Primal

I follow a site on Facebook called Ancient Origins. While I haven't been on Facebook in ages, and while her story is not really ancient at all, Marguerite de la Rocque de Roberval led a fascinating life that leaves a lot of space for the imagination. Though I left it for other projects, I started a novel about her cruel and unusual banishment to the Isle of Demons, somewhere between Newfoundland and New France. She was marooned on the island with her unnamed lover and her handmaiden, Damienne, in the year 1542, and while the other two died off, Marguerite survived. Here, I give a proposed account of how that might have turned out for her after being stranded by her jealous cousin, Jean-Francois de Roberval.

PRIMAL

Memoirs Recounted from March, 1544

I perhaps would have concentrated more upon the silence, the unsettling stillness, had the otherworldly orchestra of the untamed wilderness not been setting my ears ablaze. It had indeed been far worse upon my initial arrival to the island, and day by day, I favored the thought of becoming more at one with the beasts and the elements with which I had acquainted myself in the two years previous.

            I stalked the wilderness like a prowling cat of prey. The demon had been watching me. Of that, I was certain. I felt its eyes upon me. I had seen its hideous gaze before, leering at me from the encompassing darkness – so torrid, so tormenting, so horrifically capable. I felt their eyes upon me – the muskrats, the Arctic hares, the Canada lynxes, and the feral wolves. I felt upon me the insidious eyes of the great man-killer itself.

            I listened steadily as the gargantuan echoes of the beast chased the icy wind through the forest. I heard its cries of sorrow, its howls for retribution, its guttural growls for the reckoning to come. Yes, as it were, we were the most dominate of species upon that desolate land mass, the Île des Démons, and only one of us would be retreating from the field of battle that day.

The dismal canvas of the sky was painted with brushstrokes of a dreadfully grayish gloom. The scents of the wilderness were conflicting. I smelled the salty lilt from the Atlantic Ocean, or perhaps it was the Labrador Sea, as I knew only that I was residing within the northernmost Hell that the Earth had to offer. I smelled the sap from the red pines and the conifers, both plentiful in the thickened forest. I smelled the carcass of the caribou, the dung of the red fox, and perhaps even that of the Northern long-eared bat, as the scent had become as much a part of me as my own flesh.

I stalked my way through the hollow corpses of the fallen trees. Their limbs were like skeletal fingers, making their attempts to ensnare me as I labored on. The muck coated my soles, and the morning dew soaked through my boots, the ones I had so brazenly constructed from the pelts of my enemies. My chemise and corset had been tattered and torn by all the dastardly facets of that godforsaken place, and by the brutality of the passing winters. My frilly, lace stockings were ripped, holey, and threadbare, forcing me to concede to the cold far more often than I could rightfully bear.

I wore around my neck an assortment of teeth – some of which were still coated in bits of blood and flesh – upon a necklace made from the sinews of a slain wolf. The teeth were collected from the predators that had underestimated my resolve, and I was proud to count their canines and incisors as trophies, or better yet, notches, to signify their feeble attempts upon my life.

My blood, and the blood of my enemies, coated my chemise with contrasting hues of crimson. It was of course also grayed by the merging of mud and snowfall, evidence that I preferred to wear the Earth in the stead of succumbing to it. My brunette locks were coated in dried mud, twisted into knots. They were woven with the shells I had collected from the water’s edge, and with the talons of the carnivorous bird I had devoured for breakfast. I wore draped upon my shoulders the conjoined hides of a feral wolf pack, weaved together by the tendons of their hind legs. My leather belt, lacquered and worn and weathered, was riddled with a wheel lock pistol, a hatchet, and the assortment of knives Jean-Francois had left with us upon our banishment. I had used the knife with the buck horn handle to carve a tip as pointed as the blade of a rapier at one end of my walking staff, forging from it a spear I could easily maneuver, and just as easily kill.

 An equal blending of blood and mud were speared upon my face. The combination of the two formed a sort of camouflage, a formidable war paint. The demon was far more elusive than the great man-killer, but it too would soon find the blood-stained tip of my spear. I was set upon bathing in their liquid life force, both of the monstrosities, for the sake of all that I had endured, and all I had lost in the process.

I had first attempted to lure the man-killer to my place of dwelling. I slaughtered ermines, otters, and the meadow voles, smearing their blood, and my blood, upon the trees and ground. I urinated upon the assorted array of shrubbery, all along the path from its nest to mine, in an effort to draw the man-killer to me.

