What does “Happily Ever After” mean anyway?

I recently finished reading a World War II women’s fiction novel in which one of the main characters dies a sudden, violent death. (There are many, many spoilers ahead in this blog post, but I’ll spare you on this one. I’ll just reveal that it’s one of the books I recommended on my newly published Shepherd page.) I was shocked and distressed when I read that scene, and it took me a few days to get over it. Of course, I went on with life as usual, but I couldn’t shake the vague feeling of sadness that temporarily permeated my existence. Since this is a work of fiction, the author could have saved this character if she had wanted to. What is the point of putting one’s reader into a state of grief, even if only for a brief time?

I write Historical Romance and one of the unbreakable rules of romance writing is that the hero and heroine (or hero/hero, heroine/heroine in same-sex Romances) must get their “Happily Ever After,” abbreviated in the Romance writers’ community as HEA. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in English, and have studied theories on why novelists, poets and playwrights choose to write tragedy, sometimes compelling the reader or audience member to openly weep. Scholars look to Aristotle for the rationale of annihilating a character whom the spectators have come to respect and cherish. He wrote that catharsis for the audience is achieved through emotions such as pity and fear. In modern phraseology, having a “good cry” over the death of a beloved character in fiction or film ultimately makes us feel better. Or does it?

I was originally going to title this blog post “Why do love stories always have to be so sad?” inspired by watching (for the third time at least) all three seasons of the superb PBS series Victoria. Originally produced for British television, the somewhat historically accurate drama takes us from Queen Victoria’s accession in 1837 to Prince Albert’s triumphant Great Exhibition of 1851. The series is brilliantly written, acted, directed and filmed, with the sumptuous palaces, opulent jewels, lavish costumes, and splendid scenery of nineteenth century European aristocracy, along with all the Sturm und Drang* of the British royal family, of course.

There are many love stories, some happier than others, dramatized in Victoria. (This is where the spoilers come in, so if you plan on watching the series and prefer to be surprised, do not read any further!) Victoria’s heart may be slightly wounded on being rebuffed by Lord M, but she recovers completely after finding her Prince Charming, or rather, her Prince Albert. Victoria and Albert’s romance is legendary, and though they have their trials and dark moments, their ardor is as central to the series as it was historically renowned.

Other relationships in the series are less fruitful, and many will rend the TV viewer’s heart. Ernest, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha and Harriet, Duchess of Sutherland both survive, but their love affair is as poignant and star-crossed as it is historically inaccurate. Likewise, the forbidden affaire de coeur of palace footman Joseph Weld and Sophie, Duchess of Monmouth is destined for heartbreak. A more disastrous end comes to the liaison between Edward Drummond and Lord Alfred, and though Charles Francatelli and Nancy Skerritt eventually marry, their “happily ever after” ends all too soon, when a pregnant Nancy tragically succumbs to cholera.

Season 3 ends with a cliffhanger, as Albert collapses at Victoria’s feet, and she frantically tries to rouse him. In this I see a foreshadowing of Prince Albert’s untimely death at age 42. Though that fateful event occurs outside the scope of the TV series, most of us know it’s coming, to be followed by a long and bleak widowhood for Queen Victoria. (The show is currently on hiatus, and no plans for a season 4 have been announced.) 

Which brings us to the question – just how long is a “happily ever after” supposed to last? Victoria and Albert’s marriage lasted 21 years and produced nine children. Although Albert died young, even for that era, all of their offspring survived into adulthood, quite uncommon for the nineteenth century. To qualify as an HEA, is there a threshold of time that must be crossed, or is intensity of feeling the determining factor? No one is immortal and even the longest and happiest relationships end in death. “Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky,” as the song goes, so what does “ever after” mean, after all? Queen Victoria lived another 39 years after her beloved Albert’s death, and though she likely found love later in life with manservant John Brown, he too predeceased her, leaving her bereft once again.

