The First Christmas, Through Mary's Eyes

In honor of this holy night and joyous tomorrow, I give you an excerpt from The Life of Mary As Seen By the Mystics. This book is a compilation of visions in which Mary appeared to four Catholic mystics and gave them an inside look at both her life and Christ's; it has the Nihil Obstat and the Imprimatur, which state that the work is free from doctrinal/moral errors and can be safely read by devout Christians. It doesn't declare it to be gospel truth - the reader may believe it if he so chooses. The most interesting parts, in my opinion, are those in which they quote Mary directly (don't read her description of the Crucifixion without some tissues). Anyway, here's an excerpt from the Nativity chapter.

Toward midnight a channel of brilliant light came down from the highest heaven and terminated in sparkling fire at the Blessed Virgin. In it was an extraordinary movement of celestial glories which took on the forms of choirs of angels. 

Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the infant God was born, glorious and transfigured as on Mount Tabor.

There the God-Man lay, naked, utterly clean and pure. And from Him radiated such marvelous light and splendor that the sun could not be compared to it. The angels could be heard gently singing canticles of wonderful sweetness. 
When the Holy Mother of God perceived that she had been delivered - for her child came forth without any pain or injury to her - she immediately bowed her head, placed a cloth over his tiny body, and adored Him with the greatest respect and reverence, saying: "Welcome, my God, and my Lord, and my Son!" 
Then the divine Child suspended the effects of His transfiguration and assumed the appearance of one capable of suffering. The Babe now moved, shivered with cold, and stretching out His little arms, cried out. 
Bending down, Mary tenderly clasped Him to her heart and with great joy warmed Him against her cheek and breast, while thousands of angels knelt and adored their incarnate Creator. 

And in her own words: 

"And when I gave birth to Him, I brought Him forth without pain, just as I had conceived Him with such joy of soul and body that my feet did not feel the ground on which they were standing. And as He had filled my soul with happiness on entering my body, so did He again come forth in such a way that my whole body and soul exulted with indescribable joy and in such a way that my virginity was not impaired. 

How overwhelmed I was when I perceived and gazed at His beauty, and when I realized that I was not worthy of such a Son. And then, too, when I looked at the places where the nails would be driven into His hands and feet, how my eyes filled with tears and how my heart was torn with grief! And when my Son saw the tears in my eyes, He was sad unto death. 

But then, when I contemplated the power of His Divinity, I regained confidence, for I knew that it was His will and that it would be for the good, and I made my whole will conform to His. 

Thus my happiness was ever mixed with sorrow."

Merry Christmas, my friends!!

Image: The Nativity by Antonio da Correggio, circa 1529-1530

"I Have Been Very Negligent"

Last Friday, Jane Austen (may she rest in peace) turned 421, and I had a lovely tea with my mother and some friends of ours to celebrate the occasion. For whatever reason, I didn't feel the need to write a florid post in honor of dear Jane (hence the post title, a quote from Henry Tilney), but I've since decided that such an auspicious event deserves some mention, so here goes - better late than never! I give you these two little poems which I hope will please.

Lydia Bennet

Her dancing eyes, her jaunty look,

A head which ne’er peeped in a serious book,

Her bouncing gait, her saucy curl,

All make her a silly, dear girl.

She was my first Jane Austen friend,

And our connection will ne’er end.

Miss Jane Austen 

Lizzy met Darcy while at a ball,

Their mutual dislike made quite a muss; 

Neither knew then that in love they would fall - 

Their sweet story is called Pride and Prejudice. 

Emma made matches, until she was burned;

Young Frank adored another. 

Then of Knightley's true love she learned,

And he became more than her brother. 

Miss Morland and Tilney both loved to read,

Though she sometimes was a bit silly, 

Till she found that he really loved her, indeed,

Because she was pure as a lily. 

For these tales and others we often get lost in,

Let us thank the dear authoress, Miss Jane Austen!

Images: An illustration for chapter 15 of Pride and Prejudice by H.M. Brock (the scene in which Denny introduces Wickham to the Bennet girls), and a still from the 2007 ITV version of Northanger Abbey. 

A Bit of Fragonard

One of my favorite 18th century paintings, The Love Letter by Jean Honoré Fragonard, circa 1770. 
I adore her robe à la Française (the sack back gown, an informal style worn around the house in those days), her cap, and the exquisite lighting. Her pretty little half-smile makes me think she'd be a fascinating, witty friend. 

