There is nothing that gives Cynthia Van Der Rose a bigger charge, then pushing the button on her remote, and down come the drawbridge to her families castle. Then, raising high a lantern, she shouts;
“Ego Ariona tellus? Mea auferet somnum exterreri solebat? auferetur!”
(“I am Arion! Away my beloved Nightmare! Away!”)
And off she speed along the canal to her Latin Poerty Club where she will really lay it on them, another line about Cynthia, along with her interprutations of the poem of her favorite Latin Poet, Sextus Propertius, who caught her eyes when she spotted her horse, in one of his poems. Soon after, she grabbed Arion, the rock star who rides a seahorse, and then a dolphin that Cynthia turned into a Nightmare, because she wanted to crush her shy critiques who accused her of hogging the show, and getting away with it because she comes from the Bohemian Royal Line – and is the teacher’s pet!
“What a bunch of whiny babies! You want me to act tame and sane so you will have a chance to get in my pants! As for the women in this group……..”
When Cynthia wore a set of horns she had made (due to family money) she, fumed.
“You are losing your concentration, Cynthia. We have gathered to re-invent a lost poetic language that will remove us from the present dark age.” Thus spoke, Jan Van Der Wolf, the Latin Sage, and guru of Rusaman, who believed a parallel world came in contact with earth, and gave us the Golden Age of the Greeks and Romans, and the Vikings! The language of Latin began to seal, began to bind these two worlds. Then………”
“Excuse me! Your flyer said….”Due to the cellphone, young people do not communicate directly. They are adorned with the fantasy world the internet provides them, even, captures them in, a gold Rococo frame! I have outdone that frame! I killed it!”
This is the beginning of the treatment of one of my main characters.
John Presco a.k.a Jan Van Der Wolf
According to the Vatnsdæla saga, Thorkel Silver (Þorkell Silfri) has a dream about riding a red horse that barely touched ground, which he interpreted as a positive omen, but his wife disagreed, explaining that a mare signified a man’s fetch (fylgja), and that the red color boded bloodiness. This association of the nightmare with fetch is thought to be of late origin, an interpolation in the text dating to circa 1300, with the text exhibiting a “confounding of the words marr and mara.”
Another possible example is the account in the Eyrbyggja saga of the sorceress Geirrid accused of assuming the shape of a “night-rider” or “ride-by-night” (marlíðendr or kveldriða) and causing serious trampling bruises on Gunnlaug Thorbjornsson. The marlíðendr mentioned here has been equated to the mara by commentators.
As in English, the name appears in the word for “nightmare” in the Nordic languages (e.g. the Swedish word “mardröm” literally meaning mara-dream, the Norwegian word “mareritt” and the Danish “Mareridt”, both meaning Mare-ride or the Icelandic word “martröð” meaning mara-dreaming repeatedly).
Cynthia was the first, to my cost, to trap me with her eyes: I was untouched by love before then. It was Amor lowered my gaze of endless disdain, and, feet planted, bowed my head, till he taught me, recklessly, to scorn pure girls and live without sense, and now this madness has not left me for one whole year, though I do attract divine hostility.
Milanion, did not shirk hard labour, Tullus, my friend, to crush fierce Atalanta, Iasus’s daughter. Then he strayed lovesick in Parthenium’s caves, and faced wild beasts there: thrashed, what is more, by the club of Hylaeus, the Centaur, he moaned, wounded, among Arcadia’s stones. So he was able to overcome the swift-footed girl: such is the value of entreaty and effort in love. Dulled Amor, in me, has lost his wits, and forgets the familiar paths he travelled before.
But you whose trickeries draw down the moon, whose task it is to seek revenge, by sacrifice on magic fires, go change my mistress’s mind, and make her cheeks grow paler than my own! Then I will believe you have power to lead rivers and stars wherever you wish, with Colchian charms.
Or you, my friends who, too late, would draw me back from error, search out the cure for a sick heart. I will suffer the heat and the knife bravely, if only freedom can speak as indignation wishes. Lift me through furthest nations and seas, where never a woman can follow my track. You, to whom gods grant an easy hearing, who live forever secure in mutual love, stay behind. Venus, our mistress, turns nights of bitterness against me, and Amor never fails to be found wanting. Avoid this evil I beg you: let each cling to his own love, and never alter the places of familiar desire. But if one hears my warning too late, O with what agony he will remember my words!
What need is there, mea vita, to come with your hair adorned, and slither about in a thin silk dress from Cos? Why drench your tresses in myrrh of Orontes, and betray yourself with gifts from strangers; ruin nature’s beauty with traded refinements; not allow your limbs to gleam to true advantage? Believe me, nothing could enhance your shape: naked Amor never loves lying forms. Look at the colours that lovely earth throws out: but better the wild ivy that springs up of itself; loveliest the strawberry tree that grows in deserted hollows; and the water knows how to run in untaught ways. The shores convince us dressed with natural pebbles, and birds sing much sweeter without art.
Phoebe did not set Castor on fire this way, she Leucippus’s daughter; nor Hilaira, her sister, Pollux, with trinkets. Not like this Marpessa, Evenus’s daughter, whom Idas and passionate Phoebus fought for by her father’s shore. Hippodamia did not attract Pelops, her Phrygian husband, with false brightness, to be whirled off on alien chariot-wheels. They did not slavishly add jewels to faces of a lustre seen in Apelles’s paintings. Collecting lovers everywhere was never their inclination: to be chaste was great enough beauty for them.
Might I not be afraid now, that I might be worth less than these? If she pleases one man a girl has enough refinement: and Phoebus grants, to you above all, his gifts of song, and Calliope, gladly, her Aonian lyre, and your happy words never lack unique grace, all that Minerva and Venus approve of. If only those wretched luxuries wearied you, you would always be dearest to my life for these.
