Lied von der Genie-Ehe. Er ließ sies nicht entgelten, war zärtlich immer um sie besorgt und entzog ihr keins von den sakramentalen Rechten christlicher Ehefrauen. Aber die Blume des Lebens? In der Welthistorie dieses Lebens hat Johanna gewiß nur eine Nebenrolle gespielt. Sie wird ja in den Bismarckbüchern auch kaum erwähnt, mit knappem Lob häuslicher Tugenden von den Panegyrikern selbst abgefunden. Und Du willst nun behaupten, ihr Tod habe ihn wie Verwaisung getroffen?

Das will ich behaupten. Ob die Legende noch so laut widerspricht, behaupten, daß in einem an jähen Tragoediengewittern nicht armen Leben diese starke Seele nur zweimal im Tiefsten erschüttert ward: im März 1890 und im November 1894; als der Kanzler rauh aus der Arbeit geschickt wurde und als dem Manne die Frau starb. Trotzdem ich weiß, daß Bismarck, wie jeder Visionär, im Grunde stets einsam war, – einsam sein mußte. Nicht zu Denen gehörte, deren Lebensregel Thackerays ironische Weltweisheit beschrieb. »In jeder Menschenlaufbahn«, sagt der Dichter des ›Esmond‹, »findet irgendwo der emsig forschende Blick ein Weib als treibende oder hemmende Kraft, als Hybris oder als Schlange, als niederziehendes Bleigewicht oder als Anstifterin zu heroischem Verbrechen.« Eine geistreich schillernde Überschätzung weiblichen Vermögens, wie die Romantik und die Jeune Europe sie, mit anderem asiatischen Aberglauben, wieder in die Mode gebracht hatten. Adam ist zum Manfred entartet und das Ewig-Weibliche zieht Faust sogar, den Meerbezwinger, hinan. Das Weib ist des Mannes Mutter, des Mannes Schicksal. Einst hatte solcher Wahn den Frauenhaß asketischer Kirchenväter genährt; jetzt hat er Schopenhauer, Hebbel und Nietzsche, den Ibsen der Hedda und Hilde, Strindberg und den Wedekind von vorgestern zur Wehr aufgerufen. Das Mannes zu wenig, des Weibes zu viel. Goethe ist, trotz Werther und Weisungen, Clavigo und Tasso, nicht an den Frauen gestorben. Was sie im Leben Bonapartes waren, wissen wir. Nicht Marie Luise, sondern die Parvenusucht nach Legitimirung der Macht ward ihm zum Verhängnis. »Ducrot, une femme!« Mitten in der Arbeit. Viel mehr verlangte er von ihnen nicht. Und Bismarck? Von Keiner ließ er sich auf seinem Weg halten; Keine hat ihn je nachts in Duncans Schlafgemach gelockt. Die schönste Hexe hätte er ausgelacht, wenn sie ihm mit der Verkündung genaht wäre: Du sollst König sein! Wie Holofernes mit letztem Grinsen noch die Mörderin auslacht, die mit seinem Haupt auch die Frucht seiner Lenden nach Bethulien heimträgt. Höflicher nur, weil ers zu so verfänglichem Abenteuer gar nicht erst kommen ließ. Aus seinem ganzen Leben kennen wir keins; auch keins von minder babylonischen Dimensionen. Der Leib mag sich, wie anderer jungen Männer, ausgetobt haben. Das bedeutete nichts. Wie eifrig man auch sucht, die Briefe, die Kleider des Junkers, Deichhauptmanns, Diplomaten durchschnüffelt: nirgends odeur de femme. Keine Sexualleidenschaft hat diesem Lebensweg tiefe, spät noch sichtbare Spuren eingedrückt. Das Gefühl, das den Einunddreißigjährigen trieb, Herrn von Puttkamer-Reinfeld um die Hand Johannas zu bitten, war in reinerer Luft erblüht. Eine flüchtige Rosalindenleidenschaft war vorausgegangen; der Rausch einer Sommernacht. In der ziemlich wüsten Junggesellenwirtschaft seines Kniephofes erwacht eines Tages die Tanzlust. Er laßt Kaleb satteln, seinen treuen Braunen, und reitet neun Meilen weit nach Polzin. Ein Badeörtchen. Da soll ein schönes Fräulein alle Köpfe umnebeln. Hin; und recht nach der ars amandi den Hof gemacht. Schon denkt der »tolle Bismarck«, der schnell alle Rivalen ausgestochen hat, ernstlich an Verlobung. In der Nacht beschleicht ihn der Zweifel: Paßt sie fürs Leben zu mir? Der Morgen bringt Klarheit: die Charaktere lassen sich nicht zu einander stimmen. Im Zorn über seine jähe Hitze sprengt er davon, spornt den Braunen allzu sehr, wird, als Kaleb in einen Graben stürzt, gegen eine Hügelwand geschleudert, bleibt bewußtlos liegen und trabt spät erst auf dem geduldigen Tier heimwärts. Ungefähr um diese Zeit hatte er an seine Malle (die Schwester und Vertraute Malwine von Arnim) geschrieben: »Ich muß mich übrigens – hol' mich der Deibel! – verheiraten. Das wird mir wieder recht klar, da ich mich nach Vaters Abreise recht einsam fühle und milde, feuchte Witterung mich melancholisch, sehnsüchtig verliebt stimmt.« Das war noch die Sprache der Lenzzeit, wo er Spinoza und Hegel, Strauß, Feuerbach, Bruno Bauer las und mit seinem »nackten Deismus« noch tiefer »in

die Sackgasse des Zweifels« geriet. Moritz von Blankenburg, der Schulfreund, den er als Schwiegersohn des strenggläubigen Herrn von Thadden-Triglaf wiederfand, machte sich an das schwere Werk, die fleckig gewordene Junkerseele blankzuputzen. Er öffnete ihm den »Kreis aufrichtig lebender Christen«; da fand der Fremdling »Leute, vor denen ich mich schämte, daß ich mit der dürftigen Leuchte meines Verstandes Dinge hatte untersuchen wollen, welche so überlegene Geister mit kindlichem Glauben für wahr und heilig annahmen«. Bei Blankenburgs in Kardemin lernte er das Fräulein von Puttkamer kennen. »Eine Perle des Pommerlandes« und, nach Keudells Zeugnis, »von Verwandten und Freundinnen sozusagen vergöttert.« Wenn ein Märker ein pommersches Edelfräulein freit, pflegt es ohne den Wirbelwind heftiger Affekte abzugehen. Auch anno 1846 scheint kein Blitzstrahl Loderflammen aus den Herzen geschlagen zu haben. In Kardemin, Triglaf, Reinfeld sah man einander, reiste mit Blankenburg dann nach Berlin; und sacht, wie der Fruchtkeim unter dem letzten Schnee, erwachte das wärmende Gefühl: Wir zwei gehören fürs Leben zusammen. Ein Gefühl aus gemäßigter Zone, wie es in das »christliche Klima« des triglafer Kreises paßte. Nach der Weihnacht schrieb Bismarck in Stettin den Freierbrief. Kein Zweifel hemmte ihn noch. Und sieben Monate danach war Hochzeit.

Der Werber war den Eltern willkommen, trotzdem sein Ruf und seine Wirtschaftverhältnisse Manches zu wünschen ließen. Ein schöner, auffallend stattlicher Mann. Als Reiter, Jäger, freilich auch als Zecher berühmt. Mit dem Nimbus Eines, »der schon oft bei Hofe war«. Ein Meister der Salonunterhaltung, die nie auf abgeweidete Gemeinplätze, auch nicht auf allzu steile Berggipfel führt. (Il est plus causeur qu'un Parisien«, sagte die Kaiserin Eugenie später von ihm.) Wenn seine helle, geschmeidige Stimme ein Thema anschlug, bildete rasch sich ein Kränzchen um seinen Stuhl. Kein Wunder, daß er Johannen gefiel. Wie die Braut aussah? Winzig neben dem blonden Riesen (der damals einen Vollbart trug). Schwarz, schmächtig, sehr mädchenhaft. So recht Genaues wissen wir nicht. Schön hat sie Keiner genannt. Herr von Keudell, der sie seit 1845 kannte, sagt: »Ihre Gesichtszüge waren nicht regelmäßig schön, aber durch sprechende blaue Augen eigentümlich belebt und von tiefschwarzem Haar umschattet.« Der Bräutigam sieht die Liebste besser; er spricht von ihrem »grau-blau-schwarzen Auge mit der großen Pupille«. Wer Bismarcks »Briefe an seine Braut und Gattin« gelesen hat, merkt an der Wirkung, daß diesem Landjüngferlein persönlicher Charme nicht fehlte. Angela mia, mon adorée Jeanneton, chatte la plus noire: so kost nur ein bis über die Ohren Verliebter. Aus allen Sprachzonen werden Verse citirt, ganze englische Gedichte für die Braut säuberlich abgeschrieben. Ein Briefsteller für Liebende könnte nicht mehr verlangen. Der Stil verrät (auch viel später übrigens noch) heinische Schule; heinische Neigungen sogar: die Sehnsucht nach dem Harz und der Nordsee stammt sicherlich aus den »Reisebildern«. Und es ist oft ergötzlich, zu sehen, wie die Lust an witzelnden Antithesen die rechtwinkelige Ausdrucksform ehrbarer Frommheit zu grotesken Zacken umbiegt. »Das neue Leben danke ich nächst Gott Dir, ma très-chère, die Du nicht als Spiritusflamme an mir gelegentlich kochst, sondern als erwärmendes Feuer in meinem Herzen wirkst.« Trotzdem der Altersunterschied nicht groß ist (Johanna wird im April dreiundzwanzig), ist der Ton oft väterlich. »Wo solltest Du künftig eine Brust finden, um zu entladen, was die Deine drückt, wenn nicht bei mir? Wer ist mehr verpflichtet und berechtigt, Leiden und Kummer mit Dir zu teilen, Deine Krankheiten, Deine Fehler zu tragen, als ich, der ich mich freiwillig dazu gedrängt habe, ohne durch Bluts- oder andere Pflichten dazu gezwungen zu werden?« Das ist gar nicht heinisch; furchtbar korrekt. Nicht immer klingts so väterlich überlegen; auch rebellische Jugend führt manchmal das Wort. Aus Berlin (wo über die Patrimonialgerichte verhandelt wird) schreibt er: »Sollte Deine Krankheit ernster Natur werden, so werde ich wohl jedenfalls den Landtag verlassen, und wenn Du auch im Bett liegst, so werde ich doch bei Dir sein. In solchem Augenblick werde ich mich durch dergleichen Etikettefragen nicht beschränken lassen. Das ist mein fester Entschluß.« Schade, daß wir nicht wissen, was Jeanne la méchante darauf geantwortet hat. Eine andere Antwort können wir leichter ahnen. Das »arme Kätzchen« liegt krank und der Kater ruft vom Dach herab: »Könnte ich Dich gesund umarmen und mit Dir in ein Jägerhaus im tiefsten, grünsten Wald und Gebirge ziehen, wo ich kein Menschengesicht als Deins sähe! Das ist so mein stündlicher Traum; das rasselnde Räderwerk des politischen Lebens ist meinen Ohren von Tag zu Tag widerwärtiger.« So schwärmt, so seufzt und haßt ein verliebter Tor; nichts erinnert an den tollen Kniephofer, nichts an den rauhborstigen Abgeordneten für Jerichow, »der in des Landmanns Nachtgebet hart nebenan dem Teufel steht«. Mit dem Liebchen allein im stillen Jägerhaus; in der kleinsten Hütte ist Raum: nur nichts mehr vom Staatsräderwerk hören. Auch ihr Traum wars. Als er, nach dreiundvierzig Jahren, dann Wirklichkeit wurde, als das alte Paar im Sachsenwald, unter seinen pommerschen Buchen, saß, mochte der Mann das gewohnte Rasseln der Räder noch immer

