Edited by: Aahana Banerjee
Lysander,
It was the morn of May when Hermia in your pursuit, Demetrius in Hermia’s, and I in Demetrius’s, perchance happened upon a pagan bonfire lit in the honor of unabashed idolatry. The merrymaking supplied many a nobleman with a right excuse to partake of milk of the poppy, our unimpeded abuse of which loosened your grip on your faculties.
I can only imagine that it was the drug that emboldened you to attack my maidenhood in the middle of a gathering manifold large when Hermia turned down your audacious advances towards hers. She looked the other way, equally dumbfounded by your vulgarity, as the esteem she regarded you with stripped away, and all scales of admiration fell from her eyes. Our sex may be wanting in physical strength, but I defended my honour, for no other was wont to; least of all, the object of my devout doting, Demetrius, who only turned the other cheek.
I have known Demetrius to be insolent. I am now persuaded of his heartrending indifference and am certain that this affair should be termed a despairing instance of unrequited love. It is now abundantly clear that I have been pining after the moonbeams. That the more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. I would have been satisfied and asked for nothing else than if he’d bent down and picked up the dignity I could so effortlessly have thrown at his feet. Alas, my love for him only spirals more hatred. But I have grown to bear his hatred; it feels like an appendage of my person. It’s his impassivity towards me that disorients me more. For the antonym of love is not hate. Hate is merely love gone stale. The true antonym of love is apathy, which Demetrius regrettably exhibited towards me, under attack from your improper demeanor.
It is partly my own fault, which death or absence soon shall remedy. I have never dared to confide in another, but I must confess, I thought you were a Lord of more true gentleness. However, I am compelled to speak to you of my woes on account of the gloomy disposition you have plied me with.
I have always loved Hermia, but I’m afraid our friendship has entered hideous depths of disingenuity, it has sustained wounds it can never recover from. It is only the story of my life that will perhaps win a little more sympathy from strangers when I am dead, than I ever believed it would obtain from my friends while I was living.
Demetrius, in my respect, was all my world. Now that I have extricated myself from his affections, I must seek a new world.
The course of true love never did run smooth, Lysander. For me, it stood upon the indecency of friends.
Woefully,
Helena