‘Is love a tender thing?’

Harry's POV

“Is love an entelechy?–––Miss Franzen began her lesson. Last week, we talked about the ideal of love. Miss Coleman graciously gave us an introduction on the matter as the result of her commentary to the Sonnet 116. From medieval times, with ‘Courtly Love,’ to the ‘Stilnovilisti’ in Italy in the 13th century, from them to Petrarch or Petrarca, as you prefer, and then to Europe and Britain. In Shakespeare, the concept evolved into its own particular format, although the matrix remained identifiable. And from Shakespeare to eternity–––she said dramatically. We’ve commented some few more texts last wednesday. Now I ask you some trigger questions: What is love? Is love a mere idea? A cultural thing? Is there an only way to love or there are numerous ways, as much as people in this earth? And what about the perspective of time? Did ancient greeks fall in love with their women?”

“The question is unreachable,” someone said. Miss Franzen smiled.

“But we are at the University. We need to try,” she claimed, bringing her fingertips together, and glanced towards our group, sitting in the middle of the classroom.

“Humanists have the tendency to believe everything happens ‘by the book’–––I said. If someone wrote it down, it means it should have happened that way. All-embracing thinking.” Laila quietly sighed without looking at me and Miss Franzen took her glasses off.

“Oh, a cultural sceptical–––she exclaimed. Bravo, Mister Styles. And what do you believe about this particular matter? What is love for you?” She crossed her arms over her chest, but she didn’t intimidate me with her tone nor her glare.

“Love is praxis, as any human matter,” I observed, straightening up. I could feel all the glances fell over me, except Laila’s.

“A dialectic materialist!–––Miss Franzen exclaimed again with her ironic tone. I’m not surprised you are into Discourse analysis. But, well, please, explain us more,” she asked. I frowned my eyebrows. I’m more of a Foucauldian, but I didn’t want to make it about me, so I didn’t correct her.

“The ideal of love at any time in History implies some paradigmatic parameters of customs and a hegemonic power that possesses the ability and the ways to lift that paradigm into a predominant idea–––I said firmly. But this fact can’t never deny the human capacity to go beyond its own limits and push the parameters of their times. Love existed long before someone sang and theorised about it, and love will be there when we get tired about the subject.”

“Are you saying love is material base superstructurised?” Miss Franzen meditated, slightly disconcerted.

“I am,” I claimed.

“That is a bold idea,” she said, quite disarmed. I tried not to rejoice in my small victory.

“You feel love as you feel your hands. And then you think about it,” I continued. While I was speaking I could feel Laila finally turning to face me.

“Another lover!–––Miss Franzen practically shouted, surprising everybody in the classroom. And it’s not spring yet!” She chuckled and I could hear some laughs. I glared at her as I felt Laila turned away. “You seem puzzled, Miss Coleman… What do you have to say about it?–––she carried on. Not about Mister Styles being in love, of course; about his idea…” She snickered though it seemed she couldn’t make Laila feel uncomfortable with her remark. But then I learned something new about Laila. She was willing to contradict me.

“Can a subjective matter be considered material base?” She asked but not properly looking at me.

“Under some analyse’s parameters it could be,” I observed, thinking as fast as possible, because I knew what was coming next.

“What sort of analyse’s parameter, for instance?” She asked in a serious tone, glancing at me.

“Regime of truth,” I managed to say, not looking her back.

“That is a discursive parameter and, therefore, a subjective one,” she retorted.

“Everything is subjective,” I said turning towards her. Our elbows were practically touching. She was staring at me with such intensity I felt my stomach lurch. We didn’t even blink. “To measure any human phenomenon that’s not strictly physical you need to take it from the mind. Any sort of transcription into a measurable criteria is, ergo, subjective,” I stated, forcing myself not to pinch my lips nor give any other sign of weakness. There was a brief silence and Laila breathed in.

“Did I drop a bomb in Paradise?” Miss Franzen interrupted us. We both shut up and glared at her. “You know, Mister Styles–––she carried on in an affected tone, Miss Coleman believes in absolute objectivity and is an ace in Methodology. You might take her as a consultant to your love’s thesis.” She chuckled, looking down. I discreetly glanced at Laila but she was still staring at Miss Franzen. “Is it possible to measure love beside its discursive or textual manifestations?” She asked to the class, walking by.