The beast had proven itself far more cunning than I initially gave it the credit for, as it refused to succumb to my summons. It was almost as if it knew of my thirst for retribution. It knew as well as I that one of us would not exit that epic battle with breath remaining in our lungs. It was almost as if it knew that I sought to drape its massive hide upon my back for the coming winter, and that I sought to devour its soul in the process, as if I were one of the native savages occupying New France.

The roars of the great man-killer grew louder as I drew closer, and much closer still. The great cries at once sent a chill down my spine, and I could not so easily decipher whether the reaction was a result of fear, or of anticipation. The twigs snapped beneath my unwavering steps, confirming to the beast that I indeed approached. It had never been hunted before, that much was for certain. It was not accustomed to being stalked in its own den.

The breeze pushed from the West and whistled through the trees, which seemed to soften the blow of the blistering cold. I had ritualistically consumed the blood of the game bird, which, with much surprise, seemed to add a warming glow to my limbs, so that they may not betray me when the moment of battle had come. I would be without the traps and snares I had constructed surrounding my own camp site. The man-killer drew me from whatever comfort zone I possessed, or thought I at one time possessed. The moment drew nearer for us, as the beast ascended into my view, just behind the cluster of primordial pine trees.

Around its insatiable jaws, it had worked up a lather of saliva the color of the blood moon. Its fangs were tinged with the blood and flesh of its latest victim. Surely, the man-killer meant to frighten me into submission. It roared at me, long and guttural, compelling me to cease in my steps. From some fifteen yards away, I could feel, smell its breath, torrid and rancid and scathing. I closed my eyes, breathed it in, counting it an asset to my cause, as I had become one with the uninviting landscape and every living creature that thus spewed forth from it.

I at once tightened the grip upon my spear, until my fingers began to ache and my knuckles began to flush white. The man-killer growled again, and I then returned the gesture, unleashing a sort of savage, bloodcurdling bellow of my own. I knew that I had reached the point of no return. I knew that I could no longer turn and run, that I would once again find myself amidst a scrap for my life.

I began to circle the beast, and it, me. Our eyes locked in heated exchange, we treaded meticulously, sure-footedly, upon the barren plain of its den.

And as I prepare to further unfold the details of such a harrowing affair, I now begin to question the staging point of my saga. Perhaps I have begun with the most distressing, the most horrific of all events that transpired there in that land God had surely forgotten. Perhaps I should withdraw my accounts during the early Spring of 1544, when I broached warfare with the great beast, that great king of the island – at least until I have properly clarified how our encounter came to transpire. Many days, and many incidents had come to pass before that fateful day, and I must be afforded the proper time, the proper sanity, to reach deep within myself and unfold them from the recesses of my muddled mind. Bear with me, gentle friends, for it shall be a torrid endeavor.

I.

Memoirs Recounted from June, 1542

            My name is Marguerite de la Rocque de Roberval, and the year is now 1560, though both my name and the year of my account must be deemed far less significant than the events that have paved the way for their relevance. I begin my tale at the end of what I supposed would be the end of my life, itself privileged and brimming with much promise. I had been the proprietor of lands in Languedoc and Périgord, and a prominent seigneuress of Pontpoint in the Oise district of my most beloved France. I had owned much to my name, before the events of the passage and the scorns of familial jealously thus swiftly snatched me from them.

            I write not because I was isolated, or because I was filled with such an indescribable fear, or because I now seek to paint a hideous portrait of Jean-Francois de Roberval, or even because I now wish to leave behind some sort of legacy to my name, but because such a traumatic experience as this should be chronicled alongside all other great massacres and pestilences throughout the histories of mankind. Something, perhaps deep inside of my person, has compelled me to recall such horrid events as the ones I experienced upon my exile, and to script them now simply to seek some form of solace from the invisible scars that remain.

            Since my fortunate return to France, my story has been fictionalized by Queen Marguerite de Navarre in The Heptameron, though her account cannot solely stand as the final word on my life and times. While I yet draw breath into my lungs, such a tumultuous account must be recorded by none other than I. Her most fictionalized chronicles owe their successes to the actual events they were based upon, and The Heptameron, while renowned, is nothing but an adaptation, failing to identify all names and events that breathed human life into the dreaded Isle of Demons.

We were stranded there upon the Île des Démons, located somewhere uncharted between Newfoundland and New France – a stretch of the Earth that quite exceeded my knowledge. Neither Guillaume nor Damienne seemed to be familiar with the whereabouts of the island, and the treacherous rogue Jean-Francois certainly refrained from indulging us to such details.

