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

(( 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