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femgenficathonTitle: As brittle as the glory is the face
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lareinenoire
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Characters: Blair Waldorf, Vanessa Abrams, Jenny Humphrey, Serena van der Woodsen
Rating: PG
Warnings: Footnotes, excessive quotation, and dodgy interpretations of Shakespeare, monarchical theory, and identity politics.
Prompt: 3) Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. -- Jane Austen (1775-1817), English novelist.
Summary: "I am Richard II, know ye not that?" Where better for a dethroned queen to gain some perspective than from a dethroned king?
Author's Notes: I had more trouble than I would have anticipated in coming up with a response to this prompt, and the fic may well reflect that, so my apologies in advance. Michael Boyd's production of Richard II for the Royal Shakespeare Company sadly never made it to the United States, but the fic presupposes a short run in New York. Takes place during 2x25 The Goodbye Gossip Girl; spoilers up to that point. Title comes from Richard II, IV.i.288. Many thanks to my beta-readersangevin2 and rosamund.
Spotted: Blair Waldorf taking in some Shakespeare. Where better for a dethroned queen to gain some perspective than from a dethroned king?
It was all Cyrus' idea. Strange how so many things were. With that damned grin Blair wanted to call stupid but couldn't anymore, he held up three tickets and suggested they go to the theatre.
"It was a good mope," she pouted, lifting the satin eye mask from one eye to glare at him. "Why are you ruining my mope?"
"Because you haven't left this room in three days and you need to get out. Come on! It'll be distracting!"
She didn't have the energy to argue with him. Fifteen minutes with Dorota later, Blair descended the staircase, wearing enough concealer to paint the entire front hall. At least the one consolation was that the last place in the world that a certain Bass would turn up would be a touring Shakespeare production.
The seats were, unsurprisingly, the best in the house. Picking up a programme, Blair found herself looking down at an extreme close-up photograph of a guy in caked white makeup, wearing a red wig. "Um, Cyrus, what is this?"
"Richard II," he said, nose buried in his own programme. "Fantastic play. I read it in college. And this production has had nothing but rave reviews."
Blair sighed. Why couldn't it be Hamlet? At least she knew the plot.
The plot of Richard II, from what Blair could gather, involved a spoiled king who flounced around the stage--admittedly in killer shoes--and made the sort of mistakes normal people made, except that it all went horribly wrong. But she realised, as the audience stood up to applaud for intermission, that she hadn't been paying attention to the plot at all.
***
If she didn't know better--and Vanessa did, though Blair would never have admitted it--she would have been convinced that Blair Waldorf was stalking her. But Manhattan was a small place, and she'd just have to accept that sometimes you couldn't help but run into the people you least wanted to see. At least she hadn't noticed her yet.
She frowned, suddenly. Blair should have noticed by now, should have given her that infuriating smile or found some way to call attention to the fact that Vanessa, who actually gave a shit about Shakespeare, couldn't afford anything better than nosebleed seats. Or, even more simply, some variation on a theme of slut (not that Vanessa was proud of her lack of judgement where Chuck Bass was concerned, even if Blair would never accept that). But she wasn't paying any attention. Even now, during intermission, her nose was buried in the programme.
Dan, unsurprisingly, had already noticed, and squeezed her hand. On her other side, Nate was frowning at the empty stage, his nose wrinkled adorably.
"So. Is he, like, gay or something?"
"Looks like it. But that's not the point, Nate," Vanessa said, rolling her eyes. "It's the fact that he's ignoring his family and his kingdom for these guys who came from nowhere."
"But he's the king," Nate said slowly. "Isn't the whole point of being king that you can do whatever the hell you want and nobody can stop you? He," he gestured to the stage, "sure seems to think so."
Vanessa laughed. "Didn't you learn anything in AP History? There's this thing called the Parliament. And, besides, this is a play about how a king gets held accountable for mistakes he made."
Nate was still frowning, and Vanessa considered suggesting that he was thinking too hard, before Dan broke in, gesturing vaguely across the theatre. "Hey, guys, guess who's here."
Blair was still poring through the programme with a strangely panicked expression. "I wonder what she's so worried about."
"Be nice," warned Nate. "She's gone through a lot recently."
"Says the guy defending Richard II."
Nate shrugged. "He's also gone through a lot. And, besides," he added, giving her a quirked smile, "we're not all crazy socialists like you."