nicht missen. »Wenn ich mich angezogen und die Nägel geschnitten habe, bin ich mit meiner Tagesarbeit eigentlich fertig und komme mir höchst überflüssig vor.« Oft hörte ich solche Klage. Nach den Flitterwochen hätte ers in dem Hüttchen nicht länger ausgehalten. Er wußte es selbst; schon 1847 schrieb er: »Der Widerspruchsgeist läßt mich immer ersehnen, was ich nicht habe.« Und auch die Frau wußte es wohl; trotzdem sie manchmal anders sprach. »Mit seinem ehrlichen, anständigen, grundedlen Charakter« paßt er nicht in den »nichtsnutzigen Schwindel der Diplomatenwelt« und sollte »all dem Unsinn entrinnen«. Dann kommt ein tiefer Seufzer: »Aber er wirds leider wohl nicht tun, weil er sich einbildet, dem teuren Vaterlande seine Dienste schuldig zu sein, was ich vollkommen übrig finde.« Damals hat Johanna die Wesensart des Gefährten klarer erkannt als in der Stimmung, die ihr die kühne Behauptung auf die Lippe trieb, eine Wruke auf seinem Gut sei ihm wichtiger als die ganze Politik.

Gar zu gern hätte sie ihn so gehabt. Welche Liebende möchte das Männchen nicht für sich allein? Johanna hätte auf allen Glanz sicherlich ohne den kleinsten Seufzer verzichtet. Tafelgenüsse, Putz, Geselligkeit großen Stils bedeuteten ihr nichts; sie fand: »Durch viele Vergnügungen wird man langweilig und träg.« Im Elternhaus war das resolute Fräulein, das sogar in einer Feuersnot den Backfischkopf nicht verlor, an Bescheidenheit gewöhnt worden. Die Mutter sehr fromm, Musterhausfrau, immer damit beschäftigt, an Leib und Seele der Tochter herumzureiben, zu bürsten, zu scheuern; der Vater »mit seinem heiteren laissez aller«, das seine Enkel Marie und Bill von ihm geerbt haben mögen; der ganze Zuschnitt der Häuslichkeit knapp, der Schmuck des Lebens karg, wie der Ertrag ostelbischen Bodens. Dagegen gings schon bei Deichhauptmanns üppig zu. Und Preußens Vertreter im Bundestag konnte seiner Jeannette (die nun Nanne hieß) manchen großen Herzenswunsch erfüllen. Musik war, bis sie ihn fand, der Inhalt ihres Lebens gewesen. Als Beethovens F-moll-Sonate gespielt wurde, hatte sie die erste Träne in seinem Auge gesehen und empfunden: Der ist nicht so hart, wie er scheint. Mozart und Schubert, Haydn und (namentlich) Mendelssohn: alles Musikalisch-Schöne war ihr ein unerschöpflicher Glücksquell. In der Weihnacht 1855 stand im frankfurter Gesandtenheim neben dem Tannenbaum ein herrlicher Flügel aus Andrés, des Mozart-Verlegers, Fabrik. Gespart mußte freilich noch werden. Als Bismarck zwei Jahre später die Schwester Malwine mit den Weihnachteinkäufen betraute, warnte er behutsam: Das Opalherz für Johanna darf nicht mehr als zweihundert Taler kosten; Brillantohrringe aus einem Stück wären sehr schön, sind aber zu teuer; für das Ballkleid, »sehr licht weiß moirée antique oder so etwas«, ja nicht über hundert Taler ausgeben; ein vergoldeter Fächer, »der sehr rasselt«, und eine weiche Wagendecke, »mit Dessin von Tiger, Köpfe mit Glasaugen drauf«, zusammen höchstens zwanzig Taler. In Petersburg, wo man »als Gesandter mit dreißigtausend Talern zu großer Einschränkung verurteilt ist«, waren für die Weihnachtfreuden der Frau gar nur »so um dreihundert Taler herum« flüssig zu machen. Ohne Diplomatenamt, ohne die Amtspflicht zu leidiger Repräsentation wäre die Decke nicht kürzer gewesen. Und der Mann hätte sich nicht im täglichen Ärger abgenützt und der Frau, den Kindern mehr von seiner Zeit zu geben vermocht. Das wäre ein Leben geworden! Man hätte zu Haus musizirt (in Konzerte ging Bismarck ungern, denn Musik, meinte er, muß, wie die Liebe, geschenkt sein), leidenschaftliche, heroische Musik gemacht (die heitere, gelassene, die er »vormärzlich« nannte, sagte ihm nicht viel), hätte nur Leute, die in die Stimmung des Hauses paßten, bei sich gesehen und ohne Haß selig sich vor der Welt verschlossen.

Doch es sollte nicht sein; und ließ sich am Ende auch so, wie es wurde, ertragen. »Zwölf Jahre haben wir in unaussprechlichem Glück zusammen verlebt; die kleinen Wolken, die sich mal hin und wieder erhoben, sind gar nicht zu rechnen. Wirklicher Schmerz ist nur gewesen, wenn wir getrennt waren.« Das ist ein Jubelschrei aus dem neunundfünziger Lenz. Höher hinauf ging nun die Lebensreise. Petersburg, dann Paris. Ministerpräsident, dann Kanzler. Graf, dann Fürst. (Als er die Standeserhöhung erfuhr, sagte er lächelnd zu seiner Tochter: »Eigentlich ists schade; ich war eben im Begriff, eins der ältesten Grafengeschlechter zu werden.«) Seitdem gabs für die Frau schon mehr zu klagen. Aus einem dreiundsechziger Brief an Herrn von Keudell: »In den kläglichsten Moll-Lauten seufzt die Sorge um Bismarck ununterbrochen durch mein Herz. Man sieht ihn nie und nie. Morgens beim Frühstück fünf Minuten während Zeitungdurchfliegens; also ganz stumme Szene. Darauf verschwindet er in sein Kabinet. Nachher zum König, Ministerrat, Kammerscheusal, – bis gegen fünf Uhr, wo er gewöhnlich bei irgendeinem Diplomaten speist, bis Acht, wo er nur en passant Guten Abend sagt, sich wieder in seine gräßlichen Schreibereien vertieft, bis er um halb Zehn zu irgend einer Soiree gerufen wird, nach welcher er wieder arbeitet, bis gegen ein Uhr, und dann natürlich schlecht schläft... Wie sich das Demokratenvolk gegen meinen besten Freund benimmt, lesen Sie hinlänglich in allen Zeitungen. Er sagt, es sei ihm Nitshewo; aber ganz kalt läßt es ihn doch nicht.« (Gerade in diesen Tagen war er von Sybel »notorisch unfähig« genannt und der Feigheit geziehen, von Simson einem Seiltänzer verglichen worden, der höchstens dafür Bewunderung verdiene, daß er noch immer nicht falle.) Dazu Duellgefahr, Attentate, Anfeindung von alten Freunden und Standesgenossen, Krankheit, höfische Friktionen, Kriege: manchmal wohl zum Verzagen. Wars da nicht ganz natürlich, daß im Innersten dieser Frau von Tag zu Tag der Haß gegen das abscheuliche Ding wuchs, das sich mit dem Namen »Öffentlichkeit« spreizt? Den Mann hatte es ihr fast schon genommen; allmählich zerrte es nun auch die Söhne in sein unsauberes Geräder. Abgearbeitet, übernächtig, nervös kamen die Liebsten morgens an den Kaffeetisch; müde, in verärgerter Hast, nehmen sie abends das Mahl. Sogar der »schauderhaft fleißige« Herbert, das Nesthäkchen, das im Innersten mehr von der Mutter als vom Vater hatte, mußte sich, nach all der sauren Nachtarbeit im Dienst des Kaisers, im Reichstag, in der Presse höhnen und schimpfen lassen.

Und wozu das Alles? Wenns wenigstens noch einen Zweck hätte! Aber sie wußte aus alter Erfahrung ja, wie der Hase lief. Zuerst schrie und tobte Alles gegen ihren Otto; Monate, Jahre lang. Dann zeigte sich, daß er richtig gesehen, aus der Summe des in dieser Stunde Möglichen das Notwendige errechnet hatte: und Alles jauchzte ihm zu. So wars immer gewesen. Warum macht Ihr ihm dann erst das Leben schwer? Warum jubelt Ihr nicht ein Bißchen früher? Weil Euch der Schnickschnack von Konstitutionalismus (oder wie Ihrs nennt) am Herzen liegt? Weil Ihr dem eitlen Affen, der in Euch steckt, Zucker geben wollt? Unsinn! Bildet Euch doch am Ende nicht ein, klüger zu sein als Der? Habt höchstens ein flinkeres Mundwerk. Wißt gar nicht, warum er just so und nicht anders redet; vielleicht wegen des Königs (den man auch immer gegen ihn hetzt), des Kronprinzen, der siedehitzigen Augusta, der Russen, Franzosen, Polaken. Verstimmen könnt Ihr ihn, doch nicht auf ihm spielen. Dazu ist dieses Instrument viel zu fein... Einmal war sie im Parlament gewesen, als er eine Rede hielt; nie wieder. Sie ertrug es nicht, konnte nicht hören, wie jeder Rohrspatz ihn anpfiff. Ich erinnere mich, wie sie ihre Schwiegertochter Marguerite bestaunte, die im Reichstag gewesen war, als Herbert von wütenden Demokraten aller Schattirungen niedergeschrien werden sollte. »Ich hätte mit Stuhlbeinen geworfen.« Ein anderer Ausruf bewies mir einmal, wie wenig diese Ministersfrau sich in vierzig Jahren um die Formen des Parlamentarismus bekümmert hatte. Im Reichstag war Caprivis Militärvorlage beraten worden. Beim Durchblättern der Berichte fiel der Fürstin auf, daß der entscheidenden (allgemein als entscheidend betrachteten) Abstimmung, mit der die zweite Lesung schloß, am nächsten Tage noch eine Abstimmung folgen sollte, und sie fragte: »Wie ist denn Das, Ottochen? Ich denke, die Geschichte ist gestern zu Ende gekommen?« Und der Fürst fand sofort die dem Frauenverstand einleuchtende Antwort: »Liebes Kind, gestern war Standesamt und heute ist kirchliche Trauung.« Haarscharf und mit ganz leiser Ironie: denn seiner Johanna wäre das Standesamt Hokuspokus, nur die kirchliche Trauung wahre Eheweihe gewesen. Sie achtete nicht darauf; hätte auch auf den parlamentarischen Firlefanz nicht geachtet, wenn ihr Herbertchen nicht an der Debatte beteiligt gewesen wäre. Militärvorlage? War ihr vollkommen »Wurscht«. Sie war ihr Leben lang viel zu sehr Frau, um »sachlich« zu denken. Jede Sache kann gut oder schlecht ausgehen, nützlich oder schädlich wirken: wer will Das im Voraus wissen? An die Menschen muß man sich halten. Measures, not men? Wie konnte der Mann, dem wir das hübsche Familienidyll vom wakefielder Pfarrer verdanken, nur so blitzdummes Zeug schreiben! So dachte sie. Nur auf die Menschen kommts an. Wählt den Richtigen: und er wird die Sache machen. Zu oft hatte sies erlebt. Zu oft in den ekligen Zeitungen gelesen, der Minister, der Kanzler führe mal wieder den falschen Weg: und immer wars dann bergan gegangen, zu lichterer Höhe empor. Der Dümmste, meinte sie, müßte es nachgerade doch merken. Am Liebsten hätte sie sich die Ohren verstopft, wenn das garstige Lied angestimmt wurde. Was war ihr die hohe Politik? Das Ungetüm, das ihr den Mann und die Jungen fraß. Und dieser merkwürdige Mann neben ihr glaubte, ohne das Scheusal nicht leben zu können! Hilft also nichts: auch die Frau muß sich dafür interessiren. Weils doch eben nun einmal der Hauptinhalt seines Lebens ist. Die Grundverschiedenheit ihres Interesses lernte ich deutlich erkennen, als ich am fünfzehnten Juni 1893 in Friedrichsruh neben dem Fürsten auf der Veranda saß. Es war der Tag der Wahlen im Reich. Die Fürstin trat heraus und sagte, sie sei so schrecklich aufgeregt; wenn nur erst eine Nachricht käme. »Liebes Kind«, war die Antwort, »die Sache ist wirklich nicht so wichtig; eine Mehrheit für die Militärvorlage, die mir ja nicht gefällt, ist unter allen Umständen sicher.« Die Frau sah erstaunt auf. Militärvorlage und Mehrheit? Das

