private storyline

[callmeby]

« Aimons donc, aimons donc ! de l'heure fugitive,
Hâtons-nous, jouissons !
L'homme n'a point de port, le temps n'a point de rive ;
Il coule, et nous passons ! »

Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit et l'on respire,
Tout dise : « Ils ont aimé ! »

- from Le Lac, Alphonse de Lamartine

Comments

(( February 4th, 1849 ))

[yournocturne]

My dearest and my heart,

Please, let me know that you’re home safe and sound. It’s been three days, haven’t it, three days already. Time is a funny thing. Since we parted by the station, I’ve tried to imagine what your next letter would be like, whether the tone would be very different from before, whether we’d be able to recognise our past selves in our present expressions. I feel changed. Arséne, I feel changed! I came to Marseille, not knowing what to expect, with my heart utterly raw from waiting, thinking, obsessing - and then! Then.

I remember well the ocean, the way it blended with the sky and made the horizon look endless, as if you’d chosen a whole different world for us to meet in, a place so far removed from everything else that no one would know us, maybe not even ourselves. You were beautiful as always, in that world as well as any other. I think about your beard, still. If I rub my fingertips together just so, it’s like I can still feel the small hairs between them as well as your own, particular warmth underneath. When I drink coffee in the morning, it’s an aftertaste, settling on my palette immediately behind the echoes you’ve left for me. All other impressions must forever bow to that - be pushed to the background, dimmed and weak. I can’t imagine anything overruling what you've so generously given me here, my dear, but then again, I’ve had you before and lost you.

My soul refuses to remember.

But Marseille is marvelous, isn’t it? Not too hot at this time of year but still so far removed from the winter snow currently piling up on the streets below my window here in Paris. My fingers were definitely eager to please, as you recall. The pieces I wrote, I’m keeping in my drawer for now, tied with silk. Which did you like the best, I wonder? I think I can guess but I’m in a vain sort of mood and I’d like to have your words for it rather than my own, scattered thoughts. I keep thinking - if you haven’t written to me yet, then surely it’s simply a practical matter, surely I’m running only a few metres ahead of you now and you’ll be catching up to me as quickly as when we shared our breaths in the air underneath the open hotel window.

Yes, but anyway - tell me how you prefer me.

And when next we meet, I’ll play your chosen favourites for you in the dark, to let you know that I’ve kept your compliments - all of them, Arséne - close to my chest.

Yours,
Joseph.

(( February 7th, 1849 ))

[callmeby]

To the one who holds my life between his hands,

It has been a week now, since we parted, and I return to a world where nothing has changed, albeit everything inside me has become utterly unsettled and will, resultantly, yearn for a freedom it cannot obtain amongst these castle walls or on these grounds, owned now by the public of Montfolin town. Long into spring, long into summer, long into fall, it will yearn, I assure you. Yet, no amount of yearning will clothe my daughters, no amount of yearning will feed my family, certainly no amount of yearning will satisfy my wife. If I have been quiet, I beg your pardon, it is only because the choices I made many winters ago are finally catching up to me. Because those choices come bearing duties I may well wish to ignore, but I am, as I hope you know me to be, a responsible man and at this time responsible for more people than my own self. Unless the Lord is merciless (or, dare I write it, merciful), I will be responsible for these lives until the day I die.

My word, Joseph, it is not that the horizons of Marseille have not changed me, it is not that I am not clay between your fingers, leaving me full and satisfied from the fantasies you played to me in the early winter mornings, milder than the cold hallways of Montfolin, milder than the snow of Paris, but the world! The world has not changed with me and I must either fit into this mould or I must crack in the oven, there is no middle ground. As I have three girls wholly dependent on me, cracking is only an option when I sit, as I do now, in my study at the flickering light of a candle and write these words to you where I shan't be disturbed. Or discovered.

(My apologies for the smears, I beg your forgiveness.)

Perhaps it is terrible of me, and I understand, of course, that much of this is terrible at best, insufferable at worst, I shall hold no possible outcome of your choosing against you at all, but I prefer you tranquil, I believe, I prefer you of the night. The nocturne you composed was brilliant, evocative of a lullaby and I think of it now when I go to sleep, ensuring that my last waking thought is of your hands, your fingers, moving. If Chopin refined the nocturne, you have raised it up, though naturally I knew this already when I heard the first one, a decade ago. Those were days, too, when I went to sleep thinking of you.

Some things will never change, we must conclude.

No matter how I twist and turn and tremble inside the cavity of my chest these days. My heart is a gut shot beast and I dare not think of what I might have done to yours. Perhaps I ought to simply put us both out of our misery already.

