Carving out a Reputation at Court
The Veteran Privy Counsellor looks expectantly at you. His glass of port quivers dangerously in his hand. What's your next project?
Poetry is a mirror which makes the distorted beautiful. The Neath could benefit from your reflections.
Perhaps your work requires a spiritual dimension.
Call on the help of the Church
There's more to religion than stained glass and hymns. You know a Cultured Vicar who can introduce you to a rarefied sort of artist.
The artists that you meet through the Cultured Vicar are solid sorts, once you get past the peculiar theology. Not exactly weighted with a genius like your own, but they do have the occasional good idea. You scribble away in the cosy vicarage, even after the Vicar has left for evensong.
An organ recital at All Christs
It might not be your first choice, but perhaps it's time you tried something different.
The organ parps on and on, self-satisfied as an elderly cat in a rectory. The audience is afflicted by weird tics and fits of coughing. Pale moonish light slants through the stained-glass, dappling their faces like corpse-rot. And the church is so bl___y cold. Don't they heat churches? You leave at the interval, ignoring the muttering.
Mortification of the flesh!
Lock yourself away and fast. Optionally, pray. Consider shaving your head.
A week of living narrowly
When you emerge from your isolation, your acquaintances are agog. Did you see angels? Scarify your flesh? Do your own laundry? You gloss over the details. Both distractions and inspiration have been scarce.
Can devils create art? Can the soulless? It's a fascinating metaphysical question. If art does not come from the soul, whence does it arise?
The art of the Brass Embassy
The Embassy sometimes hosts exclusive soirées, at which guests can enter some of the more private rooms. You can procure an invitation to the next one; certain devils hold you in high enough esteem. It should be a perfect chance to glimpse some of the art that devils truly appreciate.
Judging by the paintings on show in the more public areas of the Embassy, devils' tastes run to the baroque, the overblown, the grandiose. Equestrian portraits, dramatic against roiling skies. Storm-tossed seas. Mythical men and beasts in combat. Ladies with elaborate coiffures and glittering teeth. In short, exactly as one would expect from devils.
But that's not the whole story. In some of the more private areas, exquisitely detailed embroideries decorate the walls. The subjects are often pastoral, the colours muted but rich, and there are also many wonderfully complex abstract patterns. "Ah yes," says a devil who's been watching you with interest. "Needlework is a particular skill of ours. We use only the finest gossamer from specially-bred sorrow-spiders, and stitch with needles so fine and so sharp that you would not be able to see them without a magnifying-glass."
As you look more closely at some of the abstract patterns, they start to swim before your eyes. Threads coil and merge in upsetting ways. There are terrible secrets encoded in these gorgeous textiles. Has your question been answered, after its fashion?
Many are poseurs or fools: but there are a few real, wild, tigerish talents down in Veilgarden. They might help a genius like you.
If you know the right people, you could benefit from a close collaboration with bohemian artists.
There was quite a lot of wine, and you were... confused. Now, you find that you are contributing to the work of another artist. Hang on. That's not the plan! You don't even get a credit!
There are disagreements, of course. Artistic differences. There are screaming rows enlivened with hard words and thrown pets. But there is also beauty and progress and the odd moment of genius. You've gone further together than you could hope for separately. There may be a great future for the two of you, if you can still bear the sight of each other by week's end.
The men from the Ministry
The Ministry of Public Decency requires you to submit a copy of your work before it is exposed to the public.
If your work has any radical notions to it, you would be wise to be subtle. The Ministry's Evaluators are thorough, but they can be fooled.
Why is it always a public burning? Surely a polite letter requesting a few changes would suffice? But no, not with these people. Still, you were wise enough to hide a copy of the work.
The Men from the Ministry are disciplined and intellectually competent. However, the finer points of allusion and the latest artistic developments occasionally pass them by. You have judged it perfectly. The objectionable sections of your material exceed their grasp by inches. Your work shall not suffer their rough hands or their consuming flames.
Competition for the post of Imperial Artist-in-Residence
A Lyrical Poetess is planning to upstage your work. A thousand stanzas of patriotic history, or some such nonsense.