Perhaps it is the hope of the next generation that ultimately sustains us. In the TV series, Princess Vicky’s unexpected recovery from a deadly illness is a joyous and welcome relief for the Victoria viewer. (In real life, the Princess Royal went on to marry and have several children of her own.) We are also heartened by the poignant reunion of Sara (aka Aina) with her foster parents, Captain and Mrs. Forbes. A life of extravagance at Buckingham Palace is nothing compared to the domestic harmony of a simple and loving home for the African orphan.

Like those of both fictional and historical persons, our lives are filled with love and loss, pleasure and sorrow. Whether wedded bliss lasts but a few months (like Charles and Nancy) or many years (like Victoria and Albert), or is sadly thwarted (like Ernest and Harriet), we humans must persevere, and determine for ourselves what happiness is really all about. Like many of us, I am still working that out.

 

~~~

* Literally “storm and stress,” the term alludes to a proto-Romantic movement in German literature and music. It is used figuratively to refer to turmoil, passion and unrest. I use it in reference to the stresses and distresses of the British royal family, as valid in Charles III’s time as in Victoria’s. Of course, the same idiom could be applied to almost any family, royal or otherwise. 

"Your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams!"

“When you're lying awake
With a dismal headache
And repose is taboo'd by anxiety
I conceive you may use

Any language you choose

To indulge in, without impropriety…

Well, you get some repose
In the form of a doze
With hot eyeballs and head ever aching
But your slumbering teems
With such horrible dreams
                                                                     That you'd very much better be waking” -- from Iolanthe by W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan

Why do I keep reliving trauma through nightmares? Here I am again at my old firm, as a sales assistant, or at least acting as one. I’m working for my old money managers' team. There is an African stock with a tremendously complicated reorganization plan, but the development team is too overworked on other projects to design a program for it. It has to be worked out manually, on paper. Kerri is the only sales assistant who knows how to do this because she had to do it for her money managers. It involves not only the shares held in the African stock, but the calculation must take into account other stock positions held in each individual client account. Everyone is overworked and no one has extra time. I suggest hiring accounting temps but am told by HR that there are none available because every other firm is in the same boat we are – too much work, too few skilled workers. I make a comment saying that the same is true for farm workers and that is why the crops are rotting in the fields unharvested, and that we should let in the migrant workers on the southern border. One of the senior money managers responds, seemingly “from above,” like a deity, that we should just let the crops rot because who cares about the next generation, anyway. I hear that there is a cash option for the reorg that would be simpler, but less profitable for the clients. I suggest it to one of the managers, but then rescind my suggestion, conceding that we must do what is in the best interests of the clients, and since I'm a compliance officer I must uphold the highest fiduciary principles.

Long retired and dead (dead in real life but fully alive in the dream) Mary is back, working for Neil, and bitchy as ever. It seems there is no one able to help me, though Kerri can spare a little time explaining the procedure to me. No temps, no other sales assistants can help because they are all overwhelmed with their own work. Somehow, I’m still in the compliance department too, and though I’m tempted to quit and just walk away, I know the firm needs me (am I so irreplaceable?). I start to have a meltdown in front of Neil. Instead of comforting me he insists that I do the work. I have suicidal thoughts (in the dream) and even open a patio door (the terrace is tiny compared to the one at our old office location) and it is raining outside. Some of the traders do the same and people worry that they might really jump. One of the traders starts to have a meltdown and needs her husband (also a trader at the firm) right away. I send a male coworker, Walter, into the gym to get him because he is taking a shower after a workout. The female trader says there is an air vent high on the wall that goes directly from the trading room into the shower area, and I lift her up so she can try to speak to her husband. She can’t hear him, probably because the water is running. Walter gets to the husband, but is told he needs 15 more minutes. I comment, “just rinse yourself off – your wife needs you!” but then am told he has some kind of physical condition that prevents him from moving too fast.

I am torn between protecting myself and my mental health, and my duty/responsibility/obligation to the firm. It seems that I am retired or formerly retired and remember (in the dream) that I volunteered to help out in the compliance department after my retirement because they needed me, though I was not initially paid. (This is a recurring theme in many other dreams.)

