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ForrestGump
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Fri Dec-16-05 07:27 AM Original message |
| PROJECT: "War and Peace - The Dangerously Amusing, Updated Edition" |
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I've been trying to come up with an updated title that reflects the contents of the work but Wh*re and Sleaze -- though faithful to the tone I've established thus far -- just doesn't do it for me 'cos I don't like the W-word much.
Okay, please let me explain something, first. The lovely and talented Dangerously Amused suggested an updating of Tolstoy's War And Peace that mixed the classic with the structure of a '60s Elvis movie -- songs wherever they fit the plot and, perhaps, even where they don't. So I looked up an online version of the book (books, rather) and improvised. I don't know if anyone else saw it, but we were having fun, at least. :D But the thread got archived while I wasn't looking. :-( Here it is: http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=show_topic&forum=105&topic_id=4382179 The War And Peace stuff is toward the bottom. Anyway, I wanted to add to it and so I'll collect what we have already and get going -- if this stays just a private joke, that's okay...just ignore us. :-) I understand that there are rather a few installments to this work... :o ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 03:50 AM 153. You make me smile and laugh, too, so thank you. You're dangerously amusing, and more! So, what you're saying is...if I keep you up for longer, you're going to come and demand a massage, the Fruitbasket Special? Hmm. Have you ever read War And Peace? Want me to read it to you now? :evilgrin: Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 04:03 AM 154. More dangerous than amusing, I'm afraid. : ) "Have you ever read War And Peace? Want me to read it to you now? :evilgrin: " Yeah baby! Sure! Could you maybe throw a few Elvis numbers in there too? I mean, wherever they best illustrate the story line. Mmmmm... the Special Edition Elvis Fruitbasket Special Massage. Oh god, every girl's dream... ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 04:15 AM 155. That's an awful lot of hype to live up to But I'll die trying. :D "War and Peace," by Leo Tolstoy Book One, Chapter One *ahem* "Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don't tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist -- I really believe he is Antichrist -- I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my 'faithful slave,' as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you -- sit down and tell me all the news." It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Marya Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasili Kuragin, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite. All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows: "If you have nothing better to do, Count , and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10- Annette Scherer." "Heavens! what a virulent attack!" replied the prince, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered white jumpsuit, red scarf, and white boots, and had gold stars on his breast and a serene expression on his face. He spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his sideburned, scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the sofa. "First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend's mind at rest," said he without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned. "Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like these if one has any feeling?" said Anna Pavlovna. "You are staying the whole evening, I hope?" "And the fete at the English ambassador's? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there," said the prince. "My daughter is coming for me to take me there." "I thought today's fete had been canceled. I confess all these festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome." "If they had known that you wished it, baby, the entertainment would have been put off," said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed. "Don't tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosiltsev's dispatch? You know everything." "What can one say about it?" replied the prince in a cold, listless tone. "What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours, dammit." Prince Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part. Anna Pavlovna Scherer on the contrary, despite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct. In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pavlovna burst out: Lord almighty I feel my temperature rising Higher and higher It’s burning through to my soul Girl, girl, girl You gonna set me on fire My brain is flaming I don’t know which way to go Your kisses lift me higher Like the sweet song of a choir You light my morning sky With burning love Ooh, ooh, ooh, I feel my temperature rising Help me, I’m flaming I must be a hundred and nine Burning, burning Burning And nothing can cool me I just might turn into smoke But I feel fine Cause your kisses lift me higher Like a sweet song of a choir And you light my morning sky With burning love *turn the page* How do you like it so far? :D Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 04:27 AM 156. LOL! OMG, I LOVE it !!!! Hee hee hee hee, aha ha ha ha ha, oh god, oh hee hee hee hee heeeeee... oh please, oh god... oh my stomach huuurrrrts!... aaaahhhh ha ha ha ha haaaaaa! Ggggggheee hee heee... :rofl: ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 04:45 AM 157. :D You're so cute when you roll on the floor with no underwear. Definitely. :hug: All right..picking up where we left off. Your tummy okay?: *ahem* She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity. "I think," said the prince with a smile, "that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of Prussia's consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup of Pepsi?" "In a moment. A propos," she added, becoming calm again, "I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Memphis, who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best French families. He is one of the genuine emigres, the good ones. And also the Abbe Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?" "I shall be delighted to meet them," said the prince. "But tell me," he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive of his visit, "is it true that the Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all accounts is a funky motherf***er." Prince Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were trying through the Dowager Empress Marya Fedorovna to secure it for the baron. Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was pleased with. "Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister," was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone. As she named the Empress, Anna Pavlovna's face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup d'estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness. The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak he had done of a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she said: "Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly beautiful. Howard Stern would love her." The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude. "I often think," she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate conversation -- "I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children? I don't speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don't like him: he's a snotty little sumbitch" she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. "Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don't deserve to have them." And she smiled her ecstatic smile. "I can't help it," said the prince. "Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity. Oh, look, my bump's growing by the minute" "Don't joke," she reprimanded, "and find some looser pants, will you? K-Mart in Cincinatti will definitely cloth you more appropriately; and I mean to have a serious talk with you, you lecherous f***. Do you know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves" (and her face assumed its melancholy expression), "he was mentioned at Her Majesty's and you were pitied...." The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned. "What would you have me do?" he said at last. "You know I did all a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That is the only difference between them." He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant. "And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you with," said Anna Pavlovna, looking up pensively. "I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can't be helped!" He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated, wishing that he had never brought up mention of their wild BDSM weekend in the Poconos. "Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?" she asked. "They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don't feel that weakness in myself as yet,I know a little person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary Bolkonskaya." Prince Vasili did not reply, though, wondering in what municipality marrying his own son could possibly be considered morally sound, and with the quickness of memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the head that he was considering this information. "Do you know," he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current of his thoughts, "that Anatole is costing me forty thousand big ones a year? And," he went on after a pause, "what will it be in five years, if he goes on like this? I mean, the f***ing credit card companies have got me by the cojones as it is" Presently he added: "That's what we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours rich? Is she stacked?" "Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed 'the King of Prussia.' He is very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutuzov's and will be here tonight." "Listen, dear Annette," said the prince, suddenly taking Anna Pavlovna's hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. "Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave -- slafe wigh an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that's all I want. And her bottom is very nice in its proportions." There was that word again: slave. Or 'slafe.' And she'd forgotten the 'safe word.' And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the maid of honor's left breast to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction. And he sang: When I walk through the door Baby be polite You gonna make me sore If you don't greet me right Don't you ever kiss me once Kiss me twice Treat me nice I know that you've been told It's not fair to tease So if you come on cold I'm really gonna freeze If you don't want me to be Cold as ice Treat me nice Make me feel at home If you really care Scratch my back and run your pretty Fingers through my hair You know I'll be your slave If you ask me to But if you don't behave I'll walk right out on you If you want my love then take my advice Treat me nice There it was again -- the smarmy sonofabitch just couldn't even make it through a song without getting hooked on the memory of that weekend of pain and passion. She sighed heavily, starting as she was suddenly surprised by how turned on she definitely was. :D Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 05:10 AM 158. Okay, so you have me in TEARS and GALES of SHRIEKING laughter now... I have SO bookmarked this thread... Definitely. Definitely bookmarked the thread. I think we need to explore the possibility of you re-writing all the classics like this. My god, people are just starving for something to be happy about in this godforsaken Bush junta. You could become a brazillionaire in no time! Well, and I wouldn't do too badly either, seeing as how I would get 10% off the top 'cuz it was my idea... You are tooooooo much! :loveya: ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 05:20 AM 159. You naughty girl What are you doing up so...early? :spank: I can only hope that you've giggled yourself into sleep by now. I definitely like your idea of you taking 10% off the top, by the way. In fact, if you take off that -- um -- support apparatus right now, I think it'd be about 10%. You know: put the 'bra' in 'brazillionaire.' :o Let's make it 20%: 10% for each side. :D You know, this War And Peace thing is pretty substantial. It's going to be a slow process, as we get ever more deep into the tale, but it'll be worth the hard work. Now, go to sleep so all this nifty and so-subtle subliminal suggestiveness can work on you. :loveya: Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 05:30 AM 160. Subliminal suggestions? I don't know WHAT you're talking about. But if you want me in bed, I'm happy to oblige. I mean, well... you know what I mean. :D Yeah, it's pretty much past my bedtime and I'll struggling with sheer exhaustion from laughter, so... a little sleep sounds good. Okay, I'm looking forward to the dreams starring the exquisite comic stylings of ForrestGump, to be honest with you. You get some sleep, too. G'night. :* :hug: :boring: ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 