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Happy Thanksgiving!

Dear friends,
I want to wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving - I'm truly grateful for each and every one of you. Have a blessed, joyous day, and know that God adores you more than you can imagine.

Love,
Izzy

Image: The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth, by Jennie A. Brownscombe, 1914.

Nell Gwyn's Death Day

On this day in 1687, at 10:00 p.m., to be precise, Nell Gwyn, one of the first actresses on the British stage and Charles II's most well-known mistress, died in her house in Pall Mall, London. Why am I bringing her up? Well, last spring I was casting about my metaphorical fishing line to see if any vivid story ideas would bite; I'd had a curious interest in this woman for years, noticing various references to her in history and literature, and as I wondered if some inspiration would come, she grasped the end of my line, yanking me in headlong. I was captivated by her spunk and zest for life; by the end of the summer, I'd completed a screenplay of 63 pages, which I then revised to create the current version (77 pages, the longest work I've ever written).  It traces her rise from serving drinks in her mother's bawdy house, to treading the boards of the stage at the King's Playhouse (the current Theatre Royal in Drury Lane), to strolling the halls of Whitehall, Charles II's palace. 

In my narrative, I chose to focus on her good qualities, since too often she's seen as a stupid strumpet who used her sexual allure to get whatever she wanted, and there was much more to her than that. Her mind was especially keen; she was known for her wit, and became one of the most beloved actresses of her time, delighting audiences with her spot-on comedic timing. True, she made some less-than-moral life choices, but the Restoration period in England (from 1660, when Charles II returned from exile and restored the monarchy after Oliver Cromwell's death, to circa 1688, when Charles's younger brother, James II, abdicated) was a very decadent era - after the Puritanical interval known as the "Interregnum," during most of which Cromwell held power (1649 -1660), people were ready to cut loose. And cut loose they did, especially when Charles set the fashion with his own rather reckless pleasure-seeking - among his good deeds, though, was his 1662 decree that women's roles should be played by women. He got the idea from the French theatres (he'd been living in France for much of the Interregnum).
His relationship with Nell, from all accounts, was one of genuine affection and love; on his deathbed, in fact, he told James, "Let not poor Nelly starve." She wrote to James later that Charles "was my friend and allowed me to tell him all my griefs and did like a friend advise and told me who was my friend and who was not," and that she had "never loved your brother or your self interestedly," that is, merely for her own gain. 

I shan't give away all the details (I'm not even sure if my work will amount to anything), but I didn't want the day of her death to pass without giving it some acknowledgment. In the name of all actresses, both established and aspiring, who enliven their audiences' hearts with great good humor, I say: "Thanks, Nelly!" 

Image: A close up of Sir Peter Lely's portrait of Nell, titled Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn ("Mrs." was sometimes a courtesy title, especially for actresses). 

The Death of Marie Antoinette

Today, in 1793, Marie Antoinette was executed. In tribute to this much slandered lady, here's the death scene from my novelette The Martyr-Queen. 

In the early hours of October 16^th, 1793, Antoinette, now thirty-seven, sits in her cell in the Temple prison in Paris, writing a last letter to her sister-in-law Élisabeth. It is to you, my sister, that I write for the last time … She reflects on Élisabeth’s unwavering support during the four years of imprisonment … I have just been condemned, not to a shameful death, for it is shameful only for criminals, but to rejoin your brother.   Like him innocent, I hope to display the same firmness as he did in his last moments…She recalls her husband’s recent death by guillotine: sobbing in the prison the night before, saying her goodbyes as he squeezed her hand for the last time, then watching him mount the scaffold the next morning, seeing the blade drop, severing her heart … Let my son never forget his father’s last words, which I distinctly repeat to him, never to try to avenge our death. I have to mention something which pains my heart. I know how much distress this child must have given you. Forgive him, my sister, remember his age and how easy it is to make a child say anything you want, even something he does not understand …  

Tears sting her eyes as she recollects her motherly misery: after Louis’s execution, her little seven-year-old son, Louis-Charles, was torn from her arms by the revolutionary authorities after an hour-long struggle. At her trial, in order to blacken her name as much as possible, they made him testify that she had immorally abused him – him, her little “chou d’amour”. When a jury member goaded her to address the accusation, she answered, “If I did not reply, it is because nature refuses to answer such a charge against a mother.” Gazing at the women in the courtroom crowd, she continued, “I appeal to every mother here.” The people bellowed their disgust at the charge, but the moment of sympathy was all too brief. Upon being asked if she had anything to say for herself, she addressed her accusers: “I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long.”