Then suddenly, I awaken, and like the Lord Chancellor in the Gilbert & Sullivan opera, am relieved to realize that it was only a terrible nightmare. I am still retired!

"But the darkness has passed
And it's daylight at last
And the night has been long
Ditto, ditto my song
And thank goodness they're both of them over!"

I’m not a snowflake; you’re a snowflake!

The New York State Department of Education recently banned Native American mascots and team names, and offending schools could jeopardize their state funding. Little did I know that in 2023 there remain high school teams with such names Indians and Redskins. If you’re unfamiliar with the US professional sports scene, there’s been a decades-long brouhaha over major league teams in various sports changing their names and mascots – the former “Cleveland Indians” newly christened the “Cleveland Guardians,” for example, not to mention the “Redskins” to “Commanders” transformation for the Washington football team. I myself own a couple of Cleveland t-shirts with the “Chief Wahoo” logo, though I hesitate to wear them in public. I live in blue New York City and people might take offense; it may be less of an issue in purple Ohio. But I’m a die-hard Mets fan and own enough of my team’s gear to render this dilemma moot. My Cleveland Indians paraphernalia can just stay in the closet.

I’ve heard both sides of this argument. Left-leaning people (or the “Woke,” as Mr. DeSantis likes to call them) tend to see Native American iconography as a racist vestige from a bygone era. (I avoid using the term “Indian” to refer to indigenous people, not necessarily because it’s offensive, but because it’s a misnomer, dating from when Columbus sailed west and thought he had arrived in India.)  Right-leaning folks tend to think it’s all “much ado about nothing” and prefer to retain the long-standing traditional team names. Some argue that Native Americans are not even offended, and don’t see the terms “Indians” or “Redskins” as derogatory. (So far, I’ve only heard this argument from white people.) There may very well be native people who refer to themselves by these monikers, though like the infamous “n-word,” they may feel that its use is off-limits to non-people-of-color.

Those who argue that long-held traditions should never be changed are apparently unfamiliar with the history of my alma mater, Port Richmond High School (PRHS) in Staten Island, New York. Founded nearly a century ago, this public school has changed its team name multiple times. The earliest incarnation was the “Minstrels,” and the mascot was depicted as a show boat minstrel, possibly in blackface, though I’ve only heard about this ancient character and never seen a picture. At some point, the name was changed to the “Red Raiders” at the suggestion of some enlightened Staten Islander, though this sobriquet was subsequently abandoned, purportedly during the Cold War era, when the “Red Peril” aroused legitimate unease. By the time I entered high school in 1974, the team name had reverted to “Minstrels,” though the mascot now appeared in the medieval attire of a strolling player, and not as the racist show boat persona. My long-lost high school ring displayed this merry musician. But at some point after I graduated, it was decided that the medieval player evoked too wimpy an image, and a more robust emblem was needed. Fast forward to the present day: PRHS now calls its teams the “Raiders.” (They dropped “Red” even though that word had innocently referred to our school color, and not to communism.) But as an alumnus about to celebrate my 45^th reunion, “Raiders” sounds alien to me. For me and my fellow members of the Class of ‘78, “Minstrels” remains our cherished mascot.

Arguments for historic precedence and treasured traditions may not be as straightforward as they seem. The road to political correctness (or to making everyone happy) is a twisted one. But amid the muddle of opinions about team names and mascots, I recommend we err on the side of being less offensive.

DON'T MESS WITH THE MOUSE!

 

Who better represents the will of the American people – the government or corporations? In the last presidential election, 70% of the voting-eligible population was registered to vote and about 61% voted. Almost 9 in 10 registered voters cast a ballot. I’m confident that the percentages are generally lower for state and local elections. But nearly every one of us votes every day with our dollars. Biden vs. Trump – many Americans will abstain on this question, but Coke vs. Pepsi – our cumulative buying power determines the winner!