kümmerte sie nicht. Sie hatte an ihren Herbert gedacht, den eine Niederlage im Wahlkampf gewiß schmerzen würde.

Herbert war das echte Kind ihres Wesens. Der schöne, hochgewachsene Mann hatte vom Vater die Statur, den blau strahlenden Blick, von der Mutter das Temperament, die reizbaren Nerven, das Talent, sich an allen erdenklichen Dingen zu ärgern, den raschen Wechsel der Stimmung zu Lust und Leid. Mutter und Sohn liebten heute und haßten morgen; liebten und haßten heftig. Von der Mutter kam ihm auch der Drang, Alles in Einem, in der Spiegelung eines Auges zu sehen und wie ein weicher Teppich dem Einen sich unter die Füße zu spreiten. Keine ganz ungefährliche Begabung für einen Mann, der fest auf eigenen Füßen stehen, sich im bunten Marktgewühl balgen muß. Glück aber und Gnade für eine Frau, die den Herd eines großen Mannes zu bewachen hat. Große Männer sind selten bequeme Lebensgefährten. Komplizirte Gefühlsbedürfnisse könnten sie neben sich kaum lange ertragen; weder mit einer stolzirenden »Individualität, die sich ausleben will«, noch mit einer geräuschvoll tätigen Schaffnerin hausen. Die kleine Jeannette von Puttkamer war vielleicht noch nicht einfach genug für den Riesen, dem ihr schmächtiger Leib Riesen gebären sollte. Die Brautbriefe mögen ihn manchmal durch jüngferliche Melancholie, byronischen Weltschmerz, kränkelnde, unklare Schwärmerei arg verstimmt haben. Johanna von Bismarck gab sich dem Einen ganz, zwang sich in strengster Selbstzucht zu einfachster Natürlichkeit. Ohne Wehmut schied sie von den beiden großen Passionen ihrer Mädchenzeit. Nach der Hochzeit wurde das methodische Musikstudium aufgegeben und nur noch, wann und wie es dem lieben Hausherrn gefiel, musizirt; und als das erste Kindchen da war, hörte auch das Reiten auf, das ihr für eine vielbeschäftigte Mama nicht schicklich schien. Bald waren drei Junge im Nest; stets aber blieb die Losung: »Was liegt an uns? Er ist die Hauptsache.« Dabei hatte sie nicht den geringsten Hang zur Vergötterung. Davor schützte schon ihre tiefe Frommheit. Ihr »Ottochen« (in den Briefen nennt sie ihn nach norddeutscher Adelssitte immer Bismarck) blieb ein einfacher Mensch, ein gütiger, kluger, innerlich vornehmer Erdenbewohner, von dem sie eben nur wußte, daß er stets um ein großes Stück weiter sah als die Anderen. Neben Solchem sich zur kantigen Individualität auswachsen wollen: lächerliche Anmaßung! Er ist die Hauptsache. Geräuschvolle Wirtschaft wäre ihrer leisen Art selbst widrig gewesen. Die sorgsamste Wirtin; auf die kurze Wegstrecke von Friedrichsruh nach Berlin bekam jeder Gast von ihr Speise und Trank mit und der Kömmling, der Scheidende durfte die paar Schritte, die von der Bahnstation zum Sachsenwaldhaus führen, beileibe nicht zu Fuß machen. Nicht die Musterhausfrau aber, die im Töchterlesebuch steht. Verbürgte Sagen meldeten sogar, Ihre Durchlaucht lasse sich an allen Ecken und Enden betrügen; sitze zwar manches Stündchen über dem Wirtschaftbuch, addire andächtig und freue sich königlich, wenn die Summe fünfzehn Pfennige weniger ergibt, als die Leute aufgeschrieben haben. Frage aber niemals nach den Marktpreisen, nach der Verbrauchsmöglichkeit, und lese, zum Beispiel, ruhig darüber hin, wenn ein Tageskonsum von sechzig bis achtzig Eiern verzeichnet wurde. Um den Küchenzettel kümmerte sie sich mit beinahe zärtlichem Eifer; für den Mann dünkte das Beste sie kaum gut genug; und Schweninger mußte harte Kämpfe bestehen, ehe er sie dahin brachte, daß sie den Liebsten nicht mehr durch eifriges Zureden zu Tafelexzessen verleitete. So recht gelangs erst, als sie merkte, wie gut dem Fürsten das Regime der neuen Doktors bekam. Seitdem hatte der pechschwarze, gar nicht nach der Kirchenschnur fromme Bayer ihr Herz gewonnen. Damit Ottochen ihn nicht fünf Minuten entbehre, kletterte sie auf ihren schwachen Beinen zwei Stiegen hinauf und herunter, um dem Professor die Cigarrentasche zu holen. Der hatte sie freilich in mancher schweren Stunde getröstet. Oft schlich sie nachts, wenn der Fürst unwohl war, auf bloßen Füßen, fast unbekleidet, in den Gang neben seinem Schlafzimmer, horchte, in einen Winkel geduckt,

auf seine Atemzüge und mußte mit sanfter Gewalt von dem wachsamen Arzt ins Bett gebracht werden ... Leicht ists nicht, die Frau eines großen Mannes zu sein; für die Johannen noch viel schwerer als für die Christianen. Diese Großen empfangen von den Nächsten meist mehr, als sie, die nie den »freien Kopf« des aus dem Geschäft heimkehrenden Durchschnittsbürgers haben, ihnen geben können. Diesen Unterschied empfinden nur feine Nerven. Bismarck empfand ihn und war unermüdlich in zartem Vergüten. Wenn er mit sanfter Stimme, noch immer im Ton des Bräutigams, Johanna ansprach, klangs wie eine Bitte um Entschuldigung: Sei nicht bös, mein Kind; mich schmerzt es ja selbst, ist aber nicht meine Schuld, daß ich Dir von meinem Leben nicht noch mehr geben konnte.

Nie hat er ihr zugemutet, was wider ihre Natur war. Sie brauchte nur in die Gesellschaften zu gehen, die ihr behagten. Ihr Recht ließ er nicht kürzen. Einst hatte die Frau Königin (wie der alte Wilhelm den ihm angetrauten Feuerbrand nannte) herausgefunden, die Frauen der Minister säßen an der Hoftafel »weiter oben«, als ihrem Range gebühre. Eine Schranze erhielt den Auftrag, zu ergründen, wie der schwierige Herr der Wilhelmstraße sich zu einer Änderung stellen würde. Der machte keine Staatsaktion daraus. »Meine Frau«, sprach er, »gehört zu mir und darf nicht schlechter placirt werden als ich. Mich aber können Sie hinsetzen, wos Ihrer Majestät beliebt. Wo ich sitze, ist immer ›oben‹.« Sprachs und kehrte dem begossenen Hofpudel den Rücken. Johanna selbst aber mochte ihre Pflichten und Rechte nach freiem Ermessen bestimmen; er durfte dem sicheren Takt ihres Herzens getrost vertrauen und wußte, daß sie sich inbrünstig bemühen werde, jedes Ding mit seinen Augen zu sehen. Diese Inbrunst half Johannen über die vielen Fährlichkeiten hinweg, die in solchem Erleben nicht fehlen konnten. Bismarcks Frau wäre aus ihrem Glücksgefühl entwurzelt worden, wenn sie den Mann zu spornen, zu hemmen, mit kritischem Blick zu betrachten versucht, wenn sie dem Nutzen oder Nachteil seines Handelns auch nur nachgefragt hätte. Kampf gegen die Orthodoxie beider christlichen Kirchen, gegen die »Hyperkonservativen«, einen Kleist, einen Arnim sogar, gegen den ganzen Troß junkerlicher Deklaranten: Das waren harte Schläge für ein gut puttkamerisches Pommernherz. Doch er tats; und so mußte es sein und war wohl auch das Beste: sonst hätte ers ja nicht getan. Diese Frau taugte für diesen Mann; die Addition gab keinen Bruch. Nach der täglichen Reibung des Dienstes fand er im Haus eine völlig unpolitische, nur von dem gesunden Egoismus der Familienmutter erfüllte Frau. Keine unkluge aber; kein Gänschen: schon ihre Briefe zeigen, daß sie regen Geistes war und höhere Bildung, namentlich höhere Empfindungfähigkeit hatte als manche aufgedonnerte Plauderdame. Fand eine Frau, die, all in ihrer Zärtlichkeit, doch den Mann nicht mit Arachnearmen umklammern, in lauter Liebe auflösen wollte, sondern in stummem Respekt vor seiner Lebensleistung stand. Johanna schwor darauf, daß in den endlosen Stunden öffentlichen Dienstes die meiste Zeit unnütz vertrödelt werde und ganz leicht erspart werden könnte, wenn die Kleinen den Großen nur ruhig gehen ließen. Vor seiner Arbeit aber, deren Wert sie sich nicht abzuschätzen getraute, hatte sie ehrliche Achtung. Und um diese Arbeit nicht mit beschwerlichem Anspruch zu stören, hatte sie sich neben der Werkstätte des Riesen ein kleines Leben für sich allein zurechtgemacht. Sprach er zu ihr, so war sie beglückt; blieb er schweigsam oder zog Andere ins Gespräch, so war gerade Solches ihm eben Bedürfnis. Ihre ewige Sorge war, durch ihr Versehen könne das winzigste Sandkorn ihm die Gedankenbahn beschweren. So leicht sie sonst heftig wurde: ihm hätte sie niemals mit schrillem Wort widersprochen; auch nicht, wenn er die empfindlichste Stelle berührte. Eines Mittags (ich war der einzige Gast, auch kein anderer Hausgenosse am Tisch) fragte er: »Ich habe da draußen allerlei fromme Traktätchen gefunden; wie kommt Das ins Haus?« »Ich habe sie für die Leute angeschafft, zur Erbauung.« »Den Leuten steckst Du die Sachen zu? Das geht wirklich nicht, liebes Kind; ich muß mir ausbitten, daß in meinem Hause nichts getrieben wird, was an Seelenfängerei erinnert.« Nie vorher und nie nachher hörte ich ihn auch nur mit so leiser Schärfe im Ton zu der Frau reden. Die schwieg; und hat im Haus wohl nie wieder erbauliche Schriften verteilt. Aufs Schweigen verstand sie sich. Sie hehlte den Körperschmerz, saß still am Tisch, aß nichts und trank nichts und mochte nicht, daß mans bemerke. Stunden lang zwang sie sich abends den Schlaf aus den Augen, sprach kaum ein Wörtchen, nickte für ein paar Minuten ein, horchte dann wieder auf und wehrte jeden Versuch, mit ihr Konversation zu machen, mit