… I die in the Catholic, Apostolic and Roman religion, in the religion of my father, in which I was brought up and which I have always professed… I sincerely beg pardon of God for all the faults I have committed during my life. I hope that in His goodness he will receive my last wishes, and those I have long since made, that he will receive my soul in his mercy and goodness. I ask pardon of all those I know, and of you my sister in particular, for all the distress I may, without wishing it, have caused them. I forgive all my enemies the harm they have done me. I say farewell here to my aunts and to all my brothers and sisters. I had friends. The idea of being separated for ever from them and their troubles forms one of my greatest regrets in dying . . . She thinks back on these dear companions: the Princesse de Lamballe, with her angelic spirit and her ghastly end – cut from her body by a vengeful mob, her head was brought on a pike for Antoinette to see, but she swooned in horror before they could display it. Then, of course, the wise Duchesse de Polignac, and the brave Swedish Count Axel von Fersen, who had helped with the arrangements for the family’s attempted escape; they’d only gotten as far as the town of Varennes before they’d been re-captured . . .  Let them know, at least, that up to my last moment I was thinking of them. Farewell, my good and loving sister. May this letter reach you! Think of me always, I embrace you with all my heart, together with those poor, dear children. My God! What an agony it is to leave them forever! Farewell! Farewell! I shall henceforth pay attention to nothing but my spiritual duties.

A few hours later, it’s time. The young maid who attends her arrives to help her prepare, dressing her in an unadorned white piqué morning gown and tucking her hair, gone grey with suffering, into a white lawn cap. The men arrive to conduct her to her death, and the executioner, Sanson, crops her tresses for the blade. Her hands bound behind her, she gets into the cart they have brought, and after a ride through jeering crowds, she arrives at the scaffold. The priest at her side (one of those who has renounced the Catholic faith which Antoinette holds so dear) advises her, “This is the moment, Madame, to arm yourself with courage.”

“Courage? The moment when my ills are going to end is not the moment when my courage is going to fail me,” she replies. 

As she hastens up the steps, she treads upon Sanson’s foot; startled, he cries out in pain. Giving him her most gracious smile, she apologizes, “I am sorry, Monsieur. I did not do it on purpose.” Kneeling for a moment, she whispers a prayer, then rises. With a last look toward the Temple prison, she murmurs, “Adieu, once again, my children. I go to rejoin your father.” Sanson lays her on the plank, tying her down with rough ropes. 

The blade falls. 

Image: A close-up of a 1790 portrait of Antoinette with her children Marie Thérèse and Louis-Charles, by François Dumont. 

Things for Aspiring Christian Playwrights and Screenwriters to Think On

In addition to being an actress, I'm also an aspiring screenwriter/playwright, and I've often mulled over the quandaries we Christian writers face. A while back, I asked my devout actor/screenwriter friend about choosing characters around which to center our stories. For example, are we believers justified in writing about persons (say, historical figures) who led lives of sin, but repented at the end? Should we automatically rule out subjects because their lives were less than exemplary if they were eventually redeemed? I want to write things which will delight my audiences while teaching subtle lessons as well, and my friend's advice was so excellent that I decided to share it with my fellow Christian writers out there; it ties in with what he told me about playing less-than-moral  characters. 

1. - The question you must ask is: "What is the reason for telling the story?" If you're glamorizing the character's bad deeds and tacking on the lesson at the end half-heartedly, that's not okay. Characters can and should have flaws because no one was perfect (except Jesus, of course, and his Mother Mary), and besides, perfect characters aren't very relatable or interesting to audiences. However, you don't want to make your audiences fall in love with characters who are ultimately evil - as my friend so aptly put it, "you have to remember that audiences are most vulnerable in a dark theater." You have to guide their emotions in a manner which will lead them to the truth, not to evil. Is your end goal to do that, or to show evil (as something to be avoided), or to inspire caution? All of these are fine intentions; to conclude, the best tales are those which sink deep into your mind and heart, causing you to ruminate over them, and which ultimately draw you to truth.