In a battle of epic proportions, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis has taken on “The Most Magical Place on Earth,” aka Walt Disney World, the largest employer in his state. Many in Florida and elsewhere see this tit-for-tat as DeSantis’s retaliation for Disney’s opposition to “Don’t Say Gay” (Florida’s Parental Rights in Education Act).

With annual revenues above $82 billion, The Walt Disney Company is one of best-known corporations in the world, ranked number 53 in the Fortune 500 list of the biggest companies in the US. Whichever team (reactionary or woke) in the American culture wars you support, I would not hesitate to assert that Disney, one of America’s and the world’s favorite brands, is likely to outlast the political career of Gov. DeSantis.

I further dare to speculate that among the 58 million or so annual visitors to Disney’s Florida resort, the chances of finding a patron donning a MAGA hat are at least as great as finding one who displays a “Vote Blue” lapel pin or t-shirt.

A UNIQUE NEW YORK EXPERIENCE

“Isn’t everything in New York unique?” you ask. Perhaps a valid question, but in my many decades in this city, this was a new experience for me. The setting was Yankee Stadium. What could be more iconically “New York” than that?

But then reality shifted and I entered what I will call the “Alternate Baseball Universe.” Three friends had persuaded me to join them at a Yankee game. (My arm still aches from the twisting.) Now it’s not that I don’t like baseball, but being a life-long, die-hard Mets fan, this was not easy. That, and the one hundred dollar ticket price. But I later found out that the regular price for these tickets was $150 and it included food and soft drinks, so it was really quite a bargain.

I was told before I arrived at the stadium that this was a luxury suite. I had been in one once at Shea and it was quite lovely. A private room for about 25 people with your own bathroom and covered open seating facing the action. It was a playoff game in 2000 and I had gotten the ticket through my job. (Not the romance writing job, but the rent-paying job.) My co-worker and I seemed to be the only ones interested in the game and I got the feeling that the other “fans” were out-of-town business people just there for the free food. When the score became lopsided – I think the Mets were losing by seven runs – the others retired to the comfortable living-room-style suite and watched a football game (!) on the television screen provided. My friend and I remained outside in the now-empty covered seating section, leaning out of the opening, cheering on our team and trying to capture the feeling that we were actually attending a baseball game – a playoff game, at that!

Though the Mets lost that game (they went on to become the National League Champs that year – we won’t talk about the 2000 World Series) it was a pleasant experience. I enjoyed all the hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries and chicken fingers I wanted and even got a free Mets cap to take home.

But back to the Alternate Baseball Universe. Riding the D train to The Bronx, I pictured a similar setting for our Yankee game – a covered luxury suite with an endless supply of typical baseball-stadium fare and all the bottled water or soda I wanted. We had already been told beer was extra. Bummer. When we got to the stadium we had no idea how to find our seats. A lovely young woman with a pin-stripe-adorned “May I Help You?” sign pointed us toward a guarded glass door. That led to an elevator and we got off at the level for “Audi Yankees Club” – that’s what it said on our tickets.

This was not a luxury suite – it was a restaurant seating some three hundred guests! Instead of French fries and hamburgers we feasted on lobster fritters, pan-fried soft-shell crabs, shrimp cocktail as big as your hand, sautéed asparagus and very rare filet mignon with béarnaise sauce. No kidding. Oh, and there were fries – sweet potato fries. The miniature pastries on the dessert bar were as tempting as any delicacy from the finest bakery. But lest anyone feel deprived (or forget that he was inside a Major League ballpark), hot dogs were provided, along with potato chips and popcorn. The food was wonderful and gracefully dished out buffet-style by servers wearing chef hats inscribed with the famed “NY” logo.

Yet that wasn’t the weirdest part. Our seats were arranged dinner-theater style before long tables all facing the field. But between the “regular” fans and us was a huge glass picture window. Here we were, watching a baseball game from inside a hermetically-sealed, soundproof, climate-controlled restaurant. We couldn’t even hear the National Anthem (we stood anyway since they piped in the soundtrack) or the roar of the crowd. It was like watching the game on a humongous TV screen, and to underscore the TV-like ambiance, the play-by-play telecast of the entire game was piped in, too.

