I Feel Free

[Steven Hunley]

http://youtu.be/VhmxMC-vFcI


I Feel Free
by
Steven Hunley

London was packed with more white people than I’d seen in years. There weren’t enough white women on the frontier to bother with. Most were married to other fellow officers. But in London, women, loose women, could be enjoyed for a mere pittance. So enjoy them I did, and found much of my entertainment in the West End, and I not referring to theatres. Drinking, gambling and wenching. That’s how it was, at least up until I met the most incredible girl. It was a charity ball, and many of my fellow officers were going and suggested I go. Comrades in arms, and all that. I was hesitant at first, but swept away by the obligations I’d given, and a man’s only as good as his word.

Besides, I’d always looked good in uniform. It still fit like a glove. It was plastered with medals. The ball was one of those fund raisers where women of station would dance with a soldier for a donation. I’d always aspired to marry an upper-crust woman, but the places I frequented in the west end I never ran into any, you can understand that. That night things changed.
The ball room at the Savoy in Westminster was lit with electric lights and filled with soldiers and sailors. The dancers moved as a body and swung past me in circles as the band played, at one with the hypnotic music. There were dozens of ladies in expensive ball gowns, wearing ropes of lustrous pearls and white gloves, each one with her hair up, each more alluring than the last. The officers in their red uniforms wore glittering gold braid on their shoulders. Enchanting, that’s what it was.

I felt so out of place.

Just then a magnificent creature appeared. Fair complexion, but with dark hair, ringed with luxuriant curls. It fell in black cascades over her pale rounded shoulders. She was the sole woman with her hair down. Her cheeks blushed like a budding pink rose, and her lips were exquisitely coral.

When the music stopped I struck like an Indian viper. I easily outranked the subaltern that was her partner.

“I’m next on your card,” I said. He gave me a look and noticed my rank, and retreated in good order.

“Which one are you?”

I glanced at her card. There were quite a few names, so I did what I do best, I improvised, and picked one at random.

“Right there,” I said. “Reginald Frobisher, that’s me, at your service.”

I bowed. The band started again. Taking her gloved hand in mine, I placed my other hand around her waist, and before she could say more, we were off.
She danced marvelously. Not too close, not too far. She was light as a proverbial feather. Her green eyes reflected the sparkle of the chandeliers like a hundred glittering stars. We danced faster and faster and she laughed an incomparable laugh. I’ve seen nothing like her before or since. My arms held captured a wild extravagant creature. While we were dancing I felt a part of her, and because of that, as if I belonged. The crowd lost its meaning. With her on my arm the rich elegance of the room no longer intimidated a poor sot like me.

I felt free.

When they stopped playing we danced out through the tall French doors that led to the veranda. Then we gazed at the moon like two lovers and talked the rest of the night away. I realized that although I was supposed to have a dance card, I didn’t. I hadn’t bothered to pick mine up, and didn’t know her name, and for all I know, she wasn’t even on it. For a few seconds I fumbled in my pocket.

“I believe I’ve lost my card! And I don’t really know your name.”

“It’s Valentine Carnarvon.”

“Lord Carnarvon’s daughter? Lord Carnarvon, the one that’s financing Carter in his expedition to Egypt to find the tomb of Tutankhamen?”

“That’s me,” she said, smiling demurely. “What’s yours?”

“Mine’s…” I stumbled. Damn, I couldn’t remember. “It’s…”

“Reginald Frobisher, isn’t it, Captain?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

The music stopped and the ball was over. Time flew by like a comet. The passing hours had been nothing, absolutely nothing. There was only the woman and the moment, her eyes and her fragrance, her voice and her grace. She started to leave, but when she hesitated, I took the opportunity to ask,

“Will I see you again?”

“I’m going the Tate Gallery this weekend on Sunday at three, try there.”

I was pleased no end, like a kid watching fireworks explode. Right before she crossed through the French windows she turned one last time and gave me a serious look, even though her mouth was curled up.