"No, some of us are good, old-fashioned Vanderbilt monarchists," she retorted. "Who feel sorry for Blair Waldorf because she got exactly what was coming to her."
Nate shot her a warning look, and Vanessa sank back into her seat, resisting the urge to glare at the faraway Blair. Dan met her eyes and gave a small shake of his head. Even he was defending Blair, in his own way. It didn't seem to matter that the girl had done everything possible to ruin the lives of everybody around her, Vanessa included.
By the end of the evening, she was willing to give Nate the benefit of the doubt as far as King Richard was concerned--although that, she suspected, had more to do with Shakespeare and the actor playing Richard. As for Blair, maybe in two hundred years, if someone was bored enough to write a play about a spoiled, vindictive Upper East Side bitch who only thought she had some kind of divine right, but for now, Vanessa was content not to give her another thought.
***
It is easy to understand why Richard's reign was so central to the political imagination of late Elizabethan England. In the 1590s, Elizabeth was thought by many to be a poor ruler, capricious and dominated by unsuitable favourites, precisely how Richard was regarded.1
"I am Richard II, know ye not that?"2 Blair mouthed the words as she read them on the computer screen. "Guess I'm not the only one."
Her own advice to Jenny Humphrey from a few days ago came tumbling back to her mind. You need to be cool to be queen. Anne Boleyn thought only with her heart and she got her head chopped off. So her daughter Elizabeth made a vow never to marry a man. She married a country. But, as she was slowly discovering, it wasn't nearly that simple.
She'd watched all her certainties fall to pieces over the past year. Every constant she'd grasped had slipped away. First, Chuck. Then, Serena--even if she'd come back eventually. Yale. Nate. And finally Chuck, once more. One big circle of failure. The only thing she'd clung to through it all was that stupid, illusory title--Queen--that, if she was honest with herself, didn't even exist outside the little world of Constance Billard High School.
You can't make people love you, but you can make them fear you.
Not anymore, she couldn't. Blair Waldorf had abdicated her crown--by chronological necessity, but that didn't matter, just like it didn't matter that Richard II had been forced to abdicate his. What was a Queen without a crown? Just another girl.
And Blair Waldorf could be many things, but just another girl wasn't one of them.
***
The only thing Jenny knew about Richard II was that Eleanor Waldorf had come back from a production convinced that the atelier's upcoming fall line would be velvets, brocades, and hedonistic excess. It was Dan who let slip that Blair, too, had been there. And that Blair had been, as he put it, weird.
Blair had chosen her to be the next Queen at Nate's graduation party. Whatever that meant. Jenny wasn't actually sure how much it meant at this point; the other girls claimed they didn't listen to her, but it sure as hell looked like they were still scared of her. And Blair certainly seemed to think her opinion mattered.
For what it's worth, you're my Queen.
As for the rest of what Blair had told her that night, she was trying not to think about it, trying not to remember the utter defeat on the older girl's face, an expression as alien as, well, aliens. Not the sort of expression a Queen was supposed to wear. Funny how Blair still sounded like royalty even when, by her own admission, she'd given up.
The New York Times had run a story on the production with disappointingly few costume photos, but Jenny found herself idly skimming the text.
Instead of the usual lyrical virtuoso, Jonathan Slinger offers a stunning portrait of a red-wigged, dandified tyrant who reminds us of Elizabeth I. Yet, miraculously, Slinger wins our sympathy in his downfall. In the deposition scene there is a great moment when he cries, "I have no name," as if, stripped of the ritual of kingship, his identity dissolves.3
Jenny sighed. "She always was obsessed with royalty."
"Jenny?" Dan appeared in his doorway, frowning. "What's up?"
"Blair Waldorf is making me think too hard," she said with a grimace, tossing him the paper. "Am I crazy?"
Dan read the article, lips pursed. "No crazier than she was when she was going on about Countess Olenska in The Age of Innocence."
"I guess I'm off to the loony bin, then!"
"No, no, it's not that." Dan set the paper down. "There are two different Blair Waldorfs---no, Jenny, hear me out. I think I'm having a revelation. There's the person she thinks she is, the star of her own personal drama. And then there's the person she actually is. A teenager who just finished high school, nothing more and nothing less. I mean, we all think we're the stars of our own lives, right? But Blair takes it a step further."
Jenny found herself smiling. "And Blair thinks she's..." she checked the paper, "Richard II? That's a stretch even for her."