Tell me what you think and be loud about it, as you are loud about most things. Make me blush again with your next letter, so long as there will be one.

In painful awareness of his own greed,
Arsène

(( February 8th, 1849 ))

[yournocturne]

Dearest,

I can’t write you now. I mustn’t. The words that come are too harsh, too angry and bitter and we don’t deserve them, neither of us. I remember Marseilles. I’ll do nothing to forget it, just as I carry that one summer around in the back of my mind like a treasure trove, fastened by a heavy, unbreakable lock. I'm a hypocrite, still, even now and a hypocrite, apparently, I must remain.

Please. Be kind to yourself.

I knew it, of course, when you took too long to write. Sometimes, silence is all we need to convey our feelings, sometimes it speaks so loudly and so persistently that it might as well be a gun, fired in the dead of night.

No, stop, I must stop. I promised.

I want to embrace you and kiss you and hold you close in whichever way you’d let me. I’m sorry this causes you pain.

I’m sorry, Arséne.

Yours,
Joseph.

((June 1st, 1849 ))

[yournocturne]

Dearest,

It’s been four months without a word from you. I hear that you are well - though gossip pertaining to your far-away region isn’t common in Paris, it’s not impossible to get hold of for a persistent tongue. Of course, I’m sure you’ve held your silence in wake of my last, ungraceful letter and I suppose that’s fair, as well as wise. You’ve always been both, my dear. I’ve come to realise in the interim that what I truly wish for - what I’d prefer, in a fantasy unlike any other we’ve created together - is a different world in which you wouldn’t have to be torn over who to care for, in which I wouldn’t have to be torn, in turn. Maybe in our next lives, Arséne, there’ll be an indefinite January, an indefinite summer but for now, well, there’s this letter and I hope, if nothing else, that it’ll make you smile.

Winter came and went in Paris, along with spring. Now, summer’s fast approaching and my rooms are immeasurably hot, so much that I have to wear next to nothing when I’m home. Currently, I’m writing to you in my underthings and nothing else - and even so! I’m convinced that even the rats must be gasping from it for the air itself feels heavy, burning almost, and I’d much prefer to simply stay inside in the shade. Unfortunately, I’m booked this afternoon for a concert, a small private affair hosted by an influential friend and though it won’t be attended by many, there’ll be a handful of very influential people present so I’m quite nervous. I wouldn’t want some important madame to take a slip in a pool of my sweat or what have you and as it is, I’m fairly certain I’ll be dripping. I’ll let you know how it goes - I’ll be playing ten waltzes and the fantasia I worked on in Marseilles. It’s finished now.

Perhaps you’ll hear it one day.

Yesterday, something incredible happened to me. I was walking when suddenly, something ran afoul of my legs and I fell flat on my face, though fortunately without breaking anything of value. As I lay there with my head in the dust, I heard a very persistent quacking sound behind me and then, seconds later, above! A pair of big feet had been planted on my back and a small, white duck had taken residence there, fluffing its feathers and making some very curious noises at me, like I’d somehow asked for its company and was forgetting to make conversation like a normal person. Anyway, I didn’t at all know how to proceed until a gentleman came by and lifted the duck away, giving me a hand up and brushing me off (I’d say he was a little thorough about it but then again, I was also quite shocked). As I moved on by, I realised after a minute or two that people were staring openly at me and whispering as I passed - for a moment, I didn’t think too much of it, as I’ve noticed the Parisians living around my area of the town have begun to recognise me by reputation and looks.

However, then - then! A man caught my attention and asked, sounding deeply confused: “Monsieur, is that yours?”

The duck, Arséne. The duck was at my heels, quacking like it wasn’t doing anything strange. I ought to have simply scoffed and moved on and I’m sure you would’ve had the mental prowess to do so - me, on the other hand, well. People were pausing to gawk, quite rudely, and I didn’t know what to do or how to think so I straightened my back, raised my brows and said, “Yes, indeed, that is my duck” and for some inexplicable reason, the stranger took barely one second to look at me like I was utterly mad before he simply shrugged, smiled, and went: “Good luck on your next concert, Monsieur.”

Luck rhymes with “duck”, I suppose.

So, all things being equal, I now have a duck living on my balcony. It sits on my piano when I play your nocturne and shuts its eyes, as if trying to go to sleep. I’ve named it Poussin and wonder when it might fly off again, take its leave but for now, I simply accept my circumstances and keep my chin up.

How goes it with you, really? How is sweet Vivienne? How is the country and your grapes?