Persuade her that her work requires alteration
"Of course, nobody listens to that sort of fervid claptrap any more. Today's poetry must possess a current of radical political thought..."
The Lyrical Poetess pretends not to hear you. She hisses an insult that borders on the uncivilised. So that's how it is, eh?
The Lyrical Poetess affects an air of indifference, but you can see that you've troubled her. It will take her some time to alter her verses, and the resulting scandal should halt her ambitions nicely.
A quiet day at your lodgings
The knocker is silent. There is not a promenading dandy, a larcenous urchin nor an honest tradesman to be seen. Your lodgings are quieter than a politician's conscience.
Cloister yourself and work
Inspiration is all very well, but sooner or later one must see to the actual business of creation.
It must be a great convocation of rag-and-bone men out there. They won't shut up! How can you work with such a racket? You've a good mind to go outside and let them know what you think of them!
Today it comes, but it doesn't come easily. You hammer away at your work, when you're not distracted by the newspaper or the scene outside your window. Your head is pounding by the day's end, but you have a creditable stack of material. Surely, you deserve a treat of some sort now?
The business of the Court carries on with or without you. Hushed conversations and half-forgotten ceremonies mark out the days and weeks.
Gauge the tastes of the Court.
These people are your audience, after all. Their tastes and predilections may deserve some sort of minor recognition in your work.
Next season's fashion will be for arrhythmic ballet in fuchsia pantaloons. Poetry is dead. The Consort wishes to see a production of Coriolanus, staged on burning frigates on the river.
Someone is having you on.
Symphonies are terribly old fashioned, but there are some in the court who long to hear music played above a plink and a whisper. Poetry is always popular. Melancholic ballads are the current vogue. You have a better idea of the Court's preferences, though no doubt they will change by the time your work is complete.
The pleasures of the Neath
Prisoner's honey, fine mushroom wines, imported spirits from across the Unterzee and exotic tipples from the surface. The Neath is rich with inspirational distractions.
Perhaps you should buy them all notebooks
Although your recollections are foggier than Winewound Heath, last night must have been energetic. You are ... fatigued. You do recall standing on a table and waving your finger in the face of a noted critic.
You meet your companions for a revitalising luncheon. You were on fine form last night. Bless them, some of your friends took notes. This material is astounding! You gather up what you can. You only have a few hours before you begin again.
The ecology of the Neath does not encourage inspiration. Limpid pools are liable to be infested with Flenser Crabs. The greasy smog of Fallen London subsumes all but the loneliest of clouds.
Seek inspiration in nature
Head out into the fog, find some d__ned nature and wring the inspiration from it till it squeaks.
Winewound Heath isn't a bad choice for a stroll. The fog is thicker than honey, but decidedly less pleasant on the tongue. You do stumble across nature of a sort. The sort that button up their trousers and come after you with sticks.
Down by the docks, the oily black waters caress the shore. Stevedores trundle their barrows. Men with axes and hammers attack the black coral. Far out on the Unterzee, steamers strain towards the tomb-colonies, the Elder Country, Polythreme. It's far from natural, but it is not without a melancholy charm.
Yesterday's work sits on the escritoire, looking at you. In the cold light of day, you are sure it is nonsense and humbug.
Start again! But this time, you're certain to get it right!
Your work blazes merrily. The paper crisps to ash and... No! Some of it was worthy! You drag the work from the flames before you lose it all. Your arm is burning! You douse the flames with cold coffee.
The manuscript is half-gone and the half that remains is covered in coffee. It will take considerable work to save anything. What were you thinking?
The ink of the last line dries. You set down your pen at last. It is done. A poem for the ages. A poem to assure you immortality. But what manner of work is it?
Nobody writes huge, sprawling heroic epics any more. Nobody but you, anyway. Twelve thousand stanzas of heroism, tragedy and myth.