“By the by, Captain, Reginald Frobisher was the man you took away from me. Next time guess farther down on the card!”

I was stunned. She was a remarkable woman indeed and just ravishing.
I couldn’t wait to get at her.

©Steven Hunley 6-11
***

[Hawkman]

I'm afraid Steven that this little tale seems to be a bit lost in time. It also appears to be a re-working of part of your Holmes tale, which probably explains why. The initial description of the "Charity Ball" is far more evocative of La Belle Epoch in that you describe sumptuous gowns and women with their hair up. Well at that time all the women would have had their hair up at a ball as they put it up when they came of age to be presented at court as debutants. Only a girl under age wore her hair down, and consequently it wouldn't be likely that she'd be attending a ball. The kind of ball where society women would dance with soldiers is sort of WW1-ish But you go on to tell us that Carnavon is running a dig in Egypt for King Tut, so that puts us firmly in the 1920s. Big gowns were out by then and hair would more than likely be worn bobbed, with bead dreses etc. Your military man seems to have a problem recognising ranks too as a subltern (2nd Lt.) actually turns out to be a Captain, a difference of two pips.

The impression given is that you don't quite have the feel of the period. Reading Dorothy Sayers, PG Woodhouse and Agatha Christie might help you settle in a bit better. Of course, there are some truly, notably awful, British films from the early 30's too, but that's a bit later than where you are at, or at least appear to want to be.

[Steven Hunley]

Wikipedia says:

The Savoy was a state-of-the-art theatre and the first public building in the world to be lit entirely by electricity.[12] Sir Joseph Swan, inventor of the incandescent light bulb, supplied about 1,200 Swan incandescent lamps, and the lights were powered by a 120 horsepower generator on open land near the theatre.[1][13] Carte explained why he had introduced electric light: "The greatest drawbacks to the enjoyment of the theatrical performances are, undoubtedly, the foul air and heat which pervade all theatres. As everyone knows, each gas-burner consumes as much oxygen as many people, and causes great heat beside. The incandescent lamps consume no oxygen, and cause no perceptible heat."[14] The first generator proved too small to power the whole building, and though the entire front-of-house was electrically lit, the stage was lit by gas until 28 December 1881. At that performance, Carte stepped on stage and broke a glowing lightbulb before the audience to demonstrate the safety of the new technology. The Times described the electric lighting as superior, visually, to gaslight.[15] Gaslights were installed as a backup, but they rarely had to be used.[6] The Times concluded that the theatre "is admirably adapted for its purpose, its acoustic qualities are excellent, and all reasonable demands of comfort and taste are complied with."[16] Carte and his manager, George Edwardes (later famous as manager of the Gaiety Theatre), introduced several innovations including numbered seating, free programme booklets, proper whisky in the bars, the "queue" system for the pit and gallery (an American idea) and a policy of no tipping for cloakroom or other services.[17] Daily expenses at the theatre were about half the possible takings from ticket sales.[12

So I'm guessing about early 1880'2. The ball gowns are descibed as "expensive" not "big". Most certainly the women wore their hair up, and this young woman was the obvious exception.

Our sleazy hero is a captain, and therefore higher than a second-lieutenant.


But Carnarvon is accurate, he's intersted in Egyptology at this point, but hasn't even met Carter! I stand corrected.

Then again, maybe it was a badly concoted plan just to get modern readers to sample the Cream. Sorry Jack and Ginger and Eric, so very very sorry.
(kidding)

They don't calls ya Hawkman for nothin'.

[Hawkman]

I'm afraid I don't understand the relevence of the lecture on electric light. The point I was making is that your descriptions of dress, customs and social mores seem to span an indeterminate period with elements belonging to different decades. The reader can't tell when it's supposed to be set.

Your sleezy captain describes cutting in on a subaltern but the girl says that he has just displaced a captain. One of them has to be wrong.

[Steven Hunley]

Hawkman,

I think I have it! Here's the info on Carter.