Yours,
Joseph.

(( June 5th, 1849 ))

[callmeby]

To the most forgiving man I know, and to his duck Poussin, and more than anything to his underthings,

As I am country-dwelling and thus, naturally, an expert in these matters, although I admit to specializing in grapes, not in poultry, I will advise you to fatten up your duck and either sell it at the market in a couple of months or have it ready for New Year, for yourself and the influential friends you will no doubt be celebrating with. If done right, I can assure you, duck liver is as tasty as foie gras, if cheaper. Especially when you get the duck for free.

I wonder how your concert went, of course. Although I do not attend in the physical, in spirit I visit you at frequent intervals, hoping to catch just a phrase or, when I am bold in thought, a whole movement. Yes, hoping to catch just a glimpse of your friends and your benefactors, patrons, the man you meet in the street. So I know whom I shall envy, whose eyes I would like to be, whose hands... Brushing you off, touching you however briefly, laying my eyes on you.

That is my fantasy, one day I must hear yours. Save it for me until then, please.

Our next lives will know nothing but the youth of summer and the maturity of midwinter, there will be no in between, for I shall know you exactly as young as you were at eighteen and exactly as grown as you are at twenty-seven. Exactly so eager to please, but still patient with your pleasures. I have thought about you in your underthings.

I have thought about you and I have not been patient, Joseph. I have been far less accepting of our circumstances than you. You have taken your time, we can both count the months, but I think I will take forever. Every night is a struggle for sleep. Every day a struggle towards it.

Currently the château is bustling with activity, preparing for the grape harvest. It will be the first summer when our family is expected to pay taxes of our produce, so we are anxiously hoping for a fine vintage this year, one that may earn us enough to make up for the ten percent lost beforehand. A friend of mine from the town council slapped me on the back quite rudely when I voiced my concern, saying “Arsène, the French will drink piss if it’s the right colour of red, don’t worry”. He thinks it’s the money, of course, but it is so much more. We have given up so much the past couple of years, spoils of war, it cannot be avoided, but all the same - we have only our pride left. Montfolin is one of the finest wine-producing châteaux in all of France! If that talk hasn’t reached Paris yet, I must really send you a bottle.

Vivienne turned one in March. I am still struggling to comprehend that we were allowed to keep her. She likes noise, my little girl, bangs whatever she can get her hands on against the floor, the walls, the furniture. She laughs loudly and has learned to say papa long before mama, something that delights me, but which I am gentleman enough not to say aloud. Now she will point to my violin, saying “vion play”, and Clarisse shushes her often, but I have told her to let the child express herself.

Anything else would be cruel. Too cruel.

My daughters mustn’t grow up to believe they do not possess a voice or a free will. If I can pass that on to them, I might not have failed completely, after all.

With hope,
Arsène

(( June 12th, 1849 ))

[yournocturne]

Dearest,

I must tell you - whenever I receive a letter sealed by your hand, my heart flutters and my mouth waters. Memories, apparently, tend to settle within us in much deeper ways than simple imagery. My body feels drawn backwards, towards the past, and I think about you in that hotel room, beneath that open window. Your beard looked so lovely on you. You. You, you, you. Oh, but I can’t re-open these things, this box locked away in my heart, I mustn’t. But dearest, it’s hard. It’s hard for me, too.

I’d no sooner eat Poussin than you’d eat your gloriously noisy Vivienne. How lovely she sounds, now, with her few words and her love for music. Make sure to give her Beethoven and Mozart and Bach and Hayden, Arséne, so that she might early on learn from the masters of old. Her mind sounds deserving of it and you, my dear, need music in your life, what with all that talk of money and reputation and taxes. I’d love one of your good bottles, really, I wouldn’t even share it with anyone. I’d simply sit by my window with my duck by my elbow and get drunk, quietly, and then I believe I’d play you something that won’t ever reach you, alas. But if you listen to me in your fantasies then perhaps the notion isn’t so fanciful after all.

Feel free to imagine exactly as you wish.

In fact, let me tell you another little story from my life - I have enough paper to write on and at the moment, enough hours to pass. Last week, I was called upon by a very wealthy benefactor to whom I must surely dedicate my next sonata, the generous M. Toussaint. I’m sure you’re aware of him and his influence on Parisian politics. He used to frequent Les Bains Chinois before they went out of style and has, apparently, fallen quite in love with the concept, enough so that he’s had a section of his own mansion on the outskirts of Paris re-built to contain a bath in a similar style with servants to maintain the baths as well as his very few, select visitors. He invited me to enjoy an afternoon there and I’ve rarely been so relaxed in my life! The building itself is one thing - on the outside, it looks quite like a regular villa but on the inside, it mimics the Oriental style to perfection with red-and-gold wood carvings of sleeping dragons and beautifully-carved out balustrades. Then, there are the baths themselves, two in total - one heated, one cool. There’s a room for simply breathing in the warmest, driest air I’ve ever felt and a lovely servant who tends to your every need, slipping away into the shadows whenever he isn’t needed which gives you a sense of utmost privacy.