10:15 AM 166. Gonna get some Sleep. I promise! But, in the meantime, my love of fine literature compels me to nod off while continuing our reading. *ahem encore un fois* Book One, Chapter Two *ahem uno mas encore un fois* Anna Pavlovna's drawing room was gradually filling. The highest Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age, character, and personal hygiene, but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. Prince Vasili's daughter, the beautiful Helene Curtis, came to take her father to the ambassador's entertainment; she wore a slinky little black number cut down to there and her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess Bolkonskaya, known as la femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg,* was also there. She had been married during the previous winter, and being pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Usually with counts: count receptions. Apparently to no effect. Prince Vasili's son, Hippolyte -- who did, indeed, resemble nothing so much as a small hippopotamus -- had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced. The Abbe Morio and many others had also come, but that's their own business. * The most sexually-active woman in Petersburg. To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, "You have not yet seen the old biddy," or "You do not know my harpy of an aunt, the millstone about my damned neck?" and very gravely conducted him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna Pavlovna mentioned each one's name and then left them. Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them cared about; Anna Pavlovna observed these greetings with mournful and solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of her alimentary tract, "that, thank God, was better today." And each visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not return to her the whole evening. The young Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. Like an orangutan. As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect -- the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth -- seemed to be her own special and peculiar form of beauty, and subtly hinted at her marital skills. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life and health. Like Zorro. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable, frisky mood that day. The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying steps, patently drunk as a sailor, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her raiment sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, legs spread carelessly, as if all she was doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around her. "I have brought my work," said she in French, displaying her inner thigh and addressing all present. "Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me," she added, turning to her hostess. "You wrote that it was to be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed." And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty pink teddy, girdled with a thin ribbon just below her breasts. "Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be slutti...I mean...prettier than anyone else," replied Anna Pavlovna. "Soyuz? Wht's a spacecraft got to do with it? You silly cow" shocked silence. "You know," said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in French, turning to a general, "my husband is deserting me? He is going to get himself laid. Tell me what this wretched wedding ring is for?" she added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene. "What a delightful woman this little princess is!" said Prince Vasili to Anna Pavlovna. "I like the cut of her jib. Moxy. Nice boobies, too." One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored cargo shorts fashionable at that time, a Linux T-shirt, and a blue Paddington Bear coat. This stout young bastard was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known man-slut of Catherine's time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only just returned from Cal Tech where he had been educated, and this was his first appearance in non-digital society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room, the one that indicated his status as being lower than whale sh**. But in spite of this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over her face when she lowered her gaze to Pierre's groin. Though he was certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room. "It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her. Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance. Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty's health. Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: "Do you know the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man." "No, but I know the Abbey Road, and it's abrilliant album. But, seriously, yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very interesting but hardly feasible. It didn't -- I mean it won't -- work for Chamberlain, and it's not going to work now, either." "You think so?" rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and get away from the insolent whelp to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbe's plan worthless crap. "We will talk of it later," said Anna Pavlovna with a smile. And having got rid of this young stud who did not know how to behave, she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready to butt in at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pavlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares her barely concealed lust for Pierre was evident. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbe. Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna Pavlovna's was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined expression on the faces of those present he was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing. Finally, his chance came: There must be lights burning brighter Somewhere Got to be birds Flying higher In a sky more blue If I can dream Of a better land Where all my brothers walk hand in hand Tell me why Oh, why Oh, why can’t my dream come true There must be peace and understanding Sometime Strong winds of promise That will blow away All the doubt and fear If I can dream Of a warmer sun Where hope keeps shining on everyone Tell me why Oh, why Oh, why won’t that sun appear We’re lost in a cloud With too much rain We’re trapped in a world That’s troubled with pain But as long as a man Has the strength to dream He can redeem his soul And fly Deep in my heart there’s a trembling Question Still I am sure That the answer The answer's gonna come Somehow Out there in the dark There’s a beckoning candle And while I can think While I can talk While I can stand While I can walk While I can dream Oh, please let my dream Come true Right now Oh, let it come true right now Oh, let it..... The ovation was thunderous. Anna Pavlovna's aunt gamely hurled her panties toward the unkempt minstrel. The ribbon that bound the breast of Princess Bolkonskaya's pink teddy spontaneously popped off. Prince Vasili repeatedly shouted out "Freebird! Freeebiiiirrrrd!" It was totally bitchen. Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 10:51 AM 168. Oh god, hysterical!! You have outdone yourself, if it is possible! This is, quite honestly, the absolutely funniest stuff I have read in quite a while. Are you making this up as you go along? Oh my dear, get some sleep. Or, wait. Are you only this funny when you are ill and sleep deprived? Oh heavens, what a conundrum! Shall I wish you well or ill? Shall I endeavor to get you into bed, or to keep you awake and productively stimulated? Oh horrors! Oh help! Oh, what's a girl to do...? ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 11:08 AM 169. I might finally be fading Yeah made it up as I went along like a stream of consciousness that probably reveals things like the top secret secret that I'm a totally deranged Gaugin-Van Gogh type but with two good ears and did I just say that out loud uh-oh did I really say that oops uh-oh uh-oh definitely uh-oh Let me try that again. :-) Uh-oh. Getting productively stimulated. But I like the bit about getting me into bed. And I'm glad you like the story. The musical. :D Kinda excited to see what happens, because this is the first time I've read War and Peace and I was just a kid when I saw the BBC series. :hug: Kiss me, Hardy. Oops...there I go again. :o Rosebud.....  Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 11:15 AM 171. Fade away, you sooo deserve a good sleep! I will likely follow soon after. Sweet dreams! :boring: :boring: ForrestGump Sat Dec-03-05 02:50 PM 174. Thank you. I hope you're still asleep. I did go to bed. So I was at least true to my word. :-) But while I'm here, and before I fall asleep at the wheel... :D *ahem* *aaaaHEMM* Book One, Chapter the Third Anna Pavlovna's reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. Hummers for everyone. With the exception of the aunt, beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, and masculinely chiefly, had formed round the abbe. Another, of young people, was groping the beautiful Princess Helene, Prince Vasili's daughter, and the little Princess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age. Could be because she was pregnant -- duh -- but, anyway, we hardly need reinforce any negative body-image attitudes encouraged by mass media. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna Pavlovna. The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished manners, wearing black Ray Bans, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her guests. But not in a Jeffrey Dahmer way. This isn't that sort of book. As a clever maitre d'hotel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly choice morsels. Actually, it is sounding a little Hannibal Lecter now, it must be admitted. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d'Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d'Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity (no, he didn't shoot himself with his Magnum), and that there were particular reasons for Buonaparte's hatred of him. "Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte," said Anna Pavlovna, with a pleasant feeling that there was something a la Louis XV in the sound of that sentence: "Contez nous cela, Vicomte." The vicomte bowed, inwardly seething that she seemed unwilling to properly pronounce "viscount," and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to listen to his tale while admiring his firm, yet supple, tail. "The vicomte knew the duc personally," whispered Anna Pavlovna to of the guests. "Why a duck?," asked the guest, his query trailing behind her as Anna moved off to drop names as readily as if they were hastily-grabbed Hot Pockets overcooked in the microwave. "The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur," said she to another. "Racketeer?," replied the puzzled, and now concerned, guest. To no avail. "How evidently he belongs to the best society," said she to a third, whose response was a barely audible "whatever"; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished roast tofurkey on a hot dish. The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile. He was sure taking his time about this. "Come over here, Helene, dear," said Anna Pavlovna to the beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of another group. The princess smiled, wishing that Anna Pavlovna would shut the hell up so the vicomte could get on with his story, that was probably boring as sh**, anyway. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which she had first entered the room - the smile of a perfectly beautiful woman strung out on whatever Laura Bush is popping these days. With a slight rustle of her black, body-hugging sheath, trimmed with rhinestones of Austrian crystal, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom - which in the fashion of those days were very much exposed - and she seemed to bring the glamour of a movie star with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect. She was a truly bodacious babe. "How lovely! Wo!" said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his shoulders and dropped his trousers as if startled by something extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her unchanging smile. "Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience," said he, smilingly inclining his head as he retrieve his pants and rebuckled his studded belt. It happens to every man, at some point. Nothing to be ashamed of. The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor's face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile. The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Helene. "Wait a moment, I'll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking of?" she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. "Fetch me my workbag, numbnuts, or I'll tell them about the magazines you've got stashed under your mattress." There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat. "Now I am all right," she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took up her work. Self-centered little hussy. Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her. Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like his sister's, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions. Exactly like George W. Bush, in other words. "It's not going to be a ghost story?" said he, sitting down beside the princess and hastily adjusting his crotch, as if without this instrument he could not begin to speak. "Why no, my dear fellow," said the astonished narrator, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. "Because I hate ghost stories," said Prince Hippolyte in a tone which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had uttered them. Exactly like George W. Bush, in other words. He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. This sounds very familiar, to all who have had the misfortune of seeing or hearing George W. Bush. He was dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings. A flight suit, in other words. The vicomte told his tale very neatly. About time, too. It was an anecdote, then current, to the effect that the Duc d'Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon a very startled Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress' favors and who deeply resented the uninvited intimacy and emptied several Kleenex boxes before he was satisfied that he was acceptably wiped off, and that in his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject (one can hardly blame him), and was thus at the duc's mercy. The latter spared him - whether a Deliverance-style scene fell between fit and consciousness will never be known for sure - and this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death. And you thought the IRS was bad. Bonaparte clearly had a terrible case of Napoleon Syndrome. The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated. "Charming!" said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance at the little princess. "Charming!" whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story prevented her from going on with it. "I'm horny!" The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbe, so she hurried to the rescue. She just couldn't leave well enough alone, could she, so now we again have to suffer interminable pause before the vicomte could continue with his tales of the Lifestyles of the Rich and Perverse. Accursed busybody. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young man's simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved. "The means are... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the people," the abbe was saying. "It is only necessary for one powerful nation like Russia - barbaric as she is said to be - to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance of power of Old Europe, and it would save the world! And we'd have the contracts for rebuilding, too, as well as oil monopolies." "But how are you to get that balance?" Pierre was beginning. At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian's face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women. "I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of the climate," said he. "But the food really, really sucks. And when was the last time you heard of an Italian named 'Pierre,' anyway? I'm French you silly woman. Sheesh." Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger circle. They all joined hands upon a signal from their busy hostess. Presently, the vicomte stepped forward and started to sing forcefully to a syncopated beat as the abbe fell to the ground within the circle's center and began breakdancing like a demented pillbug. Hey! A little less conversation, a little more action, please All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me A little more bite and a little less bark A little less fight and a little more spark Shut your mouth and open up your heart and, baby, satisfy me Satisfy me, baby Baby, close your eyes and listen to the music Dig to the summer breeze It's a groovy night and I can show you how to use it So come along with me and put your mind at ease Hey! A little less conversation, a little more action, please All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me A little more bite and a little less bark A little less fight and a little more spark Shut your mouth and open up your heart and, baby, satisfy me Satisfy me, baby Come on, baby, I'm tired of talking Grab your coat and let's start walking Come on, come on Come on, come on Come on, come on Don't procrastinate, don't articulate Girl it's getting late, you just stick and wait around Hyyaaaaa!! A little less conversation, a little more action, please All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me A little more bite and a little less bark A little less fight and a little more spark Close your mouth and open up your heart and, baby, satisfy me Satisfy me, baby Satisfy me Satisfy me, baby Satisfy me Satisfy me, girl Satisfy me Yeah, satisfy me, baby Satisfy me The merriment, contagious like Ebola, took rather some time to subside. "Dear sir, what a delightful story," cooed Anna Pavlovna. Do you know how simply wonderful it is to have you here in our midst?" "You hum it, baby, and I'll sing it." *rimshot* "Oh. Yes. Quite. Quite. I should imagine so" Dangerously Amused Sat Dec-03-05 04:55 PM 175. Uh... why yes. Still asleep. Of course. Sleep-posting now. :rofl: Fabulous work again! Dude, you are wicked funny. And amazing - I've never known someone who could crank out utter hilarity at a stream-of-consciousness rate. My god, how DO you do it?!? Of course, you realize I'm getting a full-on endorphin addiction here, and when you get well and return to the real world again and I don't get the next War & Peace fix right away... oh man, I'm gonna crash real bad... :D You really need to do this for a living. If you don't already. I hope some others out there get the chance to read all of this and appreciate it! :pals: ForrestGump Sun Dec-04-05 01:03 AM 180. Sleep-posting? Subject to suggestion? Hmmm... :evilgrin: No. I'm too boyscout for that. I'm also a pathological liar, though that may not be true. Me return to the real world? Ha........ha........ha. Ha. Dude, not even. So no worries about endorphin wthdrawals. Though sometimes, yes, I have taken extended leave of absence from DU -- those missions, that I receive details on over the Big Red Phone -- are Classified Phoenix-Level G-9 Secret, so don't even ask. but there ensues much running, and jumping, and firing of poison-dart guns while silhouetted against the roiling flames of exploding ammo dumps and fuel depots. See what I mean about me and the real world? Besides, I'm not feeling like going anywhere right now. For some reason. :-) Gotta finish the book, too! :hug: ForrestGump Mon