            The early Summer season of that place seemed much more comparable to an unpleasant Winter in Pontpoint. The wind swirled and howled like a scorned banshee, and it carried from the surface of the sea to leave one perpetually ill at ease. If that was indeed the month of June, I could not so easily fathom the brutality of the coming Winter. Jerkin jacket and leather gloves would scarcely provide the protection we sought there in such an immeasurable purgatory. Jean-Francois surely expected that would not outlive the year.

            In speaking of protection, my cousin, sheltered by a profitable kinship with King Francis, left us little in the way of provisions and weaponry. I had never used one myself, a weapon, that is. We were to rely upon the brawn of Guillaume, merely a poet in his own right, to forage for food, and to keep the carnivorous natives at bay. Our provisions there upon the island were as follows; one flintlock musket, one wheel lock pistol, ten ball bearings, three small pouches of gun powder, three knives of assorted sizes for skinning, two hatchets for the chopping of kindling, four flint stones, five bundles of pressed, dried meat, and five water skins.

Jean-Francois caustically informed us that we would have to ration the water between us, at least until the first snowfall. When I harkened to him how three full-sized adults could survive on five water skins for five to six months, he, with much contempt, suggested that we use our creativity.

While I, and Damienne, due to her guilt by association, was first persecuted by my cousin and his belittling crew, Guillaume decided to brand himself the martyr. He dramatically dove from the side of the ship as it sailed away, so that he might waste away the same, banished at my side. Though noble, his gesture served as little consolation to the penance I was to endure.

Though dripping in the soaking sins of a lonely sea, Guillaume attempted to provide my comfort. I was blind to his affections in the woeful wallowing of my toils, as if I were the only one to experience them. I sunk to my knees into the muddy banks of the island, disregarding the dress I had had custom made by Madame Dupuis. The wind bounced, scourged from the water’s surface to blister my cheeks as I disparately watched the Lechefraye sail into the forlorn horizon, along with whatever future I might possess back in PontPoint, or even New France.

As I wasted into initial disparity, I pounded my breast and raked my exposed chest with my nails, probably like something I had once read from the Roman annals, Plutarch or Cassius Dio’s descriptions of Cleopatra Ptolemy at the hour of Antony’s demise. I had quite a propensity for dramatics, and giving the dire situation, I maintain that I might have been afforded such opportunities. Alas, I was counted villainess in the wake of my affair with Guillaume, and though I was an unmarried young woman, merely sowing my wild oats with the God-given free will which I had been justly reward, I had offended the Calvinistic sensibilities of the ill-tempered, brutish Jean-Francois de la Rocque de Roberval.

The three of us, Damienne and Giullaume and I, were then encompassed by a sea of rocks, mud, and an endless wilderness, filled to the brim with many unknown, ungodly beasts. But what was it that brought me there, us there, so far from home and far from anything I had ever experienced or would ever experience so long as I should live? I forge ahead of myself in the retelling of such an event that might perchance span copious volumes besides my own feeble memoirs.

I must recall that I immediately felt a broiling sickness to stomach, and I could not then, nor even now, surmise whether it was due to such an indelicate marooning on the Isle of Demons, or the fact that I was secretly with child.

II.

Memoirs Recounted from April, 1542

            I stepped hastily from the coach onto the cobblestone thoroughfare of the Champs-Elysees, as eager and pretentious as a debutante. From the vantage of the street, I could see well the candle-lit chandeliers pouring from the other side of the leaded windows of the Marquis de Seville’s Parisian townhome.

The Marquis owned claim to a lavish residency, though I was not sure how long it could endure in the midst of the Protestant and Catholic skirmishes for an altogether better way in which to worship the same God. I was young, but I knew well that the Kingdom of Heaven resided within the depths of the mortal being, not within the pews or the prayer books of the church itself. Works, nor a more direct route to the ears of the Messiah, should allow one a more gilded halo in the afterlife, if there even was one. If there were, Calvinists and Catholics would only continue to splatter one another blood onto the Pearly Gates! Calvin made a compelling case, though Jean-Francois’ zealous fervor in the name of Calvin only made me less eager to count myself among the true believers.

Resigned to the thoughts of such a fruitless campaign, the sole of my silk damask thumped against the cobblestone to enter the dual lion-protected stoop of the Marquis’ domicile. His cryptic invitation had beckoned the House of de la Rocque, of which I was surely a member, though his more intended guest was surely Jean-Francois, the newly-appointed Lieutenant General of New France. That night, the Marquis was to feature a man called Jacques Cartier and his new trinket, some nautical device or other that would assist ours and future generations in the exploration of uncharted lands. I was interested in the device, the astrolabe, as I was interested in the possibilities of New France, in the marsh lands of this particular stretch or the timber-heavy tundra of that particular stretch.