Just as Ariadne, the girl of Cnossus, lay on the naked shore, fainting, while Theseus’s ship vanished; or as Andromeda, Cepheus’s child, lay recumbent in her first sleep free now of the harsh rock; or like one fallen on the grass by Apidanus, exhausted by the endless Thracian dance; Cynthia seemed like that to me, breathing the tender silence, her head resting on unquiet hands, when I came, deep in wine, dragging my drunken feet, and the boys were shaking the late night torches.
My senses not totally dazed yet, I tried to approach her, pressing gently against the bed: and though seized by a twin passion, here Amor and there Bacchus, both cruel gods, urging me on, to attempt to slip my arm under her as she lay there, and lifting my hand snatch eager kisses, I was still not brave enough to trouble my mistress’s rest, fearing her proven fierceness in quarreling, but, frozen there, clung to her, gazing intently, like Argus on Io’s newly horned brow.
Now I freed the garlands from my forehead, and set them on your temples: now I delighted in playing with your loose hair, furtively slipping apples into your open hands, bestowing every gift on your ungrateful sleep, repeated gifts breathed from my bowed body. And whenever you, stirring, gave an infrequent sigh, I was transfixed, believing false omens, some vision bringing you strange fears, or another forced you to be his, against your will.
At last the moon, gliding by distant windows, the busy moon with lingering light, opened her closed eyes, with its tender rays. Raised on one elbow on the soft bed, she cried: ‘Has another’s severity driven you out, closing her doors, bringing you back to my bed at last? Alas for me, where have you spent the long hours of this night, that was mine, you, worn out now, as the stars are put away? O you, cruel to me in my misery, I wish you the same long-drawn out nights as those you endlessly offer to me. Till a moment ago, I staved off sleep, weaving the purple threads, and again, wearied, with the sound of Orpheus’s lyre. Until Sleep impelled me to sink down under his delightful wing I was moaning gently to myself, alone, all the while, for you, delayed so long, so often, by a stranger’s love. That was my last care, amongst my tears.’
Why do you urge me to alter, and leave my mistress, Bassus, praising so many lovely girls to me? Why not allow me to spend the rest of my life in increasingly familiar slavery? You can praise Antiope’s beauty, the daughter of Nycteus, and Hermione of Sparta, all those the ages of beauty saw: Cynthia denies them a name. Still less would she be slighted, or thought less, by severe critics, if she were compared with inferior forms. Her beauty is the least part of what inflames me: there are greater things I take joy in dying for, Bassus: Nature’s complexion, and the grace of many an art, and pleasures it is best to speak of under the silent sheets.
The more you try to weaken our love, the more both disappoint with acknowledged loyalty. You will not escape with impunity: the furious girl will know of it, and will be an enemy to you with no unquiet voice. Cynthia will no longer look for you after this, nor entrust me to you. She will remember such crimes, and angrily denounce you amongst all the other girls: alas, you will be loved on never a threshold. She will slight no altar of her tears, no stone, wherever it may be, and however sacred.
No loss hurts Cynthia so deeply as when the god is absent, love snatched away from her: above all mine. Let her always be so, I pray, and let me never discover cause in her for lament.
Are you mad, then, that my anxiety does not stop you? Am I less to you than chilly Illyria? Does he seem so great to you, whoever he is, that you’ll go anywhere the wind takes your sails, without me? Can you hear the roar of the furious seas unmoved, and lie down on hard planks; tread the hoarfrost under your tender feet? Cynthia, can you bear unaccustomed snow? Oh, I wish that the days till the winter solstice were doubled, and the Pleiades delayed, the sailors sitting idle, the ropes be never loosed from the Tyrrhenian shore, and the hostile breezes not blow my prayers away! Yet may I never see such winds drop when your boat puts off, and the waves carry it onwards, leaving me rooted to the desolate strand, repeatedly crying out your cruelty with clenched fist.
Yet whatever you deserve from me, you who renounce me, may Sicilian Galatea not frown on your journey: pass with happy oars Epirus’s Acroceraunian cliffs, and be received by Illyrian Oricos’s calm waters. No other girl will seduce me, mea vita, from bitterly uttering complaints about you at your threshold, nor will I fail to question the impatient sailors: ‘Tell in what harbour my girl is confined?’ and say ‘Though she lives on Thessaly’s shore, or beyond the Scythian, she’ll be mine.’
Frisian and Prussian line
Michael II. Baron zu Schwarzenberg (†1469), oldest son of Erkinger I. (*1362 – †1437), was married twice. First with Gertrud (Bätze) von Cronberg (†1438), from whom the princely line descends. His second marriage was with Ursula (Frankengrüner) Grüner († ca.1484), from whom the Frisian and later the Prussian line originates. The children of Michael’s and Ursula’s alliance were never recognized by their half-siblings, as their first born son was born out of wedlock and the legitimisation only took place with the subsequent wedding.
Johann Onuphrius (*1513–†1584), a great-grandson of Michael II. and Ursula, is considered to be the progenitor of the Frisian Line. His marriage with Maria von Grumbach (†1564) ensured Groot Terhorne Castle until 1879 as the family seat in the Netherlands. The Frisian line was made a member of the Dutch nobility by a Royal decree of King William I. of the Netherlands on August 28, 1814. Henceforth, the Dutch version thoe Schwartzenberg en Hohenlansberg was applied for this branch of the family.
The Prussian Line was established as a cadet branch of the Frisian line with Georg Baron thoe Schwartzenberg en Hohenlansberg (1842-1918), who served as a Rittmeister in the Imperial German Army. He and his descendants were made members of the Prussian nobility by an Imperial decree, issued by Emperor Wilhelm II., and are entitled to carry the German title Freiherr.