"It makes more sense than Countess Olenska, actually," Dan said. "Everything that happens to Richard II is, to an extent, his own fault. If he hadn't been so careless, if he hadn't alienated everyone who could have helped him..."
"...if she hadn't tried to buy her way into Yale, if she hadn't hazed a teacher and tortured her classmates and assumed everyone would listen to her even when she was blatantly wrong..."
"See?" Dan laughed. "Although I guess that makes you Henry IV." At Jenny's confused expression he added, "The guy who won at the end. But he wasn't exactly thrilled about it."
Jenny shrugged. "I don't believe in that stupid stuff anymore. It's so...suffocating. And it doesn't even matter. I don't get why Blair is so obsessed."
"Maybe it's because that's all she knows. She thinks that's all there is to her."
"I can't say I disagree," said Jenny, looking down at the photograph accompanying the review in the Times, of a man and a woman standing beneath a shower of sand. "Are there any open seats for tonight, do you know?"
"I'm sure Lily could engineer some if you want."
Jenny grinned. "I confess. I want to see Blair Waldorf as done by Shakespeare. How often do you get that?"
Having Lily Bass engaged to your father was good for a lot of things, including last-minute theatre tickets, and Jenny convinced Eric to come along just to make sure she wasn't losing her mind. But, as the cast returned for the final curtain call, Jenny caught sight of Blair staring at the stage as though haunted. Two nights in a row, and Blair didn't even like theatre. If that wasn't an obsession, Jenny didn't know what was.
A circle of blood marred the stage in front of them, where Richard had been stabbed to death on his successor's orders. Watching Blair make her way out of the theatre in short, jerky steps, Jenny shuddered. She had no intention of being drawn into another of Blair's obsessive fantasies, but even she had to admit this one wasn't too far off the mark.
Though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.4
She shivered again. Beside her, Eric placed one hand on her arm. "Hey, it's okay. I've known Blair all my life. If she gets through this week without someone actually stabbing her--which we all know is pretty damn unlikely even considering she's Blair--she'll find something else to fixate on. It's how she works."
"God, I hope so. This is way too creepy for me."
Eric smiled. "I'll make Serena talk to her. If nothing else, she's totally distracting."
***
For God's sake let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
--Richard II, III.ii.155-6
"...you'd better not be telling me you want to see some sort of psychic to find out whether or not you were Richard II in a past life. Because if you are, I am totally disowning you."
Blair sighed. "You don't get it. Clearly."
"No, I don't," Serena said, "because it's crazy talk."
"It's not crazy talk!"
"Have you listened to yourself recently? Look," Serena held up her hands, "I totally get that you're torn up about the whole Chuck thing. That's normal. But this? This is where I call the nice men with white coats."
"How many times do I need to tell you this is not about Chuck Bass?" Blair all but shrieked. "My world does not revolve around Chuck Bass!"
Serena rolled her eyes. "What is it about, then?"
"This is about me, Serena! About the fact that I've ceased to exist!"
Reaching forward, Serena poked her in the chest. "Still here as far as I can tell."
"Wrong!" Blair sank onto the bed. "I'm not me anymore, S. Blair Waldorf has a perfect life and is going to Yale. Ergo, I am clearly not Blair Waldorf."
Serena tilted her head to one side and looked at her. "Crazy, check. Irrational, check. Obsessive, check. Totally convinced that her life is a work of art, check. Nope, still Blair Waldorf."
Blair buried her head in her hands. "You just don't get it, do you? You've never had a problem with who you were. I mean, sure, you've had problems, and don't start me on those--"
"Thank you, B."
"--and, yeah, you were bothered when Gossip Girl told you you'd be irrelevant, but you got over it in three hours because you really didn't care that much. You're Serena van der Woodsen! The whole point of being Serena van der Woodsen is that nobody can predict what you're going to do next. Nobody even bothers because they have no expectations. You can do whatever you want."
"And you can't?" Serena was looking at her, one eyebrow arched. "Who is making these rules, Blair? Who says you have to be the same person you planned to be when you were eleven years old? It's like that damn scrapbook--"
"Don't you dare bring up the scrapbook--"
"But it's true, Blair. You're so wrapped up in some weird, imaginary version of who you are that you're missing what's happening right in front of you. So you aren't a queen. Who cares? You never really were, you know. It was all in your head. And, sure, you were able to convince a bunch of girls in our high school to believe it, but that's, like, thirty people. Out of the entire world." Serena grabbed her by the shoulders. "You're my best friend, B. You always have been. And I only want you to be happy."
