Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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9 Hatred Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Cermanicus. I wonder how many people remember you. I can't justly claim that I do, but I do remember when your name was a household word. How I hated you, and how I hated Rome! The charred timbers and stone had been hauled away, and the Forum, houses, and statues had been rebuilt. In fact, there was nothing in this every day Roman scene to remind Octavia of that time, over six decades ago, when she had last seen Rome. There had been panic in the air then, there had been sultry heat, the highfpitched voices of women and children, tension, and panic. Even so, as she gazed on the bridge stretching across the River Tiber, there was enough in that scene to start her reminiscing. First of all, the letters. That was the bef ginning. There were two of them and they were delivered exactly one month apart to her family's villa on the Via Roma, just east of Rome. The first was ordering her father to resume duty as a Roman general to fight in Gaul. The second was announcing his death. It was then that she first realized her hatred for Nero, Rome, and all that they stood for. As a fifteenfyearfold girl, prof tected from the day of her birth, she could not begin to comprehend the significance of Rome, the heart of the known world. She could not comf prehend the feelings of men for a nation that had achieved world leadership through countless years of bloodshed and sacrifice. All she understood was the needless loss of the one most dear to her and her bitter hatred for those who had caused that loss. They moved to the hated Rome after that to live with Sorentia, her aunt. Sorentia lived in a middlefclass house on a narrow, winding street near the Circus Flaminius, which she kept up by running a little shop where she sold various articles of linen and pottery. But Octavia, unlike most heroines, was not very talented at anything, and so was a great disappointment to her artfminded aunt. In spring the soldiers returned from Gaul and Octavia was obliged to watch the Triumphal March, for her father was to be posthumously honoured. Even so, only her curiosity kept her from rebelling against this duty. On the day of the Triumph, Octavia, her mother and her aunt, made their way to a place apart from the rest of the joyous crowd. The triumph had already begun and Octavia could see prisoners, bound together, walking courageously, hesitating a moment with a fleeting look of pride and rebellion on their faces, and then bending to pass under the symbolical yoke made from the Roman spears. Octavia was sickened by the sight. She was glad now that her father had died rather than see himself a cause of the deep humiliation of these men. Beside her stood a young man named Plaudius Laviticus, the only other one there who was not shouting and clapping with the nearfhysteria that seemed to move the rest of the crowd. He stood quietly by the roadside, watching with mixed feelings of jealousy and disgust as his friends marched by. Plaudius himself had once been a Roman soldier but he had been dishonourably discharged because his profChristian beliefs irrif tated one of his superiors. And then, because they were the only pacifists in this militaristic crowd, Plaudius and Octavia began talking, first about their common hates and then their common interests. This meeting led to a warm friendship which in turn became a lasting love, She was happy then, for she had found a new feeling, an awareness of love in place of hate, an awakening from childish narrowfmindedness. In short, she felt free. But even this happiness was to be thwarted by narrowfmindedness, of a stronger and more authoritative kind, which belongs to the adult world of class distinction. Marriage was unthinkable. Her mother and aunt tried in vain to point out the fact that she was the daughter of an upper class family, while he was a common Roman soldier, made even more disf reputable by his discharge. But this was just another of the ideas incomprehensible to fifteen' yearfold girls. When this failed, they appealed to her sense of security, and finally, when they realized persuasion was in vain, they commanded her to give him up. Then, as in a thousand similar and a hundred more famous cases, came the inevitable secret meetings. These took place on the bridge that joins Tiber Island to the mainland. V Then, on july eighteenth, 64 A.D.4fire! Like the dark before the dawn, this was the inferno before Cctavia's paradise. For six days the fire raged but not an imminent threat. Then, during the hot, dark night, the smouldering embers ignited again in the Circus Flaminius and before Octavia could fully understand the situation, she was .wept into the street and lost in the terrorf stricken crowd that was heading in a thousand different directions. In this living nightmare, only her instincts were working to lead her out of Rome, where she was sure she would find safety and maybe once again, peace of mind. Hours later, Plaudius found her huddled on the bridge, shivering with fright, and without a single word of greeting, decision, or consent, they made their way out of the city on a road, appropriately called the Via Triumphante. Now she had returned to Rome. For sixty' five years her life in Roman Caul had been rich, full, and satisfying. She had given birth to two sons, but when they had grown and their sons in turn had grown, and Plaudius had died, she had decided to return.