I chose to complete the entire adventure sans clothing. Though the experience was near-perfect, I do believe that one addition could’ve made it complete. I’ll let you take your guess as to what - or, indeed, whom - I’m talking about.

My parents have started pestering me about finding a good match. I’ve told them that I’m doing fine on my own, that I can’t possibly entertain the notion of falling in love right at this moment but my mother, in particular, is quite persistent. The other day, she wrote to me about a girl that I won’t name to you, telling me that she’ll visit when I go home next month with her parents’ approval. Apparently, mine doesn’t matter much. Regardless, I’ve told her that she’ll be entertaining the mademoiselle in question all night and that she can’t expect anything of me which makes me sound both ungrateful and petulant. They’ve paid for my life, after all, for my education and my success, such as it is. I want to do nothing but make them happy but then, there is this.

Raise your daughters in better faith, my dear. We both know the other side of the coin, though I wish it weren’t so. Sometimes, I wish it so much that my heart hurts and my stomach nearly tumbles out of my throat.

Think of me in the bath house.

Always yours,
Joseph.

(( July 15th, 1849 ))

[callmeby]

To my Venus Anadyomene, except the sea is a Chinese bath,

First and foremost, receive my deep-felt apologies for this late reply. In between a rarely busy grape harvest, several travels to acquire new equipment for the workers and later, to purchase five new horses for our stables, I have been dreadfully busy and scarcely had a moment to properly breathe.

The first somewhat surprising journey I had to undertake was to Dijon to buy picking knives and pans enough for a crew of twenty men. At the height of our harvesting, thieves broke into our sheds and stole enough equipment to set us back days! These rascals have not yet been captured and grape vines are the main produce here, so it will undoubtedly be difficult to find them, but police is investigating the matter with the utmost severity. Personally, I feel and believe we are looking at very deliberate sabotage.

Everyone knows how excellent our wine is.

On that note, I am sending you two bottles of our finest, a twenty year old vintage, harvested under my father’s reign while I was still a little kid. In wine farming circles we still speak of that summer; the Summer of the Sun King. The Sun King and all kings after him have since given up their spirits, but the wine remains and I think of another summer under any circumstances.

My second trip was better planned, years in advance at this point, as I have waited for a stallion to grow old enough that I may use it on my own mares. This animal has had my interest for more than five years now, and since its offspring is turning out quite remarkably, I am willing to pay a small fortune to take it off former Baron Duval’s hands. Our written agreement was the only thing that ensured he did not run from his end of the bargain. Oh, he was sad to see this horse go. Understandably. I felt so bad for him, Joseph, and had no interest in seeing our relation sour, that I bought four young mares off of him as well. Thus, my journey to Château Cielbleu wielded five horses rather than one and robbed me of half a year’s income. This better be the best damn harvest since the Summer of the Sun King or I may very well have ruined us.

The most enjoyable aspect of travelling so far and so much was all the time I suddenly had alone, to contemplate memories that are not even my own from some rich bastard’s Chinese bath. My imagination has never been more playful than in those late night hours as I went to bed in the smallest room in some roadside inn. I only slept little.

In regards to marriage, do not give in to your parents or to expectation from any other party. I cannot say much on this matter that would not look horribly indiscreet, but I will say this: to owe your feelings to another human being is a prison. Do not become that bird. There are birds enough currently in your apartment, or so I am told. The crate is for him. Fill it with more hay.

The few times I have been home over the past month, I have had visits from a gentleman from the village, a teacher, who plays the piano quite nicely and has played the Beethoven for Vivienne, with me accompanying on the violin. It reminds me of ancient days, Joseph, and to think so far back pains me still, when the present is nothing like those dreams of yore. As it is, M. Legrand is my daughter’s first, tender introduction to a musical education and she enjoys it more than I, fortunately. Every man says this of his children, surely, but I do believe she is a genius. She deserves nurturing.

Many things deserve nurturing.

I know how to grow grape vines, but that is the only vine I know how to grow.

Let this letter moisturize you,
Arsène