"But what does that even mean, S?"
"It means you need to let go."
***
Thus play I in one person many people,
And none contented.
--Richard II, V.v.31-2
It was the third time she'd walked up to the theatre, the third time she sat down, mechanically rereading the programme. The third time she searched the stage, watching as the play wore on towards the only ending it could possibly have, and still she watched, wondering if maybe this time something might change.
You need to let go.
Blair straightened in her seat. Serena couldn't possibly understand, and Blair couldn't help but envy her that. Serena just floated through life, letting events take her where they would. Nothing ever touched her enough to really hurt her, no matter how much collateral damage she managed to inflict on anyone in the vicinity. It just wasn't fair.
She couldn't hate Serena for it, much as a part of her wished she could. Nor could she hate Jenny Humphrey for having a spine and acting on weaknesses she spotted. And even if she did hate Vanessa and the feeling was satisfyingly mutual, it really didn't matter in the end. What did any of it matter when Blair Waldorf herself was coming apart at the seams?
She found herself at the stage door afterward without even realising she'd walked there, and kept to the back of the growing crowd of admirers chattering in loud voices. Her hand twitched toward her phone, knowing Dorota would come if she called, but she had no idea what she even wanted. Dorota, useful as she was, couldn't read Blair's mind all the time.
The crowd slowly began to disperse as the actors finished signing autographs. The guy who had played Richard was turning back to the door when Blair lunged forward, blurting out, "Please, wait!"
A few moments passed and she realised he was waiting for her to say something. "Um...okay, this is going to sound really weird, but I have a question. And it's really important, so..." she bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "You'd know. You have to know."
He looked very uncomfortable, which was weird considering he'd just spent three hours wearing an Elizabeth I wig. "I'll do what I can."
"So, Richard dies at the end, right? What do you think would have happened if Henry hadn't killed him?" Blair took a breath. "Being King was the centre of his world, it was the only thing he ever knew how to be. How do you go on without that?"
"That's...not a question I've ever heard before," he said, hands fidgeting. Now that Blair saw him up close, it was slightly surreal. "Shakespeare was far nicer to him, to be honest. Rumour has it the real Richard starved to death."
Blair shuddered. "You're kidding me."
"Gruesome, isn't it? Not a very nice time period at all. If you see the Henry VI plays, you really get a sense of that, but Richard II is all about what happens inside his head. It's about him growing up, really. But he's cut off at the moment he realises who he really is."5
"But, he's the King. That's supposed to be bigger than one person. I mean, all those speeches about how he's also the kingdom, and how he's nothing without his title..." Blair trailed off. "He's losing himself."
"No, he's losing one identity. But he's gaining the freedom to become anything he wants."
She was tempted to ask him if he'd been talking to a blonde girl with a hippie complex recently. But, calling on self-control far beyond her normal capacity, Blair bit her tongue.
"The King can't be anything other than a king. Or at least Richard can't, because he's never known how to be anything else. But he's learning. Slowly." He paused for a moment. "Whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased With being nothing."6
"You'll never be happy until you're dead, so why bother?"
"Not exactly, but something a bit like that."
Blair sighed. "That's depressing."
"It's actually not, if you think about it. If you're not searching for perfection all the time, there's a lot more to the world. You can't control all of it, so just let it happen." He blinked. "Also, I'm not qualified to give anybody psychological advice."
"You didn't do too badly," Blair allowed with a small smile. "Thanks. Also, you were totally amazing. It's the third time I've come."
"I'm very glad you enjoyed it." And, with that, he was gone. Blair waited in the alleyway for a moment or two longer, before turning on her perfect stiletto heel and walking back to the front doors, where the car was still waiting for her.
She may not be queen of Constance Billard anymore, but Blair Waldorf was damned if she would let anyone else get the last word. Some things weren't going to change.
______________________________________
NOTES
1. Andrew Hadfield, from the programme for Richard II, performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford-upon-Avon, 2006-2008.
2. "I am Richard II, know ye not that?": Supposedly a quotation from Elizabeth I to William Lambard, Keeper of the Records of the Tower, upon viewing a portrait of Richard II in 1601.
3. From Michael Billington's review in The Guardian, 16 April 2008.
4. Richard II, V.vi.39-40.
5. But he's cut off at the moment he realises who he really is: Paraphrased from an interview with Jon Slinger, who played Richard II, in 2008.