We were attending a baseball game…but it didn’t feel like it to me. During particularly exhilarating moments – the scoring of a “go ahead” run or a breathtaking defensive play – excited fans are often moved to high-five the complete strangers seated near them. Yet this would have felt unseemly within the sophisticated milieu of the Audi Yankees Club. We were there at a ballpark, but not really there. All the action unfolded before us but we were removed from it. Part of the experience and much of the fun of attending a baseball game is to be among the other fans, not separated from them by glass. Fans are collectively referred to as the “tenth man”. We are part of the game and our “root, root, rooting” for the home team helps spur them to action. Sequestered within our opulent isolation booth, we became observers, not participants.

I don’t regret my expedition into the Alternate Baseball Universe of the Audi Yankees Club. (Yes, there were brochures hawking the luxury autos on a discreet rack near the exit.) The food was wonderful and the company agreeable. It just wasn’t an authentic baseball experience.

Now, this is where I usually make some obscure connection from my blog post to my upcoming World War II romance novel. Hmm…. World War II… war…. Well baseball is a little like war…. Ok, that’s a stretch. So I’ll just refer you to my website at www.lisbetheng.com for more info about In the Arms of the Enemy, coming October 1 from The Wild Rose Press. See, I can write a blog post without gratuitous, blatant self-promotion!

Oh, and in case you’re interested, the Yankees lost.

***

Note: This is a repost of a piece I had written over 12 years ago for a joint blog, "Four Horsewomen of the Metropolis," http://4horsewomen.blogspot.com/ which I created along with three other New York City romance writers. That blog is currently dormant, but please peruse the posts at your leisure, especially the ones I wrote. 

You are also invited to visit my other blog, "World War II...with a German accent," at www.lisbetheng.blogspot.com, is filled with wit, wisdom and historical exploration, if I may (not-so-humbly) describe it as such.

ISLAND No. 10

Sometimes when we memorialize a war, we highlight the battles. I did quite a bit of research for my first novel, In the Arms of the Enemy, a romance set during World War II. Though mainly focused on the European Theater of Operations – Monte Cassino, Anzio, Normandy, the Bulge – I am familiar with some battles in the Pacific as well, such as Midway, Okinawa and Iwo Jima. Having begun a second novel, set during the American Revolutionary War, I’m becoming conversant in Lexington and Concord, Saratoga, Cowpens and Yorktown.

In Manhattan at Riverside Drive and 89^th Street (about a block from where I live) is the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, commemorating those who sacrificed for the Union, at such fabled places as Fort Sumter, Shiloh and Gettysburg.

In January 1900, the laying of the first stone of the monument, an elegant, temple-like structure, was officiated by New York State Governor Theodore Roosevelt. A parade of Civil War veterans up Riverside Drive preceded the unveiling on Memorial Day 1902 (then called “Decoration Day”).

I frequently visit the Park and often begin my walk at 89^th and Riverside, the entrance closest to my home. The grandeur of scale, graceful white marble and classical simplicity of the monument never fails to attract my notice, though I’ve passed by it countless times. Commissioned in 1893 by the City of New York and the Memorial Committee of the Grand Army of the Republic, the structure evokes a Corinthian temple, and bears the noble inscription: "To the Memory of the Brave Soldiers and Sailors Who Saved the Union."

Two solemn plinths, rising like sentinels, frame the entrance to the plaza in front of the monument. These are inscribed with the names of the New York volunteer regiments, Union generals and the battles in which they staked life and limb.

As I pay due respect to the fallen heroes of my country, I try to imagine the scene some 121 years ago, when the monument was first unveiled. Bold and stalwart veterans, withered by battles decades past, march proudly up Riverside Drive. Lining the avenue assemble widows and orphans and mothers, cheering and waving small flags to commemorate those enshrined at this hallowed place. Now, I wonder as I pass, whether the children noisily playing, or embellishing the plaza with colored chalk, the nannies and dog walkers, the teenagers on skateboards, give any thought to the soldiers and sailors long gone, on either side of the conflict.