artiger Entschiedenheit ab. Wenn ein Fremder ihr Tischnachbar war und sich um Unterhaltungstoff quälte, wies sie ihn mit leichter Kopfneigung an den Hausherrn, als wollte sie sagen: »Hören Sie da lieber zu! Das ist viel wichtiger; mir sind Sie gleichgiltig und ich – seien Sie nur ehrlich! – bins Ihnen auch.« Ehrlich sein, sich geben, wie man ist, ohne Pose, ohne redensartliche Drapirung: Das war ihr die Hauptsache. Mit ihr brauchte man sich nicht zu beschäftigen; nicht im Hause und draußen erst recht nicht. Als ich, im Februar 1801, der wiederholten gütigen Einladung gefolgt, im Reiseanzug recta an den Frühstückstisch geführt war und in dem von Schneelicht und praller Wintersonne erhelltem Gemach zum ersten Mal nur vor dem höflichen Hünen stand, grüßte ich, in der Erregtheit des Augenblickes, die Hausfrau flüchtiger, als sich ziemte. Später bat ich dann um Entschuldigung. »Weshalb denn? Daß Sie nur für ihn Augen hatten, fand ich ganz natürlich. Und alles Natürliche ist nach meinem Geschmack.« Gerade die Unbeholfenheit der ersten Minuten hatte mir ihr Wohlwollen erworben.

Drei Jahre danach war der Generaloberst Fürst Bismarck (von dem ihm bei der Entlassung verliehenen Herzogstitel hat er nie Gebrauch gemacht) im berliner Schloß der Gast seines Kriegsherrn gewesen. Überall wurde von »Versöhnung«, von wichtigen politischen Abmachungen geflüstert. »Glauben Sie nur ja kein Wort davon!« sagte die Fürstin. »Ottochen hat Ballgeschichten erzählt; von Politik war überhaupt nicht die Rede.« Sie zeigte mir eine Photographie von der Einzugsstraße und ließ, nach ihrer Gewohnheit, manches kräftige Wörtlein über die Lippe. »Was mich dran freut, ist nur, daß Ottochen doch noch einmal in Gala durchs Brandenburger Tor gefahren ist; sonst...«

Noch im selben Jahr mußte er, fern vom Sachsenwald, die Frau in ihrem heimischen Varzin aufs letzte Lager betten.

Jeanneton, Nanne, das liebe Kind, den immer still kränkelnden, immer ein Bißchen kümmerlichen Pflegling. Die Frau, die von seinem Blick lebte, nichts für sich begehrte, zu jeder Entsagung, jedem Persönlichkeitopfer für den Einzigen mit tausend Freuden bereit war. Der Gott, Natur, Ehemann sich zu beglückender Dreieinheit verband. Keine geistreiche, keine elegante, nicht einmal eine schöne Frau; auch das grau-blau-schwarze Auge mit der großen Pupille leuchtete längst nicht mehr im Glanz hoffender Jugend. Was sie an Schönheit hatte, war früh gewelkt. Doch sie war von den (nach Rochefoucaulds Wort) Seltenen, dont le mérite dure plus que la beauté. Die Treuste der Treuen. Der Mann, der an ihrer Bahre stand, hatte es ein Leben lang dankbar empfunden. Wen hatte er nun noch mit zarter Vaterhand zu betreuen, zu »eien«, wie der Bräutigam einst verhieß, der galante Greis selbst noch so gern tat? Die Brut war ihm lange entwachsen, hatte lange ihr eignes Nest gebaut ... Als Eckermann, auch an einem Novembertag, in Göttingen erfuhr, Goethes Sohn sei gestorben, war »seine größte Besorgnis, daß Goethe in seinem hohen Alter den heftigen Sturm väterlicher Empfindungen nicht überstehen möchte.« In Weimar war sein erster Weg dann zu Goethe. »Er stand aufrecht und fest und schloß mich in seine Arme. Ich fand ihn vollkommen heiter und ruhig. Wir setzten uns und sprachen sogleich von gescheiten Dingen; und ich war höchst beglückt, wieder bei ihm zu sein. Wir sprachen über die Frau Großherzogin, über den Prinzen und manches Andere; seines Sohnes jedoch ward mit keiner Silbe gedacht.« Hohe Eichen lassen vom Wind die Krone nicht lange zausen. So wars auch in Varzin. Nach der Weiherede des Pastors brach der Witwer aus einem Trauerkranz eine weiße Rose, griff nach dem fünften Band von Treitschkes »Deutscher Geschichte« und ging auf leisen Sohlen sacht aus dem Zimmer. »Das soll mich auf andere Gedanken bringen«, sagte er in der Tür. Das Band, das ihn fast ein halbes Jahrhundert ans Alltagsleben geknüpft hatte, war zerrissen. Die Frau nun doch »weggestorben«. Die weiße Rose gebrochen. Nur die große politische Leidenschaft, Nannens einzige Rivalin, als Inhalt der Herrscherseele zurückgeblieben.

Maximilian Harden, Köpfe, Verlag Erich Reiss, 1910

#bismarck

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lobsterqualia · 6 years

Photo

Recommendations

Applied Cryptography, Schneier, second edition

The Bible

The Ghost Map by Stephen Johnson

Lafayette in the Somewhat United States by Sarah Vowell

The Quantum Story

Historians' Fallacies: Toward a Logic of Historical Thought

Rules of the Game by Andrew Gordon

Where Mathematics Comes From

Vehicles, Experiments in Synthetic Psychology

The Tyrannicide Brief by Geoffrey Robertson

Palestine by Joe Sacco

Gordon Burn, Best & Edwards

The Bang Bang Club by Greg Marinovich

Rogue Warrior, Richard Marcinko

William Langewiesche's "American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center"

Clotaire’s culture code

Adam Tooze’s The Wages of Destruction

"Baby Meets World" by Nicholas Day

anything by Ian W. Toll

The Walls of Jericho

The Colossus of New York by Colson Whitehead

The Surgeon of Crowthorne by Simon Winchester

The Brethren: Inside the Supreme Court by Bob Woodward

In the name of the people, by Lara Pawson

Anna Funder's Stasiland

The Box: How the Shipping Container Made the World

Being mortal - Atul Gawande

Belinda Blinked

The Knife Man by Wendy Moore

Freakanomics by Dubner/Levitt

Development as Freedom, Amartya Sen

Architectural Graphic Standards, ed. Ramsey/Sleeper

Bird By Bird by anne lamott

“Auto da Fay” by Fay Weldon

Meetings with Remarkable Men, Gurdjieff

Urban Fortunes: the Political Economy of Place

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

Resolute: the epic search of the northwest passage

The Dead Hand, David E. Hoffman

The making of the atomic bomb

The Origins of Political Order

Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid

Sustainable Energy Without The Hot Air, by David MacKay

Cultural amnesia

Non-Places - Marc Augé

All the Shas men

A Deadly Wandering

Will this do? by Auberon Waugh

A Problem From Hell by Samantha Power

Strindberg by Sue Prideaux

Team Rodent by Carl Hiaasen

Packing For Mars

Napoleon of Crime

The Hungry Years by William Leith

All I Need to Know About Filmmaking I Learned from the Toxic Avenger by Lloyd Kaufman

A good walk spoiled

Airymouse, by Harald Penrose

Moondust by Andrew Smith

Eric Newby, 'A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush'

Forest Ecosystems (2nd edition with the section on soil), by Perry, Oren, & Hart

White Bicycles: Making Music in the 1960s by Joe Boyd

A Year with Verona by Tim Parks

The Way it Was by Stanley Matthews

Black lamb and grey falcon

Snell’s “Age of Chaucer”

Late Victorian holocausts

Cosmos

Chickenhawk, Robert Mason

The Life of the Bee

Self-selected

Ten Things Video Games Can Teach Us

post truth: how bullshit conquered the world

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blossomfeet · 7 years

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The teacher continued: In this world you are constrained for you are all depended on each other, press upon each other like the stones of a vault, from above, from below, from the sides: guard each other, spy on each other. Thus freedom does not, may not exist in this building called state and society. Since the foundation-stones must carry the greats burden, they arc of grey stone, while the rest are light bricks. There are also some luxurious bricks, which do not carry anything, just adorn, while they are supported by others; still, they adorn, feel embarrassed and dispensable, but they serve as adornment, and this they get to hear."

Strindberg, “Through Constraint to freedom”, A Blue Book i.

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fashionistaru · 7 years

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August Strindberg for grey Sunday morning). #goodmorning #auguststrindberg #modernart #inourlife #andnotjustmodern #oilpainting (at Lucca, Italy)

#inourlife #andnotjustmodern #goodmorning #modernart #oilpainting #auguststrindberg

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daechwitatamic · 2 years

Text

Chapter 4: What's Actually There || KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Title: What Was Hidden (Masterpost)

Rating: explicit, minors DNI pls

Genre: college!au, angst, eventual smut, strangers -> friends -> lovers -> idiots -> lovers

Pairings: Taehyung x female reader, MYG x OC

In which there is a waffle date, a soup delivery, and an argument.

Chapter Warnings: language, feelings get hurt left and right

Word Count: 6k

I saw the sun and thought I saw what was hidden

The Ghost Sonata | Scene III August Strindberg

Chapter 4: What’s Actually There

Wednesday, November 14th

Wednesday morning brings torrential rain, and it’s just cold enough that every now and then you’re convinced it’s actually sleeting. You stand in the middle of your room, squinting at the window, trying to determine if you are seeing rain or snow.