Dec-05-05 04:22 PM 182. Come, my child. Take my hand and I will lead you not into temptation -- well, maybe a bit -- but deliver you from the realm of three digits. You're almost there. :D I mean, you could deliver yourself -- I am woman, hear me roar, and all that good stuff -- but I just kinda like the way that one sounds. I might try it again, maybe going more for an Olivier-tinged quality. Or perhaps James Earl Jones? Hmmm...I'll decide after we finish this installment. Let's see...where was I? Oh, yes. Ready? *ahhhhhh-hem* Book One, Chapter Four Just them another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew Bolkonski, the little princess' oft-cuckolded husband. He was a very handsome young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, offered a most striking contrast to his sleazy little wife. It was evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned the whole company. "You are off to the war, Prince?" said Anna Pavlovna. "Ah, sh**. Sorry, Pavvy, I just screwed up my f***ing eyes. Second time this week. Good news, though: General Kutuzov," said Bolkonski, rapidly blinking, speaking French and stressing the last syllable of the general's name like a Frenchman, "has been pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp...." "And Lise, your wife?" "She will go to the country. For a stay at a spa, apparently a rather delightful one, dubbed the Chicken Ranch." "Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?" "Andre," said his wife, addressing her husband in the same coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, "the vicomte has been telling us such a line of bull about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!" Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes -- "Ah! Holy f***!" -- and turned away, in tears of pain. Pierre, who from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. He remembered their long, warm nights at boarding school as if they had been just the week prior. Before he looked round Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was fondling his arm, but when he saw Pierre's beaming face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile. "There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?" said he to Pierre. "I knew you would be here," replied Pierre. "I will come to supper with you. May I?" he added in a sultry, low voice so as not to disturb the vicomte who was continuing his story. "No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre's hand to his yearning groin to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasili and his daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass. "You must excuse me, dear Vicomte," said Prince Vasili to the Frenchman, holding him down by the top of his head in a friendly way to prevent his rising. "This unfortunate fete at the ambassador's deprives me of a carnal pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting party," said he, turning to Anna Pavlovna. His daughter, Princess Helene, passed between the chairs, lightly holding up the folds of her dress to expose her naked nether regions, and the smile shone still more radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him. "Very lovely," said Prince Andrew. "Very," said Pierre. "I'd hit it." "Perhaps we can arrange something, old chum," winked Prince Andrew. "A little sumpin' sumpin', peradventure under the guise of a three-way back massage." "Innocent enough," agreed Pierre. "And with two of us working our magic on her, what xx-person could resist her natural urges?" "Quite so, old friend." In passing Prince Vasili seized Pierre's hand and said to Anna Pavlovna: "Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women." Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She could not help but smile at the double entendre that innocently revealed the magnitude and character of her burgeoning lust for the young Italian with the French name. And what the hell Italian would be named "Pierre," anyway? She knew his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili's, that much was certain. The elderly lady who had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed had left her kindly and tearworn face and it now expressed only anxiety and fear. "How about my son Boris, Prince?" said she, hurrying after him into the anteroom. "I can't remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me what news I may take back to my poor boy." Although Prince Vasili listened reluctantly and not very politely to the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an ingratiating and appealing smile, and tucked her hands in his belt that he might not go away. "What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he would be transferred to the National Guard at once?" said she. "Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can," answered Prince Vasili, "but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I should advise you to appeal to through Prince Golitsyn. That would be the best way." "But, my dear Prince, I cannot even pronounce either Rumyayn..Rum...whatever the f** it is, or Gol...Goli...the other one. What shall I do?" "Give me a break, lady," seethed Prince Vasili under his breath, though he did, in truth know of this verbal deficiency through her constant referral to him as "that Vaseline man." The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskaya, belonging to one of the best families in Russia, but she was poor, with a heavy brow ridge, and having long been out of society had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son. It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasili that she had obtained an invitation to Anna Pavlovna's reception and had sat listening to the vicomte's story. Prince Vasili's words frightened her, an embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a moment; then she smiled again and dutched Prince Vasili's waist more tightly. "Listen to me, Prince," said she. "I have never yet asked you for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my father's friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God's sake to do this for my son - and I shall always regard you as a benefactor," she added hurriedly. "No, don't be angry, but promise! I have asked Golitsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were," she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes. "And you had better believe that I will f*** you up, but good, if you don't do me this one lousing, stinking favor." "Papa, we shall be late," said Princess Helene, turning her beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she stood waiting by the door. Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized if it is to last. Prince Vasili knew this, and having once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But in Princess Drubetskaya's case he felt, after her second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had made him an offer he could not refuse. She had reminded him of what was quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the first steps in his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one of those women - mostly mothers - who, having once made up their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end, and are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even to make scenes. This last consideration moved him. It also scared the crap out of him. "My dear Anna Mikhaylovna," said he with his usual familiarity and weariness of tone, "it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father's memory, I will do the impossible - your son shall be transferred to the National Guard. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?" "My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you - I knew your kindness! But, please, get your hand off it - people will talk." He turned to go. "Wait - just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guard..." she faltered. "You are on good terms with Michael Ilarionovich Kutuzov... recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then..." Prince Vasili smiled. What. Ever. "No, I won't promise that. You don't know how Kutuzov is pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants." "No, but do promise! I won't let you go! My dear benefactor..." "Papa," said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before, "we shall be late." "Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?" "Yes, whiny little bitch, interrupting her elders. Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?" "Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don't promise." "Do promise, do promise, Vasili!" cried Anna Mikhaylovna as he went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face. Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone her face resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the group where the vicomte was still talking, and again pretended to listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was accomplished. As she trudged wearily through the door and out through the elegant main entrance, she began to sing, wistfully. Summer kisses, winter tears That was what she gave to me Never thought I'd travel all alone The trail of memories Happy hours, lonely years But I guess I can't complain For I still recall the summer sun Through all the winter rain The fire of love The fire of love Can burn from afar And nothing can light The dark of the night Like a falling star Summer kisses, winter tears Like the stars they fade away Leaving me to spend my lonely nights With dreams of yesterday Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a hansom cab came hoovering through the intersection, its furiously-rolling wheels catching the very hem of her slip as it narrowly avoided squishing her to pieces. "Hey! Hey! I'm walking here! I'm walking here!" "A**hole." Dangerously Amused Mon Dec-05-05 10:54 PM 183. Suppose I WANT to be led into temptation.... what do I take then? :rofl: Once again, your wicked cleverness sends endorphin spasms gushing 'ere my bod and brain; you are a profoundly funny xy person! :D Though, in all seriousness, I really must insist that we capitalize and get a literary agent on this project as quickly as possible. ForrestGump Mon Dec-05-05 11:17 PM 184. I could tell you, but I'd taste the igneous pizza again And you already managed to squeeze "spasms," "gushing," "bod" into a single line. :o :D I like that literary ability. As you can probably tell by the reaction of...no....no...I said I wouldn't answer the question posed in your subject line. Just as well we have this thread to ourselves! I think there're at least a couple more chapters left in this "War and Peace" thing, so I'll get on it lickety....split. I want Agent Orange to represent our efforts...I've heard he's a real gas. (okay, so agent orange wasn't gaseous -- I just didn't want to push my luck by adding words that hint of fluids pushed rapidly through small openings) ForrestGump Tue Dec-06-05 08:54 PM 185. All right. Hot off the presses... Continuing on. Are you comfortable there/ Would you rather sit on my knee? *ahem* Book One, Chapter 5 "And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at Milan?" asked Anna Pavlovna, "and of the comedy of the people of Genoa and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a throne and granting the petitions of the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one's head whirl like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist! It is as if the whole world had gone freakin' crazy." Prince Andrew looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face with a sarcastic smile and swiftly presented his male member to the astounded Anna. "'Dieu me la donne, gare a qui la touche!'* They say he was very fine when he said that," he remarked, repeating the words in Italian: "'Dio mi l'ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi! Primavera...carbonera...Boyardee!'" * God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware! But the burst of Italian did not have the desired effect on Anna Pavlovna. Prince Andrew zipped up and cursed the day he had ever seen A Fish Called Wanda. "I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run over," Anna Pavlovna continued, her sxual innuendo not lost on the now-confined Prince's apparatus. "The sovereigns will not be able to endure this man who is a menace to everything." "The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia," said the vicomte, polite but hopeless: "The sovereigns, madame... What have they done for Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!" and he became more animated. "And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending ambassadors to compliment the usurper." And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position. A tiny, but audible, burst of flatulence loosed itself with his motion. "Damned leather breeches. They are very noisy, you know. Sometimes they make odd noises when I turn." Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time through his Viewmaster 3D viewer, suddenly turned completely round toward the little princess, gagging and struggling to breath, and having asked for a needle began carving the Conde coat of arms on his forearm. He explained this to her with as much gravity as if she had asked him to do it. "Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d' azur - maison Conde," said he. The princess listened, smiling. "If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer," the vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which he is better acquainted than anyone else, does not listen to others but follows the current of his own thoughts, "things will have gone too far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French society - I mean f***ing good French society, if you will excuse my French - will have been forever destroyed, and then..." He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his legs, his hands tucked deeply in his pockets and the sound of metal clanging on metal emanating forth from the general area as to hands moved to and fro beneath the fabric. Pierre wished to make a remark, for the display interested him, but Anna Pavlovna, who had him under observation, interrupted: "The Emperor Alexander," said she, with the melancholy which always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, "has declared that he will leave it to the Iraqi...I mean...French people themselves to choose their own form of government; and I believe that once free from the usurper, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the arms of its rightful king," she concluded, trying to be amiable to the royalist emigrant. "That is doubtful," said Prince Andrew. "Monsieur le Vicomte quite rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it will be difficult to return to the old regime." "From what I have heard," said Pierre, blushing and breaking into the conversation, "almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to Bonaparte's side." "It is the Buonapartists who say that," replied the vicomte without looking at Pierre. "At the present time it is difficult to know the real state of French public opinion. Let's run a poll." "Bonaparte has said so," remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic smile. It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his remarks at him, though without looking at him. "'Well, la-de-f***in'-da, Bonaparte said so. I showed them the path to glory, you dipsh**, but they did not follow it,'" Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting Napoleon's words. "'I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.' I do not know how far he was justified in saying so, but it's kinda sexy, I must say." "Not in the least," replied the vicomte. "After the murder of the duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some people," he went on, turning on Anna Pavlovna, "he ever was a hero, after the murder of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and one hero less on earth." Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile their appreciation of the vicomte's epigram, that began peeking through an incompletely-closed zipper, Pierre again broke into the conversation, and though Anna Pavlovna felt sure he would say something inappropriate, she was unable to stop him. "The execution of the Duc d'Enghien," declared Monsieur Pierre, "was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole responsibility of that deed." "Dieu! Mon Dieu! Sacre merde!" muttered Anna Pavlovna in a terrified whisper. "What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows greatness of soul?" said the little princess, smiling and drawing his pelvis nearer to her. "Oh! Oh!" exclaimed several voices. From upstairs. "Keep it down, up there, you horny bastards!" exclaimed Anna Pavlovna. "Capital!" said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his cheeks with the palm of his hand. The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his audience over his spectacles and continued. "I say so," he continued desperately, "because the Bourbons fled from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general good, he could not stop short for the sake of one man's life." "Won't you come over to the other table?" suggested Anna Pavlovna. "Like, right now?" But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her. "No," cried he, becoming more and more eager, "Napoleon is great because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, preserved all that was good in it - equality of citizenship and freedom of speech and of the press - and only for that reason did he obtain power." "Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have called him a great man," remarked the vicomte. "And then there's the whole Diebold issue. Something fishy there, boy. It stinks to high heaven. Someone vomited in the petunias." "He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he might rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that he was a great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!" continued Monsieur Pierre, becoming increasingly tumescent as he got into the swing of his rhetoric, betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition and protrusion his extreme youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind. "What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that... But won't you come to this other table?" repeated Anna Pavlovna. "Now." "Rousseau's Contrat social," said the vicomte with a tolerant smile. "I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas." "Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide," again interjected an ironical voice. "Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation from prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas Napoleon has retained in full force." "Liberty and equality," said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words were, "high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who does not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached liberty and equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier? On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but that f***wit Buonaparte has destroyed it." Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the vicomte and |
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Fri Dec-16-05 07:48 AM Response to Original message |
| 1. ..and what?...I guess I found the post-size limit... |
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Fri Dec-16-05 08:24 AM Response to Reply #1 |
| 2. Oh, bravo! Braaaaa-voooooh! |
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Fri Dec-16-05 08:49 AM Response to Reply #2 |
| 3. Actually, my knee |
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Sat Dec-17-05 12:57 PM Response to Reply #3 |
| 4. Hey! I think we're almost there! |
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