            The day was brimming with much promise. All buds in which the vast oceans had to offer would bloom for me in that, my first journey beyond the lands of France. I woke to the sounds of Damienne mousing about my vanity, afraid to make a sound, afraid to breathe, as was her usual Montmartre way.

            I stretched and arched my back like a Cheshire cat, purring with all the pleasantries of such a lush life.

Art Imitates Life

Somewhere around 2004, there was some astronomical culmination of factors that led me like a kid in a candy shop into the world of art, poetry, and to European history. I have to thank my instructors at junior college for teaching me what I was apparently ready to soak up like a sponge.

I guess it probably started with Art History. I don't think my professor liked me very much, as she indirectly accused me of plagiarism on a paper comparing and contrasting pieces of art depicting Napoleon Bonaparte and Alexander the Great. The Napoleon piece was by French master Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, painted after Napoleon had crowned himself consul of France in the ancient Roman style. Napoleon, born with Italian name Napoleone Buonaparte was from Corsica, an island off the coast of Italy with a very unique feature - residents are genetically Italian, but speak French. Napoleon looked to reconnect with his Italian heritage by donning himself in the dress and in the style of the old Roman generals he admired. This painting by Ingres perfectly displays the concept.

I of course compared the Napoleon depiction with an Alexander the Great piece by Italian painter Paolo Veronese. Both rulers were revered conquerors in their day, going down in history as two of the greatest military generals to ever put on the uniform. While Napoleon was depicted as a Roman emperor, Alexander was adorned in a stark red Renaissance fashion - a proposed vision had the Macedonian king had been born in different century altogether. He is depicted standing over the family of his defeated nemesis, King Darius, granting them amnesty as he overtook Persia. In the paper, I discussed their generalship, the way they viewed themselves as empirical generals, and the stark details of their respective red wardrobes. In a nutshell, these two paintings were the catalysts that fueled my love of Western art.

In the same vein as Ingres was Jacques Louis David, whose depiction of Napoleon I came across when I was studying the one above that I covered in the paper. David's painting is a heroic one, one Napoleon might have commissioned himself. It's called Napoleon Crossing the Alps, which is a very heroic thing for a military man to do. Just look at Hannibal Barca. His sneak attack on Rome during the second Punic War is legendary, if not brilliantly insane. I discovered David's work in a time when I was also learning more about the French Revolution. David had been a friend of the revolution, of more specifically, of Jean-Paul Marat and the Jacobians. When Marat was assassinated by loyalist Charlotte Corday, David commemorated the event in probably his most famous outing, one of the unsuspecting Marat dying a martyr in his own bathtub.

On the other side of French Revolution was Eugene Delacroix, who iconic work Liberty Leading the People was partisan to the 99%, the Bastille stormers and the bread marchers. In the American Revolution, the colonial army received financial and military aid from France, which essentially, alongside with a bad harvest, led to poor economic conditions. The common people felt the sting, as the monarchy, the inept Louis XVI and his Austrian bride, Marie Antoinette, continued business as usual with lush parties and excessive spending. Delacroix painted this work to capture the people in the midst of their coupe against the aristocracy
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Delacroix was also a fan of literature, and allusions to ancient Assyrian kings the same. The first actual work of his I saw was The Death of Sardanapalus. The scene is a chaotic slaughter, but Delacroix's Sardanapalus simply reclines and accepts his fate at the onset of his impending doom. He remains calm in the eye of the storm, which is quite striking, as he takes in all the vignettes of death surrounding him. Another Delacroix delight is a Baroque depiction of Dante Alighieri in the midst of his Divine Comedy, taking all the horrors of Hell in The Barque of Dante. I have never read The Divine Comedy, but all the dastardly and misunderstood historical figures Dante deemed worthy of Hell (Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Chronos, Achilles, King David) are fascinating to me.

