Pride and Pixellation, by A Lady

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley...

Not the one you might be thinking of. Not Hitchcock, Fontaine and Olivier, or even, should you be intellectual enough in this post modern age to have actually read a book, the Du Maurier version. Nor yet the successful publishing house, that chocolate-fuelled dream factory. No, this Manderley is unique. The home of elegant Regency bucks and strategically fainting ladies (Prinny's ball is a favourite, and earns extra points).

Beautiful, timeless Regency...toons.

Toons, for those of you so last-millennium as not to know, are what some people used to call avatars, that term being rather last-millennium itself. Dollies, if you must, that can be manipulated in the heady, fast-paced, all-absorbing world of the MMORPG. Sigh... Really, you must keep up with the times, dear reader! MMORPG stands for Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game.

In other words, a cyberworld of almost infinite variety, accessible to all with a computer. For the truly nominal fee of EUR 15.00 per month, one is let loose in the virtual-reality candy store, free to explore new worlds, to seek out new friends and new adventures, to boldly go...

All right, where thousands of other paying customers have gone before. But who cares? The best thing about the MMORPG is that it is live. Online, one has the opportunity to meet other players in the field of dreams. To interact. To form one's toon's choices, her developing persona, as it were, in reaction to one's fellow sojourners on the cyberplane. Unlike a film or novel, this world is interactive; one is not locked away in isolation, dreaming sad little dreams in the corner. No, one is 'Out There', encountering a new reality, meeting the neighbours.

Don't tell me to 'Get a Life'. I have one, thank you very much.

Or at least, I had one. But you shall hear.

I met Maxim in this fashion. One spring afternoon, my 'main', Hermione, level 176, I point out modestly, was entering Almack's, a popular neutral playfield hither one resorts to find partners for teaming, to trade items and gossip, and generally to show off one's new clothes.

Hermione was looking particularly attractive, I recall, in a pale green gown of the empire style, not dampened, of course, (according to the dimension's clock, it was but three in the afternoon, and dampening one's gown at such an hour would have been scandalous!) but nonetheless fetching and revealing (the colour set off my character's auburn locks so magnificently, the artists do such a lovely job).

Using the GUI button (Graphical User Interface, oh, do try and keep up!) marked 'mince', I, Hermione, was doing just that, moving with feminine grace across the floor when...

The chatline indicated a conversation. 'Has mademoiselle perhaps lost something?' Ah, a role-player. Perfect. Approaching Hermione was a tall, dark, handsome gentleman of level 190 with impossibly broad shoulders – the player had chosen well. In his outstretched hand (GUI button 'proffer') he held a lace handkerchief, a quest item which I knew had cost him at least three hours of online work to acquire.

The emote 'simper' was absolutely the only proper response, so I gave it. After a bit more chat, meaninglessly trivial pleasantries which nonetheless are de rigeur at Almack's, we settled into chairs by the window (the passing vista of lords and ladies won the designers a coveted award), had ice cream, and then went for a walk in Hyde Park. There, I was able, by pushing the 'Grecian Airs' button repeatedly, to contribute to our progress in such a way as to make us the cynosure of all eyes. Cynosure? Look it up. A modern outlook should not mean that one neglects the basics of one's education. Really.

Maxim was a wonderful player, both in the smoothness of manipulation of his toon, in his response to my own movements, and in his quick repartee on the chatline. He had obviously read all the right books, or at least the online synopses, and could share titbits of gossip about the Season, news from the Peninsular Wars, and such. Nor did he have resort to the gauche shorthand of txtspk, so abhorred by all true citizens of Manderley. No. He was a gentleman to the core.

And manly with it. When a couple of ignorant level 150s approached us in the park and Offered Insult; using scripts, obviously, which is really a violation of the EULA (End User Licence Agreement, darlings); Maxim coolly invited them to the Duelling Ground near Speaker's Corner, where he soundly thrashed them both in PVP. (Player-versus-player, dear, all the best games have this feature.)
Maxim was a master to his fingertips. Not only was I able to admire his Manly Physique, acquired after much questing and at the expense of many ingame credits, I assure you, but I was also at long last able to press my favourite GUI button, 'swoon', after which Hermione sank gracefully to the ground, only to be revived with the inventory item Smelling Salts, quality level 176.
I was in heaven, dear reader!