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8 X X. - The Face Dark shadows stole across the weedfinfested. leaffstrewn yard as the clock in the old man's hall struck seven. A stormfforetelling wind blew into the room, sweeping aside the dustfladen drapes, and swinging the huge glass doors to and fro. Groanf ing, the old man slumped forward, fastened the doors, and sank into his chair again. He stared out of the windows, remembering another night twelve years before very much like this one- the same wind, the same clouds, the same time of year. Bah, he thought, my nerves again! Reaching to the floor, he picked up the halff empty whisky bottle, raised it to his lips, and gulped. Yes, exactly the same kind of night. Now, at the place , the wind would be moaning through the trees as it had done when he crouched on the path, waiting for Father Patrick to come along with the money that had been raised at the church meeting. He always came that way, a small, slightlyfbent man who braved the dark of the forest because he feared no one but God. The old man remembered seeing the tiny lantern bobbing along the path, hearing the priest hum to himself, and tensing as his eyes picked out the money bag swinging in the priest's hand. Yes, while crouchf ing there, he had been afraid. But of what? Quickly the old man took another gulp from the whisky bottle. The priest had not put up much of a struggle. One blow over the head with the iron bar was all that was needed. The priest lay still. Picking up the lantern, he had grabbed the bag of money from the man's clenched hand. It was then that he had noticed the face-wrinkled, very grey, very still, but with a certain strange look of peace. The old man shuddered and again lifted the bottle to his lips. I didn't mean to kill him, he muttered. 'flust wanted to knock him out. Oh, well, no time for thinking of past days. That money had started him on his way to bigger things, and now he had a vast sum accumulated. Thinking about this, the old man grimaced. S Eff 23' a 1? QQIQAL l'That young nephew of mine is just waiting for me to have another heart attack and pass out of the picture, he mumbled. Well, he won't get a cent of my money for years. Reaching again for the bottle, he inadvertently lifted his eyes to the window. There, in the semifdarkness, was the head of the old priest- wrinkled, very grey, and very still. The bottle clattered to the floor, the old man clutched at his breast, and with one long, last, shuddering gasp, his soul descended into hell. A few weeks later, his nephew removed the large grey wasps' nest from the tree outside the study window. JACQUELINE DUNCAN. Grade XI Senior Literary Competition Prize Story The Lake The lake is the mournful cry Of a lonely loon, piercing the stillness Of a summer night-a breezeless, Humid darkness. It is the twinkling Lights of a distant shore, The caressing breeze through the still pine trees, And the dry, brown needles On the mossy forest floor. It is the silverfscaled minnows Gliding byz The screeching gulls 'gainst a crimson sky At dusk. The crackling of a cheery fire, The lashing rain outside, ' A threat of thunder, sheets of light, And billowing waves-the wet gray night- This is the rapture of the lake! JOCBLYN WILSON, Grade XI

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10 How strong and stubborn are the feelings of youth. Only age can present a clear picture of all that has gone before, for without the things that I hated so, there would have been no awareness, no awakening, no happiness and no complete satisf faction. I should have wandered the earth without peace of mind and with a troubled soul, and my only awakening would have been after death, to the fact that my greatest sin, hatred, had thwarted and retarded the terrestrial part of my eternity. Thank you, Nero! Thank you, Rome! JUDITH HARRIS, Grade X Senior Literary Competition Prize Short Story The Sun It was still in the sadness of morn When she rose, the blue grass Chill to her feet, And the mist had spun round the Neighbouring trees that reached For the hem of her heat. So till the noon she traced the sky With lilting step and laughing eye. Gave life to the bug, flight to the bee, Warmed the grain 'neath the soilg Flung out her ray To touch, to heal, to bind Earth's children in common joy With the breath of day. It was still in the splendour of eve As she setg the green grass Hushed in the field 5 When night's dark tresses streamed In her face, and with blinding strands Her Wild eyes sealed. So till the morrow will she be Banished from touch of land and sound of sea. SIGNE SALZBERG, Grade XI. Senior Literary Competition Prize Poem HJ e Me Souviensn This summer I underwent a rather harrowing experience. For five weeks I was plunged into that infuriating, shouting, gesticulating mad' house- La Province de Quebecu. As a result, I now speak a mutilated variety of French and have some decided views on French Canada and its people. To me, a Frenchman is an unfathomable creature, complex and hopelessly confusing. The typical Frenchman is a loquacious one, with the expressive face and active hands that all French possess as naturally as two eyes and a nose. I met my first real specimen as I stepped from the plane at Rimouski. He rushed up to me, waving his arms and jabbering in lightningffast and completely idiomatic French that escaped me completely. I could only stand, mouth agape, and stare at him. Grasping my arm, he began to propel me towards a small black car parked near the airstrip. Panicky, my first thought was, Police l but then, quick anger began to rise in me. I shoved his hand from my arm and began to jabber myself-in English! I was furious. What right had this strange, noisy man to . . . and suddenly my ears burned as I realized what a colossal blunder I had made. I began to stutter an apology, for I had finally recognized my abductor for what he really was-my host! At first, I was too ashamed of my poor French to use it much. The French, on the other hand, made it a point to use their often scanty English whenever they could. One boy, whatever the time of day and whatever the weather, never passed me without saying, Good night, nice day, n'estfce pas? Lucie, the youngest daughter, aged ten, had learned an English sentence especially for my arrival. When we were introduced, she gave me a shy smile and said, Weedge es der doig dod runtz? I was touched-but stymied! Whatever could she mean? Mrs. Rosier, laugh' ing, told me, She's been practising for weeks. She says, 'Which is the dog that runs?' . The grandparents are an important part of every French family. We made a special trip one day to the home of the senior Rosiers for the sole purpose of introducing me. The house was a large one with two verandas and the Nbalangoirn or swing which seems to be a fourth necessity of life to every French home. There were ten people seated in the spacious kitchen, at least five of whom were rocking back and forth in rocking chairs. The usual din of conversation ceased abruptly when I entered. As Mrs. Rosier introduced me, I smiled, trying to murmur appropriate answers to their greetings. My most glaring mistake was to reply to, And how long will you be in Rimouski? with, Oh, ga va bien, merci-et vous? Their personal remarks I could understand more easily- Elle est grande . . . elle est blonde! The first was all too true. I towered over Daniele, who was my age, but only five feet tall. At that moment, I felt like jack, the Giant Killer ! The French are as optimistic as they are frank. One dull day in Quebec City my plane had landed three hours late and I had missed my bus connecf tion. Resigning myself to a depressing day at the Chateau Frontenac, I was silent as the young bell' boy carried my cases to a room on the fifteenth floor. He seemed to sense my boredom for he flashed me a broad smile, and, speaking slowly, he said, The nice day comes, the sky he is blue. Que' bec is yours, mademoiselle. Happy afternoon ! The