6. Richard II, V.v.38-41.
Author:
lareinenoireFandom: Gossip Girl
Characters: Blair Waldorf, Vanessa Abrams, Jenny Humphrey, Serena van der Woodsen
Rating: PG
Warnings: Footnotes, excessive quotation, and dodgy interpretations of Shakespeare, monarchical theory, and identity politics.
Prompt: 3) Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. -- Jane Austen (1775-1817), English novelist.
Summary: "I am Richard II, know ye not that?" Where better for a dethroned queen to gain some perspective than from a dethroned king?
Author's Notes: I had more trouble than I would have anticipated in coming up with a response to this prompt, and the fic may well reflect that, so my apologies in advance. Michael Boyd's production of Richard II for the Royal Shakespeare Company sadly never made it to the United States, but the fic presupposes a short run in New York. Takes place during 2x25 The Goodbye Gossip Girl; spoilers up to that point. Title comes from Richard II, IV.i.288. Many thanks to my beta-readers
angevin2 and rosamund.Spotted: Blair Waldorf taking in some Shakespeare. Where better for a dethroned queen to gain some perspective than from a dethroned king?
It was all Cyrus' idea. Strange how so many things were. With that damned grin Blair wanted to call stupid but couldn't anymore, he held up three tickets and suggested they go to the theatre.
"It was a good mope," she pouted, lifting the satin eye mask from one eye to glare at him. "Why are you ruining my mope?"
"Because you haven't left this room in three days and you need to get out. Come on! It'll be distracting!"
She didn't have the energy to argue with him. Fifteen minutes with Dorota later, Blair descended the staircase, wearing enough concealer to paint the entire front hall. At least the one consolation was that the last place in the world that a certain Bass would turn up would be a touring Shakespeare production.
The seats were, unsurprisingly, the best in the house. Picking up a programme, Blair found herself looking down at an extreme close-up photograph of a guy in caked white makeup, wearing a red wig. "Um, Cyrus, what is this?"
"Richard II," he said, nose buried in his own programme. "Fantastic play. I read it in college. And this production has had nothing but rave reviews."
Blair sighed. Why couldn't it be Hamlet? At least she knew the plot.
The plot of Richard II, from what Blair could gather, involved a spoiled king who flounced around the stage--admittedly in killer shoes--and made the sort of mistakes normal people made, except that it all went horribly wrong. But she realised, as the audience stood up to applaud for intermission, that she hadn't been paying attention to the plot at all.
If she didn't know better--and Vanessa did, though Blair would never have admitted it--she would have been convinced that Blair Waldorf was stalking her. But Manhattan was a small place, and she'd just have to accept that sometimes you couldn't help but run into the people you least wanted to see. At least she hadn't noticed her yet.
She frowned, suddenly. Blair should have noticed by now, should have given her that infuriating smile or found some way to call attention to the fact that Vanessa, who actually gave a shit about Shakespeare, couldn't afford anything better than nosebleed seats. Or, even more simply, some variation on a theme of slut (not that Vanessa was proud of her lack of judgement where Chuck Bass was concerned, even if Blair would never accept that). But she wasn't paying any attention. Even now, during intermission, her nose was buried in the programme.
Dan, unsurprisingly, had already noticed, and squeezed her hand. On her other side, Nate was frowning at the empty stage, his nose wrinkled adorably.
"So. Is he, like, gay or something?"
"Looks like it. But that's not the point, Nate," Vanessa said, rolling her eyes. "It's the fact that he's ignoring his family and his kingdom for these guys who came from nowhere."
"But he's the king," Nate said slowly. "Isn't the whole point of being king that you can do whatever the hell you want and nobody can stop you? He," he gestured to the stage, "sure seems to think so."
Vanessa laughed. "Didn't you learn anything in AP History? There's this thing called the Parliament. And, besides, this is a play about how a king gets held accountable for mistakes he made."
Nate was still frowning, and Vanessa considered suggesting that he was thinking too hard, before Dan broke in, gesturing vaguely across the theatre. "Hey, guys, guess who's here."
Blair was still poring through the programme with a strangely panicked expression. "I wonder what she's so worried about."
"Be nice," warned Nate. "She's gone through a lot recently."
"Says the guy defending Richard II."
Nate shrugged. "He's also gone through a lot. And, besides," he added, giving her a quirked smile, "we're not all crazy socialists like you."