“Y/N?” Kiko asks tentatively, watching you. “You good?”

“I have to go to the library for tutoring,” you tell her. “And I think I might have to swim there.”

You bundle up, pull on a black ball cap to keep the rain out of your eyes, and grab your bag.

“See you for lunch after?” Kiko asks you as you pull on a pair of tall boots.

“Yep,” you tell her. “Should be there right after twelve.”

You wave goodbye and head out, splashing your way down the stairs and around the path towards the library. Unlike last week, you beat Taehyung there, and you choose a table that’s in the middle of the large room. You’re logging into your laptop when Taehyung comes up next to you, shaking rain off of his bag.

“Hey,” you tell him. His hair is soaked, sticking to his face in places, and the grey hoodie he’s wearing is dotted with wet patches. You take in his drowned appearance and remark, “You’re going to get pneumonia.”

“No I’m not,” he says easily. “I was only in the rain for like two seconds, I parked in the student lot right here. You’re the one who had to cross campus.”

“How’s the Ghost Sonata paper coming along?” you ask, opening his tutoring document on your laptop.

“I think good?” he says. “I’m working on looking for the disillusionment parts in the text.”

You frown at him. “You were supposed to be done with that step for today’s session.”

“So sue me,” he says, pulling a face at you. “I was busy with that Ibsen homework, it took me such a long time.”

“So what do you need the most help with today?” you ask.

“Finding the parts of the text about disillusionment,” he says quickly. “Can you help me? Can you tell me where to look for them?”

“Well,” you muse, chin on your hand, “the character experiencing the disillusionment is the Student, so I’d focus on his lines… and probably not Scene I.”

“Scene II it is,” Taehyung says, leaning back in his chair and digging around in his bag for the text.

You start answering emails as Taehyung begins to read. You thought he was kidding about books putting him to sleep, but when you glance at him three emails later, his eyes are drooping, the book listing sideways in his hand.

“Taehyung!” you say sharply, and he jerks awake.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, flushing red. “I told you.”

He’s settling back in to read again and you’re blinking at him in disbelief when you see them. Over Taehyung’s shoulder, you spy a head of hair that you’d know anywhere. Davis sits at a table, facing you, his laptop open in front of him. Erin sits beside him, smiling and leaning to say something close to his ear.

You feel nauseated. You feel like your throat is closing up. You fight the urge to sink lower in your chair to hide behind your laptop screen. Your fight or flight instincts are waging war inside you; you want to fling your laptop at Davis’s head, and you also want to fucking run. You can’t do either of these things - one is assault, and the other is against your tutoring contract. You are stuck with Kim Taehyung for sixty minutes, like it or not.

You can’t imagine which emotion is playing across your face right now: the anger you feel every time you see the two of them, the fear of being spotted, or the well of absolute shame that opens beneath you every time you think about how stupid you were last year. Whichever it is, Taehyung takes notice, slowly turning to look over his shoulder to see what caused the reaction. He turns back to you and says, his voice oddly gentle, “Do we not like them? I get the feeling we don’t like them.”

It takes you a second, but you finally find your voice. You’re stuck with him for an hour… but maybe you aren’t stuck here, in this library. “Taehyung,” you say slowly, voice hardly a whisper. “Could we - do you - would it be okay if we finished our hour literally anywhere else?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately, but he doesn’t move. He’s watching you carefully, eyes combing your face. Then he stands, closing his laptop and sliding it back into his bag. “Let’s go,” he says to you, and you’re up in a flash, grabbing everything you’d spread out on the table and dumping it all unceremoniously into your own bag.

He leads you to the library’s side entrance, which looks out onto the student parking lot. You both stop, watching the deluge of rain outside. It’s raining like it’s angry, like the sky itself has scores to settle.

“Mine is the silver one,” Taehyung tells you, pointing. “You ready to run?”

“Yes,” you tell him, feeling a jolt of adrenaline. “I’m ready.”

He throws open the library door and you both run, the rain hitting you like a slap. You shriek and splutter, each step you take causing water to splash all the way up to your knees. As you open the front passenger door and sling yourself onto the seat, Taehyung does the same on the driver’s side. You both sit there, absolutely dripping, listening to the rain assault the roof of the car.

Then, Taehyung starts laughing.

Once he starts, neither of you can stop. You’re wiping both rain and tears from your eyes, and Taehyung’s shoulders are shaking, one hand against his aching diaphragm. He uses both hands to push his wet hair away from his face, and you actually have to tip your bag to let some collected rainwater drip out.

Taehyung looks over at you, a mirthful smile lingering on his face. “You in the mood for waffles?” he asks.

You smile, wringing water out of your hair and shaking out your hoodie from where it was sticking to you. “Yeah,” you tell him. “Waffles sound great.”

The roads are holding water, and Taehyung drives cautiously, which you appreciate. You’d have pegged him for a showy driver, but he’s surprisingly careful. As the car idles at a red light, heat blasting, he glances over at you.

“You wanna talk about what happened in there?” he asks, all signs of laughter gone from his face.

And the thing is… you do. Not necessarily with Taehyung, or any cute guy for that matter. You’ve always been told not to talk shit about an old job when you’re on a job interview, and you think the same must apply to men. Right? But you don’t want to tell Kiko all about it, because it feels weird that you’re willing to share and she’s not, and as much as you love Bridget she’s really just invested in her next good time. And Nina has been… Nina. Maybe it’s your own fault for having such limited options. Maybe it says something about you that you don’t have more friends to rely on.

Is Taehyung your friend?

Not exactly. But he’s been nice to you, and he’s asking.

You sigh, looking at your shoes. “That was my ex.”

“Ah,” Taehyung says. “Got it. And his new girl, I assume? That’s tough.”

“I wish it was just his new girl,” you grumble. “That’s the girl he cheated on me with back in April.”

Taehyung turns to look at you, but quickly whips back to get his eyes back on the road. “Jesus,” he says. “No wonder you freaked out.”

“I didn’t freak out,” you protest. “I just really didn’t want to sit and watch them make eyes at each other for another fifty minutes.”

“You freaked out,” he asserts. “But I think it was valid. Does that happen a lot?”

“What, me freaking out?”

He gives you a look. “Running into them.”

You shrug. “Campus isn’t that big. It happens a lot, but usually I can leave.”

Taehyung is narrowing his eyes at you as he flicks on his turn signal and merges into the turn lane. “I think that guy comes to a lot of our parties,” he says, like he is solving a puzzle. There’s nothing to solve - Davis loves a good party. You used to go together.

“Sounds right,” you say. “Anyway, thanks for…” You almost say for getting me out of there but that sounds a lot more ‘damsel in distress' than you’d like.

“Don’t mention it,” Taehyung says, even though you never finished your sentence. “I love an excuse for a waffle.”

He parks outside a diner, and you grab your bag before you both sprint to the front door. Taehyung holds the door for you, and you mumble a thank you as you scoot past him. The hostess seats you two in a booth near the back, and you both immediately start pulling out laptops and notebooks, setting back up for tutoring.

Next to your booth, the rain pounds against the window. It’s so dark out there it could be the middle of the night. The diner is pleasantly full - you can blend into the hubbub. It’s the “I love large parties” type of intimacy that F Scott Fitzgerald talks about in Gatsby. It’s the kind of vibe where you feel like you could bare your soul and let the consequences roll right off you, if you were that kind of person.

“The whole facade theme has been rolling around my brain all week,” he tells you after ordering hot tea for him and coffee for you.

“Oh yeah?” you say, glancing at him as you log back into your laptop.

“Yeah, it’s like I’m seeing it everywhere now,” he tells you, voice thoughtful. “I’m thinking about everyone around me and how it applies to them, even myself. Like…” he trails off, collecting what he means to say, “Like what I present versus what’s actually there.”

“That’s kind of heavy,” you observe.

“I dunno,” he says, looking at you, steady. “When you’re aware of your own ‘facade’ it can help you work on being more genuine, if that’s what you want. And it can help you notice it in others, see them for the darkness that’s actually there.” He’s still looking at you, gaze heavy, almost like a challenge.

You meet this with silence. Is he implying something about you? He barely knows you, and you’re half-tempted to call him out on it.

“And that’s a good thing?” you ask, as the waiter comes by and places your plates on the table around the mess of papers. “To go around trying to poke around behind the masks people put on?”

“You don’t think so?” he challenges. “Wouldn’t you rather know - and connect with - someone’s true self over their… facade, so to speak?”

“I think people show us the parts of themselves that they’re comfortable with sharing for a reason,” you counter.

“But that only gets you so far,” he says. “You don’t actually know somebody until you break past all that and see what’s hidden.”

You twist your lips. You feel like you want to argue, but logically he’s right. You take a bite of your food, using the bought time to examine why you’re heated. It certainly couldn’t be because you know how few people you let in. Definitely not.

You drop your gaze, losing the unspoken game of Chicken. “I guess that’s true. Anyway, you should work on your notes,” you say quietly.

He purses his lips and reaches for his Strindberg text obediently, popping a bite of waffle into his mouth. “Fine,” he says. “But I’m considering this a debate victory.”

You roll your eyes, and you two don’t speak again until he asks a clarifying question about the themes behind the vampiric cook. When you’re done eating and the plates are cleared, you reach for your wallet when the check comes.

“No, no,” Taehyung says sharply, pulling the bill away. “You’re not paying.”

“Yes, I am,” you insist. “I’m paying for my half.”

“I owe you for the free tutoring you gave me over the weekend,” he reminds you. “Let me buy your damn omelet, Y/N.”

You huff, but let it go, thanking him for the food and for the ride when he drops you off outside the academic buildings for your afternoon class.

“See you tomorrow night?” he asks as his car idles outside of the building students call The Mansion.

“Yep,” you say as you gather your things. “Hopefully we won’t be chased out of the library by my ex again. I’m really sorry about that.”

That night, as you lay on your bunk watching crappy tv on your laptop, Taehyung facetimes you again. You consider letting him look at the ceiling again, but he already saw you soaked from the rain earlier today, so at least you look better now.

“Homework problem?” you ask as you answer, trying to keep your voice down. Bridget’s up on her bunk, and you’re not sure if she has headphones in or not.

“You remember the ‘what can haunt us’ theme we were talking about?” he says, no preamble.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting to get more comfortable against your pillows. “You adding that to your paper?”

“No,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I was just thinking about it…”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” you quip, and he gives you the finger right in the middle of his screen, making you laugh.

“I just think,” he says as he replaces his hand with his face on screen, “that you left out a pretty big one when you were listing all the stuff people can be haunted by.”

“I did, huh?” you say playfully.

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly serious. “Our pasts.”

You’re quiet for a minute. It’s a lot, everything he’s said to you today. You don’t know if he’s talking about you and what happened today with Erin and Davis, or if he’s talking about himself, or neither.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “You’re right… that’s a big one.”

He licks his lips quickly, glances to the side. “That was all. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Taehyung,” you say quietly.

On the bunk above you, where she clearly had been listening in, Bridget lets out a gleeful shriek.