Your poem catches the Court's imagination, and soon it is bought, read and recited thoughout the Palace. Which is just as well, for the common folk can't afford the weighty, leather-bound tome upon which you insisted. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen of the court are soon engaging in swordplay in the gardens. There is soon a fad for the more ancient forms of courtly romance. Young blades climb towers and maul innocent beasts. Damsels artfully distress themselves. Swooning is rampant. Every night, the Constables discover unsuccessful lovers raving in the parks.
You inspire imitators, of course, but the sheer size of your work means that you have months before any of the competition will be published. You are the lion of London's poetical circles, at least for now.
A timeless love. The cruel blade of fate. Death by water. A great many tears. The height of poetic fashion.
Cruel fates and patronage
Yours is not the first work of this kind to be published this month. It is not even the fifth. The reception is no better than lukewarm. Well, until the Empress requests a copy. Ten pages in and she asks for the work to be read to her in full. That has never happened before.
Of course, the court simply goes berserk for the poem after that. Anyone who is anyone is reading your work. Lovelorn sighs echo around the Palace. Pale young admirers surround you. An alarming fashion develops for leaping into the river when spurned. The ranks of the Drownies swell greatly, and the press denounce your work as a menace to public order.
If one enjoys breathing, one does not write extended satires concerning the Empress, nor especially her Consort. However, the rest of those windbags in the Court are fair game.
A satirical work is always going to be scandalous, if it's any good. Fortunately, your work is sufficiently subtle that the victims don't realise that you are mocking them until it's too late. A few weeks after publication, the poem is popular and you haven't been fed to the Cantigaster.
And then the press gets hold of it. They point out how clever you were to compare The Rt. Hon. M____ to a mongoose. And why Lady R_____ deserves the title 'Queen of the Doily'. But it's too late! Your victims would look even more foolish for attacking you now. Questions are asked in parliament, and a bill proposed to censor poets further, but their hearts are not in it. Your name is on lips from the heights of the Flit to the depths of the literary reviews.
Your work is complete! A masterful novel, plucked from the blue skies of inspiration and pinned to your desk with a quill. Surely this manuscript will set the literary world afire. But what exactly have you written?
Desperate lovers. Ruined castles. A noble family's secret shame. All spiced up with a few flashes of nightgown and perhaps a monster.
What passion! What mystery!
The Court adores your tale of mystery and romance. Of course, persons of station do not officially read such inflaming fantasies. They secrete your novel in top hats and hide it behind improving literature. You are reliably informed that the Captivating Princess was moved to tears.
The youth of London love it like nothing else. Pale young things in sombre attire hound you day and night, seeking attention. The markets sell out of black cloaks and white nightgowns. Two notable families commission architects to build ruined castles in the grounds of their estates. You spawn a host of imitators, of course. But what are they to you? They are nothing.
A bold vision of life in the next century! A world of gleaming brass and sparking globes. A tale of London's triumphant return to the surface!
It's all brass and crystal
The Court doesn't seem persuaded that the heroes of the future will be engineers, technologists and other middle-class types. But the business of raising London back to a glorious future on the surface has more than a few optimists openly weeping. University professors debate the plausibility of your vision.
The youth of the city, many of whom have never seen the surface, are inspired by your conception. There is a rush to apply for places at the university's technical departments. Goggles are worn over top hats. The price of brass doubles overnight. Both the devils and a band of Deans send you presents in deep appreciation.
A rip-roaring tale of Empire, hardship, determination and giving those foreigners a damn sound thrashing! Thrills and danger in the Elder Country! The search for the Mountain of Youth!
A people ready for adventure
Your novel is a huge success at Court. There's very little that they like better than stories about rock-jawed British manhood knocking villainous continentals about in the name of the Empire. Some of the Court's more delicate flowers swoon at the sweatier moments.
The common folk of London like it even more. Sales are astronomical. A swathe of young adventurers signs up at the docks, convinced that your Mountain of Youth is real. Several treasure-hunters knock on your door. They demand directions and promise you a share of their entirely imagined loot.
"The trouble with plays is that one must work with... actors. Actresses are an altogether superior breed, however." The Privy Counsellor nods, his brow heavy with wisdom.
The lead performer in your work is passionate, capable, professional. And rather attractive, now that you think about it.