"No, some of us are good, old-fashioned Vanderbilt monarchists," she retorted. "Who feel sorry for Blair Waldorf because she got exactly what was coming to her."
Nate shot her a warning look, and Vanessa sank back into her seat, resisting the urge to glare at the faraway Blair. Dan met her eyes and gave a small shake of his head. Even he was defending Blair, in his own way. It didn't seem to matter that the girl had done everything possible to ruin the lives of everybody around her, Vanessa included.
By the end of the evening, she was willing to give Nate the benefit of the doubt as far as King Richard was concerned--although that, she suspected, had more to do with Shakespeare and the actor playing Richard. As for Blair, maybe in two hundred years, if someone was bored enough to write a play about a spoiled, vindictive Upper East Side bitch who only thought she had some kind of divine right, but for now, Vanessa was content not to give her another thought.
It is easy to understand why Richard's reign was so central to the political imagination of late Elizabethan England. In the 1590s, Elizabeth was thought by many to be a poor ruler, capricious and dominated by unsuitable favourites, precisely how Richard was regarded.1
"I am Richard II, know ye not that?"2 Blair mouthed the words as she read them on the computer screen. "Guess I'm not the only one."
Her own advice to Jenny Humphrey from a few days ago came tumbling back to her mind. You need to be cool to be queen. Anne Boleyn thought only with her heart and she got her head chopped off. So her daughter Elizabeth made a vow never to marry a man. She married a country. But, as she was slowly discovering, it wasn't nearly that simple.
She'd watched all her certainties fall to pieces over the past year. Every constant she'd grasped had slipped away. First, Chuck. Then, Serena--even if she'd come back eventually. Yale. Nate. And finally Chuck, once more. One big circle of failure. The only thing she'd clung to through it all was that stupid, illusory title--Queen--that, if she was honest with herself, didn't even exist outside the little world of Constance Billard High School.
You can't make people love you, but you can make them fear you.
Not anymore, she couldn't. Blair Waldorf had abdicated her crown--by chronological necessity, but that didn't matter, just like it didn't matter that Richard II had been forced to abdicate his. What was a Queen without a crown? Just another girl.
And Blair Waldorf could be many things, but just another girl wasn't one of them.
The only thing Jenny knew about Richard II was that Eleanor Waldorf had come back from a production convinced that the atelier's upcoming fall line would be velvets, brocades, and hedonistic excess. It was Dan who let slip that Blair, too, had been there. And that Blair had been, as he put it, weird.
Blair had chosen her to be the next Queen at Nate's graduation party. Whatever that meant. Jenny wasn't actually sure how much it meant at this point; the other girls claimed they didn't listen to her, but it sure as hell looked like they were still scared of her. And Blair certainly seemed to think her opinion mattered.
For what it's worth, you're my Queen.
As for the rest of what Blair had told her that night, she was trying not to think about it, trying not to remember the utter defeat on the older girl's face, an expression as alien as, well, aliens. Not the sort of expression a Queen was supposed to wear. Funny how Blair still sounded like royalty even when, by her own admission, she'd given up.
The New York Times had run a story on the production with disappointingly few costume photos, but Jenny found herself idly skimming the text.
Instead of the usual lyrical virtuoso, Jonathan Slinger offers a stunning portrait of a red-wigged, dandified tyrant who reminds us of Elizabeth I. Yet, miraculously, Slinger wins our sympathy in his downfall. In the deposition scene there is a great moment when he cries, "I have no name," as if, stripped of the ritual of kingship, his identity dissolves.3
Jenny sighed. "She always was obsessed with royalty."
"Jenny?" Dan appeared in his doorway, frowning. "What's up?"
"Blair Waldorf is making me think too hard," she said with a grimace, tossing him the paper. "Am I crazy?"
Dan read the article, lips pursed. "No crazier than she was when she was going on about Countess Olenska in The Age of Innocence."
"I guess I'm off to the loony bin, then!"
"No, no, it's not that." Dan set the paper down. "There are two different Blair Waldorfs---no, Jenny, hear me out. I think I'm having a revelation. There's the person she thinks she is, the star of her own personal drama. And then there's the person she actually is. A teenager who just finished high school, nothing more and nothing less. I mean, we all think we're the stars of our own lives, right? But Blair takes it a step further."
Jenny found herself smiling. "And Blair thinks she's..." she checked the paper, "Richard II? That's a stretch even for her."