Thursday, November 15th

When you wake up on Thursday morning, you can tell that you’re sick before you even open your eyes. Your head is pounding - not the hangover kind - and your throat feels like there’s glass in it. You’re so congested you can barely breathe, and your back hurts, the deep ache that’s a telltale sign of a fever.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you groan, getting up and shuffling towards the bathroom. You rummage in the medicine cabinet over the sink until you find your thermometer, and pop it in your mouth. Sure enough, when it beeps, it reads out a number that sends you right back to bed.

You open your laptop blearily and email both of your professors for the day, apologizing and asking for any work you can do to maintain your grade. Then, you email Bianca to let her know you’ll have to reschedule Becky and Taehyung. Then you close it, bury your face in your pillow, and fall back asleep without even getting under the blankets.

Bridget wakes you up two hours later, shaking your arm gently.

“Babe,” she says, peering at you. “Don’t you have class in ten minutes?”

“I’m not going,” you mumble into your arms. “I have a fever.”

“Ugh,” she says, standing back up. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep then.”

“Okay,” you say - or, you think you say it. You drift in and out of sleep for a few more achy, restless hours. The next time someone shakes you awake, it’s Kiko.

“Have you taken anything?” she asks as you blink at her.

You try to ask “What?” but it comes out more like hhwhuu?

“Medicine,” she says flatly. “Have you taken any cold medicine?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes again. She pokes you in the arm, and you realize a minute or two must have passed because she’s handing you a few tylenol and a water bottle.

“Take those,” she directs. “At least get your fever down.”

You follow her orders wordlessly, waking up by degrees. After you twist the cap back on the water bottle, you reach for your phone, scrolling through your accounts with your blankets bunched around your head.

“I’m going out for a few hours,” she says. “Do you think you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say. “It’s just a cold. Thanks, Kiks.”

The fever-reducer works its magic, and about half an hour later you feel good enough to get up and take a hot shower. That helps almost as much as the medicine, and when you step out, you feel significantly more human.

You comb your hair and change into clean sweatpants, plopping back on your bed and searching for something to watch. You’re scrolling through, trying to choose, when your phone goes off.

[5:01 PM] Taehyung: ☹️

You sit up with a jolt, thinking he’s waiting for you to show up at tutoring.

[5:02 PM] You: you didn’t get an email from the dept? i’m sick. we’ll reschedule.

As you expect by now, your phone buzzes again to indicate an incoming facetime call.

“Taehyung,” you groan as you answer. “You have got to start texting like a normal person. I do not want you - or anyone - looking at my face right now.”

He frowns at you. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” you mutter, still cranky. “I have a cold - I woke up with a fever. It’s probably from splashing around in the rain like that yesterday.”

His frown deepens, as if you’d accused him of doing this to you. Which is not what you’d said.

“It’s fine,” you insist. “I already feel way better than I did when I woke up.”

He sighs a little, and you peer at him. He looks like he’s at home, on his bed. It definitely looks like a bed-pillow behind his head. You thought he’d gone to the library for tutoring and called you because you weren’t there. Apparently he knew tutoring was off, went home, and still called to check on you.

Hm.

“I…” he trails off, twisting his mouth a little. “I was kind of worried that you canceled because of yesterday?”

This baffles you. “Yesterday?”

“Just, y’know… I said a lot of personal stuff… you said yourself some of it was heavy. I thought maybe you were, uh, needing a little space after that. I thought that’s why you canceled.”

You shake your head. “Taehyung, no,” you say, stupidly feeling like you want to reach out and give him a reassuring touch. “I really…. I liked our conversations yesterday.”

“Okay,” he says. “You sound sick, so I guess I believe you.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you about it,” you tell him. “I’m painfully honest.”

He laughs. “Don’t I know it. Hey, did you know your roommate is here?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I did not, but I’m not surprised. I heard she’s been there a lot.”

Taehyung lowers his voice, clearly not wanting to be overheard. “Do you know what Yoongi’s doing right now? He’s downstairs cooking her soup. Like… it’s so domestic. I don’t even know who he is right now.”

You laugh. “Kiko’s one of the coolest, best people I know,” you tell him. “So good for him, I guess.”

You’re both quiet for a minute, and then Taehyung says, “Okay, well, feel better, Y/N. I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “We’ll reschedule today’s session to another time. The department will reach out.”

“Not you?” he asks, voice teasing.

“It’s gotta be done officially,” you tell him. “I don’t make the rules. See you, Taehyung.”

You’re smiling as you hang up.

About an hour later, Kiko comes through the door, a plastic grocery bag in her hands. She stops next to your bed, one eyebrow raised.

“Would you like to tell me why I’m carrying soup right now?” she asks tartly.

You raise an eyebrow right back at her. “You felt bad for me and brought me sustenance?”

“No no no,” she says, shaking her head, her black hair swishing. “I was instructed to bring you soup. It was not my idea. So I ask you again: would you like to tell me why am I carrying soup right now?”

You sit up, biting back a smile. “Would you like to tell me where you got the soup, Kiko?”

She freezes, caught, and then you both crack up. She moves to sit at the end of your bed.

“So, Taehyung is just unnecessarily worried about his tutoring partner,” she deadpans.

“You first,” you insist.

She sighs, knowing this is fair. “I don’t really know what to tell you,” she admits. “I’ve never done this before, I don’t know what the landmarks are that I’m supposed to share.”

You shrug. “It’s different for everybody anyway. You make your own landmarks.”

She plays with the bag in her hands, avoiding your eyes. “Well, I don’t know, we started texting and he mentioned the music he’s working on and he sent me some of it and it’s really good, Y/N, like it’s so good and then he asked me to work on a track with him?”

You look at her, mouth agape. You don’t even know what to ask first. “Yoongi makes music? You make music? Why didn’t I know that?”

“He’s really good,” she repeats. “He wanted me to do some vocals for him? I don’t know, I don’t talk about it a lot, I get embarrassed.”

You blink a few times, still trying to process. “So you’ve just been working on music together? That’s it?”

She blushes. “I mean… that’s not all we’re doing.”

You cackle. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Shut up,” she tells you, but she’s smiling. “So? I don’t know? I’m just… taking it one day at a time and seeing where it goes? But I really like him… and he seems really into it, too.”

“That’s amazing,” you tell her sincerely. “I’m so excited for you.”

“I’m trying not to be excited,” she admits. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

You shake your head. “Being afraid of it won’t change if it works or not. In fact, it definitely steers it towards not working if you go in with zero faith.”

“It’s not zero faith,” she grumbles defensively. “It’s just a healthy dose of trepidation. Now, what’s up with you and Taehyung?”

“Nothing,” you say, a knee-jerk reaction. She holds up the soup, as if to say, the proof says otherwise. “I mean, officially we’re just starting to be friends?”

“But?” she prompts.

“But… it feels like the potential for more could be there?” you say uncertainly. “It’s hard to tell. Nothing beyond friend boundaries has happened.”

“He demanded I bring soup to you,” she says. “That’s not friend boundaries. That’s scream my love at the sun boundaries.”

“We definitely aren’t at that level,” you tell her, chuckling despite yourself. “Maybe you’re thinking of Yoongi?”

“Okay, we’re done here!” she chirps, which makes you laugh more. “Here’s your soup. Yoongi made it, it’s delicious.”

You take a selfie with the soup container covering the lower half of your face, your tired eyes peeking over the top of it, and send it to Taehyung. He sends back a row of smilies.

Friend boundaries.

Right.

Saturday, November 17th

You stay in Friday night again, and by Saturday morning you’re feeling more like yourself. But when Bridget tells you that the guys want you all to come have a more low-key night at the house - drinks, snacks, and a movie - you’re kind of relieved. You don’t hate the idea of a night of socializing where you actually get to sit most of the time.

And, well, you’ll be happy to see Taehyung. It’ll be nice to hang out in an environment that isn’t forced schoolwork or a loud-ass bar. Maybe you can start to feel out what’s there between you two, and get to know him a little more.

You (and Bridget, who has been fully updated) are also very interested to see Kiko and Yoongi interact. You feel like a walking, talking sideways-eyes emoji.

It’s overcast as the three of you walk the twenty minutes to Jin’s house in the dark. The night is very still, you think. The air feels almost heavy. You wonder if it’s supposed to snow. You’ll have to ask Mister “Party Trick” when you get there.

Jin lets you in when you three arrive, and you step into his living room as you have several times before - but it feels like you’ve entered a brand new world. You’ve never seen the inside of his house with all the lights on, you realize. Nor with the furniture in place - instead of a dj booth shoved in the corner and the living room floor acting as a dance floor, Seokjin actually has a decent set-up of two couches and a lumpy reclining chair around his sizable tv.

Jungkook is sprawled on the floor with a few pillows and a bowl of popcorn. Jimin’s sideways across the reclining chair, leaning backwards over it so that he can have a conversation at eye-level with Jungkook. There’s a girl you don’t know on one of the couches, chatting with the boys, and she waves at you all. Jin leads you into the kitchen, where he’s got a ton of food and drinks spread out.

You’re all standing in the kitchen, listening to Jin’s food explanation, when the back door opens. Taehyung steps through, rubbing his hands together briskly to warm them up. You smile at him, lifting a hand to wave, and then you see the pretty, dark-haired girl step through the door behind him. She rests one hand lightly on his upper back, as if he’s leading the way through a dark cave and she has to feel him to find her way out.

“Hey!” Taehyung says, smiling big, and you try to keep your smile up. Behind you, Kiko pokes you once in the ribs.

I know, shut up, you think, as if she can hear you.

Bridget, oblivious, starts to make her drink. “Do you want one of these?” she asks you over her shoulder. Distracted, you tear your eyes away from Taehyung and his companion as they head back into the living room.

“I should probably stick to soda tonight,” you tell her. “I’ve still got cold medicine in my system.”

“Smart,” she nods, handing you a plastic cup. As you wait your turn at the ice bucket, you meet Kiko’s gaze across the kitchen. She raises her eyebrows at you, and you give her a tiny shrug back.

You’re glad you’re not alone and she can’t actually say whatever it is her eyebrow is saying. What would you even tell her? Taehyung can do what he wants with whomever he wants. You’re barely friends, and nothing beyond that has happened (sans soup delivery), so you’ve got zero reason to feel upset.

Though, reason be damned, your stomach is clenching, your throat feeling a little tight.

Yoongi appears in the doorway, and you take a second to take a good look at him, glad for the distraction. You never paid much attention to him before this thing started with Kiko. He’s good-looking, you’ll give him that. He carries himself with a subtle swagger, an easy confidence. You think to yourself that he strikes you as someone who cares if they look cool, but before you can fully complete that thought you watch him greet Kiko with a giant, gummy smile and that thought goes right out the window.

“Hi,” he says to her, somewhat shyly, and you’re suddenly wanting to drag her ass out to shop for a wedding dress.

“Hey,” she says, smiling back, a flush on her cheeks almost instantly.

Oh, my god, these two clowns are goners, you think.

Kiko follows Yoongi out of the kitchen, leaving you alone with Bridget and Seokjin.

“So, they’re head over heels in love with each other,” Bridget says to you, and you shoot a quick glance at Jin, not sure how Kiko would feel about you discussing it in front of him.