Carter had begun his career in Egypt at age 17, using his artistic talents to copy wall scenes and inscriptions. Only eight years later (in 1899), Carter was appointed the Inspector-General of Monuments in Upper Egypt. In 1905, Carter resigned from this job and in 1907, Carter went to work for Lord Carnarvon. (according to the web)

Carter was in Egypt and looking long before Canarvon was even interested.

You have me! :dupe:

However the Captain is still replacing a subaltern, as there's a comma between Captain and Reginald Frobisher like:
"By the by, Captain, Reginald Frobisher was the man you took away from me. Next time guess farther down on the card!”

I suppose she knew he was a captain due to his unform.

Still, it's better you catch me now, than after I die, being kicked in the seat of the pants by either Carter or Canarvon in heaven. There's always a reckoning, even for writers of fiction.

[Buh4Bee]

Maybe you are still tinkering with this one? It doesn't seem as clean as other pieces I have read.

I think you could add more depth if you tell less and show more:

She danced marvelously. Not too close, not too far. She was light as a proverbial feather. Her green eyes reflected the sparkle of the chandeliers like a hundred glittering stars. We danced faster and faster and she laughed an incomparable laugh. I’ve seen nothing like her before or since. My arms held captured a wild extravagant creature. While we were dancing I felt a part of her, and because of that, as if I belonged. The crowd lost its meaning. With her on my arm the rich elegance of the room no longer intimidated a poor sot like me.

In this paragraph, you tell what's happening. But you could try to give it more dimension. You don't allow the reader to draw any conclusion independently about the protagonist feeling insecure about his class compared to his dance partner. I think you could do this is you rework the piece by describing some insecure behavior or adding some dialogue.

I think one of your strengths as a writer is your ability to write a satisfying ending. I think the ending was stronger than the opening. I always love how you write women.

I really liked the setting, even though there may be some debate about the accuracy. You always painting a pretty setting.

I hope this doesn't feel too negative. You writing as been very good lately.

[AuntShecky]

There are two striking characteristics about your writing. The first--and it's a "biggie"--is that you take risks with your choice of subject matter, taking a chance on a huge variety of genres, from contemporary romance to detective and adventure stories (what was once termed "potboilers.")

The other thing is your thoroughly charming sense of humor, to it: ". . .found much of my entertainment in the West End, and I [am] not referring to theatres."

For these and other reasons, your fiction is always fun to read.

As to this particular piece, I had the same questions about the time frame as
the ones Hawkman cited. Some of the internal evidence in your piece would put the piece at the turn of the twentieth century; a quick check on the Google machine tells me that the Tate Gallery opened in 1897.

Another pitfall you might want to be wary of is anachronistic language, i.e.,"the most incredible girl." I think that during the time in which your story seems to be set, folks used the word "incredible" in its literal context, not as a catch-all superlative, as we seem to do today.

Today's moviemakers and screenwriters seem a little lax about the language (and occasionally the background music) of "period" films. Producers and directors spend millions getting the sets, costumes, and props correct, right down to the hood ornament on the cars of the bygone era, only to ruin the whole mystique by having a character use a contemporary expression, like "Tell me about it!" The cynic in me wonders if such anachronisms are deliberate, in order to "relate" to the majority of ticket-buying public, mostly representing the 18-25 male demographic. While I am ranting, I can't understand why the excellent miniseries, Boardwalk Empire , for all of its powerful music evocative of the jazz age, has as its general theme an incongruous heavy metal guitar riff. (It's pretty good, but it's totally out of place!)

The exception occurs in cases where contemporary slang and pop music are inserted as part of the joke. A good example is First Knight (featuring one of Heath Ledger's early roles.) Set in Chaucerian England, that movie featured the spectators chanting "We will,we will rock you" at a jousting tournament. But similar jokes appeared in an earlier movie: Robin Hood: Men in Tights by Mel Brooks.

Other than the line I cited, though, I think the tone and diction of your narrator's descriptions and dialogue seem to be more or less appropriate. (Not that I remember how people talked in that era first-hand. As I've said many times before, I'm old-- but I'm not that old!)