Indulge yourself with the lead
Well, why not? It's almost expected of you. A tradition. Yes, that's it.
An audition of breathless flirtations. Private rehearsals seasoned with passionate glances and indecorous thoughts. And finally, a first night of languorous and inventive pleasures. Ah, the prerogatives of genius!
The next day, your art comes easily. Ideas frisk like colts. Rough edges are smoothed to a shine. Marvellous.
Everything is prepared. The performers assure you that they have memorised their lines. The curtain goes up in five minutes. But what manner of theatrical delight have you produced?
A tonic for the Empress' woes. It is long past time that the Court enjoyed the humour of the common man. And surely anyone, no matter how exalted, can enjoy the spectacle of two urchins pelting a Bishop with crumpets?
Opening night. You had to keep the nature of the play a secret, or the court would never have attended. The worthies of the Palace's theatrical set are expecting drama, pathos and social commentary. What they get is custard, and plenty of it.
They are horrified for the first two scenes. A Viscountess storms out barely five minutes in. But then His Amused Lordship roars with delight at the business with the Constable's helmet and the bat. A few others join in with chuckles. By the end of the first act, they're howling with mirth. At the finale, you clamber up to your observation post. It all hinges on this moment. You glance down at the stage. Here it comes. The bishop is filling the Prime Minister's trousers with frogs. And, yes! A giggle. It was a small thing, barely audible. But it was a giggle. From the Imperial box.
Where the weighty is trivial and the insincere mouth earnest words about the fancies and nonsensitudes of life. A pithy epigram for every occasion.
"The only thing worse than..."
The Court prefers its theatre weighty. There is much grumbling in the lobby that your work is most likely frothy nonsense of no worth at all. And then the curtain rises and the fogs of expectation lift. They are charmed by your quips. They sympathise with the everyday troubles and tiny woes of your characters. They see their own lives in your setting.
The curtain falls to a standing ovation. Your play has delighted the Court, accustomed as it was to stodgy pathos. For weeks afterwards you hear "The only thing worse than being dead in the Neath is dying," wherever you go. 'When rats exhibit sentiments, one should not exhibit the sentiments of a rat' is plastered across the press. They think you are delightful. Better, even: they think you are very clever indeed.
A Heart-Wrenching Tragedy
Passions that destroy all before them. Innocence savaged by uncaring destiny. A story fit for the Neath.
By the end of the first act, there are sniffles from the audience. By the end of the second act, there is wailing. When the final curtain falls, some fourteen acts later, iron-eyed worthies and conscienceless villains are howling into their hats. You can barely hear the applause over the sobs. His Amused Lordship sheds a single tear. The Court loves a good cry: you are lauded as a genius.
Word spreads. The theatre is packed, night after night. Tradesmen of modest means shepherd their pennies to come and see your play. There is a fashion for those who love too much to leap from a high window, just like in act seven. This one will run and run.
Write a song and have it performed
You'll have to be subtle. The Empress hates choral works, but in the far corners of the Palace much of the court appreciate a good song.
"A hymn or something, eh? You are a bold one. Jolly good, though. We could use more singing around this place."
While out on a stroll, you hear a tune drifting from an open window at the Continental Hotel. A slow, mournful air on the violin. Lovely, for all its melancholy.
Study the dour tunes of the tomb-colonies
The Continental Hotel caters to the tomb-colonists. Their music might be worth looking into.
You find your way to the violinist's room. The tune is necessarily slow - vigorous bowing would be disastrous - and it speaks wordlessly of death and loss. Is that a hint of a tear in your eye?
The colonist regards you impassively from behind her bandages. When the tune is finished, you get talking. She's here visiting someone. No, music from the tomb-colonies isn't well known in London. You could be the one to bring it to light!
Composition: the low path
Your music will be simple, honest, memorable. The music of the people. One might even be able to dance to it.
Seek out the music of the people
The bawdy songs of the costermongers. The dockside shanties. The simple ballads of love and loss. They will be your meat and drink.