“It’s cool,” he says, holding up his hands. “It’s hard not to know if you live here. They’ve been doing this all week.”

“Have you ever heard his music?” you ask, oddly curious. “Is it good?”

Jin nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, it actually is pretty good. I’ll send Bee his soundcloud link and she can share it with you if you’re interested?”

“Could you do that, Bee?” you tease. She chucks a potato chip at you and it bounces off your shoulder before skittering under the kitchen table. You grin at her and make your way back into the living room.

Taehyung and his girl are on the couch with the girl you don’t know; he’s got his arm draped over her shoulders and she leans against him, her legs tucked up next to her. Yoongi and Kiko are on the other couch, heads bent together as they both look at something on Yoongi’s phone. You sit by them gingerly, angling your body to get them as much space as you can. Bridget ambles in from the kitchen and plops between you and them, leaning against you and nestling in. You pet the top of her head affectionately and try not to look at the other couch as Seokjin picks up the remote and starts setting the movie up.

As the movie starts, you struggle to focus. Your mind is a whir, and feelings are being felt, and you feel like what you need most right now is to organize your head a little bit and put the situation into perspective.

Yes, things with Taehyung have felt… a little like something could be starting there. Yes, you were hoping you’d get to talk to him a lot tonight; if you were being honest, you’d kind of hoped you’d sit by him for the movie, before you knew he had a girl with him.

But nothing was going on with you and Taehyung yet - he’s been nice to you a few times, and you’d felt like there was some chemistry there. That’s all. He doesn’t owe you a single thing, and you have no right to feel jealous.

Bridget nudges you gently with her elbow and cocks her head at Kiko and Yoongi, pulling you out of your head. You follow her gaze to see that the new “couple” are holding hands. You smile and start to turn back towards the tv. As you move your gaze from the other side of the couch to the tv on the wall, you notice that Taehyung isn’t looking at the tv either - he’s looking at you.

You meet his eyes for a split second, too quick to read anything, and turn determinedly to face the tv. You will yourself not to look away, despite not following the plot at all.

About halfway through the movie, Yoongi gets up and heads into the kitchen, but instead of returning to the couch he heads to the basement door and down the stairs that you’d fallen down last time you were in this house. Kiko lets another five minutes pass and does the same.

You text the groupchat - titled Roomies 💕- “u think ur slick, huh?” and she sends you back a kissy face. Bridget taps back a “haha” on your message, shooting a smirk at you from her side of the couch, where she’s spread out now that Kiko and Yoongi vacated their spot.

You have barely any idea what’s happening in the movie - characters are fighting, someone is crying, you don’t know why - and your cup is empty, so you rise and head towards the kitchen. You stop behind your couch, leaning over the top of it to ask Bridget if she needs anything from the kitchen.

“Ooh,” she says, reaching down to the floor to retrieve her empty cup from near Jungkook’s foot. “Yes, please.”

You take her cup and head into the kitchen, where you mix her another healthy serving of vodka cranberry. As you pour yourself some soda, you hear footsteps behind you, and you glance over your shoulder. It’s Taehyung, and you get a little bit of deja-vu from when he followed you into the kitchen at Jin’s last party.

“Hey,” you say, turning back to what you’re doing. “Am I in your way?”

“No,” he says slowly. “Y/N… are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

You turn to look at him, surprised. “What? Of course not.”

“You haven’t talked to me all night,” he points out. “You won’t even look at me.”

You feel frustrated suddenly, and you can’t put your finger on why. “I’m trying not to mess things up for you!” you say defensively. “How do you think it would look to your girl if I did all that? I’ve dropped guys for less.”

He scoffs. “She’s not my girl. We aren’t - ugh! That’s… not what that is. It’s really not.”

You shrug. “It’s not my business, Taehyung.”

“That’s your favorite line, huh?” he challenges, crossing his arms. It’s your first time seeing him in a t-shirt instead of a hoodie or sweatshirt, and you can see that the scar, thick and textured, starts at his hand and ends very nearly at his elbow. You keep your eyes on his face, feeling defensive and a little angry.

“It is when it’s true,” you say evenly.

“I’m not sleeping with Leslie, Y/N,” he says, very seriously, like he needs you to hear him. It’s so straightforward, so point-blank, you have no idea how to respond to that. You blink at him.

Jesus.

“Good for you. I don’t know why you feel the need to tell me that,” you admit.

“Based on how you’ve acted all night, apparently I do need to tell you that!” he explodes, and you both glance out to the living room to see if you’ve been overheard.

“You don’t,” you shake your head. “There’s nothing going on with you two? Great. There’s nothing going on with us, either. I don’t care what you do.”

This line hits him like a slap - you watch him physically recoil from it. His mouth drops open a little bit, and he closes it again, looking away.

“Cool,” he says, his voice suddenly very low and very flat. “Glad we sorted that out.”

He turns and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving you standing there, unsure what just happened.

–

You and Bridget walk home around one in the morning, after confirming via text that Kiko is under no circumstances going to walk back to campus alone later - since she’s still sequestered in Yoongi’s basement lair, doing god-knows-what.

You don’t say goodbye to Taehyung. You fill Bridget in as you walk; you feel worse now than when you saw that girl enter the kitchen.

“Whatever,” you say bitterly, as you finish the story. “It’s not like I actually lost anything.”

Bridget glances sideways at you through the dark but says nothing - unlike her. She reaches over and takes your hand, and you walk like that until your four-story dorm building looms ahead of you.

:) :) :) I would say sorry but I don't like liars.

Anyway, thank you for being here! I appreciate every single interaction, whether it's a like, comment, DM, ask, or reblog!

A huge thank you as always to @kookstempo for being the entire reason that the Earth still turns and also for beta-ing!

#taehyung x reader #dailydaegu #taehyung fic #taehyung fanfic #s2l #taehyung angst #college au #f2l #bts fanfic #bts fic #taehyung smut #(but not in this chapter for full disclosure)#fic: what was hidden

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desaparecidos · 4 years

Quote

On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far beneath your own cook-it hurts me as it hurts to see the fall flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud.

Jean in Miss Julie by August Strindberg

#miss julie #august strindberg #quotes #play #plays #class #marxism #marx

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wrebeccawrites · 5 years

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The Missing Six Months

Here’s a quick one-shot about Grizz and Sam getting closer during the six months when we don’t see them:

Sam’s afternoon was going perfectly fine until someone whapped the back of his head with a CPR manual. He turned his body around in the old floral print Lay-Z Boy he currently occupied to flip off his assailant.

“Come to the hospital with me,” Grizz signed as he spoke, dropping the manual onto the floor. Over the past few weeks, he had picked up enough ASL to impress Sam. The two of them dedicated a few hours a day after work to sit in the living room and go over phrases. Most of the time they ended up traveling way off course talking about their favorite movies and acting them out. Both of the boys were deeply disappointed that they would never see the newest Avengers film. However, Sam was convinced Grizz’s rendition of the plot was better than anything the Russo Brothers could produce. Watching him improvise entire fight sequences while attempting to sign the dialogue made for a glorious mess. Any phrase he didn’t know, he tried to spell out.

Now he looked very eager to get out of the house. Both of his hands were stuffed into his front pockets as he rocked on the balls of his feet. It made the little bun on top of his head bounce.

Sam smiled, “Why are you going to the hospital?”

Grizz held his hand out, pulling him up, as he replied, “It’s an adventure.”

Sam rolled his eyes as got off the chair. It would take them at least 30 minutes to walk to there. Allie had taken the car that morning. But he did need some fresh air and it looked like Grizz needed to blow of some steam. They made their way to the hall closet and Grizz grabbed both of their coats. He shrugged on his own then held out Sam’s.

“I can put my own coat on, dumb ass,” Sam told him as his stuffed both his arms into it. Grizz let go of the jacket and patted him on the back, “Don’t shit on my kind gestures. Let’s go!”

As they walked into the fresh fall day, Sam pulled out his phone and texted Becca going on some errands, be home soon. Need anything while I’m out? She texted back, Thank God you’re out of the house, I can finally masturbate. Which made him chuckle at his phone.

Grizz bumped his arm, “What are you laughing at?”

“Becca is happy I’m out of the house,” he looked at Grizz’s questioning eyes and continued, “She can finally masturbate.”

“Oh, um, that’s kind of private, right?”

“Everyone has needs. And you have to admit it’s been pretty difficult to,” then Sam signed flicking the bean and continued, “While everyone is living together.”

Grizz scrunched up his nose and agreed. Sharing a room with Gordie and Eric had been fine, at first. They spent most of their time out of the room, really only using it for sleep. Grizz missed his bed. He used to keep his favorite books tucked under the pillows so he could read before he fell asleep. Now, he has to roll out his back every morning from sleeping on the floor with no space to stretch out. His books remained on the living room shelves where he could pull them out at the end of the day and read them to anyone who would listen. And by anyone, he meant Sam. Sam was always there, cuddled under a blanket, listening to whichever play or novel he chose for the night. Occasionally Bean would join. Allie pretended to hate it, but she came every night with a mug of tea for everyone.

It became a really wholesome nighttime ritual. He thought about a few nights previously, when he was reading August Strindberg’s Miss Julie. At first, the girls protested the blatant misogyny. Then Grizz started reading the scene when Jean is whispering his secret desire to Julie. Everyone quieted down as he said those lines, leaning in and growing hot. Grizz got lost in it. He knew how to deliver like Jean’s words were the only thing keeping him breathing. When he was done with the scene and Jean successfully brings Julie into his bed, he paused and looked around. Allie was looking down at her socked feet, blushing. Gordie had his eyebrow raised at him while Bean smushed her lips together. And Sam looked him right in the eye, lips slightly parted, waiting for him to go on.

“You’re right. There are definitely moments when I wish I had my own room,” Grizz told him. They looked at each other before Sam huffed in agreement. It drove Grizz a little crazy when he did that. Like he could read his thoughts somehow. They spent the rest of the walk chit chatting about the weather growing colder and how hard the various job postings were. When they arrived at the hospital, Grizz was shocked to find the doors unlocked.

“What, did you think they would have maximum security to keep sick people out?” Sam poked fun at him.

“No, no. But there’s, like, super expensive equipment in here. And drugs and stuff,” he said this earnestly, which only made Sam laugh harder. They went inside. Grizz went straight to the counter and started sifting through lists. He skimmed every page, trying to find what he was looking for. Sam stood nearby, clueless to the boy’s quest. After a couple minutes, he became utterly bored.

“What is the point of this adventure, Grizz?” Sam asked. Grizz loved when Sam said his name. It took him a moment to refocus on the task at hand.

“I am trying to figure out where they keep the CPR dummies,” he answered.

“You could have told me that. Let me help you look,” Sam came behind the counter. The two of them barely fit. As they looked, their hands would stumble over each other. Sam let their arms press together, after a while. Grizz didn’t pull away. Together, they found a hospital map and guessed, “training bay” was their best bet. The hospital was a little creepy. It still smelled like a sterile and sickly place without any humanity to soften the edges. They flicked on lights as they walked down the mint green halls. Their florescent glow made the boys skin look grey and unhealthy. Their boots stuck to the ground enough to create a sticky suction noise with every step. Neither of them said anything until they got to the training bay.