“You could take a brain scan,” some guy in the front row said. Bernie giggled instinctively. He must surely be the guy she fancied before Zayn.

“Yes–––Miss Franzen exclaimed. A physical sign read by a physician. But do we need to go this far?” Everyone looked around silently asking who’d be the brave to continue the topic.

“I don’t know if you can materially prove it–––I hear the voice talking at my back, but I agree with Harry that you feel love as you feel your hands.” Everyone turned towards Eric. For a second he seemed to flinch, diminishing in his seat, resting his hands together.

“Hmm, I see, Mister Raymond–––Miss Franzen said in irony. Who would have said you had more than one thing in common with Mister Styles.” She chuckled as somebody else laughed. I was glimpsing at him, as well as Laila, and he straightened up. “And the object of that love, how is it? Is it fair?” Miss Franzen carried on asking directly to him.

“Not necessarily,” he mumbled.

“But for the Code?” She retorted.

“It is,” Eric stated.

“And why is that?” Miss Franzen asked inquisitively.

“Because culturally we relate beauty with truth,” he said.

“Again, culture. Mister Styles?” She snapped her fingers at me.

“Beauty is the materialisation of an ideal, the rationalisation of a particular series of patterns as it could be any other–––I observed. Hegemonic powers determine the patterns of each time in History. We perceive it as a natural thing but it is not.”

“So you believe your looks wouldn’t have helped you, let’s say, before Ancient Greece?” She asked in a neutral tone, as if it was a strictly academic question.

“That I could not say,” I mumbled feeling extremely embarrassed.

“But why do we associate beauty with truth?–––she exclaimed to the classroom. Why do we think a person who is fair is also possessor of moral pureness?”

“Because when human beings idealise we tend to get a bit carried away,” Bernie stated and the guy in the front row giggled and turned away. Laila was squirming uncomfortable on her seat.

“But this idea seems to be sealed into our minds as a species–––Miss Franzen insisted, bringing one hand to her temple and glimpsing at me from the side. What is the impact of this imprinting? What people expect from you, Mister Styles? Maybe you could tell us how this affects you as a model…” She finished crossing her arms and awaiting.

“Are you a model?” Laila jumped looking at me, startled.

“Didn’t you know, Miss Coleman?–––Miss Franzen asked, seemingly surprised. But you seem so close…” She ironised. I glared at her after Laila turned away with an expression I couldn’t read. “Talk to us about the fairness of the beloved, Miss Coleman. Does The Bard accompany this criteria?”

“Fairness is a highly renowned concept in Shakespeare’s sonnets, but it’s not a capital one, as sonnets 130 and 141 testify–––Laila said, with confidence, regaining her composure. There’s no absolute identification of beauty and moral pureness.”

“And let’s speak more about Shakespeare’s ideal of love–––Miss Franzen continued. Last week, you said he participates in the tradition of Courtly Love. Where is the variation?” She asked to Laila.

“Shakespeare is conscious about the tradition as he often mentions vassalage, as in Sonnet 26, and Petrarch, as in ‘Romeo and Juliet’–––she explained. To me, the most valuable innovation of Shakespeare’s ideal is love as a burden. In Shakespeare, love is constant, yes, but a constant burden. Love is cruel, as in Sonnet 140; an illness, as in Sonnet 147; a tyrannous, as in Sonnet 131. Love is contradictory, revealed by the oxymora in Romeo’s speech in Act 1, Scene 1: ‘brawling love,’ ‘loving hate,’ ‘heavy lightness,’ ‘serious vanity,’ ‘bright smoke,’ ‘cold fire,’ ‘sick health,’ and, most important of all, ‘is not what it is:’ Love is supposed to be one thing, by the Code, but it is not…”

“‘This love feel I, that feel no love in this,’” Eric spoke, suddenly. Laila turned and warmly smiled at him. He raised his eyebrows at her. I tried to act cool.

“Can somebody else carry on Romeo's train of thoughts?” Miss Franzen said to her auditorium. I decided to remain silent, but I had to admit she was a good teacher in a twisted way.

“‘She is fair I love,’” someone pointed out.

“But tyrannous!” somebody else retorted.

“Act 1, Scene 4; Romeo and Mercutio’s dialogue: ‘Under love’s heavy burden do I sink,’” Eric said reading on his copy.