From there, my interest was drawn to the Pre-Raphaelites. I took an English literature class where studied Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Rossetti was Italian by heritage but English by birth, named after none other than Dante Alighieri. Rossetti was a poet, but he was more known for the paintings he did while he was part of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The group was a small brood of Mannerist painters who essentially created a movement only to watch it burgeon in later decades.
The image below is Annunciation by Rossetti. It portrays the archangel Michael descending from heaven to tell the virgin Mary that she would give birth to Jesus. Rossetti's sister, Christina, served as the model for Mary. In 1874, Rossetti painted Proserpine, which featured his most frequently-painted model and muse, Jane Morris.
One of the most famous of the Pre-Raphaelites, John Waterhouse, was not even really a Pre-Raphaelite, but more deeply inspired by the style. One of his most well-known pieces is below in Boreas.

Waterhouse also gave us an enduring look at his version of Cleopatra, an image I previously used in my blog about her legendary mystique.




From the Pre-Raphaelites and Mannerism, I discovered wonderful world of Gustav Klimt. His pieces are truly unique, oil colors melded with actual gold leaf material to give the art an exquisite sheen.
Much like Rossetti, Klimt loved his female models, and often painted them representing little-known historical figures, such as Judith and Holofernes. Judith in this painting is smiling pompously and touting the head of Holofernes, the Assyrian general under the command of King Nebuchadnezzar. This subject matter had been broached before, with Renaissance maestro Caravaggio's portrayal even more Baroque, and more explicit. Klimt had a flair for powerful women, and for recreating Classical events and characters.


Next was the wonderfully bizarre world of Spanish master Salvador Dali. His paintings were mind-bending and earth-shattering, Dali a forerunner in the Surrealist movement. His paintings were abstract, like living in a perpetual dreamworld where time melts and ants march dutifully like soldiers. He would create living shapes and landscapes and then recreate them with abstract objects, all for the critics to either applaud or puzzle over. Dali's thing was that he didn't care. His paintings were as strange as he was, a true eccentric in a time when they were all but vanished from the art world.


When I entered college at the University of Wyoming in 2008, I was really into the Classics. I had a historical blog called Ad Hoc, and on that blog, my homepage picture was the painting to the right. The painting itself, A Roman Emperor, was done by my favorite painter of all time, the grounded Classicist Lawrence Alma-Tadema. He painted immaculate scenes of Greek and Roman daily life, as well as infamous historical events such as the death of the tyrannical emperor, Caligula.

He also gave us Pyrrhic Dance, based on the famed Greek general Pyrrhus, for whom the phrase Pyrrhic victory in named. A Pyrrhic victory is essentially a victory, but one that victor was forced to lose everything in the process, which is not really a victory at all. Alma-Tadema also seemed to be fascinated by the tyrannical Roman emperor, Caracalla. The mad emperor infamously had his brother assassinated in front of his own mother, the Empress Julia Domna, who became injured in the process. Alma-Tadema painted a snapshot of the brothers when both were jointly ruling the Empire, called Caracalla and Geta. He followed that one up of Caracalla as sole emperor in the aptly-titled Caracalla.

When I was learning about some of these 19th century painters, I came across the concept of the Byronic Hero. He is typically described as being quiet, brooding, and capable only of an impossible love. This was certainly me at this particular juncture in my life, and I immediately latched onto the concept. Movie characters such as Johnny Depp's Abberline in From Hell and the late Heath Ledger's Sin Eater in The Order influenced this persona, as did the poetry I was writing and weekly performing at the time. When I came across Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by German painter Caspar David Friedrich, the Byronic hero, or the Neo-Romantic, was given an official image. I feel an affinity with this painting. I used to have it as my school computer backdrop, and students repeatedly asked if it was me in the picture. I always think no, but that it could have been had I been born in a different century. For a time, I was a reserved, brooding, lonely soul, and this painting allowed me to feel as if someone at some time felt the same thing I did. It's probably my favorite painting of all time.

The last painting to leave its impression on me was Green Muse by Frenchman Albert Maignan. It portrays a lowly 19th century poet succumbing to the sinister charms of the Green Fairy, or absinthe embodied. For awhile, I dabbled with the drink, and when coupled with the poems I was writing, this painting fit well the nightly struggles and the whimsical pleasantries I was facing. From the glass of absinthe to the scattered papers to the clothing style of the doomed poet, I could identify with this piece for its turn-of-the-century stylings applied to my modern world. The Green Fairy is a temptress, an enchantress, seen here as a dastardly divine entity that charms the unwittingly soul into a luxurious demise.

Through the years, art has intrigued and inspired me. I tried my hand at painting, but Iultimately decided I was better with words than with a paintbrush. I love the art I've referenced here for their depictions of another time and place, for their allusions to the Classical and to the abstract alike, and for their real-world applications to me at a time when I was on my way to becoming who I am today.