They looked in horror at the room full of humanoid dummies. At least ten were scattered about the room, hooked up to IVs or resting next to scalpels. Before Grizz could take another step, Sam grabbed his arm and asked, “Is it just me, or are we about to get murdered by evil doctor right now?”

“I’m definitely getting that vibe,” Grizz said, “I’m afraid I’ll get possessed if I touch one of these things.”

His gaze trailed over every body and asked, “What’s the sign for ‘heebie jeebies.’”

Their chuckles broke the tension.

“Why do you need one?” Sam asked. Grizz knit his eyebrows together and rubbed the back of his neck before he answered.

“I’m trying to learn CPR.”

“Really? I’m surprised you don’t know how to do it. I thought you were some type of boy scout,” Sam signed as he spoke. Grizz didn’t smile at his joke.

“I don’t know how to do it. I know I present as this big survivalist guy but I really don’t know everything. I know a lot, but not everything. It was people assuming that from me that got Emily killed. I didn’t know how to do CPR or get venom out of a snake bite or anything else that would have fucking helped. If I did, she would have been fine,” he had tears in his eyes by the time he was done talking. Sam didn’t know what to say. He never realized how much pressure Grizz was putting on himself to keep their society safe. He could feel the guilt radiating off of him like a poison. He reached and grabbed his upper arms and tilted his head to look him in the eyes.

“Hey, what happened to Emily was not your fault. You can’t carry that around with you, it’s not your burden.”

Grizz wiped his eyes and signed, “I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be better prepared for next time.”

Sam nodded and pulled Grizz into a hug. For a few seconds, they stood in each other’s embrace. Sam’s head laid on his chest. He could hear his breath ease as his need to cry passed. Even though Grizz was a few inches taller than him, he felt like his was holding something very small and fragile. He took a deep breath and released him.

“You know, I could teach you CPR, I got recertified every year so I could charge more when I babysit,” Sam said, breaking the tender moment.

“Yeah right. If I tried those chest compressions on you, I’d break your sternum,” he took a couple steps back from Sam.

“So you think you’re strong enough to break me?”

“I think we both are,” Grizz said as he walked backward toward the dummies. Sam didn’t know what to say. Grizz turned away from him and paroozed his options. He picked up the one sitting lopsided on a chair, “I think this is our guy.”

Sam nodded, “Yeah he looks like a good victim to save.”

Grizz heaved the dummy onto his shoulder and fireman carried him out of the room.

“Let’s get the fuck out of this creepy hospital,” he said.

The boys left and started walking back home. They got halfway there before Allie pulled up next to them. She rolled down the window.

“What the fuck are you guys doing?”

Sam and Grizz exchanged looks before Grizz said, “We are just out here trying to make some new friends, you know?”

“Just get in, I’ll give you a ride home,” she said. Grizz heard the car doors unlock and he piled in the backseat after Sam, tossing the dummy into the truck.

The dummy was christened Ralph and embraced by their household.

#thesociety grizz sam unresolvedtension CPR softgayboys guiltygrizz ijustwantedtoseetheirromanceblossom concernedsam boyfriends

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newyorktheater · 5 years

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This month there are no Broadway openings, but ample glamour Off-Broadway. Freestyle Love Supreme, the improvisational hip-hop group that Lin-Manuel Miranda and Thomas Kail conceived in collaboration with Anthony Veneziale while they were working on “In The Heights,” had its debut at Ars Nova in midtown in 2004. Fifteen years later, the group inaugurates Ars Nova’s new Greenwich House home in the Village..

Meanwhile, MCC launches its newly constructed theater on West 52nd Street this month with two new shows, including a musical by the creative team behind Spring Awakening.

Another new musical, at Second Stage, comes from the Next to Normal composer, starring Kate Baldwin.

Also this month, a much-defended Sondheim musical is being revived. (See a video of Sondheim below.)

Jake Gyllenhaal and Tom Sturridge appear on the same bill in a pair of new plays, by Nick Payne and Simon Stephen respectively.

A new play at the Public Theter by Suzan-Lori Parks that features Daveed Diggs doesn’t start until March, so Diggs has time to appear as one of the “special and spontaneous guests” at Freestyle Love Supreme – and he’s not the only Hamilton alum who’s promised. (See February 21st)

Below is a selective list of (no Broadway), Off-Broadway, Off-Off Broadway and festival offerings in February, organized chronologically by opening date, with each title linked to a relevant website. Color key of theaters: Broadway: Red. Off Broadway: Black, Blue, or Purple... Off Off Broadway: Green. Theater festival: Orange To look at the Spring season as a whole, check out my Off Broadway Spring 2019 preview guide and my Broadway 2018-2019 season guide

February 2

Queen (APAC)

In this play by Madhuri Shekar, Sanam and Ariel are about to publish a career-defining paper about bees, after seven years of research, when Sanam stumbles upon an error that could cause catastrophic damage to their reputations, careers, and friendship. Now, both women are confronted with an impossible choice: look the other way and save the bees – or tell the truth and face the consequences?

The Glen (Theatre 54 at Shetler Studios)

Peter Hodges writes about the life of one Dale Olsen, from a private falsely accused of insubordination by an underhanded army major, through his affair with a possible spy in 1950s Berlin and back to his ultimate confrontation with his unforgiving mother and the secret she has hidden from him all his life. ”

February 6

The Trial of the Catonsville Nine (Transport at Abrons)

Created from the actual court transcripts of the 1968 trial of nine Catholic activists who burned draft files to protest the Vietnam War, this “radically re-imagined” production presented in partnership with the National Asian American Theatre Company (NAATCO) features an Asian-American cast.

February 8

Chinese Fringe Festival (La MaMa)

Three plays presented in Chinese with English subtitles: The Dictionary of Soul by the Physical Guerillas; Two Dogs by Meng Theatre Studio; and The Story of Xiaoyi Shanghai Huidiji Public Psychological Care Center

February 10

Mies Julie and The Dance of Death (Classic Stage Company)

Two Strindberg plays are presented in repertory. Mies Julie adapted by Yael Farber resets Strindberg’s “Miss Julie,” to a farmhouse in the Karoo of South Africa on the evening of the annual Freedom Day celebration. The Dance of Death, offered in a new version by Conor McPherson, is Strindberg’s bleak examination of marriage and the social institutions governing it.

The Light (MCC Theater)

A two-character play by Loy A. Webb about Rashad and Genesis on what should be one of the happiest days of their lives, but their joy quickly unravels when ground-shifting accusations from the past resurface

February 12

Neurology of the Soul (A.R.T./New York)

Untitled Theater Company No. 61 (UTC61) presents a new play by Edward Einhorn examining the nexus between neuroscience, marketing, art, and love. Set at a neuromarketing firm, it follows a neuroscientist who is trying to scientifically define love for advertising purposes and his wife, an artist who is using her brain scans as the basis of video self-portraits.

The Shadow of a Gunman (Irish Rep)

A new staging of Irish playwright Sean O’Casey’s 1923 drama about a young poet who gets pulled into the chaos of Irish War of Independence after a rumor spreads that he is an IRA assassin.

February 13

City of No Illusions (La MaMa)

A dark comedy set inside a funeral home that has become a refuge for two asylum seekers. The newest work from seminal theater company Talking Band. written and directed by Obie winner Paul Zimet,

February 14

Sea Wall/A Life (Public Theater)

Tom Sturridge and Jake Gyllenhaal appear separately in a pair of plays, Sturridge in Simon Stephen’s “Sea Wall,” a monologue about love and the human need to know the unknowable, and Gyllenhaal in “A Life,” and Gyllenhaal in Nick Payne’s A Life, a meditation on how we say goodbye to those we love most.

Spaceman (Loading Dock at Wild Project)

A woman’s solo journey to Mars explores the depths of mankind’s last true frontiers: outer space and a grieving heart.

February 19

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Merrily We Roll Along (Roundabout’s Laura Pels)

Fiasco Theater reimagines Stephen Sondheim’s musical about a trio of showbiz friends who fall apart and come together over 20 years, going backwards in time.

By The Way Meet Vera Stark (Signature)

A revival of Lynn Nottage’s 2011 comedy about an African-American maid to an aging Hollywood who becomes a star herself – followed decades later by a panel discussing the impact that race had on her controversial career.

February 20

The Play That Goes Wrong (New World Stages)

The slapstick comedy that stars the set moves from Broadway to Off-Broadway

The Price of Thomas Scott (Mint on Theatre Row)

Elizabeth Baker’s 1913 comic drama about a businessman who is reluctant to sell his shop for conversion into a dance hall because of his objection to dancing.

February 21

Freestyle Love Supreme (Ars Nova at Greenwich House)

Conceived by Thomas Kail, Lin-Manuel Miranda, and Anthony Veneziale, this high-energy show is a blend of hip-hop, improvisational theater, music, and vocal stylings, all backed by live music from keyboards and beats. There will be “special and spontaneous guests” – including Lin-Manuel Miranda, James Monroe Iglehart, Christopher Jackson, Daveed Diggs.

Steven Skybell as Tevya and Ensemble sing “Tradition” (“Traditsye” טראַדיציע)

Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish (Folksbiene at Stage 42)

This luscious production directed by Joel Grey moves Off-Broadway.

February 24

Hurricane Diane (New York Theatre Workshop)

In this play by Madeleine George directed by Leigh Silverman, Diane is a gardener who is actually the Greek god Dionysus, returning to the modern world to gather mortal followers and restore the Earth to its natural state.

February 25

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Good Friday (The Flea)

In this play by Kristiana Rae Colón, a ricochet of bullets disrupts a fierce and funny feminist debate. Assaulted at every turn, a group of millennial women must decide whether they are ready to put their bodies on the line for each other.

Boesman and Lena (Signature)

In this revival of Athol Fugard’s 1969 play, the human need for kindness, hope and compassion is on display in the struggles of abusive Boesman and his long-suffering wife Lena, who encounter a stranger while wandering the South African wastelands. Stars Zainab Jah and Sahr Ngaujah

February 26

Alice By Heart (MCC Theater)

The creative team Duncan Sheik and Steven Sater (Spring Awakening) co-written and directed by Jessie Nelson (Waitress) presents a new take on Alice in Wonderland: In the rubble of the London Blitz of World War II, Alice Spencer’s budding teen life is turned upside down, and she and her dear friend Alfred are forced to take shelter in an underground tube station. When the ailing Alfred is quarantined, Alice encourages him to escape with her into their cherished book and journey down the rabbit hole to Wonderland.

February 28

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Superhero (Second Stage)

A musical, with music and lyrics by Tom Kitt (Next to Normal) and a book by John Logan (Red), about “a fractured family, the mysterious stranger in apartment 4-B, and an unexpected hero… Starring Kate Baldwin and Bryce Pinkham

February 2019 New York Theater Openings This month there are no Broadway openings, but ample glamour Off-Broadway. Freestyle Love Supreme, the improvisational hip-hop group that Lin-Manuel Miranda and Thomas Kail conceived in collaboration with Anthony Veneziale while they were working on "In The Heights," had its debut at Ars Nova in midtown in 2004.

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