"It makes more sense than Countess Olenska, actually," Dan said. "Everything that happens to Richard II is, to an extent, his own fault. If he hadn't been so careless, if he hadn't alienated everyone who could have helped him..."
"...if she hadn't tried to buy her way into Yale, if she hadn't hazed a teacher and tortured her classmates and assumed everyone would listen to her even when she was blatantly wrong..."
"See?" Dan laughed. "Although I guess that makes you Henry IV." At Jenny's confused expression he added, "The guy who won at the end. But he wasn't exactly thrilled about it."
Jenny shrugged. "I don't believe in that stupid stuff anymore. It's so...suffocating. And it doesn't even matter. I don't get why Blair is so obsessed."
"Maybe it's because that's all she knows. She thinks that's all there is to her."
"I can't say I disagree," said Jenny, looking down at the photograph accompanying the review in the Times, of a man and a woman standing beneath a shower of sand. "Are there any open seats for tonight, do you know?"
"I'm sure Lily could engineer some if you want."
Jenny grinned. "I confess. I want to see Blair Waldorf as done by Shakespeare. How often do you get that?"
Having Lily Bass engaged to your father was good for a lot of things, including last-minute theatre tickets, and Jenny convinced Eric to come along just to make sure she wasn't losing her mind. But, as the cast returned for the final curtain call, Jenny caught sight of Blair staring at the stage as though haunted. Two nights in a row, and Blair didn't even like theatre. If that wasn't an obsession, Jenny didn't know what was.
A circle of blood marred the stage in front of them, where Richard had been stabbed to death on his successor's orders. Watching Blair make her way out of the theatre in short, jerky steps, Jenny shuddered. She had no intention of being drawn into another of Blair's obsessive fantasies, but even she had to admit this one wasn't too far off the mark.
Though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.4
She shivered again. Beside her, Eric placed one hand on her arm. "Hey, it's okay. I've known Blair all my life. If she gets through this week without someone actually stabbing her--which we all know is pretty damn unlikely even considering she's Blair--she'll find something else to fixate on. It's how she works."
"God, I hope so. This is way too creepy for me."
Eric smiled. "I'll make Serena talk to her. If nothing else, she's totally distracting."
For God's sake let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
--Richard II, III.ii.155-6
"...you'd better not be telling me you want to see some sort of psychic to find out whether or not you were Richard II in a past life. Because if you are, I am totally disowning you."
Blair sighed. "You don't get it. Clearly."
"No, I don't," Serena said, "because it's crazy talk."
"It's not crazy talk!"
"Have you listened to yourself recently? Look," Serena held up her hands, "I totally get that you're torn up about the whole Chuck thing. That's normal. But this? This is where I call the nice men with white coats."
"How many times do I need to tell you this is not about Chuck Bass?" Blair all but shrieked. "My world does not revolve around Chuck Bass!"
Serena rolled her eyes. "What is it about, then?"
"This is about me, Serena! About the fact that I've ceased to exist!"
Reaching forward, Serena poked her in the chest. "Still here as far as I can tell."
"Wrong!" Blair sank onto the bed. "I'm not me anymore, S. Blair Waldorf has a perfect life and is going to Yale. Ergo, I am clearly not Blair Waldorf."
Serena tilted her head to one side and looked at her. "Crazy, check. Irrational, check. Obsessive, check. Totally convinced that her life is a work of art, check. Nope, still Blair Waldorf."
Blair buried her head in her hands. "You just don't get it, do you? You've never had a problem with who you were. I mean, sure, you've had problems, and don't start me on those--"
"Thank you, B."
"--and, yeah, you were bothered when Gossip Girl told you you'd be irrelevant, but you got over it in three hours because you really didn't care that much. You're Serena van der Woodsen! The whole point of being Serena van der Woodsen is that nobody can predict what you're going to do next. Nobody even bothers because they have no expectations. You can do whatever you want."
"And you can't?" Serena was looking at her, one eyebrow arched. "Who is making these rules, Blair? Who says you have to be the same person you planned to be when you were eleven years old? It's like that damn scrapbook--"
"Don't you dare bring up the scrapbook--"
"But it's true, Blair. You're so wrapped up in some weird, imaginary version of who you are that you're missing what's happening right in front of you. So you aren't a queen. Who cares? You never really were, you know. It was all in your head. And, sure, you were able to convince a bunch of girls in our high school to believe it, but that's, like, thirty people. Out of the entire world." Serena grabbed her by the shoulders. "You're my best friend, B. You always have been. And I only want you to be happy."