2. - When it comes to determining if certain historical characters or classic books are worthy subjects  (especially if the persons are very flawed but you do have a duty to tell the tale truthfully),
the key point to consider is: does it ultimately lead people to God? If so, it's worth telling. Cautionary tales are good, for example, and it's just fine to simply entertain people; a deep theme isn't required. As long as the story doesn't offend God, you're good.

3. - Things which offend God (which we ought to steer clear of): sin that can't be faked (e.g., profanity, nudity) versus those that can (murder, stealing, etc.). If you portray the virtue as good and  the sin (either simulated or implied) as evil, you're okay.

And there you have it, my friends. Pick up yours pens and create true beauty - my prayers go with you.

Image: Straying Thoughts by Edmund Blair Leighton (1913)

Advice for Christian Actors and Actresses

Here's a little wisdom which a devoutly Christian actor/screenwriter friend shared with me about playing evil characters (because the baddies are necessary, otherwise there would be no one with whom to contrast the virtuous hero). These are two important requirements for playing unsavory persons.

1. - The characters' evil deeds aren't glorified, but portrayed truthfully as sinful (an example of this is the cautionary tale).

2. - If the sin in question is something which can be simulated/implied (e.g., lying, murder), you're okay. Things which can't be faked (like taking the Lord's name in vain, using curse words, or appearing naked) should be avoided. To which I add: the audience isn't stupid - they understand implied actions, and it's much more powerful to hint at something and let them fill in the blanks rather than fling it all in their faces, which insults their intelligence. Besides, if you ever want to leave the acting business, get married, and settle down, do you really want to have to explain your immoral acting choices to your kids? If you truly want to serve as an example of a devout follower of Christ and as a virtuous person overall, take care to avoid those roles now, and you'll save yourself embarrassment then. And even if you say, "it's not me, it's the character," ultimately you're the one doing the action, and thus you're responsible. Walk in the way of truth; the best thing to do if you're confused about a role is to pray, and talk it over with firm Christians you trust. Faith and good counsel will see you through.

The stage is set, the cameras are rolling, and you're on - light up the stage and screen with the radiance of God's love!

Image: Edwin Booth (actor and brother to John Wilkes Booth) as Iago in Othello by Thomas Hicks (circa 1864)

True Beauty

One morning several weeks ago, I was reading Magnificat (a daily Mass devotional), and in the Year of Mercy issue I found a wonderful passage which I thought my fellow creative souls would enjoy. It's by the Christian singer Audrey Assad.

Artists are deep - sea divers in search of a pearl to enjoy and display: whether or not an artist recognizes the ocean as the divine mercy of God does not change the fact that it is so. The mercy of God in art is apparent in the fact that our work may be imperfect or lazy or even bad - and yet there is something mystical in all art, because those who make it are looking beyond what is visible to communicate something invisible. 
It is an immutable reality that we live in a state of yearning. Art reflects that perhaps most poignantly, because the very act of creating it is a search: and in listening, we search to encounter ourselves, and perhaps there we may encounter God and his divine mercy. 

I love this - it warms my heart. It reminds me of a quote from Dostoyevsky's The Idiot which Pope John Paul II used in his Letter to Artists: "Beauty will save the world." When we artists search for beauty to refashion, we inevitably find the Source of True Beauty. We serve a God who cherishes us, who's our closest friend - may we always remember that, and may we continually fix our eyes upon His kind face, full of eternal affection for His children, to whom He says, "You are precious in my eyes and honored, and I love you" (Isaiah 43:4). May we revel in His lavish love and be perpetually joyful emissaries of His burning passion for the world in all our works of art.

Image: Madonna and Child with Lamb by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1893)

Lydia Bennet's Elopement

According to the supposed chronology for Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice which sets the tale in 1811, Lydia Bennet eloped with the villainous Wickham on August 1st, at midnight (by this time the next morning Colonel and Mrs. Forster would have discovered her flight and his letter to the Bennets would be on its way). My current work-in-progress tells her tale; I've had a liking for this saucy young lady since I first saw the BBC miseries adaptation the summer I was twelve. Lydia's ebullience captivated me, and I've often wondered how her life with Wickham turned out, so I've decided to put pen to paper (rather, fingers to computer keyboard) and discover the truth of what really was going on in her flighty head. To commemorate the occasion of her elopement, here's an excerpt from my untitled story (I've set the first several chapters in 1796 - since I suppose P&P to be set in the late 18th century, when Austen first drafted it - and they describe how Lydia fell for Wickham and married him; the rest tells her fate, which I shan't unfold now). By this point, she's interpreted his flirtations as indications of love for her and it all comes to a head on a pleasant day in Brighton. Note: the coral necklace mentioned is one which Wickham has bought for her, and she's purchased a three-volume copy of Fielding's Tom Jones because he recommended it.