Music in all the wrong places
It may not be the perfect execution of theory, but these people can surely bang out a tune when they put their minds to it. You sing along in the public houses, listen hard at the docks, stroll in the markets at first light. The songs of London come from a score of lands and a dozen centuries. You can make something of all this: something beautiful.
Composition: the high path
Your music will be cerebral, abstract, perfect. A procession of smooth-browed messengers shining with remorseless light.
Seek out the music of dreams
The music of your dreams is beautiful beyond description. You must seize it!
Endless white marble ballrooms. Smiling eyeless dancers. The music is always too quiet, too far away. The dancers can hear it, but you cannot. You walk, then trot, then sprint from room to room. You sense the perfection of the music but it is beyond your reach. You stumble, falling into the deep and silent spaces between stars. You wake, screaming.
The music of your dreams is complex, layered, beautiful. Here in your head there are hundreds of dancers. Each one follows its own path across the polished floor, but keeps perfect tempo to your music. Together they form one swarming, interconnected creature, like a clockwork cloud, and it too dances. Whirl and step. You could not forget that music. The world will join you in hearing it.
The Shuttered Palace is not a welcoming venue for songs. If you publish your work all across London, you might yet hear it in the far corners of the Court. But what have you written?
Something to get the blood of decent folk pumping. A rousing call to action, and some old-fashioned righteousness.
Your hymn is a hit! They're belting it out all over city. Churches throw open their doors to huge crowds and bring in extra pews. Your work inspires a dozen tiny splinter-sects, some with alarming theological quirks. The newspapers report outbreaks of public decorum and good works. An angry mob sings your composition as they hurl a startled devil into the river.
The Empress, as a rule, does not sing. However, certain trusted courtiers claim she was nodding along to your hymn at last Sunday's private chapel service. The rest of the Court takes this as a seal of Royal approval, and your work rings out from the chapels of the righteous and shakes the very cavern walls!
A Newly Arranged Folk Song
A new version of an old song. A good one. One of those tunes about bedding those you shouldn't, robbing folks and spraying blood up the walls.
"And he set off a roving..."
Your song catches on immediately. The tune hangs around like an urchin waiting for a spore-toffee. The story speaks of crime and blood and sex; all those things that the public likes. Many people decide that it's time they too went a-roving. A new fashion starts for tying outlandish things around hats. A number of military officers complain that someone has stolen their money, each claiming the loss was 'a pretty penny'.
The song is a little vulgar to enjoy the full attention of the Court. However, you do hear butlers, grooms and the occasional functionary humming it in the outer parts of the Palace.
A flag-waving riot of music, with a chorus everyone can sing. Something to bring tears to the eyes of the most zealous partisans.
This song isn't the sort one hums while waiting for a hansom. But it is perfect for a promenade concert. The groundlings wave their flags and the patriotic fervour is thick enough to knit with.
Following the publication of your anthem, a great many young men join the navy. There is talk in parliament of 'taking back' the tomb-colonies. News arrives from the far Elder Country: apparently, London's little-publicised colony is expanding its borders.
Compose a symphony and have it performed
The Empress hates noise, but sometimes makes an exception for a good symphony. Apparently the Consort likes them.
"A symphony? Does anyone actually write symphonies any more? This isn't the Regency, you know. Still, good luck to you."
Your symphony is complete!
Music is usually banned from the Shuttered Palace. However, the Consort is old-fashioned and likes the occasional symphony, so the Empress is prepared to make an exception. But what manner of music will there be?
A full orchestra. No, two full orchestras! A regiment of drummers! A platoon of riflemen! A cannon!
There isn't much open space at the Palace. They've had to clear out a conservatory to provide you with a setting. The worthies of the Court are shocked at your symphonic arsenal. Half of them block their ears as they sit down.
And you begin. The windows explode immediately. Dust and glass rain down, shaken from the ceiling by your cannon. The Empress' knuckles are bone white as she clutches her gilded chair. You rattle their bones. You shake their boots. It is glorious. A few of the more frail courtiers will never be the same again. Was that a smile on the pale, lost face of the Consort?