"But what does that even mean, S?"
"It means you need to let go."
Thus play I in one person many people,
And none contented.
--Richard II, V.v.31-2
It was the third time she'd walked up to the theatre, the third time she sat down, mechanically rereading the programme. The third time she searched the stage, watching as the play wore on towards the only ending it could possibly have, and still she watched, wondering if maybe this time something might change.
You need to let go.
Blair straightened in her seat. Serena couldn't possibly understand, and Blair couldn't help but envy her that. Serena just floated through life, letting events take her where they would. Nothing ever touched her enough to really hurt her, no matter how much collateral damage she managed to inflict on anyone in the vicinity. It just wasn't fair.
She couldn't hate Serena for it, much as a part of her wished she could. Nor could she hate Jenny Humphrey for having a spine and acting on weaknesses she spotted. And even if she did hate Vanessa and the feeling was satisfyingly mutual, it really didn't matter in the end. What did any of it matter when Blair Waldorf herself was coming apart at the seams?
She found herself at the stage door afterward without even realising she'd walked there, and kept to the back of the growing crowd of admirers chattering in loud voices. Her hand twitched toward her phone, knowing Dorota would come if she called, but she had no idea what she even wanted. Dorota, useful as she was, couldn't read Blair's mind all the time.
The crowd slowly began to disperse as the actors finished signing autographs. The guy who had played Richard was turning back to the door when Blair lunged forward, blurting out, "Please, wait!"
A few moments passed and she realised he was waiting for her to say something. "Um...okay, this is going to sound really weird, but I have a question. And it's really important, so..." she bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "You'd know. You have to know."
He looked very uncomfortable, which was weird considering he'd just spent three hours wearing an Elizabeth I wig. "I'll do what I can."
"So, Richard dies at the end, right? What do you think would have happened if Henry hadn't killed him?" Blair took a breath. "Being King was the centre of his world, it was the only thing he ever knew how to be. How do you go on without that?"
"That's...not a question I've ever heard before," he said, hands fidgeting. Now that Blair saw him up close, it was slightly surreal. "Shakespeare was far nicer to him, to be honest. Rumour has it the real Richard starved to death."
Blair shuddered. "You're kidding me."
"Gruesome, isn't it? Not a very nice time period at all. If you see the Henry VI plays, you really get a sense of that, but Richard II is all about what happens inside his head. It's about him growing up, really. But he's cut off at the moment he realises who he really is."5
"But, he's the King. That's supposed to be bigger than one person. I mean, all those speeches about how he's also the kingdom, and how he's nothing without his title..." Blair trailed off. "He's losing himself."
"No, he's losing one identity. But he's gaining the freedom to become anything he wants."
She was tempted to ask him if he'd been talking to a blonde girl with a hippie complex recently. But, calling on self-control far beyond her normal capacity, Blair bit her tongue.
"The King can't be anything other than a king. Or at least Richard can't, because he's never known how to be anything else. But he's learning. Slowly." He paused for a moment. "Whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased With being nothing."6
"You'll never be happy until you're dead, so why bother?"
"Not exactly, but something a bit like that."
Blair sighed. "That's depressing."
"It's actually not, if you think about it. If you're not searching for perfection all the time, there's a lot more to the world. You can't control all of it, so just let it happen." He blinked. "Also, I'm not qualified to give anybody psychological advice."
"You didn't do too badly," Blair allowed with a small smile. "Thanks. Also, you were totally amazing. It's the third time I've come."
"I'm very glad you enjoyed it." And, with that, he was gone. Blair waited in the alleyway for a moment or two longer, before turning on her perfect stiletto heel and walking back to the front doors, where the car was still waiting for her.
She may not be queen of Constance Billard anymore, but Blair Waldorf was damned if she would let anyone else get the last word. Some things weren't going to change.
______________________________________
NOTES
1. Andrew Hadfield, from the programme for Richard II, performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford-upon-Avon, 2006-2008.
2. "I am Richard II, know ye not that?": Supposedly a quotation from Elizabeth I to William Lambard, Keeper of the Records of the Tower, upon viewing a portrait of Richard II in 1601.
3. From Michael Billington's review in The Guardian, 16 April 2008.
4. Richard II, V.vi.39-40.
5. But he's cut off at the moment he realises who he really is: Paraphrased from an interview with Jon Slinger, who played Richard II, in 2008.
6. Richard II, V.v.38-41.
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