The next day (a sunny first of August), Harriet and Lydia returned from a morning sea bathing excursion to find the Colonel, Denny (with a pretty young lady named Miss Bailey), and Wickham awaiting them for a stroll about town. The three couples fell into step behind one another; the Colonel naturally took precedence, Denny and his companion followed, and Lydia and Wickham brought up the rear.

Wickham began, “You have been sea bathing, I take it?”

“Aye.”

“I would say the salt air heightens your loveliness, but such a thing is impossible - you are perfection itself.”

“Thank you,” she replied, blushing prettily. “It was delicious indeed.”

“Have you enjoyed your time here?”

“Oh, yes - who can ever be tired of Brighton?”

“I agree, it is a fine place, but unfortunately I must leave.”

Startled, she gasped. “What? When? Why?”

“Tonight, at twelve; my finances are such that I think it prudent to depart town in order to arrange them.”

He can’t leave me - I adore him! “Take me with you!” she blurted out. “I shall be miserable else.”

He stopped, paused, then said in a tender tone, “Do you care for me?”

“Aye - over the past weeks I have fallen in love with you.”

“Then come along, dearest; there is no other lady in Brighton whose society pleases me more than yours.”

“You . . . love me?”

“Yes.”

Her spirits fluttered wildly, and she leaned in, yearning to kiss him right there on the street, but he stopped her, glancing at the couples ahead (who were too deep in their own conversations to observe them).

Gently, he restrained her. “No, Lydia, not here - no one must know. Wait till tonight.”

She smiled at his use of her Christian name.

“Very well, George. Where shall we be married?”

He seemed concerned for a moment, then answered, “Gretna Green. Don’t pack much - you won’t require a change of clothes, but bring a book or two to while away the journey.”

“I'll bring Tom Jones with me; it's been great fun.”

“Excellent. I have no doubt our marriage will be as happy as that of Tom and Sophia.”

“Indeed!” she laughed.

She excused herself from attending a ball at the Old Ship Inn with the Forsters, complaining of a “sudden violent head ache,” and at a quarter past eleven, she was ready, having stuffed the four books and her journal in her snow-colored silk reticule embroidered with small yellow and red flowers. She’d then donned her white striped dimity gown, the coral necklace, of course, a new rose-coloured satin spencer, a straw hat trimmed with rose-coloured ribbons, and her sturdy boots (it was sure to be muddy in Scotland). Now, she decided, I ought to leave Harriet a letter to tell her where I’m bound - she will surely be delighted for me!

She giggled at the thought, then, snatching a piece of paper from the desk nearby, she picked up the quill and began to scribble hastily, chuckling all the while.

My dear Harriet,

You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater when I write to them and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing.

The pen shook with her mirth; she tightened her grip. “I had better tell her to apologise to Pratt,” she remarked to herself.

Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my engagement and dancing with him to night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure.

“And then about my clothes, and that slit I got in my gown the other night at that assembly when poor Chamberlayne trod on the hem (he was tipsy, I’m sure) -”

I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.

Your affectionate friend,

Lydia Bennet

No sooner had she crossed the t of her surname than she heard a carriage stop at the door. Her heart raced as she dropped the pen, caught up her reticule, and dashed downstairs, out the door, and into her beloved’s arms, squealing, “My angel!”

She thought she’d surely swoon when his lips met hers. Once they’d had done, she sighed. “I can’t wait to be your wife, George. Let us go!”

He smiled. “Of course, darling.”

After helping her into the chaise, he seated himself next to her and called to the driver, “Make haste!” As the carriage lurched into motion, George pulled her close and she shut her eyes, nestling herself under his arm to dream of Scotch anvils for wedding bells.

Image: A screencap from the 1995 miniseries, with Julia Sawalha as Lydia. Source: cap-that.com