“‘Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous; and pricks like thorn,’” Laila quoted by heart, glimpsing at me. I smiled at her.

“Point to Miss Coleman,” Miss Franzen stated without irony. Laila frowned. “But is that Shakespeare’s doctrine of true love? Because it is said when Romeo thinks he’s in love with Rosaline,” she carried on.

“At that moment, Romeo insists it’s a matter of thinking more than feeling: ‘Teach me how I should forget to think,’ he says to his cousin Benvolio,” Marianne said.

“Interesting perspective–––Miss Franzen claimed pointing her finger at her. But what happens when Romeo makes acquaintance with Juliet?”

“Love at first sight…” I hurried to say. Everyone looked at me.

“And he is…” Miss Franzen gestured with her palm up for me to carry on.

“His love is reciprocated,” I simply said.

“Yes!–––she exclaimed. So, is that the true doctrine?”

“It’s more tragic than before, when Romeo wanders sick of love, slowly dying–––Bernie commented. With true love he actually dies.”

“Is love a tragic thing, then?” Miss Franzen asked in general.

“Since Shakespeare that dimension becomes quite assumed,” I stated.

“And who is responsible for that? Who carried on this particular dimension?” Miss Franzen inquired.

“Romanticists,” Eric spoke.

“But of course!–––she said quite passionately. Any example?”

“Werther, from Goethe,” Laila said.

“Giacomo Leopardi’s ’First Love,’” I said too.

“Can you quote the first verse for us, Mister Styles?” Miss Franzen asked me candidly. Everyone turned to face me, and I nodded. “In Italian…” She carried on, smiling devilishly.

“‘Tornami in mente il che di battaglia d’amor sentii la prima volta. e dissi: Oimè, se quest’è amor, com’ei travaglia.’” As she heard me, Laila giggled, looking down. Wednesday night must had come to her mind, so I giggled with her, rejoicing in the memory. Miss Franzen stared at us with suspicions.

“You laugh, Miss Coleman. Please, share with the classroom what you remembered…–––she ironised. Mister Styles, you laugh too… No?–––she asked as I glanced down. Well… And that means…”

“‘Well can I recall the day, when first the conflict fierce of Love I felt, and said: If this is love, how hard it is to bear,’” I recited.

“‘Conflict fierce,’ ‘hard,’ ‘to bear;’ perfect match…” Miss Franzen stated and made a brief pause. Everybody looked at her expectantly and she recapitulated. “Cupid’s arbitrary in Ancient Greece; predestined, honourable love in medieval times; unmovable, purest love in the Renaissance; unchangeable, unrequited love in the 19th century… Every generation seems to feel the urge to add some particularity to the ideal of love. But what is the constant?” She asked.

“The constant is the constancy of love,” Laila said, outlining the pleonasm.

“Is it a biological remnant there perhaps?” Miss Franzen questioned us quizzically.

“Probably, to assure continuity of the species,” the guy from the front row meditated.

“And what do you believe about it, Miss Coleman?–––Miss Franzen spoke directly towards Laila, who frowned. Once in love, in love forever?” Her little game was still on. Laila had done it well deflecting her before, but she was pushing her again. I thought of interrupting Miss Franzen or telling Laila to speak her heart openly, but I shut up. I didn’t want to make things worse.

“It’s what culturally we tend to think.” Laila was an ace neutralising uncomfortable remarks.

“But what do you feel when social scientists are looking away? Are you a romantic or a cynical?” This time she had no escape. Laila swallowed, nervous, grabbing her own fingers and glimpsing at me.

“A romantic,” Bernie stated when I was finally about to speak.

“And she has mouthpieces, too,” said Miss Franzen.

–.–.–

I smile to my memories as I rest a hand on the door and lean in, shaking my head ‘no.’ I never expected this, but here I am. I hear a dull stir and step backwards. The door opens and Laila appears.

“Hi–––she says, brushing a quick kiss on my lips. Come on in.” I step inside and slightly look around. From behind her approaches a tall man with a round neck jumper and some dark jeans. He seems to glare at me but smiles, holding his hand out for me.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Coleman–––I hurry up to say, reaching out for him. I’m Harry, Laila’s boyfriend.” She gives me a lop-sided glimpse.

“William for you, son,” he states, firmly shaking my hand.

–.–.–

Notes