One plinth bears the name of Sherman, and most of the battles cited are familiar to me: Vicksburg, Chickamauga, Cold Harbor, Atlanta. The opposite plinth celebrates Grant, and lists such battles as Bull Run and Port Royal. The last battle inscribed on this plinth is one I do not recognize, and whose name seems almost out of place: Island No. 10. Relying on Wikipedia, I discover that this engagement at the Kentucky Bend on the Mississippi River lasted from February 28 to April 8, 1862. The Union causalities were relatively light, with 23 killed, 50 wounded and 5 missing, while some 7,000 Confederate troops surrendered and 30 were killed or wounded.

Perhaps one of those fifty, in his faded blue uniform, marched up Riverside Drive on Decoration Day in May of 1902. And perhaps the grieving widow or bereft mother of one of the twenty-three, from whom “Island No. 10” demands eternal reverence, wept and waved the stars and stripes that day.

Let us remember them.

ALL WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT

As an aficionado of classical music, few things thrill me more than listening to Mozart, Beethoven, Puccini or Wagner. Opera in particular (the word comes from Latin for “the works”) offers wonderful music, elaborate sets, sumptuous costumes, glorious singing and almost more passion and drama than one can pack into a three hour extravaganza — in other words: ”the works.” At this very moment I am listening to a recording of Beethoven’s one and only opera, Fidelio — but more on that later.

Mozart’s comic opera, Così fan tutte, translates to the title of this post: All Women Are Like That. Though I adore the music, as a 21^st century liberated woman I find the plot of this opera rather difficult to swallow. It involves two friends who, spurred on by a cynical acquaintance, test their fiancées’ fidelity by donning disguises to see if either of their ladies will succumb to a stranger’s affections. Each man attempts to seduce the other’s fiancée. As much as I pray that at least one of the women will resist temptation and remain faithful, proving after all that “all women are not like that,” both yield to the wooing. Since this is the 18^th century equivalent of a romantic comedy, all ends happily. The gentlemen forgive their fiancées for their transgressions — after all, they are members of “the weaker sex.” Despite Mozart’s glorious music, I can’t help but feel a little disheartened by the condescending portrayal of my gender. But I try to forgive the storytellers, hindered as they were by living in a less enlightened age than our own.

So I look to other operas for more inspirational models of womankind. There’s another lovely opera by Mozart, Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). The heroine, Pamina, courageously stands by her hero’s side through a perilous trial of fire and flood. She is certainly an exemplary feminine archetype. But misogynistic themes permeate the libretto. The villain is a woman, Pamina’s own mother. Pamina’s wise male guardian advises her that “a man must guide your heart, for without a man, a woman would not fulfill her aim in life.” The hero, too, is warned to ignore the counsel of women because “a woman does little, chatters much.”

Operatic heroines often fall victim to frailty, intemperance, or their own or their lovers’ errant ways. Violetta (La Traviata), Carmen, Madama Butterfly, and Mimi (La Boheme) all succumb through illness, suicide or murder. Though a more sympathetic prototype than the villainess, these are not models that a strong, self-sufficient, modern woman would care to emulate.

But back, as promised, to Fidelio. Beethoven’s opera, first staged in 1805, weaves thrilling melodies into a tale of intrigue. Yet it is the heroine, Leonore, who shines above all. Disguised as a man, she rescues her husband from certain death. The divine music is that much sweeter because Beethoven has lifted the female ideal to a higher plane. In the magnificent, soaring finale the chorus exalts “the devoted wife, the savior of her husband’s life.” In Fidelio, I discovered a synthesis of music, lyrics and plot that affirms my deeply held convictions. Through Leonore, the opera devotee’s faith in the strength, courage and fidelity of heroines is restored. And I do believe that many (though not all) women are like that.

You’ll find another courageous heroine — along with a dashing hero — in my World War II romance novel, In the Arms of the Enemy, available online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and most digital booksellers. Please visit my website at www.lisbetheng.com.