After that, Maxim and I became inseparable. We attended Prinny's Ball, of course, where we took the dancing prize, strolled around Vauxhall Gardens, dined tete-a-tete, and levelled our characters by attending all the balls of the Season. The NPCs (Non-Player Characters) were most gracious, I assure you.
To celebrate level 220, as our crowning achievement, we eloped to Gretna Green. It was thrilling, to say the least, and the special fee of EUR 5.95 required for the Bridal Suite was well worth it. I shall say no more. Of some things, it is indelicate to speak.

It was then that unhappiness began to creep upon us, although we were as yet unaware of trouble on the horizon. We began new characters, notifying one another in advance in order to team again. And that ushered in the beginning of sorrows, the insidious advance of RL, Real Life.

The worm in the bud was known as Email. We exchanged addresses.
Oh, that our emails had confined themselves to appointments ingame! But, alas, like many a fool before us, we began to exchange personal information, forbidden in the sacred halls of Manderley. From user names we advanced to those given us at birth, and, as so often happens, we committed the Final Folly a personal meeting.

As it happened, Sheldon and I lived in the same city, separated geographically by only a twenty-minute bus ride. That ride we now took often. True, Sheldon was far from the broad-shouldered creature with raven locks first encountered, being short, balding, and a bit on the stout side, but then, I was hardly Hermione, with my dishwater blonde pageboy and sensible shoes. We were nevertheless ourselves, we were there, and we could go out and eat real food.
And, after all, we always had Manderley.

True, Sheldon's habit of picking his teeth at the dinner table was disconcerting, so far from the elegance of Maxim in such circumstances, but as he said, 'These are different times, my dear.' For his part, Sheldon professed to find my apartment to be decorated in 'early Oxfam', though for the life of me I cannot understand what he objected to, apart from my collection of Princess Diana memorabilia.

We began to see more and more of one another Outside, as it were, and less and less Online, until one evening, as we sat together by the computer, reminiscing over times past and quests accomplished, Sheldon turned to me with the fateful question:

'Shall we do it? Shall we go RL?'

I was thunderstruck at the suggestion, and even more reluctant than I had been to go with Maxim to Gretna Green. Go... cold turkey? At first I refused... but, after several days of discussion and persuasion on Sheldon's part, I agreed.
We deleted our characters, and cancelled our accounts. Then we went out to celebrate. Fish and chips around the corner.

Oh, alas and woe the day! So many good intentions lead but down the same dreary road, as Clarissa, level 125, might have said. Loosed from its mooring in our shared passion for the Regency period, my relationship with Sheldon deteriorated rapidly, and ended in mutual recrimination during a steady downpour in front of the public library one late November evening. I slogged home, wrung out my soggy socks, and threw myself on the bed, sobbing for what had been lost.

The heart is resilient. Mine, at any rate; it stubbornly refused to break. I went back to my job at the estate agent's, and read to while away the evenings.
Until spring came around, that is. When the warming breezes came wafting in my window, bringing the scent of flowers, I bethought myself of what had been. And I longed to return. Booting up the computer, I reactivated my account, and sent in a request for the ‘undeletion’ of my lost characters, Hermione, Clarissa, Phyllis, and the others. I impatiently awaited the confirmation email.

And then I knew for the first time what true heartbreak could be. For the email from the company informed me that in the interval between deletion and reactivation my poor characters had been purged, permanently removed from the system and could no longer be retrieved.

Oh, poor Clarissa, never to know whether Mr Darcy will Pop The Question! Poor Hermione, poor, poor Hermione, doomed forever to face an undecorated rose-covered cottage! What had I done? How could I forgive myself, I, who had allowed a mere flirtation to interfere with my first love, the creation of truly lasting affairs of the heart?

But from even this dire blow have I recovered, dear reader. After a suitable period of mourning, during which I wore nothing but black (until advised by my employer that my attire was inhibiting sales), I pulled myself together mentally, asked myself what Mrs Bennett would have done under the circumstances, and...

Re-rolled.

Oh, figure that one out for yourself. Now, with a new stable of characters: Miranda, Elizabeth, Polly the Servant Girl, and that elusive Frenchwoman, Marguerite St Germaine, I once again proudly mince, glide, and stroll (but never stride) through the streets of Regency London and, in season, Bath. But I keep my heart pure. No matter how ardent my heroines, no matter how passionate the suitors, I never give out my email address.

As a fellow player so beautifully expressed it in OOC (Out-of-Character) chat, 'You should treasure what lasts. I still have everything I've ever put into a computer, because I have backup files. But I've been married three times'.

'Wives and girlfriends come and go. But a good MMORPG is made to last.'